Henderson’s Boys 4: Grey Wolves

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Ten francs well spent,’ he roared.

  Joel looked up at the girls on the balcony. He’d never even kissed a girl, so the idea that he could have sex with any of them aroused, scared and disgusted him all at once.

  ‘Who have you got your eye on?’ Gilles shouted.

  Joel pretended like he didn’t hear, but this wasn’t a good idea because Gilles was a mean drunk.

  He leaned forwards and boomed in Joel’s ear. ‘I’m speaking to you, sonny.’

  ‘Nobody,’ Joel said nervously, as he looked down at his beer.

  Gilles looked at PT. ‘Think your little brother’s ever done it with a girl?’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen,’ PT said.

  Joel blushed as PT’s workmates jeered.

  ‘Little virgin,’ Gilles mocked. ‘You’re a working man now. Why not go up there and grab some fanny?’

  ‘One from the end,’ PT said, as he pointed up. ‘Reckon she’s only my age. Good tits, nice legs. You could do a lot worse.’

  Joel blushed even more as he buried his face in his beer glass. He’d hoped PT would bail him out, not dig him in deeper.

  Gilles shouted up. ‘Oi, one from the end, will you do us a good price on the young lad?’

  When Joel looked up from his glass, the girl blew him a kiss. His face burned like the surface of the sun.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Gilles shouted, giving Joel a tug. ‘Go on up, she won’t bite you.’

  ‘She might if you pay extra,’ another of PT’s workmates shouted, to roars of laughter.

  Joel half smiled, but saw a way out. ‘I’ve only got a couple of francs.’

  PT peeled out two fives. ‘Take it if you want to.’

  Joel reluctantly stood up and took PT’s money. The girl was making come on up gestures and gently cupping one of her breasts.

  ‘Go on, my son,’ Gilles shouted.

  The place wasn’t packed, but it was busy. A few men at surrounding tables had also worked out what was going on and cheered Joel on as he walked towards the staircase. Sweat poured down his face as watching eyes bored into him.

  Then he was at the bottom of the stairs. The girl was waiting at the top, but a greasy-looking man blocked his path. Joel hoped he was going to send him away for being too young or something, but he was there to take money.

  ‘Three francs for the room. Then you pay the girl for whatever you want her to do.’

  Joel’s hands were tense and he’d scrunched PT’s five-franc notes into sweaty little balls. He flattened one out and was about to hand it over when he looked up at the girl again and wondered what he was supposed to do when he got up to the room.

  Thinking he was going to spew, Joel spun around and made a run for the door, almost knocking over a barman with a tray of glasses. Bursting into fresh air he doubled over and retched, but nothing came out. As he straightened up, he could hear laughter and shouts of Get back here, and Chicken.

  Joel had never felt so embarrassed. He took three quick steps before realising he was going the wrong way, then turned and headed towards the main bridge out of town.

  He’d only gone thirty paces when PT shouted after him. ‘Wait up, mate. I’ll walk home with you.’

  Joel didn’t slow down, so PT had to jog to catch up.

  ‘You forgot your tin,’ PT said.

  Joel stuck the can of bread under his arm, but scowled down at the cobbles and kept quiet.

  ‘They’re just messing,’ PT said. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’

  ‘Well you could have stood up for me,’ Joel finally said, stopping as they turned into an alleyway. ‘Here’s your ten francs. Now go back to your mates.’

  PT refused to take the money. ‘I feel bad. I saw your eyes going up her skirt. I wasn’t being shitty. I thought you wanted to go up there.’

  ‘I kind of did,’ Joel admitted. ‘But with all those guys pressuring me … And that Gilles is a dick.’

  ‘He’s all right, covers my back at work,’ PT said. ‘But he’s been drinking since half seven.’

  ‘I feel like such a prat,’ Joel said, as he started walking again.

  PT tried thinking of something to make Joel feel better. ‘Probably for the best, anyway. Guy I know slept with a bunch of whores in Morocco when I was a cabin boy. He got all these sores. His dick looked like a corn on the cob.’

  Joel laughed half-heartedly. ‘Really?’

