by V. B. Tenery
“What happens after I deliver the professor?”
“You and Mack will meet Resistance fighters and a team of British commandos. For your help in getting Bree out, we’ll provide equipment and men to assist in a rescue of the RAF pilots. Anonymously, of course.
“Your people are being held twenty miles from Calais, awaiting shipment to Germany. We don’t know when the move is to take place so there is some urgency to get them out. An added concern is that some or all of those men may be injured. That poses problems in transporting them to the coast.”
Grey looked into the eyes of each man around the table. “Are you aware of Germany’s reprisal policy? For every German soldier we kill, the German’s will shoot ten to twelve men, woman and children, doesn’t matter to them.”
The American gave a solemn nod. “I’m intimately aware of their reprisals.” His jaw muscles tightened and relaxed before he took a gulp from his water glass. “The French Marquis Resistance are some of the most courageous people in this war. They live under the repression of the most vicious enemy any country has ever faced. The Marquis fight in small group in the shadows, destroying train tracks, recording troop movements, and harassing the German army in any way possible. They do all this with full knowledge that if they are captured they and their families will face torture and death. Commander, you’ll just have to try to make sure the Germans don’t find any bodies.”
“How do I convince Bree to come with me?”
“You’ll use the password ‘Marta’. It’s a nickname he gave his wife, not her real name.”
The Admiral spoke for the first time. “We will coordinate things from this end to try and ensure you don’t get killed or captured.”
“And by the way,” C added. “on your way out, our commandos will destroy a few of the big guns along the coast to keep the German troops occupied so you can make your escape.”
“That will help,” Grey said. “When do we leave?”
“We head to the coast at 0600 tomorrow to begin training.”
The briefing lasted four hours. Grey walked away with one conclusion. It would take a bloody miracle for them to pull this off without heavy causalities. Too many people involved. Too many unknowns. Trusting partisans, sight unseen, had disaster written all over it.
He would have to trust his own skills. Aside from his remarkable memory, he had another talent suited to his profession. He could read people. Their body language told him a lot. If they were playing a role, their reactions to certain things would give them away. It was the only edge he had.
Now he needed to find Grace.
He found her in his quarters. Her luggage had been stored there when they arrived. When he opened the door, she hurried across the room to him. “I’m so glad you made it before I had to leave.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and walked her to the sofa, and then sat beside her. “I wouldn’t have missed your departure. Do you have time for a cup of tea before you leave?” He held up a thermos bottle he’d brought from the canteen.
She nodded. “I’m all packed. I was just waiting for you. Do you know where they’re sending you? Can you tell me?”
He poured two cups and handed one to her. “Yes, I do know, and no, I can’t tell you where or even how long I’ll be away. It’s best you don’t know. For your own safety. However, if you’re not here when I return, I’ll find you in Cairo.”
She finished her tea and set the plastic cup on the coffee table. “I have to go. They asked me to be at the airfield fifteen minutes early.”
He handed her Stormy’s carrier and lifted her two bags, then motioned for her to go first.
Grace didn’t move, she stood there chewing her bottom lip which trembled when she released it. A pained expression crossed her face. “Grey, I think . . . no, I know I’ve fallen in love with you. I didn’t mean to. It just happened. I know you don’t love me, but . . . I couldn’t leave without letting you know.” She turned and moved quickly towards the door.
He dropped the luggage, caught her before her hand touched the doorknob, and set the cat on the floor. He turned her around to face him, and gripped her shoulders. “You’re not getting away that easily. Did you just say you love me?”
She leaned her head against his chest, she gave a slight nod.
He lifted her face upward and pulled her into his arms in a fierce embrace, then placed a long, slow kiss on her lips. “That should tell you how I feel.” He gave a low chuckle. “Woman, your timing is terrible.”
On the tarmac, Grey handed off her luggage and the carrier to the pilot. He stowed the two cases in the plane’s belly and the cat inside the cabin. Grace clasped his arm with her hand as they strolled to the plane’s entrance. He held her tight, not wanting to let her go. He kissed her again, a kiss filled with all the emotions that boiled inside him, knowing this could be the last time. Wind whipped her blonde curls into his face as she clung to him, then she pulled away and hurried aboard.
Her fragrance lingered in the air as he stood on the tarmac and watched until the plane disappeared into the clouds, a silent prayer on his lips. Please, Lord, keep her safe.
CHAPTER 16
British Consul
Cairo, Egypt
Grace arrived in Cairo at 2:00 a.m. Egyptian time was two hours ahead of the UK. The flight had been a five-hour endurance test in the icy aircraft. She’d been told to dress warmly and she had added extra layers of woolen sweaters and three pairs of socks into fur-lined boots, but it wasn’t enough. Military flights had none of the amenities of commercial airlines, like heat, food and a bathroom. The flight had become rougher and frostier by the hour. Her feet were so cold she had to stomp them to stimulate the blood circulation.
Seventy-degree weather in Cairo almost made up for the frigid flight. She let the warmth soak into her skin. It seemed she’d been cold for years.
