Seven a.m. now, and she was pedalling home to St Michel-du-Faou; there was a chill in the air and a pink flush fading in the eastern sky. She’d changed into her ordinary clothes in the barn, while the men had been at work sorting and stowing the various types of weapons, ammunition, explosives and other gear, and they’d had the lorry on the road again before six – leaving behind one man who lived and worked there – and stopping briefly then to drop Rosie and the bike off near Landeleau – to make for St Michel via Kérampresse and Plounévez-du-Faou.
Fifteen kilometres, roughly. Looking forward to breakfast, and to a few hours’ sleep. Maybe even the luxury of a bath… Looking out for road-blocks meanwhile – which there might be, if the Boches had had word of the night’s activities.
Road-blocks weren’t likely in these country lanes, though. Patrols might be out, but even they would surely concentrate on the major routes.
She’d told Lannuzel about the Achards, when they’d been in the barn. He’d stared at her wordlessly: obviously knew Timo – or had known him. Then – eventually – ‘I’ve had a good few glasses in that bar of his.’ Gazing down at the men stacking the weapons in the pit: adding quietly, ‘Don’t expect old Henri’s too happy.’
‘No. He’s not.’
Glancing at her again: ‘Achard wouldn’t know anything about you, would he?’
‘Only of my existence – as a nurse, working there. The day I arrived he directed me to the house, that’s all.’
Plounévez was where there might be a road-block, she guessed, if there were any at all. Where this lane and several others crossed the north-south road between Châteauneuf and Loqueffret: it would be a fairly obvious place – or would be if this was the area of interest. It didn’t have to be, the Halifax or Halifaxes would have flown over a lot of territory. And in any case she had her story ready, and her medical gear in the valise in front of her: she’d been visiting Mme Sanson, checking on the progress of her youngest child whom Peucat had visited about a week ago.
Ought to attend Mass, she thought. Not having done so last Sunday: and needing to conform, to be accepted as a regular member of the community. Peucat had in fact suggested it: last Sunday had been excusable, since she’d only just arrived, but two in a row might feed the gossips. ‘And she wouldn’t even cross the square to Mass…’
Might leave it another week, all the same. She turned her thoughts to what she did have to do this morning – namely ask Peucat to ring Count Jules, ostensibly enquiring about his wife’s health but in fact for news of Jaillon having received his parachutage. And tonight, keep listening watch – making up for the fact she hadn’t last night. She’d listened on Friday, in case of any hitches in the paradrop arrangements – and on Thursday, which had been one of her regular, alternate listening-out nights, she’d received Baker Street’s instruction
Advise immediately of any change in the Cyprien/Micky situation. Obviously they were sitting on her report of Prigent being blown, but anxious to come clean on it vis-à-vis SIS as soon as possible.
It was a long haul up to the road at Plounévez. Struggling on, passing sombrely clad church-goers, on foot or in horse-carts, and a few cows being herded to or from milking; the thought recurred that at this rate, this much bicycling, she was going to end up with thighs like a weight-lifter’s.
Which Ben might not like.
Well. Smiling to herself: thinking he’d probably put up with it…
It felt like a year, since she’d been with him.
* * *
There was no road-block at Plounévez; only church-goers, and a single gendarme who acknowledged her ‘good morning’ as she rode past him at the cross-roads. Four more kilometres then to St Michel, finally entering the village the way she’d arrived the first time, seven and a half days ago, freewheeling down to that corner with the former Mairie up to her right, Timo Achard’s desolate-looking tavern right ahead of her as she braked and turned left into Rue St Nicolas. With a fleeting thought of the leutnant who’d been at the roadblock when they’d arrested Timo, and who’d claimed to have signed her permits: Rosie imagining him spotting her as she swept by, asking himself, Where might she have been all night?
Home and dry though – almost. More by good luck than cleverness, admittedly. She was well aware that they could have nobbled her by this time, if they’d been more on the ball… But – forget it: assume the luck was holding and would last a while yet. For the time being, one was home and dry – and with a certain amount accomplished.