  ‘The toilet was right next to our bunks. Whenever he took a piss he’d be screaming blue murder.’

  ‘So did you ever pay for sex?’

  ‘Me?’ PT scoffed, as they turned a corner. ‘Look at this beautiful face. I don’t have to pay for it.’

  ‘I’ll tell Rosie that,’ Joel said, starting to relax a little.

  But he didn’t get much of a chance before two men cut off their route out of the alleyway. PT recognised the red-bearded man he’d won thirty-two francs from earlier on. This part of Lorient was a warren of little alleyways and it wouldn’t have been hard to spot PT leaving the Le Petit Prince and run on ahead.

  ‘Where’s your big mate now?’ red beard laughed, as he brandished a stuck. ‘Don’t think baby brother’s gonna be much help.’

  ‘Get out of my face, old man,’ PT said. ‘I told you not to bet. It’s your own fault.’

  Red beard’s companion was heavily built. ‘Give us your money and there’s no need for anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘What are you, hired muscle?’ PT laughed. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you give me your money and then you won’t get hurt?’

  ‘Can’t talk your way out of this one, con merchant,’ red beard said. He then made a loud OOOF as PT kicked him in the balls.

  While the old man staggered about clutching his nuts, PT swung a punch at the big thug. The thug staggered back, surprised by strength that came from combat training as much as raw physical power. But it was no knockout blow.

  When the shock wore off, the big man lunged and got an arm around PT’s neck. Joel saved him by smashing the can of bread down on the thug’s head. PT’s next punch hit his temple and knocked him cold.

  As the big man tripped backwards and crashed into a doorway, PT expertly launched a roundhouse kick, knocking the old man to the ground as his false teeth spun out across the cobbles.

  ‘Here’s your money,’ PT said, peeling notes from a fat money clip. ‘Thirty-two, minus one franc you won on the first bet makes thirty-one.’

  He bent forwards and stuffed the notes in red beard’s shirt pocket, then cheekily flicked the end of his nose.

  ‘Happy now, you old shit?’ PT said.

  He looked back as he strolled off, pumped with bravado. Joel inspected the can of bread and saw that it had a big dent. He realised PT was drunk, but still didn’t understand the mixture of generosity and nastiness.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Joel asked. ‘We’d better get out of here sharpish. If the patrol turns up they’ll give us a week in the cells, minimum.’

  ‘Nobody calls me a con merchant,’ PT said bitterly, as they walked briskly away from the scene. ‘Con merchants rob old ladies and water down booze. What I do is an art. I’m a con artist.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Henderson stood by the apartment window in vest and underpants stirring his morning coffee. He’d switched the radio on and opened the curtains to let the sun in but Marc was still fast asleep. He always slept the same way, sprawled in all directions with limbs hanging over the sides. Henderson took the hot metal spoon out of his mug, crept up to the bed and dabbed it mischievously against the top of Marc’s hand.

  The thirteen-year-old sprang up like a cat, rolling over, sheets flying about.

  ‘Morning, sweet pea,’ Henderson said, smiling at Marc’s sulking face.

  ‘You burned me,’ Marc complained, though an examination of his skin showed nothing but a tiny egg-shaped blotch. ‘I’m so knackered. What time is it?’

  ‘Quarter to seven,’ Henderson said.

  Marc walked barefoot into Hend
erson’s room and took a long piss into his chamberpot.

  ‘Coffee?’ Henderson asked. ‘It’s from Mamba Noir.’

  ‘Yeah, seeing as it’s decent,’ Marc said.

  Henderson handed Marc a mug as he came through the doorway rubbing his eyes. ‘You can get some sleep this afternoon, but the chef needs his grub and Boo needs her messages to encode.’

  ‘I know,’ Marc said. ‘I’ve got a message to pass on from Joel as well.’

  ‘I’m hoping plenty of equipment came in via Madeline II yesterday,’ Henderson said. ‘I asked for a good quantity of plastic explosives. All the U-boat supplies come in by train. If we can hit the main engine yard outside of town I think we could slow things right down.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Marc said, as he looked along the open front of the kitchen dresser for some breakfast options.

