The Best of Our Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘Pierre told us that if we ever got caught, hold out for as long as possible – even a few hours will give the others time to get away. Of course I did not know that Pierre was already dead.’

  Quinn looked up, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, he shot himself when they came to arrest him. And, of course, I had no idea whether Françoise was safe. But I said nothing. Jean, he argued with them the whole time, he fought them. At about six in the morning – that would be the Tuesday – they must have been doing the most terrible things to him. I heard him cry for his mother. He let out this terrible howl and then there was silence and soon after that I saw them carry his body from the cell. I don’t know what they did to him in the end, but it was terrible. I have heard animals caught in traps and this was far worse.

  ‘Of course, they could concentrate on me after that. They broke every toe. They pulled out my fingernails. They broke my knees. They put electricity in places I can’t tell you about but the pain was so bad that I passed out. When I was coming round on one occasion I heard them talking – they must have thought I was still unconscious. They said something like “we just need to find his wife now”. So I reckoned that meant Françoise was the only one who had escaped, which meant I could tell them about Pierre. So I took a risk and when they tortured me next, I told them about Pierre. I also told them that I had no idea where Françoise was. There had been an argument I said and she had left home. I don’t think they believed me but they weren’t sure. I had told them about Pierre and they were not to know that I had overheard them talking. Then I just collapsed. It was like a coma. They could not wake me up. I was taken to the prison near Calais. I was freed by the resistance there just as the Canadians came in.’

  ‘And you, Françoise. What happened?’

  ‘My father and I went into hiding. There is a lot of forest and marsh in that area and my father knows it very well, it is where he was brought up. We survived. It would have been better if I had not survived.’

  Owen started to ask a question, but Nicole put her hand on his arm to stop him. Françoise continued.

  ‘When they came to this house to find me, my mother was here with my children.’ She gestured to a photograph on a shelf of two boys. ‘They took my mother and the boys. They took them to a barn, where no one could hear anything. They must have tried to make them to say where I was, we do not know exactly what happened. But we do know what happened next, one of the workers on a nearby farm was hiding in the trees and he saw it. They locked the three of them in the barn and set fire to it. He heard their screams. Apparently they lasted for ten minutes.’

  For a full five minutes Françoise wept into her handkerchief before she could continue.

  ‘Georges was ten, Charles was seven. My mother was in her sixties. So you see, Lucien and I survived, but for what? We have each other and we have my father, but we now have no life. We have entered the winter of our lives and it will only get darker, it will never be warm again. People do not know what to say to us. They are very nice, they bring us food,’ she pointed at a kitchen top with bread and baskets of vegetables on it, ‘but we have little appetite. They say things like, maybe you can have more children.’

  Lucien shook his head.

  ‘After what the Gestapo did to Lucien, that is impossible. Ten and seven they were. Georges and Charles. A life without children it is unimaginable.’

  Another long pause. He was shocked beyond belief at the grief and the dignity in this room. His own problems now seemed so irrelevant that he felt embarrassed. Françoise’s father came in from the garden, he walked over to his daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder and she reached back to place her hand on his. When he spoke again, Owen tried to sound as sympathetic as possible.

  ‘And what do you think alerted the Gestapo? Was it Geraldine? Did she inform on you’.

  Françoise spoke now.

  ‘We don’t think so, because they were so desperate to find out where she was. From what we have found out since, a man went to Jean’s cottage to look for her. He said he was from the factory but, of course, he was not. One of the collaborators who was working for the police was arrested after the liberation and he gave some information before he was... dealt with. He said that this man was from German Intelligence. The Abwehr I think it is. We do not know what he was doing there, there must have been some information that she was a British agent. But apparently he found a note Geraldine had left for Jean. We do not know exactly what it said, but it was a warning of a type, telling him to escape. Jean thought a lot of her and he protected her. Maybe it was her way of thanking him.’

  ooo000ooo

  Nicole waited until they had left the village before she pulled off the main road and parked on a verge. To either side of them were rolling fields and trees. A flock of sheep was grazing in the field closest to them.

  ‘It is Wednesday today. I can assist you until the weekend and then I have to continue my work.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘You don’t know what I do?’

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘My section of the SOE trained agents to work in occupied France and then sent them out here. Nearly five hundred of them. Over a hundred of them have not returned. Some of them, we know, were killed, but others are missing, some are still in occupied areas like Alsace. My job is to try to find out what happened to them.’

  A shepherd had now joined the flock in the field to their right and his dogs were herding it up the hill. The shepherd bent down to pick up one of the lambs. Nicole continued.

  ‘You know, I often accompanied these agents to their plane before they were flown out to France. Many of them were parachuted into France, some landed in Lysanders, like your wife. But it was always a difficult journey. I often felt that I was sending people to their deaths. But they were all so brave. They all thanked me, you know.