Like London, the city was under black-out conditions, so she saw little from the airport to her new home. She arrived at the British Consul forty-five minutes later.
Even at the late hour, the consul was wide awake. A young sergeant in a khaki uniform with knee-length trousers escorted her down a long hallway to her quarters.
The room was more splendid than those at Bletchley Park. Her spacious bedroom and tile bath had stone walls and was furnished with heavy Moroccan furniture. She surmised as the only female cryptologist, she had been given accommodations usually reserved for visiting dignitaries. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.
She quickly shed the layers of clothing and slipped between cotton sheets that felt like silk. Despite the painful memory of a grim-faced Grey as he stood on the runway, she fell asleep almost immediately, Stormy curled up beside her.
Grace awoke early and following directions from a young lieutenant, found her way to the consul’s code room.
A slim man in his early forties, of medium height and wearing horn-rimmed glasses that covered his rather long nose, met her at the entrance. “Good morning. You must be Grace Hamilton.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Charles Weathersby.” He waved his hand around the room. “I’m in charge of this decryption unit, such as it is. I understand you’re fluent in Italian and we’re very glad you’re here. Our knowledge of the language is rather limited.”
“I hope I can help, Charles. If you’ll show me where I’m to work and tell me what needs to be done, I’ll get started.”
He led her to a desk piled high with teletypes and radio-grams. “So far we haven’t been able to break this month’s codes. The only thing we know for certain is they change the codes every month, so if and when we break it we shall have to start all over again next month. As you can imagine, that keeps morale low.”
Grace gave him a sympathetic nod. “I understand. We have the same problem at Bletchley Park.”
By mid-morning she had organized the papers by date, oldest to newest. There was no need to try and decode messages when the codes had already changed. If they solved this month’s puzzle soon,
they could go back to the older ones.
Deciphering codes was as simple or as complicated, depending on how you looked at it, as an 8x3 matrix that could be alpha or numeric, usually both. To securely transmit a message, the plaintext had to be enciphered. First, one needed a key to help encipher and decipher. The numbers below the key represented the numeric equivalent of the alphabet of the language of the sender, such as F=06; E=05; L=12, etc. In more complex systems, the variables were more elaborate.
To be sure, the Italian codes were more elaborate.
In the end, the receiver and the transmitter had agreed in advance to the same key to understand the transmitted data. Always, the challenge was to find the key.
And so she began the hunt.
Near lunch time her concentration was broken by laughter, and suddenly a man of about thirty-five appeared in front of her. He stood about six-feet-four, wore khaki slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. His dark hair was cropped short, and a pair of smiling hazel eyes stared down at her.
“I was told there was another American here and I had to come and see for myself. But no one told me how beautiful you are.” He offered his hand. “I’m Sam Norton, and I think I’m in love.”
She laughed. Yes, he was no doubt American and full of blarney, but it was good to hear a voice from home. His dark tan said he’d probably been in Egypt for a while. “Hi, Sam. I’m Grace Hamilton. Where do you hail from?”
He took a seat on the corner of her desk and flashed a smile full of straight white teeth. “I call Dallas, Texas, home, sweetheart. How about you?”
“Mostly Washington, D.C. Now I live in London.”
Charles appeared behind Sam and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Down, boy. She’s married. And that’s Lady Grace Hamilton to you.”
Sam glanced down at her wedding rings and placed a theatrical hand over his heart as though wounded. “Just my luck. I travel around the world to find the woman of my dreams and she’s married. You can still have a bite of lunch with me, can’t you?”
Before she could answer, Charles spoke up. “Let’s break for lunch, Grace. I’ll chaperone and keep this wild man in line. The kitchen is serving up Koshari, a mixture of lentils, rice, pasta and spices. Also grilled eggplant and served with aish, a type of pocket bread. After London’s war rations, you’ll love it.”
As with most consuls, there was an elaborate dining room, but a small canteen had been set up near the kitchen, very unpretentious. Small metal tables with matching chairs were scattered around the room, now filled with wonderful aromas seeped from the large stove and countertops. There was no menu. It was Koshari or nothing.
Over lunch, Grace asked Sam, “You’re not in the military, are you? So what brings you to Cairo?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not army. Just sightseeing.”
Charles chuckled. “He lies. He’s one of America’s new cloak and dagger boys, something called the OSS.”
At the stricken look on Sam’s face, Charles hurriedly assured him. “She has top security clearance, old boy, as does everyone in our decoding department. No problem letting her in on what you do.”
Sam cast a narrow glance at Charles but appeared satisfied. “It seems we will all be in this battle together soon. Our people are running an operation in France now. Trying to shake some scientist loose from the Germans. I don’t envy them. It will be a risky operation or I miss my guess. Me, I’m just a messenger, here to gathered information for the people back in Washington.”
Grace’s thoughts flashed back to the meeting in C’s office. He’d told Grey they had a conference with the Americans later. Could this be the same mission? An almost physical pain twisted her gut and her fork stopped halfway to her mouth, her appetite gone. A risky operation. She placed the fork back on her plate. If she knew Grey, he would be in the center of the action.
“Tell me everything you know about the mission in France. I think my husband may be there.”