  Mamba Noir’s nightly leftovers were fought over by the staff, but Henderson had pulled off a coup. Marc took a plate and filled it with a piece of fresh river salmon, slightly stale chunks of baguette, butter, tomatoes and a slice of cream gateau topped with tinned orange segments. It was only as he sat on his bed eating that his mind tuned in to the voice on the radio.

  ‘What are they saying about Russia?’ Marc asked.

  Henderson shrugged as he used his teaspoon to attack the other half of the salmon. ‘Germany says it’s going well, Russia says they’re defending bravely and advancing into German territory in some areas. But it’s all propaganda. It’ll take days for anything like the truth to emerge.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll be a German walkover, like France last summer?’

  ‘Russia’s a big old lump to bite off,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s thirty times bigger than France, so it won’t be quick, but the Russian military is a real mess. We had a defector two years ago when I was with the Espionage Research Unit …’

  ‘What’s a defector?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Someone who comes over to your side,’ Henderson explained. ‘Usually someone important. He was a military attaché, Red Navy admiral. Stalin had launched massive purges against his top commanders. Sending them off to camps in Siberia or putting a bullet through their heads.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Paranoia mostly,’ Henderson said. ‘Mixed with a healthy dose of communist dogma about privileged elites. The point was, the admiral was terrified that his head was next on the chopping block. I met him at a conference, smuggled him back to Britain. He gave us a lot of useful intelligence, he’d even brought plans for Russian torpedoes. The designs were top-notch, but he said the service was a shambles. The most experienced units had been gutted of all the best commanders. Nobody was doing their jobs because it only took one wrong move to get a bullet through the head. The Red Army and Soviet Air Force are apparently just the same.’

  ‘So the Germans are gonna win?’ Marc said.

  ‘I’d lay my shilling on it,’ Henderson said.

  ‘What does that mean for Britain?’

  Henderson considered this for a few moments. ‘In the short term the invasion is a good thing because Hitler can’t wage large-scale wars against Britain and Russia at the same time. But in the long term, assuming Hitler wins, he’ll have Russian territory and manpower to draw on.’

  ‘And we’ll be screwed,’ Marc said.

  Henderson rocked his head from side to side uncertainly. ‘If Hitler deals with Russia, he can turn all his forces around and focus on a full-scale invasion of Britain. It’s probably too late for this year, but by spring ’42 he could be ready to crush us.’

  ‘What about the Yanks?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath expecting them to come to our rescue,’ Henderson scoffed. ‘But there’s no point getting depressed about it. We’re talking about maybes stacked up on a hundred more maybes. All we can do is keep calm and focus on our jobs.’

  *

  Marc sat on a cart, catching the sunlight as the hazelnut-brown horse pulled him along Lorient’s main shopping street. Dot was an old nag who’d been walking the same route for years. She knew the way and only needed a tap to get her moving between stops.

  Forty women and a couple of men queued outside the butcher’s. The window display was bare and their choice was between gristly sausages and minced lamb. Marc cut to the front of the queue and walked behind the counter to collect two huge sacks filled with joints of roasting pork, lamb cutlets and veal medallions.

  He peeled off several hundred francs as a couple of shoppers tutted with disgust.

  ‘Mind your business or piss off,’ the butcher warned them, as his boy helped Marc carry the sacks out to the cart.

  The next stop was a fishmonger. Fish wasn’t rationed, but the prices put it beyond the wallets of the people queuing for meat. Marc carefully stacked boxes of fish and crates of snapping lobsters into the cart, alongside the sacks of meat, two churns of milk and crates of fruit and vegetables.

  He passed a sad-looking woman with two little kids and gave them each an apple. The Germans stopped the cart at a snap checkpoint. One man inspected Marc’s identity card while the other helped himself to a handful of strawberries. They didn’t dare take more, because Madame Mercier had half the town’s senior officers in her pocket.

  The final stop before turning for home was a drinking trough at the end of the street. Dot always took a ten-minute break here and wouldn’t move on until she was ready. After a long drink, Marc gave her a strawberry as a treat before she dipped her head into a bucket filled with oats and apple cores.