  ‘With your wife, it was different. Did you know that I was with her during her training too? We had to make special arrangements, we couldn’t let her be trained with other agents or at the places we normally used. I tried not to get close to her, but that was not difficult. She never gave anything of herself. She was as cold as steel. I always thought that if she was had been one of ours, she would have made a very good agent. Did you love her?’

  Owen was surprised by the question.

  ‘Yes... I did. More than anything else in the world. I know that I shouldn’t, that it’s wrong, but I...’

  ‘Don’t worry. It is not a crime to love the wrong person. Most people manage it at least once in their lives. I can see you need some answers.’

  ‘Do you think that we will find her?’

  ‘Honestly? No. The Abwehr were good, very professional. Probably only one or two people in it were aware of her true identity, no more than that. She has shown how resourceful she is and how she copes under pressure. Can you imagine living the lies she has led – here and in England? I mean, did you think you had a normal relationship?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Exactly my point. You are an intelligent young man. You believed that it was a normal relationship and maybe in some respects it was. She was clever. Come on now. We go back to the hotel and tomorrow we resume our search.’

  Owen Quinn felt humbled by the grief and the dignity he had encountered at Françoise and Lucien’s house, but it had done nothing to diminish his determination to find his wife. But he was equally determined to do what he could to help Françoise and Lucien.

  ooo000ooo

  Quinn came down for breakfast at eight the next morning. Nicole was waiting in the tiny reception area. ‘We are going to Samer,’ she said. ‘We will talk in the car. There is no time for breakfast.’

  ‘Françoise contacted me last night,’ she said as they headed out of Boulogne. ‘She felt guilty, I don’t know why. Maybe she picked up that there was a connection between you and her. She has one clue that she didn’t bother to tell us about, but she has now. She hasn’t told anyone about
it, which is lucky for you. Apparently Geraldine was seen in Samer the morning she disappeared. She was seen getting on a bus to St Omer.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By one of the villagers from Hesdin who happened to be in Samer that morning. She knew that Geraldine was staying with Jean, but she only mentioned it to Françoise last week. This villager did say that a local gendarme was checking people’s identity cards as they boarded the bus. So now we are going to the police station in Samer.’

  The small police station was inside the Mairie and it did not take them long to find the policeman who had been checking the passes that day. There were not many policemen in Samer.

  Yes, I think I remember, he said. Please look at this photograph. Yes, probably. Where was the bus going? Desvres first, then St Omer. You sure? Yes. And what was her name? Hélène something or other. Not Geraldine? No! I told you, Hélène. You sure? Yes, of course I am sure. My mother is called Hélène. And my wife. I don’t forget a Hélène, as much as I might try!

  So they drove to St Omer, the roads crowded and progress slow. They tried all the hotels in the town. No one recognised the photograph. They had split up by now to try to cover more places. Owen slipped into a couple of jewellers on Rue Carnot. Does this brooch mean anything? It’s cameo. Thank you – other than that? No, nice example, good quality, nothing exceptional. And the ’GT’ on the back? Maybe someone’s initials, sir. Thank you. Thank you very much.

  It was getting dark now and they booked into one of the hotels. It would give them the evening to ask in the restaurants and bars. When they emerged from the hotel to do that, Nicole had an idea. ‘We know the date, don’t we? Let’s check at the police station.’

  The sergeant was having a quiet evening and was very happy to help, especially an officer from the British Army and such a beautiful lady. ‘Thank you very much sir, even our darkest hour, you never forgot France.’ He was puffed up with his own self-importance. As long as they didn’t ask any awkward questions about what he was up to during the war. He was only doing his duty. He had a family to consider...

  Quinn bit his tongue. He thought better of explaining the difference between the Army and the Navy. At least we have one of each, he thought. And he decided not to ask the gendarme what he did in the war.

  ‘The seventeenth of July, you say?’

  ‘Yes, it was a Monday.’

  ‘It was. That’s what it says in my book too.’ A loud, toothy laugh. Both Owen and Nicole briefly joined in.

  ‘And you say an identity card was stolen that day?’

  ‘No. We are just wondering whether one was reported as stolen that day. We are not sure whether one was.’

  The sergeant looked puzzled, but carefully studied the book.

  ‘Ah yes. Two reported missing that day.’

  ‘Can we have the details?’ asked Nicole.

  ‘Were they your cards? Because if not, this would be most improper.’

  Nicole smiled very sweetly as she palmed a couple of folded banknotes across the desk.

  ‘Of course, for the British Army, this is not a problem. Henri Laporte from St Omer reported his card missing that day.’

  ‘Age.’

  ‘Sixty.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Nicole Rougier. Aged twenty -even.’

  Nicole Rougier. ‘And where is she from?’

  ‘Place of residence, Béthune. That is near here. Place of birth, let me see... Mulhouse. In Alsace.’

