by Lee Jackson
Taking a deep breath, Amélie steeled herself against nervous impulses. Instinctually, she started to finish her own coffee and prepare to leave, but then thought better of it, as doing so might draw attention. She settled back into her seat, ordered another cup of coffee, and with a pounding heart, feigned deep interest in the local news.
Minutes passed. The chair behind Amélie scraped again. Jeannie passed by her, turned at the street, and walked away in the opposite direction of the headquarters.
The waiter nudged Amélie’s shoulder. Looking around furtively, he handed her the check for her coffee. With it, he passed a note. “From the young lady,” he whispered, and indicated Jeannie’s receding figure.
Surprised, Amélie held the message against the inside of the newspaper and perused it. The blood drained from her face as she read.
“I know who you are, Amélie. You have nothing to fear from me. If you’d like to speak, please follow me to the beach. I’ll wait fifteen minutes. We can talk there freely. If not, please stop following me. You’re endangering us both.”
Panic-stricken, Amélie looked about. Jeannie had reached a curve in the street and would soon disappear around it.
Amélie felt inside the folds of her skirt for a single-shot Welrod pistol and unattached silencer—an assassin’s weapon. Maurice and Kenyon had trained her on its effective use.
Moving very deliberately, Amélie paid her bill and left the café, following Jeannie. At the curve, she searched for the young woman.
Jeannie was nowhere to be seen.
The street sloped down toward the seashore. When Amélie emerged at the base of the hill, she saw Jeannie a distance away at the water’s edge. She had taken her shoes off to wade in the wavelets and was facing the street. When she saw Amélie, she turned and strolled among beachgoers toward a stand of rocks protruding into the ocean.
Amélie gripped the pistol in the pocket of her skirt and followed. Despite the presence of the German army everywhere, including on the beach, the sandy stretch was well populated with people enjoying the sun. As Jeannie had done, Amélie removed her shoes and walked in the water at its edge—appearing as any other girl taking advantage of the weather for a noontime walk.
She strolled among the sunbathers, careful to keep her quarry in sight, and watched as Jeannie disappeared into the shadows of the jagged rocks. When Amélie reached them, she moved cautiously, listening. No one else was there, and Jeannie had vanished.
Amélie crept deeper into the shadows, and then Jeannie stepped in front of her. Startled despite her caution, Amélie gasped. “You scared me.”
“You’ve been scaring me,” Jeannie said stiffly. “Why have you been following me?”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your photo and name are on a wanted poster in the headquarters where I work,” Jeannie replied curtly. “Now please tell me why you are following me.”
At a loss for words, Amélie blurted, “You work for the Germans.”
“So what?” Jeannie retorted. “Lots of French people work for the Germans. We have to eat. But you followed me specifically. Do you think I’m a collaborator?”
Amélie took a deep breath. “I’m here to find out. I don’t know why you were chosen for close scrutiny. I wasn’t allowed to know.” She took a step closer. “You said I have nothing to fear from you.”
Jeannie stared at her. “You don’t, so long as you’re not a threat to me.” She glanced back the way they had come. “If I had wanted to denounce you, I could have called to any of those German patrols along the beach, and I would have been believed because of where I work.”
“Why didn’t you?” Amélie interrupted.
“Because I’m not a collaborator,” Jeannie said fiercely.
“Then why are you working in that headquarters?”
Jeannie blew out a deep breath. “When we moved here, we happened to get a house next to the mayor’s residence. Then the Germans came, and he needed an interpreter. I’m fluent in the language, so he asked for my help. The Germans liked my work, and they offered me a job as a translator. Simple as that.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could pass on the information I hear and see. I have a photographic memory. The Germans forget I’m in the room when they get into heavy discussion, and they leave their secret documents lying all about.” She laughed. “It’s become a game with me to see how much I can get them to tell me. I flash my eyes, titter, and say things like, ‘Oh, really, that can’t be, can it?’ They’re arrogant and ego-driven, and eager to impress silly little me with all they know and can do.”