The garage door was open, she saw. So the doctor was up and about. She pushed her bike in beside his gazo, untied the valise from its pannier, went to the front door and knocked. Church-goers were on the move here too. An old man hobbling past in his Sunday-best raised his hat to her, and she smiled, murmured, ‘Monsieur…’ Wondering whether maybe she’d better attend Mass. And sleep this afternoon…
‘Suzanne!’
‘Doctor. All well with you?’
‘With me – of course. But you – out all night—’
‘The child’s on the mend, you’ll be glad to hear. Madame Sanson’s youngest – remember? That’s where I spent the night – so late getting there, I’d got lost—’
‘It’s all right.’ She was inside and he’d shut the door. ‘We’re alone… Suzanne, you must be—’
‘Yes, I am.’ She mimed extreme fatigue. ‘Also starving.’
‘That’s easily fixed, anyhow. Did it go well?’
‘Very well. Guy’s, anyway. D’you think you could give Count Jules a ring for me – well, not yet, but—’
‘Of course. And I’ve news for you, my dear!’
Something he looked pleased about…
‘Of the Achards?’
‘No. Unfortunately… No – a telephone call last night from Paul Berthomet?’
It took a moment to sink in.
Last night…
Staring at him… ‘Saying what?’
‘Saying: “The baby is expected this weekend, between the twelfth and the fourteenth.” Hang on, I wrote it down, I’ll get it.’
The twelfth would be Friday. Saturday night, therefore, the thirteenth, would be ‘Mincemeat’ night. And here and now – now, this morning – she sat down – collapsing, almost – on the oak seat beside the hat-stand, realizing she’d have to get to Quimper, more or less right away, to meet le Guen in the Parc de la Providence at one. She’d told him to meet there on the day after he dropped his message – which he must have done sometime yesterday. And before that, she’d have to see Lannuzel, to establish a place and time for le Guen to rendezvous with them on Saturday. With them, or with her. Sitting there in Peucat’s rather gloomy hall, absorbing this – thighs and calves aching, brain also tired, finding it an effort to readjust…
Food – and a bath, if possible. Not a hope of any rest. Have to prepare a signal to Baker Street, of course: and stop en route to Châteauneuf to get it off to London.
‘Here.’ Peucat was back, offering her a slip of paper. ‘It’s as I said.’
She pushed herself up. ‘Thing is – means I have to be in Quimper by one o’clock, and before that see Guy Lannuzel again. Need to phone him now in fact, tell him I’m coming – that he must be there, no matter what… Doctor, could you do that?’
‘Easily. But you need sleep, Suzanne.’
‘Need, can’t have. What I will do is make some breakfast. Have you had yours yet?’
‘No—’
‘All right, I’ll get it. While – well, if you’d call Lannuzel now – this minute – please?’
A nod: ‘And I’ll take you – in the gazo, Châteauneuf first, then Quimper?’
‘Oh!’ She was startled: had had her mind on the bloody bike… ‘D’you mean it?’
‘Of course I mean it. You’re in no fit state to drive – or bicycle, for that matter – so what alternative do we have?’
‘I’ll tell you one thing – you’re an angel!’
He smiled, patted her arm. ‘Tell Ma
rthe?’
‘I’ll tell the world. Really. Oh, this is marvellous! But – Lannuzel – before he goes out or—’
‘Just to say we’re coming?’
‘Leaving here as soon as we’ve had some breakfast. Because Brigitte’s not well – I’ve brought you that news. It’ll surprise him, of course, he’ll realize it’s something urgent.’
‘She’s not unwell?’
‘Oh, no—’
‘No. All right.’
‘I’ll start getting breakfast.’
In the kitchen, she thought about the signal she had now to draft and encode; whether to include anything about Prigent, suggest they might pass the warning to SIS now.
Or hang on until Saturday. Because if Prigent did a disappearing trick between now and then, and the SD assumed le Guen had tipped him off – well, it could still happen, the whole thing blown, the operation and all concerned in it. Oneself by no means excluded.
Saturday the thirteenth, therefore. Preferably timing it so as to have Prigent warned no sooner than that evening, when le Guen would be already on his way.