French Coast
Calais, France
A fine mist of salt water blew off the huge channel waves and pelted Grey’s face as he and Mack paddled silently towards the shoreline. About eight hundred meters out, they slipped on their back-packs. Grey gritted his teeth before he eased over the side into the ice-cold sea. The frigid water sent violent shivers through his body. He made a fervent vow to move to a warm climate when this bloody war ended.
Mack loosened his knife from its sheath and slashed the raft in multiple places to let the air out. They treaded water until the weighted craft sank below the surface, then they struck out for shore. It would be up to the French underground to get them back to a ship when the time came.
A starless sky made it difficult to see the shore but the sound of surf pounding the sandy beach signaled they were headed in the right direction. They rode in quietly on the high tide until their feet touched bottom. Wading ashore, the smell of salt water and kelp filled his nostrils. They kept to the shallows so as not to leave footprints on the sandy beach.
German troops would patrol this area at regular intervals. He and Mack had to find cover in a hurry. They scrambled across two hundred meters of course sand to find concealment in the trees, dropped their gear, and shoved it into the undergrowth while they returned to erase their footprints.
Grey peeked through parted branches, and groaned. Two German sentries left their encampment on a ridge above the beach and strode along the shoreline. Nearing the spot where he and Mack left the water, one of the sentries lowered his flashlight to their sandy footprints.
“Englisch Spiones!” he shouted, and blew a whistle, breaking the silence with piercing bursts, followed by search lights combed the wet sand—lighting up the night.
Mack cursed.
Grey grabbed his pack and Mack didn’t have to be told to follow suit. They had to move out fast. The footprints would lead the trackers right to them. And their Resistance contact was nowhere in sight.
They shouldered their packs and Grey led the way. The area was implanted in his mind from childhood, his own personal map. They double-timed it to the base of a rocky promontory and followed a trail he knew to the top. Hopefully they could lose the trackers and find their contact.
Grey’s mind raced. They’d barely set foot on French soil and already the mission was compromised. That didn’t bode well for success. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that the Germans had bloodhounds in their arsenal.
As if his thoughts conjured up a worst-case scenario, a series of excited yelps changed the game . . . the animals had picked up their scent.
Grey glanced up at the sky. Whose side are you on, Lord?
They couldn’t lose bloodhounds. Their only chance would be to slow them down.
“What do we do now?” Mack asked.
Grey waved him forward. “Follow me and pray our Resistance friends find us before the Germans and their dogs do.”
With Grey in the lead, they struggled through the awkward bushy terrain. The thicker and more tangled the undergrowth, the better to slow down the dogs. The animals could navigate through the brush better than he and Mack, but it would be more difficult for the handlers. The dog’s leads would invariably become snarled in the undergrowth, temporarily delaying the hunters.
If their contact didn’t make an appearance soon, they would have to make it to the closest town. So many unaccustomed smells in a city could distract bloodhounds from the scent for a while, maybe completely. No guarantees. A bloodhound’s olfactory sense was a thousand times better than humans, making them almost impossible to evade.
Frenzied yelps told Grey the dogs were closing in. Gravelines, the closest town, was still at least three kilometers away.
Bloodhounds could only be foiled two ways. Drive away fast in a motor car or shoot them, their handlers, or both. He didn’t have a vehicle, and didn’t want to kill the animals. They were just doing what they were trained to do. But his compassion didn’t extend to letting them catch him. If the French didn’
t make an appearance before he and Mack were forced into the open, he would aim his silenced Springfield and eliminate the threat.
“Let’s pick it up, Mack. Those hounds from Hades are getting too close for our wellbeing.”
CHAPTER 17
Forest outside of Calais
Calais, France
Excited barks and shouts meant bad news. The dogs were closing in. Even more troubling, Grey and his partner neared the opened country outside of Gravelines, leaving no place to evade the hounds. He’d have to set up a sniper spot on the high ground and eliminate the hunters.
As they stepped into the open road, a truck sped from the trees and a man with a heavy French accent shouted, “Jump in!” The driver only slowed slightly as Grey and Mack dived into the truck bed.
Mack scrambled to a sitting position and seemed to release all the air in his lungs, then glanced over at Grey. “That was close. But better late than never.”
Grey pushed up beside him and leaned against the truck cab. “Typical Yank understatement.”
A window between the truck cab and bed slid open. A middle-aged woman shouted in French over the whine of the engine. “Stay down. We don’t have too far to go. You can get some food and prepare for your appointment tomorrow.”
True to her word, an hour later the vehicle pulled into the yard of a tiny farmhouse. A huge barn and farm equipment stood nearby. The man behind the wheel bounced out and hurried them to a trap door in a bedroom. “There are beds and clothes down there. I’ll bring food soon, but you must stay hidden. The Germans are scouring the countryside for two spies.”
Their quarters were not that uncomfortable. It appeared to be a cellar that had been expanded. Not a place for claustrophobics and it smelled of moist dirt, but it was clean and lighted by kerosene lamps. Four stacked beds sat in a corner. They were prepared for unexpected company.