Amélie stared at her. “You have a photographic memory?”
Jeannie nodded. “Your sister’s and father’s pictures are posted in the headquarters too. The three of you are wanted, although I guess your father is deceased. I’m sorry about that.”
Shocked, Amélie almost corrected Jeannie about her father’s continued existence but caught herself. “Thank you,” she replied simply.
Seeing Amélie’s reaction, Jeannie added hurriedly, “Hardly anyone pays attention to those photos and wouldn’t remember the faces if they did. Lucky people. My memory is both a blessing and a curse. That’s how I knew you were following me. Your face kept popping up along my route of travel. I remembered it from the bulletin board.” She stepped closer to Amélie. “I know what happened to your family. I’m sorry.” She shook her head in frustration. “What sad times we live in. How’s your sister?”
At a loss for words, Amélie only managed to murmur hoarsely, “She’s fine.”
The two women stood facing each other. A breeze whistling faintly through the rocks carried the scent of the sea, the sound of rolling waves, and the cries of seabirds passing overhead.
Jeannie broke the impasse. “Where do we go from here? You can’t keep watching me. Someone will notice and report us. You wanted to know if I’m a collaborator?”
Amélie nodded without speaking.
“I don’t blame anyone for thinking I might be. I expected that someone would get curious, sooner or later. You work for the Resistance?”
Amélie took a deep breath. “That’s a nebulous term. It’s not a single organization. I work with a group down in Marseille.”
Jeannie’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You came all the way up here from the southern coast to see about me? The poster said you are from Dunkirk.”
Amélie nodded. “We escaped south,” she said simply. “Let me tell you what I know about you. My leader sent me because we’re close in age, I’m known and trusted, and we’re both educated—you much more than me, since you graduated from the Paris Institute of Political Science, and you’re fluent in five languages. You lived not far from here in Saint-Brieuc. Your father is a veteran of the Great War and a retired foreign ministry official. Your family moved here recently, and as you said, you took a job working for Field Marshal Reichenau.”
Now it was Jeannie’s turn to be amazed. “How could you know all of that?”
Amélie shrugged and shook her head, eyebrows arched. “Honestly, I don’t know how the information was collected. I’m not allowed to know.”
“I see,” Jeannie said, still dazed and a little dubious. “I need to be more circumspect.” She moved to the edge of the rocks where she could keep an eye out for anyone coming their way and sat in the sand.
“I’m going to take a chance,” Amélie said, sitting down next to her. “It’s one that my leaders would say is ill-advised, but as you pointed out, you could have reported me at any time since you first saw me. You didn’t. I feel like I have a new friend I can trust with my life.”
Distracted by her own thoughts, Jeannie caught the end of Amélie’s comment. She looked up sharply. “Oh, yes,” she said in an unconvinced tone. “Or,” she added absently, “I could be drawing you in to learn as much about your organization as possible.”
Startled, Amélie stared at her, scrutinizing. “True,” she said after a moment, “but I’ll trust that’s not the ca
se. Some things will have to be taken on intuition.” She shook her head. “Neither of us can afford to be foolish. If either of us is lying, the other could wind up dead.”
Jeannie appeared lost in thought. “I have a question,” she said slowly. “What were you supposed to do if you thought I’d been collaborating?”
“Excuse me?”
“If I had not noticed you watching me, and you came to the conclusion that I was collaborating, what action were you prepared to take?”
Amélie turned red, and her eyes widened. Then, she reached within the folds of her skirt and brought out the Welrod pistol and silencer. She held out the former by the barrel, the muzzle facing herself. “The local group in Marseille taught me a few things.”
Eyes blazing, mouth agape, Jeannie leaped to her feet and stared at the weapon. Then, she shifted her eyes slowly to Amélie. “You were supposed to kill me?”
Amélie took a deep breath. “And now, my life is in your hands once more.”
Jeannie sank back down to the sand. “What a world we live in,” she muttered. “I could use a drink.”