* * *
She tapped out her message from the place she’d used before, the edge of woods near Kérampresse: starting with Parcels received intact, many thanks – because Jaillon’s drop had been successful, Count Jules had indicated – then telling them:
‘Mincemeat’ midnight Saturday thirteenth. Repeat, Mincemeat midnight May thirteenth. Suggest warning of personal danger should reach Cyprien same day, no earlier, otherwise there would be risk of operation being compromised.
She added that she intended listening out for incoming signals every night this week up to Friday May 12, then Sunday 14 and alternate nights thereafter; she finished with Adieu, and Sevenoaks acknowledged. That was that: she signed off, switched off. Waving then from the overgrown ditch in which she’d been crouching… ‘All right!’
Peucat, at the roadside, waved his pipe – all clear. He’d disconnect the lead from the gazo’s battery now while she rolled up the aerial wire and packed it with the set and the headphones in the bottom of her valise. Medical gear went back in on top of it; she dumped the valise on the gazo’s back seat, in plain sight.
Sliding in beside him, pulling the door shut, stifling a yawn. ‘We make a good team, doctor.’
* * *
Lannuzel had spread his map on the table. Brigitte was showing the doctor her day-old chicks: at any rate they’d gone for a walk around the farm together. Lannuzel nodded, told Rosie, ‘The immediate problem’s getting the truck fixed by Saturday. I’ll get on to Jaillon again.’
‘What’s special about this truck?’
‘It’s a military vehicle, former property of our own Army. Soldier-slang for it used to be a bouc.’ Bouc meaning billy-goat. ‘But with a bit of a touch-up you wouldn’t know it from one of those small Wehrmacht things. JPJ’s supposed to be having it done right now – paint-job including unit badges as currently seen in his district, and some other small changes.’
‘Then what?’
‘He’s supposed to be sending it down to me. As I say, I’ll chase him for it. It’ll go in the barn there, time being. When the time comes – Saturday – I’ll be its driver, le Faisan will be our Oberleutnant, and there’ll be two other make-believe Boches in the back with room for the prisoner between them. Le Faisan’s German is excellent, you see – better than mine. We’ll be smartly uniformed, and armed with Schmeissers – which work, don’t have knobs in their barrels… You know that business of the Stens amazes me?’
‘Me too. Fact of life, that’s all. But go on?’
‘Well. Where to start… Le Faisan will take the other two with him – here, to this village. Laz. You’ve been through there, I’m sure. It’s to be our jump-off point.’
Rosie looked up at him, from the map: ‘But not mine—’
‘Of course not!’ Sharpish: no sufferer of tired brains… ‘The father has to come out from Quimper by bike, you told me—’
‘What I was thinking. Sorry, I wasn’t—’
‘Let me finish this. I’ll be moving the bouc to Laz – Thursday night, if Jaillon gets it here in time. Actually to a farm outside the village, the rendezvous also for those doing the Trevarez job. This way I have control of the whole thing, in its early stages – up to the last minute I could make changes if I had to. Anyway – around Trevarez we’ll have a hundred men in position before the air attack comes in. Two separate forces, each with its own commander, and all from what we’re calling the Red Brigade. The Commie element – and believe me, they’re set to make the most of it. Smoke?’
‘No, thank you.’ She’d just put one out. ‘What time do you foregather at Laz?’
‘I and my team by ten o’clock – curfew time. The rest of them no later than that, probably earlier – as soon as it’s dark. It’ll be the last of the old moon, this weekend. The boys will arrive on foot, you see, singly or in groups, filtering down out of the forest quiet as foxes. It’s a broken-down old farm but there’s a good big barn they’ll use. Deploying from there on foot too. Two kilometres to the château itself, but they’ve got to get settled into their positions, so I’ll send them off at about eleven.’
‘Leaving you and your team targeting Kerongués about midnight?’
‘Yes. Taking what advantage we can of the air attack. As the crow flies we’ll be twenty kilometres from it – no distance really, as regards sight and sound – and we’ll arrive shortly before it starts. If they’ve any doubts of us they’ll forget them when the sky lights up and the bombs start bursting – and we can use it too – “Come on, hurry it up, I want to get out of here!”’
