‘Say between five and five-thirty? Then back again later, but you’ll be on your bike by then… Suzie, plain fact is I’m nuts about you. D’you mind?’ Laughing then – as if at her. Or at them maybe, this situation. A hug then – quick, tight bear-hug – and disengaging but still face to face. She said quietly, ‘I rather go for you too – since you mention it. Might also mention though, Berthe really is a fervent admirer. A mere twenty-four-hours’ absence seemingly making the heart grow fonder? She was hoping you’d be here before she took off this morning, but—’
‘Oh, Christ.’ He’d let go of her. ‘That damn train…’
* * *
She was at the Matabiau station at noon, picked one of the half-dozen public phones at random, made a note of its number, asked for that number in Perpignan and put her money in. A male voice answered, and having established that Raoul wasn’t there but would be later she left a message asking him to call Lucy at this Toulouse number at about 2 p.m.
Home for a snack then, and with time to kill she worked out the signal she’d send Baker Street tonight.
Your message received and understood. Present indications are that beaches should be accessible until the end of this week, but in case of need an alternative exit route for Gustave and escort is being prepared. Decision on this should please be made either by us or by felucca through you latest pm Thursday.
Which would be cutting it about as fine as one dared. Thursday being when Déclan would have von Schleben and Marteneau at the place near Lavelanet, Jake presumably having some way of communicating with him there.
She encyphered it, then put her feet up and thought about Jake for a while before setting out for the station and that call-box. To ensure the line stayed open she shut herself in the box and put the receiver to her ear while holding its bracket down and reciting snatches of verse into the speaker until the ringing started.
‘Yes?’
‘Lucy?’
‘Yes, Raoul. I called on Jake’s instructions—’
‘It’s nice to hear from you.’
‘Thanks for calling back. Can you confirm what you told Jake this morning?’
‘I think we can take it as certain, although I haven’t been able to speak with the ones I need to. I’ll have seen some of them by this time tomorrow, though. Will Jake be back by then?’
‘Doubt it. I’ll call you again at noon. But listen—’
‘Why don’t I call you when I’ve got the answer?’
‘Because this is the way Jake wanted me to do it, and I don’t know where I’ll be at noon, or where I’ll want you to call me back. There’s a name Jake wants from you, though—’
‘When will he be back?’
‘I don’t know. What he wants from you is the name of some café-bar in Banyuls you told him about – might be l’Etoile, he thought – and the name of the man who runs it. A Basque?’
‘What’s this for? Alternative to Canet-Plage – consequent on the news I gave him?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Give me the answers for him, please?’
‘The man who runs the Etoile calls himself Gérard. It’s at the back of l’Hôtel des Pyrénées.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
‘When will you be seeing him, to pass this on? Might be better if I saw him myself – I could tell him plenty about Gérard, and the brother, and—’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow noon, Raoul.’
‘Couldn’t we meet, instead?’
‘Let’s do that soon, but I must run now. ’Bye.’
She hung up. L’Etoile, Gérard, back of l’Hôtel des Pyrénées… A couple of hours’ snooze now maybe before calling Jake at Pamirs. Borrow Berthe’s alarm clock…
* * *
The Hôtel France’s number, the operator told her, was engaged. Five-twenty now. The boxes were in constant use at this time of day, and a large man in a fur coat and Homburg, who’d been glaring at her, took her place as she backed out of this one. She’d dwelt a brief pause before getting the operator back and asking her to try again – and finding it still busy – and he’d been looking daggers at her: having what he wanted now, he raised his hat and showed his teeth, muttered ‘Mam’selle… Half-smoked cigar back in his mouth then; he’d have to be a collaborator, she thought. Staying where she was therefore, guessing he’d have a clear purpose in mind, might therefore be quick – an instruction, a demand, and finish, bang the thing back on its hook… She’d guessed right, and after only about a minute was back in there, getting a different operator and this time thank God connecting, pushing the coins in.
