by Kit Sergeant
She stopped short when she caught sight of the man, however. He cocked the Luger in his hand and pointed it at her. She glanced to her left, where another man was in a similar stance. Two more thuggish-looking men were behind him. None of them were familiar to her.
She blinked fast, feeling as though this wasn’t really happening, that she was an actress in a movie. But the man who stepped out of the shadows was no stranger.
Bleicher approached her, a gun in his hand. “Congratulations, Lise. You have played your part with great skill. But your game is up. Don’t make things any more difficult by trying to escape—we have the building surrounded.”
He turned to one of the thugs in the background and growled just one word. “Pierre.”
“No,” Odette protested. “I am his wife and it is my fault we are back in France. I am a Frenchwoman, and he is English. Let him go and take me.”
A pistol was shoved into her back. “Upstairs,” the man behind her commanded.
Bleicher led the way back to their room as Odette wrestled with what to do. She could shout for Peter to make for the roof, but then the Gestapo men waiting outside would shoot him dead. Besides, she knew if he heard her scream, he’d try to rescue her, putting both of them in even more danger. No, we must face the music as the experienced SOE operatives we are.
Bleicher kicked the door open and turned on the light. Peter, exhausted from his journey, was still sleeping. Odette looked upon his prone form with a sudden stab of affection, willing him not to wake up. She cast her eyes around the room. Her purse sat on the table. She pictured the cyanide pill tucked safely inside the lining. It felt like the last safeguard she had against impending torment and suffering, but she knew she could never take it.
Peter’s jacket hung over the back of one of the chairs, the square shape of his wallet just visible in the front pocket. She knew there was damning evidence inside it: new radio codes and thousands of francs for their agents.
The other man pointed his Luger at the bed as Bleicher shook Peter’s shoulder. “You are under arrest, Pierre Chauvet.”
As he sat up wearily, Odette slipped over to the table.
Peter started to deny his identity, but the gun thrust in his face made him stop. Odette grabbed Peter’s wallet and slid it into the cup of her bra as Bleicher ordered him to get up. “You, Chauvet, are a British agent and saboteur.”
Peter, under the direction of the two armed men, threw on a shirt and pants.
“Cuff him,” Bleicher told one of the thugs.
“I’m not finished dressing yet,” Peter insisted.
“All in good time,” Bleicher stated. “You are aware that this district is occupied by the Italian Army?”
“Yes,” Peter replied tersely.
“Well, which would you prefer: to be the prisoner of the Italians or Germans?”
Peter gave a hoarse chuckle. “The Italians, of course.”
This answer obviously did not please the Germans. After Peter had put on his coat, Bleicher repeated his instructions to have him handcuffed. The steel bands snapped over his wrists and Odette and Peter were taken out to the hall while Bleicher dumped out the contents of their drawers and dug through their packed bags. But the only incriminating item was already tucked away in Odette’s bosom.
The thugs left the room, one of them taking Odette’s elbow, and led her and Peter back downstairs.
Jean Cottet was still in the lobby, a look of panic on his normally inscrutable face. It was obvious he had known nothing of Bleicher’s plan.
“Jean, I’m sorry about this,” Peter told him. “I didn’t mean to cause you any bother. You couldn’t have possibly realized I was a British officer.”
Cottet feigned a look of surprise as the men pushed Peter out the door. He met Odette’s eyes, his sympathetic as he mouthed, “Good luck,” and then Odette too was shoved into the cool night air.
There were two cars waiting. Bleicher climbed into one of them and patted the seat beside him. Odette reluctantly followed as Peter was taken to the car behind them. When Bleicher leaned forward to give instructions to the driver, Odette reached under her blouse to grab Peter’s wallet. She was mercifully still unhandcuffed, and, pretending to straighten her stockings, she stuffed the wallet under the cushions of the car, sighing with relief that at last Peter’s secrets were as hidden as best as she could have managed. As they drove away, Odette kept her eyes on the mountain they’d been on only hours before, when Peter had been in her arms.
Chapter 49
Mathilde
Lucas came to visit Mathilde a few days after the Claridge’s party. She invited him into the parlor and asked Didi to make them some tea.
“I am going back to France,” Lucas told Mathilde flatly.
“Oh?” She noted that he had said “I” and not “we.”
They both fell silent as Didi deposited a tea tray on the ottoman. Some of the liquid spilled and Lucas mopped it up before lifting his tea cup, which seemed way too delicate for his strong hands. “Circumstances in France have changed since we’ve arrived, and now Buckmaster and Boddington think it’s too dangerous for you to come with me.”
“If it’s too dangerous for me, what does that mean for you? Are they not sending you right back into the lion’s den?”
“Yes.” He took a sip. “But seeing as how I’m a…” he seemed to have trouble swallowing, “a well-trained, experienced SOE operative, they see no reason not to drop me back in.”
Lucas might have been trained by the SOE, but he was also a man. And Buckmaster and Boddington were more than aware that Mathilde was not. “What about our plans? What about blowing up Fresnes and killing Bleicher?”
