by Kit Sergeant
A tall, gruff man approached Odette. He introduced himself as André Marsac and told her he had been instructed to bring her to the head of the Spindle network’s apartment.
Cannes proved to be nothing like what Odette would have expected. The city seemed untouched by the war: the sidewalks and buildings were all perfectly intact, and the beaches were full of revelers taking advantage of the bright sunshine and turquoise waters.
The apartment Marsac brought her to was also too tastefully decorated for Odette’s liking, as if the owner knew nothing of wartime austerity. “This is Peter Churchill, our boss,” Marsac told her, nodding to a man almost as tall as he was.
“Are you a relation to Winston?” Odette held out her hand, suddenly conscious of her wind-and-sea-tossed hair.
“No,” Peter replied simply, his eyes raised over his tortoise-shell glasses. Those eyes held a hint of amusement in them as he said, “I suppose you would like to freshen up after your journey.”
“I’m fine,” Odette snapped, though in truth she’d been dreaming of a hot bath for the past several days.
“Yes, I can see that.” Peter took off his hat and scratched his head, his arm muscles moving admirably under his civilian t-shirt. Odette noticed that, though his hairline was slightly receding, his hair was thick and wavy. “At any rate,” he continued, “there’s cake and coffee in the kitchen.”
“Cake and coffee? Is that how Free France works now? Because in England, we’ve been rationing our food.”
Peter spread out his hands. “Our circuit went through a lot of trouble to gather this feast, using forged bread coupons. Don’t expect to be fed like this for every meal.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “But in the meantime…”
After she’d had her fare—just enough to fill her empty stomach, nothing indulgent—Odette asked Peter about the next steps.
He cleared his throat. “Usually we don’t task our operatives until at least their second day on the Continent.”
“But the War Office said I should report to Auxerre as soon as possible.”
Peter took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Auxerre is over the demarcation line. You will need a guide who is adept at helping others evade detection by German patrols. I’ll have to ask Carte if he knows of one.”
“I’ve finally arrived in France, after all this time, and you’re telling me I need to wait still?”
“Yes.” Peter replaced his glasses, but not before Odette noticed what a sorrowful brown his eyes were.
“Surely there must be something for me to do.”
“Why don’t you take a nap?”
“A nap?” Odette waggled her finger. “I was instructed to go to Auxerre, not wait around in Cannes, eating forbidden food and watching the pampered wives of collaborators walk their immaculately manicured poodles along unscathed sidewalks. Where I’ve come from, the damage from the Luftwaffe is everywhere.”
Peter sighed. “I suggest you get some much-needed rest. I have a busy afternoon ahead of me, but I will see what I can do to make arrangements for your travels.”
“I’m not tired,” Odette grumbled.
He gave her a weak smile. “No, I don’t suppose you are. But perhaps you could lie down while I conduct my business?”
She could see she was getting nowhere. “Do you have a book for me to read?”
He went over to the desk and pulled out a Figaro newspaper. “Read the local news. You’ll see the war through German eyes. I’ll wake you up about six for dinner.”
She snatched the paper from him. “You won’t be needing to wake me up.”
As she lay in a strange bed, Odette stared out the window at the endless, sparkling ocean rimmed by palm trees. She focused her breathing, reminding herself that she was once again inhaling French air. She’d made it, at least to Cannes, and soon she would be starting her mission. She took another breath, thinking as she did so that there were other newcomers—enemies of France—also breathing French air at that very second. As far away as they seemed from this idyllic view, she was here to fight those invaders, to get rid of the Nazis so they would no longer breathe the air of France, or stomp their jackboots over its soil. With that, she fell sound asleep. If Peter came in to wake her up for supper, she didn’t hear him. At any rate, her stomach was full enough to allow her to slumber peacefully until morning.
She woke to the smell of black-market coffee boiling away. Odette threw a robe on over her pajamas and headed to the kitchen.
Peter was already up, perusing the morning’s Figaro, clad in a pair of red-striped pajamas.
“Am I to go to Auxerre today?” she asked him by way of greeting.
He put the paper down. “As I informed you yesterday, these arrangements take time. Buck suggested you stay here for a few days to rest and acclimatize.”
Odette helped herself to a cup of coffee. “How long do you think I would need to ‘acclimatize?’”
“Three or four days maximum.”
She sat down across from him. “Is it possible for you to arrange some work for me to do? I would think it would be most beneficial for my acclimatization that way.”
Peter set his coffee mug down with a clank and studied her determined face. Finally he stated, “I do have a job. But it’s rather dangerous, especially for a woman unfamiliar with the area.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Four new men have just arrived and need to be escorted to Marseille.”
Odette nodded.
“Marseille is overrun with Vichy troops,” he continued.
“I can handle—”
“And the Gestapo,” Peter finished airily.
She met his curious gaze, knowing he was testing her by offering her such a trying mission when she’d only just arrived herself. “I’ll be fine.”