They sat in silence for an extended time.
“Could you have killed me?” Jeannie asked at last.
Amélie took a moment to respond. “I could,” she said, nodding. “I already killed a man. The Germans think my father did it, but it was me.” She started once again to tell Jeannie that her father’s death had been faked, that Ferrand was still alive, but she thought better of the notion, remembering the oft repeated advice: The less we know about each other the better. She did, however, give a brief account of how the soldier had tried to rape Chantal, and how, as a result, Amelie had killed him.
“You had no choice,” Jeannie murmured. She reached over and squeezed Amélie’s hand. “As you said, I just made a new friend whom I can trust with my life.” She sighed. “I think I can help.”
Amelie shot her a curious glance. “How?”
Jeannie chuckled. “The idea is beyond the Germans of a smart, educated woman who understands the big picture, the details of what they talk about, and how to coax information out of them.” She tapped her chest with one well-manicured finger. “I am that woman.”
Amélie leaned forward. “Could you reproduce the documents you’ve seen? Could you draw them out?”
“Of course,” Jeannie said, her eyes flashing. “That’s something I live with—all this information in my head. A lot of it would help the British in this war.”
“If we could provide a secure means of transferring information, would you consider getting it to us?”
“Without hesitation,” Jeannie exclaimed. “I’ve been like a squirrel gathering nuts. If we’re going to win this war, every patriot must contribute what they can to the fight. Right now, I have access and information.” She started to rise. “I need to get back. I can’t press my popularity with the command too far.”
“Can you give me anything I can take with me now?”
Jeannie sat back down. “I can.” She searched inside her handbag, removed a notebook and pen, and started drawing sketches and writing notes. “These are the locations of all the subordinate field headquarters and their radio call-signs, as well as the units and their strengths, supply and fuel depots, ammunition storage warehouses, and the like.”
Amélie watched her, amazed. Then, a thought crossed her mind. “I meant to ask earlier. Have you run into an SS captain by the name of Bergmann? I saw him on the train the other day when I came up.”
“I’ve seen him,” Jeannie replied. “He’s handsome—classical Aryan looks and always perfect manners, but under the surface, he’s ruthless. He told me what happened with you and your family in Dunkirk, his version of the soldier’s death. He’s still looking for you and Chantal. He posted those photos, but his hands are full now. He was inspecting security along the dividing line with southern France; now he’s assigned to the staff here for headquarters internal security. He’s about to be promoted to major.”
Downcast, Amélie shook her head. “Whoever thinks that evil doesn’t prosper never met the Third Reich. Well, my new friend, we’ll get that communications plan in place, but we should not meet again until safer times. Being seen with me could sign your death warrant.”
Fourcade was elated when Amélie arrived back in Marseille, reported on her trip, and delivered the documents and sketches. “This is fabulous,” she enthused. “We’ll need to get this to London. They will love you for it. You were wise to step out and let someone else be the conduit between Alliance and Jeannie. Bergmann didn’t see you?”
She shuddered. “If he had seen me, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“Good point,” Fourcade said ruefully. “It’s good that you alerted Jeannie. She needs to be aware of him. She sounds so elegant and smart. We’ll codename her ‘Swan.’ Does she know my name?”
“She knows you as Hérisson. How’s Chantal? Was she upset that I was gone?”
“She misses you. Chantal is a good girl. Very bright. She understands that you can’t be together all the time. Maurice kept her busy. She’s taken her fake courier runs seriously. He says that she might be good at that. She gets through the checkpoints easily. No one suspects her.”
Amélie sucked in her breath and let it out slowly. “That scares me. I would be terribly worried about her if she goes on a real mission.”
“We’ll take every precaution, I promise you. Now, back to Jeannie. I’ll re-establish contact immediately. Did you establish a way for her to recognize our courier?”
Amélie sighed. “We did. I’m a little jealous of her contact. We became friends.”