“I know.” He put his cup down and reached for her hand. “I told them I would only go back if the SOE consents to two things. One, that they make sure you are well treated here, and two, that in a few months I’ll come back to retrieve you, and together we’ll set up a new network.”
“A smaller one,” she agreed. “Interallié became too big to manage. We’ll only have four or five agents, ones whom we trust implicitly.”
“Yes.” Lucas sat back. “In the meantime, you’ll stay here and keep feeding Bleicher false information.”
“I don’t want to work with those men without you. Buckmaster always looks like a deer trapped in the headlights of a car.” She laughed to herself. “And if Buck is indeed a buck, then Vera Atkins, with her long face and beaked nose, is his doe. Either that or a Jewess. And don’t get me started on that simpering idiot Boddington.”
Lucas held up both hands. “Okay, okay. It’s obvious you’re not a fan of the SOE. But I’ve known Boddington for a while now, and he’s always done right by me.” He dropped his arms to his side. “The British may suffer from a lack of imagination, but I’d rather work for them than anyone else.”
She shook her head. “If only you’d experienced Interallié in its heyday.” She fell silent remembering all of Armand’s missteps and how they’d very nearly caused the downfall of everyone concerned.
Lucas rose. “I won’t be gone long, and when I come back, we can set our former plans into motion.”
“Thank you.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Buena suerte, Lucas.”
Chapter 50
Odette
Peter and Odette were brought to the barracks of the Italian Army’s mountain infantry—the Alpini—in Annecy. “Take good care of them,” Bleicher told an Italian officer in typical Alpini uniform: a green tunic and calf-length bloomers, which might have looked ridiculous if the officer’s facial expression hadn’t been so menacing. “I’ve got to return to Paris now, but we can’t afford to lose these two,” Bleicher continued.
Odette stood by Peter, whose wrists were cuffed in front of his body. She reached for him, and he looked at her with so much affection it nearly made her blush. She squeezed his hand hard, willing herself to give him strength. She knew that, as the commanding officer of the Spindle Network, he was desti
ned for much worse things than she, a mere woman. More than anything, she wished she could take on his pain and endure it herself.
She was taken to a small room in the barracks, not altogether unpleasant, though the bed was hard.
That first night was spent in a maze of what if’s: what if Peter had missed the drop-off? What if she had packed up early and left Saint-Jorioz a few days prior? What if Bleicher had waited until the 18th to arrive like she’d asked him to?
But it was no use: as Bleicher himself had stated, their game was up. She and Peter had had a productive run, longer than most, shorter than some. They had accomplished good things, but now it was time to pay the price.
The next morning, she awoke to a guard calling for assistance in a panicked voice, followed by the sound of many jackboots sprinting down the hall, and then a startled cry that sounded suspiciously like Peter.
Next she heard more cursing in Italian, accompanied by kicking and grunting. They were hurting Peter! Odette strained her ears, tears running down her face, but there was no more noise after that.
An Italian officer entered her cell a few hours later. He introduced himself as the chief of secret police before stating in an expressionless tone, “Your partner is a criminal, signora.”
“He’s not my partner, he’s my husband,” Odette replied, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “What have you done to him?”
“He tried to make a getaway last night by knocking down one of our guards. It’s going to be pretty bad for him now.”
Odette could feel herself tearing up again, wishing desperately that the Italian had come in to inform her of Peter’s successful escape.
“What sort of work did you and your husband do?” he asked stiffly, refusing to leave his post next to the door.
She looked at him with pursed lips and shook her head.
“You are not in a position to make decisions,” he reminded her.
Odette opened her mouth wide, stating her words slowly, as if the Italian were stupid. “I have nothing to say to you.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “We shall see about that.”
But the next few days passed uneventfully. For some reason, the Italian soldiers had warmed to Odette. She got a clue as to why when one of them grudgingly told her, “You husband is very brave, though hard to manage. He attacked one of his guards.”
“Is he hurt?”
The guard shrugged. “His ego was probably more bruised than anything else—he almost managed to escape, but we caught him. We had to take his glasses so he wouldn’t try anything else.”
The thought of Peter being free made her lips turn up wistfully. “Will you permit me to send a message to him?”
He shrugged. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. It will be something to fill my boring days.” He raised his finger and pointed at her. “But nothing military or secret about it.”
“No.”
In a few minutes, the guard returned with an inkwell and a small pad of paper. As instructed, Odette kept her note impersonal and brief. She scribbled, Are you quite all right? before handing it to the guard unfolded.
He read what she wrote and tucked it into his front pocket. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Odette sat on the bed, her hands clenched into fists. Her agitation stemmed not from whether Peter was hurt, but something else entirely. She’d once compared marriage to living in a gilded cage, and now that she was in a real prison, she realized that being in Saint-Jorioz with Peter was the most free she had ever felt.
Her hands tightened even more as it dawned on her that, somehow, she had accidentally fallen in love with her network leader, a man she wasn’t sure she’d ever see again.