“You will leave the men at the station and then go into town.” He told her which streets to use, naturally avoiding the Gestapo headquarters, to get to the Hôtel Moderne. Odette filed away everything he said, knowing he was purposely overloading her with information.
“A frumpy old dame runs the place,” Peter stated. “You will ask to see Monsieur Vidal. If he is in, you will state to him, in French, that you have news of Monsieur Ternier of Lyon. He will respond that he knows of no Monsieur Ternier.”
“But why—”
“It’s our password. This will assure Vidal that you are one of our agents.”
“Of course.” She cursed herself inwardly at her naïve question.
“Good luck, Lise.”
Once she’d arrived in Marseille and parted ways with the four men, Odette followed Peter’s detailed instructions to the Hôtel Moderne. As she was leaving the train station, she saw a man standing on the street in a grayish-green uniform. Her eyes widened as she recognized his collar adornments. A German Hauptmann.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. This was the type of man she’d been warned about—the kind who had directly or indirectly caused the death or imprisonment of thousands of her countrymen. She narrowed her eyes at his back. He looked nothing like the depictions of Nazis at Wanborough Manor—there was no way this fat, balding man could ever have been considered to belong to a “superior race.”
As if sensing her stare, he turned. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he stated in tortured French. As he raised his arm in mock salute, Odette caught sight of a Luger tucked into the leather holster of his belt.
And therein lies his power, she decided.
She gave him the most cursory of smiles as she passed by him. She headed straight to the Hôtel Moderne, keeping her eyes on the pavement rather than make eye contact with any more fat Boches on the street.
The woman behind the desk was just as Peter had described. “Monsieur Vidal is currently out,” she told her, “but we expect him back around six this evening.”
Odette frowned. The last train for Cannes left just an hour later, and if she missed it, she’d have to find somewhere to stay. But going back to Peter without accom
plishing her mission would have been a worse fate. “I’ll be back then,” she told the woman.
Odette toured the town of Marseille, finding that once again Peter had been right about the quantities of Vichy and Gestapo men. She bought a movie ticket and spent a few blissful hours away from prying eyes, returning to the Hôtel Moderne just before six.
“He’s not here yet,” the woman told Odette, gesturing toward a seat in the lobby.
Forty-five minutes later, a tall, handsome man in a gray beret entered the hotel.
“Monsieur Vidal?” Odette inquired.
“Oui,” he answered. “And you are?”
“I have news of Monsieur Ternier of Lyon.”
He frowned. “I know of no such man.” He gazed up and down Odette’s form. “Perhaps you would join me for a drink?”
She refrained from glancing at the clock. “Oui.”
He led her to the café next door. Once they were seated, Vidal asked in an undertone, “How’s Buck?”
For a moment she forgot herself before quickly descending back to reality. Buckmaster. “He’s fine.”
He continued, his voice barely audible. “The man I am meeting here is Bernard, one of our couriers. It would be a good thing for you two to become acquainted so you can recognize one another in the future.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be returning to Marseille anytime soon,” Odette replied. “My orders from Buck are to report to Auxerre.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But you should meet Bernard anyway.”
She checked her watch. “I suppose it would be no problem for me to find a hotel at this hour?”
“I know of plenty. But let’s get dinner first.”
The waiter came and Odette said her order in perfect French, waving the exact number of rationing coupons as she did so.
“You enjoy being back in France.” Vidal stated after the waiter had left. It was not a question.
“I do.”
“How long has it been since you’ve arrived?”
Odette tallied the time in her head. “Thirty-seven hours.”
His lips stretched into a smile. “Wait until you’ve been here one hundred, thirty-seven hours and then we will have this conversation again.” His eyes traveled to a spot over Odette’s shoulder. “Ah, here’s Bernard, at last.”
Bernard was a smooth man in his late thirties. “The oysters here are outstanding,” he remarked as he sat down.
“Oysters?” Odette asked. “I’ve just used the last of my rations on some onion soup.”
Bernard motioned for the waiter. Not only was he adept in what to order, but he was a never-ending source of information and gossip concerning the goings-ons in Cannes, which he demonstrated after the waiter had poured each of them a glass of red wine, leaving the bottle on the table.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Odette said after a while. “But I was just telling my friend here,” she gestured toward Vidal, “that I will need a place to stay for the night.”
“I will arrange for one where they don’t ask any questions,” Bernard replied.
She nodded as the waiter arrived with the oysters.
The hour grew late and Odette knew the ten o’clock curfew was quickly approaching. “The hotel?” she finally reminded Bernard.
“Ah yes.” He told Odette to order another drink before he left the restaurant.
“I’m sorry, madame,” Bernard stated when he returned. “The hotel is all booked with those Boches that plague our fair town, and not even I,” he pounded his chest for emphasis. “have been able to make suitable pleas for a friend.” He took a sip of Vidal’s wine. “But I’ve managed to make other arrangements. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it will do for one night.”