‘Is the plan simply to drive up and say you’ve come for the prisoner Marie-Claude le Guen?’
‘More or less. She’s wanted immediately for further interrogation, on the orders of Sturmbannführer Braun. No time for formalities, it’s urgent – so forth. They can get on the phone to SD headquarters for confirmation, le Faisan will tell them – as long as they do it quickly – but the line will have been crossed with another, they’ll find. Le Faisan does the talking. He’s capable of putting on a fine, commanding manner – as well as having good German. I’m to be a sergeant, by the way – watching his back, as it were. Any of them questions my accent, I tell them I’m White Russian. We’ll have rehearsed our act by then, but it’s near enough the same scheme we had before. I did mention…’
‘Yes.’ She lit a new cigarette. He was at the window, peering out. Turning back now, Rosie asked him, ‘Where will I and le Guen be, while you’re at Laz and then at Kerongués?’
He nodded, returning to the table. ‘Here.’ Forefinger touching the map just south of Kerongués. ‘Lestonan – more hamlet than village, and you’ll hole up on the farm on its southern fringe. Coming up from the main road, before the lane forks right to Kerongués or left to St Guénolé, it’s on your right. A windbreak of poplars and a long stone barn with some of its roof missing, and the house behind it. I’ve picked it mainly because of your man wanting only a short ride out of Quimper. I’d have preferred to use a place at Moncouar – there.’
‘Would be too far for him, you’re right. But I see the point – that road, at Moncouar—’
‘The river’s another complication, of course. I’d thought of having you meet him down there then drive him up to Moncouar, but – an unnecessary complication, additional exposure, an extra risk we don’t need.’
‘Right.’
‘Lestonan, therefore. You should be there I suggest before curfew. Make it the same for the girl’s father – deadline curfew-hour, ten o’clock. The farmer’s name is Perrot, Jacques Perrot – you have to know it in case you’re questioned, but you won’t see him, he’ll have cleared out – gone to his brother’s place for the night. You can use his kitchen – back door’ll be unlocked… Look – you’re going into Quimper now? You could divert a little and have a look at it – the only farm there, right by that little fork.’
‘Ye
s…’
‘To get there now on your way to Quimper – turn left at Briec and fork left at Moncouar – over the river, and through Kerongués, you’ll come to it on your left.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll sketch it for him. But on the night, how do I get there?’
‘By gazo. Starting from here say eight-thirty. The gazo will be here ready for you long before that – it’ll be stolen during the afternoon, in Scaër.’
‘Christ…’
‘Don’t worry. We know where it is, and who owns it, and it won’t be reported stolen until next day. It’ll be ready for you here and fully fuelled, all you’ll have to do is get in and drive it.’
‘To that farm.’
‘Yes. Park it in Perrot’s yard – other side of the barn, that is – pointing out towards the lane, and leaving room for me to drive in and straight into the barn. You might have the barn doors open for us, in fact. But that’s detail – there’ll be a chance to talk again before Saturday, I hope?’
‘Of course.’
‘To go over it again, and any small changes. What I’ve been giving you is the plan as we’ve agreed it provisionally – with no date on it. Now we have a date – could be some new ideas’ll come up, who knows… I’ll outline the rest of it as it stands now, though… You get there – to Lestonan – before ten, the girl’s father arrives about the same time, you park your gazo and sit tight in a nice warm kitchen. We’ll get to you with the girl soon after midnight. By a quarter past, say. I and the girl join you and her father in the gazo, I’ll drive – oh, first of all I change out of the uniform, my own clothes will be in your gazo when you take it. But I’ll drive—’ his finger moved across the map – ‘by way of only the smallest lanes, most of the way – I know them all, you see – and by this circular route – to – here, Lezèle. You’ll have left your bike there, by the way – at Lezèle, yes. Perhaps on the way down here, Saturday afternoon – Henri Peucat might help out, with that. In Lezèle, anyway, it’s the blacksmith’s house we stop at. I leave the three of you there and take the gazo on to where I’ll dump it – any luck, it’ll be a week or so before it’s found – and from there I hoof it back here, across-country.’
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