‘Interesting question, young man.’ McTavish again. ‘Let me start with a spot of scene setting. As I’ve just explained, we’re in the intelligence business. Our job is to make life hard for our German friends but we don’t like guns very much. That means we have to find another way and, believe it or not, most of what we do comes from up here.’ He tapped his skull. ‘We dream up games, Mr Angell. We make it our business to play with the enemy. We do lots of pretending. We win his confidence. We earn his trust. We feed him little snippets of information, some of them so small and so unimportant that you or I would probably lose them down the back of the sofa. But the key thing about all this information, all those snippets, is that you plant them in such a way that the enemy ends up doing all the work. In short, young man, we make our German friends believe what they want to believe, and we do that because the final picture – the jigsaw, if you like – will serve our purposes, too.’
Billy was lost. ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he said.
‘No shame, young man. These are the darkest of arts but, believe me, we’re exceptionally good at them. The people we use, our agents if you will, have to be a certain breed. They have to have a certain predisposition. They have to be blessed with certain talents. And you’re here with us today because we think you may be one of them.’
‘Talents?’
‘You’ve been an actor, young man, and according to Miss Barton a decent one. An actor, by definition, is someone we welcome with open arms. Why? Because he spends his working life pretending to be someone else. In our business, believe me, that’s an asset beyond price. We exist to fool the enemy, to make him believe something that isn’t true. And in our little world it’s people like you who can make that happen.’
Billy stole a glance at Ursula. Her face was half turned to the sunshine streaming in through the window and her eyes were closed. She suited this room perfectly, he thought. She might have been the vicar’s wife enjoying a quiet afternoon deep in the country. But was she acting, too? He didn’t know.
He turned back to McTavish. He still needed to understand exactly what was on offer.
‘We have a role for you, laddie. Pretend you’re in a new play. Here’s the plot. Are you ready? Ears peeled?’
Billy nodded. He liked that ‘laddie’. Very much. ‘Tell me more,’ he said.
‘All right, so let’s imagine you’re flying with the RAF. You’re a Wireless Op in a Lancaster squadron. Twice a week you sally forth to drop horrible things on the Germans. So far, so good. We think you can manage that role. In fact we believe you’ll be word perfect. But here’s where it gets a little trickier because we’re going to supply you with a brother, a pretend sibling who doesn’t exist. It will be your job to give him a name and a face, because in general we find it works better that way and, between us, we’re going to dream up his life history. He’ll be older than you, maybe by a couple of years, and you’ll have worshipped him all your young life. Why? Because he’ll be strong and wise and handsome and patient and we think you can imagine a relationship like that because I understand you experienced something similar with a woman called Irene.’
‘Irene was real.’
‘Precisely. And this brother of yours isn’t.’ He paused. ‘Name? Anything come to mind?’
‘Douglas.’
‘Why Douglas?’
‘Because I’ve always wanted a brother called Douglas.’
‘And is that true?’
‘Of course it isn’t. I just made it up.’
‘Excellent, laddie.’ McTavish roared with laughter, thumping the table with the flat of his hand, making the cutlery dance. ‘All you have to do now is remember the bloody name.’
‘Douglas,’ Billy repeated. ‘It’s printed on my soul.’
‘Right. Onward. This is what happens to your precious Douglas. You’re at liberty to interrupt at any time if you think you can improve on the story. This is a collective enterprise, which is one of the reasons we have such fun.’
A discreet knock on the door admitted the woman they’d met earlier. She wheeled in a trolley laden with food. Billy caught the tang of mint sauce. Steam curled from the joint on the carving tray. How did these people know his favourite meal was roast lamb? And where did the meat come from? He liked this giant at the head of the table. And so he put the question.
‘I believe we’ve been in touch with some of your people at Wickenby,’ McTavish was loading Billy’s plate.
‘About roast lamb?’
‘Of course. Life is all small print, laddie. Get one detail wrong and the rest of the story falls apart. My name’s Tam, by the way. Tam Moncrieff. Tuck in.’
Billy did his bidding. The lamb, in a nest of fresh vegetables, was delicious. He’d already noticed that the table setting included a dessert spoon.
‘Afters?’ he enquired through a mouthful of runner beans.
‘Guess.’
‘Treacle tart and custard?’
‘Correct. Detail, laddie. Never fails. We need wine with this. Miss Barton?’
Ursula disappeared in search of a bottle. Moments later she was back with apologies from the kitchen.
‘It’s been uncorked for a while. I’m guessing it’s up to blood temperature by now.’
Tam examined the label and pronounced himself content. Mouton Cadet. Most satisfactory. He poured three glasses and passed one to Billy.
‘Salut, laddie. Here’s to mayhem.’
They ate, at first in silence. Through the open window Billy could hear the cawing of rooks. Then Tam wiped his mouth with a serviette and took up the story again.