Bernard led Odette to the Vieux Port. He marched purposefully, his voice keeping cadence with his steps. “People like us, who undertake the kind of work we do, should expect to find themselves bedding in unusual places from time to time. The goal is to avoid anyone asking questions, and for yourself to sidestep filling out any unnecessary paperwork.” He abruptly stopped walking and shook her hand. “This is where I leave you. Keep heading down this street until you get to the sixth house on the right. Tell the woman there you are acquainted with me and that you need a room with a key in the lock.”
“Why can’t you accompany me?” Odette demanded. “What is this place?”
Bernard sighed. “It is a brothel.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Why are you sending me there?”
He drew her closer to him, his voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s actually the safest place in Marseille to spend the night—the Nazis don’t usually raid the brothels because they would only find their own soldiers.”
“Can’t I just sleep in the train station?”
“You could, but it’s not wise. The Vichy would want to know why a lone woman was spending the night in such a place.” He waved his hand in the direction of the brothel. “I’ve got to get back before curfew.” He squeezed her hand. “You’ll be safe. Trust me.”
Odette set off down the dark streets. The only sound besides her heels clicking on the cobblestones was the thud of her heart. At the sixth house, she paused before pushing the door open.
The woman behind the counter put down the sock she’d been darning to give her a curious look.
“I’ve just come from Monsieur Bernard. He said you could help me: I need a room with a key for the night.”
The woman folded her fat arms across her chest. “You know what sort of business we conduct here, don’t you?”
Odette nodded.
“Come on,” the woman said, hobbling down the hall. “Any friend of the Monsieur,” Odette noted that she was careful not to say his name, “is a friend of mine. You don’t need to worry; I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” She opened the door and, after handing Odette the key, headed slowly back down the hall.
The room smelled of cheap perfume and cigarettes, but it was reasonably clean, apart from a filled ashtray and dingy dressing gown hanging on a hook. Odette moved the only furniture in the room—a threadbare armchair—in front of the door before taking off her shoes. She fell into the bed still wearing her dress and stockings. She closed her eyes, thinking sleep would never come, but she was out in only a few minutes.
She awoke to the pounding of many boots. “This is a raid!” a man shouted in German.
Odette crept to the door, standing on the chair she’d placed in front of the door to listen.
She could hear the proprietress’s tired voice raise in inquiry.
“We are looking for an army deserter, one who betrayed his beloved Führer,” the German’s voice boomed. “We need to conduct a room-to-room search.”
The woman murmured in consent. “But not that one,” Odette heard her say. “My niece is in there, recovering from smallpox.”
The German said something else, and then there was the sound of jackboots retreating down the hall.
Odette had a much harder time sleeping after the incident with the Gestapo. At dawn, she headed to the train station still exhausted. Luckily she managed to catch a miniscule nap on the train back.
Peter met her at the Cannes station. “Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice heavy with relief.
Odette sighed. “It’s a long story.” She cast her eyes over his rumpled suit and bedraggled appearance. “Have you been here all night, waiting for me?”
“No.” He took her bag from her and slid his other arm through hers. “You must be very tired.”
“I am,” she admitted, “though I’m so hungry I could eat a small horse.”
“I’m not sure about the horse, but I think I can arrange a small cow for you.” He gave her forearm a little squeeze. “What held you up, anyway?”
She gave him a weary smile, her arm tingling from his touch. “It’s a long story.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it over lunch?”
After she’d finished recounting her tale over stale bread and
cold soup at the Chez Robert, Peter told her she’d done a good job.
“Thank you.” Odette broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup. “I would like to do more such jobs, if you would let me.”
“You are supposed to go to Auxerre.”
“Yes, I meant until then, though I do have to say I’m looking forward to being closer to the front. The Riviera is a little too,” she thought for a moment, “impassively plush for me, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Peter nodded as he took in a spoonful of soup. “It is, but we do important work here as well.” He set his spoon down. “What would you think if I asked you to stay here and work for the Spindle network instead of moving on to Auxerre?”
“Here? In Cannes?” She thought for a moment. “Even if I wanted to, London would never permit it. I have my orders.”
Peter smiled. “Is that so? I think I could probably persuade old Buck to change your orders.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think anyone is really capable of persuading Buckmaster to do anything he doesn’t want to. Except maybe Vera Atkins.”
“Are you willing to bet on it?”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand francs.”
Odette met his smile, knowing neither of them had that much money. “How about one hundred thousand?”
He reached across the table and shook her hand.
When Odette walked into Peter’s office the next day, he told her she had won the bet and handed her a telegram.
She read it aloud, “Send Lise to Auxerre as originally planned STOP. Surely Carte can provide means of crossing the demarcation line,” before setting it on the table. “I told you.” She still thought Cannes a little too decadent. So why was she feeling a twinge of disappointment at Buckmaster’s response?
Peter crumpled the telegram. “Will you give me another day before we officially declare you the winner?”
She shrugged. “Of course.”
Peter approached her at lunch the next afternoon. “About that hundred thousand…” He showed her another telegram. This one was short: the only words on it were Oh very well.