‘Hôtel France, how may I help you?’
‘I think my husband, Monsieur Jean Samblat, may be waiting for this call?’
‘He is indeed, madame. One little moment?’
A buzz, and clickings. Then: ‘Lucy, that you?’
‘You did catch your train, then.’
‘Chérie – this line’s not too good—’
She raised her voice: ‘You had the name of that place right, and the man’s name is Gérard. Our friend had no other news, won’t be seeing those concerned until tomorrow.’
‘So there we are. Sweet of you to have called. See you tomorrow.’
‘Good. Take care.’
‘Oh, you too. Goodnight, chérie.’
* * *
Old Rosie again now: smiling like a girl, in the course of our stroll later that Saturday afternoon… ‘Calling me chérie – and meaning it – acting as my husband, of course, for the benefit of listeners-in – telephones were never safe, you realise, we were advised not to use them unless it was really necessary, a lot of the operators were said to be informers – but the chérie bit was more than that, sort of a reference to that earlier exchange – you know?’
‘You’d fallen for him. You did touch on this earlier, I know, but—’
‘We’d fallen for each other. You’re thinking about Ben again, aren’t you?’
‘Well – to an extent—’
‘I didn’t know Ben at that stage. I was getting to know Jake. What had happened between me and Ben all that time ago had nothing to do with this. He was – like something out of a byegone dream I’d sooner have forgotten, I neither expected nor wanted ever to set eyes on him again – he’d gone, d’you understand me?’
‘Yes, of course, Rosie. As you felt then. OK. Anyway, you’d made that phone call – to Pamirs—’
‘I know that tone too. You’re saying leave that, let’s get on with the stuff that matters!’
‘Well – we do need to get on with it – having only this evening and whatever’s left of tomorrow after your lunchtime shindig – but obviously your relationship with Jake does matter – enormously. I thought you’d said as much as you were going to on the subject, that’s all. In fact in that area I dare say I have a sort of preconception – prejudice, if you like – having written as much as I have about you and Ben, consequently seeing Ben as the man who really mattered in your life?’
She didn’t comment, and I partially changed the subject. ‘He’ll be coming into it soon, will he?’
‘Quite soon.’ She’d nodded, but was pointing across the road at a patisserie – I guessed the ‘tea and buns place’ she’d had in mind. ‘OK?’
‘Cross at the lights, shall we?’
‘What you were saying then… You’re quite right, Ben was the man who as things turned out came to matter gigantically in my life. No argument, you know all that. But it only came about because of how things went with Jake. I’m not for a split second implying anything like Jake versus Ben, Jake comes out on top or Ben does – that’d be quite unreal. Leave it at that now, shall we?’ She took my arm as we crossed the road. ‘I’d like Lapsang Suchong and a chocolate eclair, please.’
* * *
After the call to Jake at Pamirs she went back to Berthe’s, disassembled the new transceiver into its component parts and packed them and the battery into a jumble of spare clothing in the bike’s panier, under an old mac
intosh. The transceiver’s leather case, which was to all intents and purposes waterproof, went on to the bike’s carrier with a thermos of coffee, sandwiches and her spare sweater to pad it out. Her thinking behind this being that a jumble of old clothes shouldn’t attract much attention but the neat little transceiver case might. To any Gestapist or Abwehr officer who knew his onions, would – so one could only count on not running into any such creature… In which hope, having got herself dressed up – warm trousers, sweater, coat and headscarf – she set off shortly after dusk, and within a couple of hours was on a tree-covered hillside a few kilometres west of Cussecs. She made her transmission at eleven, the Sevenoaks operator acknowledged and then told her they’d nothing for her, so she didn’t have to stay up, had several hours’ broken sleep in the shelter of a fallen elm whose enormous upturned roots in an overhang of impacted soil would she thought serve as a hiding-place for the set. She fixed this at first fight – the set by then assembled and in its case, of course – building it into a contrivance of sticks and other debris not unlike a ground-level squirrel’s dray, before setting off for home.