Peter’s response read, A little banged up and bruised, but will survive. How are you? Are you worried about your girls?
“Yes,” Odette replied, her pen moving rapidly. She was tempted to say what was really on her mind, but, not knowing if the feeling was mutual, she couldn’t bring herself to write that she loved him. Instead, she added, And I’m concerned for you too. Without thinking, she signed her real name.
The guard had a reply in a few hours. Odette. Now I know your true name. Peter’s handwriting appeared shaky this time.
I might still think upon you affectionately as Lise, the fearless courier. But it suits you to have a different name now. I feel as if our sort of predicament is the kind that either brings out the best or the worst in people. Clearly you are showing the former, and my admiration for you has never been as deep as it is now. Stay strong, my lovely Odette/Lise.
Tears blurred her vision as she re-read his words, mentally inserting the word ‘love’ for ‘admiration.’
After a week, the secret police officer regretfully told Odette she was being transferred. She nodded and collected her meager things: two blouses, a skirt, and the gray suit she’d once told Miss Atkins would be perfectly suitable for imprisonment, still on a hanger.
A lorry was parked in the middle of the garden outside the prison. She’d not had a shower or been able to look after any sort of hygiene in quite some time, and she could smell the stink of her own body.
“Oh!” she cried as another prisoner came into view. Peter!
He looked similarly disheveled, with a crusty gray/brown beard forming on his normally chiseled jaw. Odette watched as his guards shook his cuffed hands, some of them patting him on the back. It was clear his captors had developed a profound respect for Peter, though it could never rival her own.
Close up, Odette could see that Peter’s hair was greasy and his skin was covered in bruises, but to her he looked wonderful. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“Not too much.” He managed a smile. He nodded toward a young guard. “That’s the one I knocked over trying to escape.”
The man waved and Odette marveled how Peter could make friends out of the worst enemies.
The Italians allowed Peter and Odette to sit together, and she once again reached for his hands. They sat in silence as the lorry started, but soon she was emptying her purse of cigarettes, tucking them into every available pocket space on Peter’s jumpsuit.
“Where did you get all these?” he asked.
“The guards gave them to me. I’m sorry they smell—they lit them for me and then I stubbed them out immediately.”
“No odor from a cigarette could possibly mask my own foulness.”
“You smell, and look, perfectly fine to me,” Odette replied honestly.
He gazed into her eyes, and it seemed to her that time had stopped. She was momentarily blind to the fact that Peter was in handcuffs, and armed guards were surrounding them. All that mattered was that she was beside him again.
They fell silent, each of them staring out at the scenery they’d been deprived of for the last week.
“Peter,” Odette finally whispered under her breath. “Who do you think betrayed us? Was it Bardet?”
“It doesn’t matter, Odette.” Her proper name sounded strange coming from his lips. “They could hang me for any of a dozen reasons.”
“But they won’t,” she replied resolutely. Not if I can help it. “You can survive this.” The incident with the orphanage coupons on the train to Périgueux came to mind, and she quoted him, “So long as you lay off the theatrics—it’s dangerous enough as it is.”
The memory was not lost on him and he shot her a lopsided grin.
She glanced at the guards behind them, who were preoccupied with a game of cards, their guns at rest. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “From now on, you should tell everyone your real name.”
“No. You know they will treat me even worse with the last name of Churchill.”
“I’ve been telling everyone that we are married, and that I too am a Churchill.”
“There goes my cover story,” he stated dryly.
“Nonsense,” she replied loudly. The guards in front looked back at her, and she sat up, rubbing her filthy back on the seat. When they’d lost interest, sh
e continued, again in a whisper, “The Germans are obsessed with names and heritage. They will praise Bleicher to the moon and back for capturing one of old-man Winston’s relatives. Who knows, maybe they’ll arrange for a prisoner exchange.”
“I always thought it was a dangerous name to travel under.”
She shrugged. “Maybe sometimes, but it’s a gamble worth taking.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “And if anyone asks, we’ve been married since the war broke out.”
He gave a heavy sigh. “Sink or swim, our fates will be determined together.”
The man in the front seat turned around. “You are not talking of anything political, no?”
“Of course not.” Peter’s smile reappeared, though Odette could tell the effort pained him. “You think a man and his wife would waste their last moments discussing politics? I’m just whispering dolce far niente in her ear.”
The Italian gave them a lecherous grin before turning back around.
Odette giggled to herself. “I should add that the guise of our marriage is merely a war-time stunt, designed to save my own hide as well as yours.”
Peter’s face turned serious. “If I ever get the chance, I shall ask you if you care to make it a permanent thing.”
Odette met his gaze, but they both knew she could never promise to love another man while she was still married. Her eyes on the men in front, she bent down to retrieve something from her bag. She handed Peter the gold ring Buckmaster had given her before she’d left England. “Pour toi, mon Pierre,” she said, placing it in his hand before closing his fingers around it.
Chapter 51
Didi
Buckmaster called Didi into his office one windless spring day to tell her: “Lucas has been arrested by the Abwehr.”