“Let’s win this war. We’ll all have friendships to renew when it’s over. Now, I have an opportunity for you.”
“An opportunity?”
“I’ve recommended to London that we send you there for training as a courier. I had thought of making you a radio operator, but you’d be too vulnerable.” She watched Amélie’s face closely for a reaction and saw one she expected.
Amélie sat upright, her face flushed, her eyes rounded. “London?” she asked. “How will I get there?”
Fourcade chuckled. “I’m sorry to say, your likelihood of seeing Jeremy is small. You’ll be sequestered at the school for most of the time, and God only knows what he’s doing now. When you come back, you can train others, including your sister. If she insists on being active, she’ll need every advantage. And to answer your question, you’ll go the same way Jeremy did—by submarine.”
Amélie took a deep breath. “When?”
“Tonight, and you’ll carry with you the documents from Swan.”
Early that afternoon, after Amélie had gone to prepare for her trip, Fourcade received a call from Henri. “I need to see you,” he said, but refused further explanation.
When Henri arrived, he brought Phillippe with him. After introductions, Fourcade led them onto the terrace. She was immediately impressed with Phillippe, recognizing a singular ferocity in him. She also noticed that both men wore strained expressions as though struggling with fresh grief. Their eyes carried haunted expressions.
“We want to help,” Henri said without preamble.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
The two men glanced at each other. “One of the men who was with us at the meeting with Maurice and Jeremy was killed last night,” Henri said. His mouth quivered. “Our friend went on a raid near the coast. They were going to blow up a major bridge in the occupied zone near Sainte-Nazaire, but they must have set the charge incorrectly. They blew themselves up with barely any damage to the bridge. The Germans executed some local civilians to set an example.”
Fourcade sat quietly observing the two men. Their strength of character showed in their lined faces despite their recent losses. Behind their eyes, determination burned.
“Put us in your Alliance group,” Phillippe muttered. “We’ll do anything.”
Fourcade studied them for a few minutes, sizing them up. The blue Mediterra
nean sparkled in the distance. “I do have an immediate mission,” she said to Henri. “I need your best man.”
He indicated Phillippe. “He’s the best anywhere.” He related Phillippe’s actions at Mers-el-Kébir and what he had said to his superiors.
When Henri had finished, Fourcade asked Phillippe, “Can you contain your anger?”
Startled, Phillippe sat upright. “I think so.”
“This fight is like no other,” Fourcade said. “You can’t look smart and authoritarian. You have to meld with the populace, dress like they dress, eat what they eat. Be able to disappear into a crowd. Can you do that? Can you be respectful, even humble, going through a German checkpoint?”
“I think so. I don’t come from aristocracy.”
Thinking of her own beginnings, Fourcade stifled a laugh. “Fair enough. Your mission will probably last for at least six months, so most of the time might be boring, doing nothing other than what you need to do to maintain your cover. That could mean finding a job that explains your reason for being there. Can you do that? Do you have the temperament for it?”
Phillippe blinked, bewildered. “That’s a strange way to fight. What about blowing up bridges and ammo dumps, but doing it correctly with Kenyon and Pierre?”
Fourcade chuckled. “That’s why I’m asking these questions. Resistance teams will do those things too, absolutely, and Kenyon and Pierre will train them. This mission could result in more damage to the Germans than several months’ worth of bridge bombings. I just learned of it today, but it is now our highest priority objective.”
“Then I will do it. Whatever it takes to beat les Boches. Even if that means being a peasant and living in a pigsty. The next time you see me, I will look like the lowliest farm worker. You won’t recognize me.”
Fourcade smiled. “That’s good, but don’t overdo things,” she replied. “We’ll work on a cover story.” She turned to Henri. “We’ll need help from the Boulier network. They must have people in the area who can help Phillippe settle in. You can coordinate that. Maurice can help and get him forged ID and travel documents. We don’t have radio support yet, so we’ll have to work through how to communicate. And now, Henri, I must ask you to leave.” She smiled. “Operational security.”