Wednesday now. The Noé ‘infiltration’ would be taking place tonight and in the small hours of Thursday: by this time tomorrow, therefore – for better or for worse… Pedalling out of the forested area – and not through but past Cussecs – she was visualising a successful outcome: Alain Déclan hunched over the wheel of his old truck, with the German and Commandant Marteneau under the tarp in rear, plugging southward towards Lavelanet, and the others in their hired lorry escaping into the foothills of that towering snowbound range. Please God, escaping, all of them. It would be a while before one knew for sure, she guessed, maybe several days.
* * *
It was past eight when she got back, and Berthe had already left for work. There was an ambulance parked on the other side of Marengo – white with a green cross on its side, and just sitting there, no activity around it. Traffic had been heavy on the way into town, at any rate the last hour of it, and she was looking forward to shedding the gear she’d hiked and slept in, immersing or at least sluicing herself in water that with any luck might still be warm. After that – well, tea and toast, for want of anything more like a proper breakfast.
Washed and dressed, she went downstairs – first to her bike in the rear hallway, to clear out the panier – thermos to be rinsed out along with the breakfast things – might well need it again tonight, thermos and bike. Having the commitment to listening-out, of course, but odds-on that Jake would have stuff for Baker Street as well. For instance he’d have discussed the alternative exit-route via Banyuls with Marteneau and Déclan.
Kettle filled, hot-plate switched on. Tea…
Berthe had left her a note – a few scribbled lines on the bottom of their shopping-list.
An ambulance has been in the square all night and still is, is now quiet but when I went over to see what it was doing there were squeals and whistles audible which sounded like some kind of wireless activity. Most sincerely hope nothing to do with us?
This kettle was always slow in coming to the boil. She left it with the hotplate glowing red and ran upstairs – because from the ground floor one’s view across this end of the square was interrupted by a stone memorial in the centre.
Ambulance no longer there.
Having spent the night listening-out for her? Would have heard her, too. But Berthe wandering over there out of curiosity, and sharp enough, considering her ignorance of pretty well everything that was going on, to have caught on to the likely truth of what it was about. She’d have been curious in the first place because ambulances didn’t usually spend nights parked and doing nothing in town squares.
Thank God one had not been on listening-out watch here last night. But they’d have had some reason for picketing this quarter?
Kettle boiling. Toaster already plugged in. Wake up now – make the tea and slice bread. Tear off that lower part of the shopping-list and burn it.
Get rid of the set?
Dismantle it, toss it in the canal piece by piece, like someone feeding ducks?
Not yet, anyway. Have it ready for ditching. Jake would be back at any rate before dark, please God sooner, and this didn’t have to mean curtains, shutting up shop. That in fact was practically inconceivable. Unacceptable. They were showing interest in this quarter of the town, not this house. Anyway not yet this one. And one did have the spare sets stashed away, thank heavens. Jake would certainly want her to be listening-out tonight – if not transmitting. One could hardly have picked a worse time to be even considering shutting down.
Even remembering being warned in the course of training: ‘A show of interest often precedes a break-in. Never wise to stick around unless there’s some absolute imperative…’
Might say there was?
Fumbling bread-slices into toaster. Accepting that on the night before last the Funkabwehr might have been either remarkably quick in their reactions or just plain lucky. Alerted by her response to the Sevenoaks call-up, then staying on-beam and the right megacycles to catch the blip of acknowledgement minutes later?
Ten to one, they’d only have got a single bearing – and with only about a second in which to adjust for direction, so no great accuracy. This square, the station area, a few acres of streets around, maybe – any house in that sort of area… But could have been other ‘ambulances’ around, not just that one. Jake would insist, obviously, no more listening-out from here: and that in coming or going on the bike one should be a lot more cautious than of late. Nothing from now on that risked drawing attention to this house.