  ‘You’ll rot her teeth,’ Paul said cheerfully.

  The school on the opposite side of the street hadn’t been open in months, but local kids still congregated in the area, making it the perfect spot for the two boys to pass messages.

  ‘That’s information on movements from Joel and some stuff me and Henderson picked up at the club,’ Marc told Paul as he handed over some papers. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Boo picked up that stinking cold I had last week. Old girl on the next farm sticks her nose in more than we’d like but we reckon she’s lonely. And the transmitter’s working fine since I repaired it.’

  Marc handed over a small bag of meat. ‘Nice lamb chops,’ he explained. ‘Madeline II came in OK, so I expect your new radio will have arrived.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Rosie got a message. She’s heading down to Kerneval to buy fish later and she’ll pick it up then if there are no Krauts around. Oh, and this came through for Henderson. It’s in his personal code.’

  ‘Oh he’ll love that,’ Marc smiled as he took the sheet of squared paper. ‘He hates decoding his own messages.’

  *

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Henderson roared furiously, then stamped on the floor before remembering the two women in the apartment downstairs and lowering his voice. ‘What the buggery am I supposed to do with itching powder?’

  Marc had been dozing, but sat up on his bed, rubbing one eye as Henderson waggled the sheet of squared paper in front of his face.

  ‘Read it,’ Henderson growled. ‘Just read what these deskbound morons have sent us.’

  Marc took the paper. It was tissue thin, written in block capitals and full of crossings out and transcription errors where Henderson had decoded the message he’d been given by Paul.

  Explosives in short supply, 1.5kg delivered. More next voyage, we hope. 18kg of itching powder, best used through local laundry. Has proved effective in Holland and brings German troops out in a severe rash when impregnated in clothes. Have discussed your access to U-boat repair facilities with experts. Please send all available information on U-boat batteries, including detailed drawings, via Madeline II if possible.

  Marc tried to sound upbeat. ‘Mamba Noir sends tablecloths and staff uniforms out to the laundry. We could easily find out where the Germans have their clothes washed and get that powder put in.’

  Marc recoiled as Henderson reared up. ‘I want explosives to blow stuff up with,’ he said furiously. ‘We’re not going to d
efeat Hitler by making people itchy.’

  ‘Do you want me ask a few questions about the laundry or not?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Henderson said.

  ‘And is 1.5 kilos of explosive enough to do what you want at the train depot?’

  ‘No,’ Henderson said. ‘But we’ve got 2kg that I brought over. We can make up a dozen or so medium-sized charges. If we get them in the right spots we can do some damage, but we won’t have a stick of explosive left over for emergencies or special targets.’

  ‘When would we do it?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Tonight’s as good as any other night,’ Henderson said. ‘A small but successful raid would boost morale amongst good men like Nicolas and Alois, and I want the pen-pushers in London to see what units like ours are capable of achieving if we’re properly resourced.’

  ‘How many on the raid?’

  ‘Four or five,’ Henderson said. ‘You and me, maybe Edith as a scout and one or two others.’

  ‘Joel and PT?’ Marc suggested.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘You’d have to take those two out of work, which would raise suspicion. Better to use fishermen, who’ll be in port at that time of night. Alois and Nicolas are a bit old, but those two lads who work on the boat with Troy have been a big help with smuggling operations.’

  ‘Nicolas’ grandsons, Michel and Olivier,’ Marc said. ‘But isn’t it a risk bringing them in on something like this?’

  ‘It is,’ Henderson said. ‘But there’s an old expression: give a man a fish and he’ll eat, teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for ever. The locals seem to have learned what we taught them about security well enough. The next step is teaching them to stand on their own two feet.’

  ‘But how will we get a team together by tonight?’ Marc asked. ‘Won’t we be better off with more preparation?’

  ‘It’s swings and roundabouts,’ Henderson explained. ‘The more you scout the area, the greater the chance of being seen. The more notice you give your operatives, the more chance there is for tongues to flap or people to get a dose of nerves.