  It was a breakthrough. Of sorts. They had done well to trace Geraldine from the village to St Omer and now, acting on Nicole’s instinct, they had established that the identity card of a women of a similar age to Geraldine had been lost, presumed stolen, in St Omer on the same day. It didn’t prove anything, of course. It was probably complete coincidence. But Nicole had a growing regard for Geraldine’s prowess as an agent. It was possible that she had stolen the identity of Nicole Rougier

  She was quite probably going to continue her journey home in stages and at each stage would try to assume a new identity. She would presumably target women of a similar age and where possible, from a similar part of the country. It was a risky strategy in the short term, but once you had stolen a new card, it would help keep the scent cold.

  They returned to the hotel. Had they bothered to turn round after they had left the police station that evening, which, of course, they had no reason to do, they would have seen a tall figure wearing a long dark coat and matching trilby enter it.

  ooo000ooo

  Friday was the last day that Nicole could help Owen. They decided to stay in St Omer to see if they could trace where she had gone from there, possibly as Nicole Rougier. But they drew a blank. No one at the train station or the bus station could recall seeing her. They asked in shops and cafés, they revisited the places they had tried the day before.

  The truth was she could have gone anywhere. Nicole had to continue with her own work. They sat in a small bar by the train station. She was heading back towards Normandy. Where would he go?

  ‘Paris. I will try there. I am not sure why. She said she came from there, but I suppose that was a lie like everything else. But it seems like the best place to go next.’

  Nicole had torn a scrap of paper from her notebook and was writing on it. Truly professional, thought Owen. Avoiding leaving an impression of the writing on the blank sheets underneath. Impressive.

  ‘Here. I didn’t give this to you, understand? If you are going to Paris, visit this man. That is his address. I met him when I was there last month. He will be very helpful. Tell him that I sent you. See how you get on with him and then judge for yourself how much you want to tell him, but if I were you, I would trust him. You don’t have many other options.’

  ‘Why are you helping me like this?’

  Nicole thought long and hard.

  ‘I was wondering that myself. I am certainly doing more than I was told to do. I was meant to keep you with me all the time, not let you out of my sight and deliver you home in one piece with no harm done. If I am honest, Owen, I don’t think they want you to find her. I was asked to report any leads we found. So why am I helping you? I’m not sure. Maybe I am helping you because you aren’t after revenge. I think it is because when I asked you whether you loved her, you admitted you did. “More than anything else in the world,” I think it was you said. Admire honesty. You deserve to find her. But you had better think carefully about what you do if you do find her.’

  ooo000ooo

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lens–Reims–Nancy

  September–October 1944

  Like a river, she meandered without any obviously logical route down the eastern edges of a France steeling itself for liberation. She knew where she was heading but was seemingly reluctant to arrive there. Like a naughty child afraid of facing up to punishment, she procrastinated throughout her journey, looking for excuses to avoid moving on.

  To a great extent her journey was dictated by the circumstance of war. She had arrived in Lens to find the town in a state of panic in the aftermath of an Allied bombing raid. The bus was stopped by a German tank pulled across a road just before the town centre. A soldier came on board and shouted at everyone to get off, although few passengers needed to be told.

  The German garrison was in the process of evacuation. An army truck had pulled up on the other side of the road and soldiers were loading it with food and other provisions from a large shop with broken windows. The owner was pleading with an officer not to take everything.

  The officer walked over to the entrance and told his men to stop. The owner, a thickset man in his late thirties with a large clean white apron, smiled and put his arms round a couple of children who were standing with him on the pavement. The officer adjusted his gloves, briskly walked over to the owner, removed his pistol from its holster and shot him through the temple. He nodded at his men for them to carry on.

  Hélène Blanc was shocked, not so much at what she had just seen,
but rather that she was no longer so shocked by it. She had been considering staying in Lens, but from what she could see, she would soon be on her own. On the journey from Lille she had realised that she had to regard her Hélène Blanc identity as compromised. It was likely that when the Gestapo started to investigate the castration of the soldier in Lille they would be looking at reports of anyone matching the description of the attacker who had recently left town. They could identify her through the hospital and certainly through her landlady, who would have registered her with the authorities while she was staying at the guest house. She doubted the landlady’s capacity or inclination not to co-operate with the Germans. Her priority in Lens, she decided, was to find a new identity, but judging by the speed at which the town was being deserted that appeared to be futile.

  The army truck had pulled away and a small group of people had detached themselves from the stream of civilians wending their way out of the town. The two children were howling and a woman was bending down asking them where their mother was. Another woman and two men carried the shot owner into the shop. Hélène followed them in and feeling she at least ought to do something, knelt down by the body and felt for a pulse.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. He was dead before he hit the ground.’ The man who was speaking was about her age and height. The collar of his jacket was turned up and he was not wearing a tie. As he lit a cigarette the match briefly illuminated a thin and unshaven face. His green eyes appeared translucent. He looked as if he could do with a good meal and few days in the sun.

  ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, bowing slowly and grinning. ‘You ought to have known he was dead then. Not many people survive a German bullet through the head. I’m a teacher and even I knew that. My name is Laurent, by the way.’ He stretched over the corpse to shake her hand, as if they had been introduced by friends while strolling. Ash from his cigarette floated onto the body.