Digging her toast out of the smoking toaster with the prongs of a fork; toast somewhat blackened, in need of a scrape. Hands betrayingly shaky while doing so, and heartbeat a little fast. Remembering her first days here, determination to take no risks, call her own shots. Even laying down the law to Jake about it – telling him she’d never ‘do a Wiggy’, all that stuff. Now of course one knew better what one was up against, the risks one had to accept if one was going to do the job at all.
Jam, but no butter. Most of the butter was being taken for the occupying forces or railed off to Germany, the ration was ridiculously small. Time now – nine-twenty. Had to be at the station at noon, to call Marc; in the interim might try to sleep, in preparation for a second night in the open, but doubted she’d be able to.
* * *
She’d done some housework, also attended to her bike – tightening nuts, oiling, and adjusting the chain, seeing to the tyres. She’d also checked that the transceiver was as well hidden amongst the attic junk as it could be, ditto smaller items – one-time pads and crystals.
Cyanide capsule secure in its very much more personal location.
Out of the south-east corner of Place Marengo – forty or so metres from where the ambulance had been parked – and to her right along the boulevard. Quite a lot of traffic on it: through that fluctuating racket, the regular clacking of her wooden-soled shoes on damp paving. A light drizzle was fading but it was warmer than it had been and she was wearing a raincoat which Berthe had said she could use whenever she wanted; it was loose on her, and too long, but that at least served to keep her legs dry.
Gare Matabiau. Several Boche army trucks were parked in the forecourt, other transport double-parked for want of space, gendarmes making an issue of it here and there. She went on in, picked a phone-box she hadn’t used before, made a note of its number as the one he should call, used another one to call the bar in Perpignan and leave the message as before – Raoul please to call Lucy at 2 p.m. It was a woman who took the message this time.
She bought some cigarettes – Caporals, which was all the man had – at the corner-shop Jake had used on the day she’d first met him, her first day here, when they’d subsequently found themselves stuck in the station bar for a while and begun to get to know each other. But Caporals were OK as far as she was concerned; oddly enough, she hadn’t been smoking much in recent days.
&nb
sp; Was odd, when you came to think of it. From the way she felt now, might well change.
Better get some lunch anyway. Early for it, but having come this far, and not keen either on going back to the house or eating in the station bar, on the other hand remembering Berthe having told her of a café-restaurant on Place Belfort, only six or seven hundred metres from here and not bad, not the kind of place you’d usually see Boches either, she decided to try it. She took her time getting there, smoked one cigarette over a small cognac before ordering her meal – soup, and some kind of pâté with bread – and another afterwards over a liquid they called coffee. It wasn’t bad, there were no Boches, and it had taken about an hour, i.e. half the time she had to kill. The rain had stopped and she thought vaguely of taking a look at Place Victor Hugo, where Jake had his apartment and the Gestapo had taken over an hotel – l’Ours Blanc, the White Bear. That square was no great distance. On the other hand it would roughly double the distance she’d have to walk back, exercise was about the last thing she needed, and who’d want to see Gestapo headquarters when they didn’t bloody well have to?
She set off back – via the top end of Rue Bayard and that bridge over the canal – which brought her virtually into the station forecourt.
Still about forty minutes early. Find a bench maybe, take the weight off. Didn’t want anything from the bar, and couldn’t have sat for long without ordering something. Out again therefore: back into the main hall and past the line of phone-boxes. A couple of them were in use: she reckoned on following the same procedure as she had yesterday, establishing occupancy of that one a few minutes before zero-hour.
Benches in railway stations really didn’t attract one much. Wandering on, therefore. Thinking about the ambulance, that its camouflage actually made it very noticeable. Once you knew what it actually was, of course, which one did thanks only to Berthe’s God-given curiosity. Without that, it was distinctly possible one would have been listening-out from the house tonight.
Staying Alive Page 29