‘This brother of yours was in the Royal Navy. They taught him how to dive. Last year he volunteered for special service. A bunch of lunatics had formed something they christened the Combined Operations Pilotage Parties. Call it COPPs for short. Everyone else does.’ He paused for another gulp of wine. ‘All this is true, by the way. No need to make it up.’
‘So what do they do, these people?’
‘Excellent question. Answer? They creep onto enemy beaches at the dead of night, right under the noses of our esteemed enemy, and take samples, beach samples, core samples. They have little corkscrew things, very technical, very clever. They bore down like termites and then take the samples home.’
‘How?’
‘They come and go by submarine. Midget submarine. That still leaves a sizeable swim, if you’re wondering.’
‘And the samples? The sand?’
‘That goes for analysis. The boffins are clever. All boffins are clever. They take a look at these samples and they have ways of telling how soft or firm the beach is. God knows how but apparently they’re never wrong. Give a boffin a tube of sand and he’ll tell you whether the beach is suitable or not.’
‘For what?’
‘For an invasion.’
Tam reached for his glass again and raised it in a silent toast. ‘Invasion’ had been the word on everyone’s lips for months. First North Africa, back last year. Now Sicily. Soon, the mainland of Italy. And after that, the coast of northern France. Only by crossing the Channel in force and driving inland towards Germany could the Allies bring the Third Reich to its knees.
‘So what happened to my brother?’
Tam ducked his head and stabbed at a glistening morsel of lamb. Then he described the night Douglas Angell swam ashore on a French beach with his core driller and got to work. It was a moonless night. The tide was low. The wave heights were negligible. In short, perfect conditions.
‘So what happened?’
‘No one knows. That brother of yours made it off the beach. We’re certain of that. He wasn’t spotted. He wasn’t captured. He was back in the oggin, making for his midget submarine and maybe a spot of very welcome cocoa.’
‘How do we know?’
‘Because divers always work in pairs. They have a buddy. The buddy lost all contact. Your precious Duggie?’ The hand again, reaching for the glass. ‘Gone.’
‘Dead?’
‘Lost at sea’.
‘So where was this beach?’
‘Ah,’ Tam raised his glass a second time. ‘Dunkirk.’
18
It was nearly dark by the time Hélène got back to the chateau. A friend of Danielle’s had been visiting a relative in Descartes, the nearest town, and had made the detour to Neaune. Hélène got out of the car at the gates of the estate and began to walk the 600 metres to the house. It was a fine evening, warm and cloudless. Insects buzzed around her head when she paused to enjoy the last of the sunset, and she never heard the footsteps until they were upon her.
It was Malin. He was in his slippers. The old clockmaker had seen the lights of the car from the house and come down to investigate. At first she thought he was fooling around. Being stern was a game he sometimes played. But she was wrong. This time he was genuinely angry.
‘You’re out of your mind,’ he was out of breath. ‘The car could have brought you all the way.’
‘But I didn’t want that. It’s a beautiful evening. I wanted to walk.’
‘At this time of night? The way things are?’
Hélène stared at him. Was he talking about the war? The Occupation? Was she never again to walk alone?
He’d taken her by the arm. He was hurrying her up the drive towards the house. She shook herself free. He was mumbling to himself in Polish and it began to occur to her that something must have happened.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Why are you behaving like this?’
He wouldn’t answer. At the chateau, exhausted, he paused at the foot of the steps. She waited for him to catch his breath. He kept looking over his shoulder as the darkness crept towards them.
‘What’s out there? Who are you expecting? Tell me, Malin.’
He shook his head. The kitchen, he muttered. Everyone’s waiting in the kitchen.
It was true. Hélène couldn’t remember when the entire household got together like this. That wasn’t the way her little ménage worked. Even the Spanish couple had descended from their quarters on the top floor. Pablo was slight, olive-skinned, and wore a permanent look of alarm. Maria was his wife. She was physically bigger, plumper, braver, and had always seemed to steady the relationship. They’d fled their home in Barcelona after the fascist victory in 1939 and walked across the mountains to France. They’d barely survived a winter in a refugee camp among the sand dunes south of Perpignan and still had no illusions about what they might expect at the hands of the French authorities. Jews? Gypsies? Communists? They were all ending up on the trains heading for the east.
Hélène had always liked Maria. Her husband barely said a word to anyone but in her halting French she always welcomed a conversation.
Now, Hélène asked her what had happened. Malin was bolting the front door.
‘You don’t know, madame?’
‘No.’
‘In the village, they talk.’ She gestured vaguely towards the window.
‘About what?’
‘About the farmer.’ She frowned. ‘Benoit?’
‘Ah…’ Hélène was beginning to understand.
Malin was back. The old clockmaker settled into a chair at the table. Agnès, so far, hadn’t said a word.
Hélène helped herself to a tumbler of wine from the carafe on the table and then sat down. The wine was rough but more than welcome. Her call on Danielle seemed suddenly all too brief. She looked up.
‘Malin? You want to tell me about this? About Benoit?’
‘Of course. The man is crazy. Everyone knows it. But maybe he means it.’
‘Means what?’
‘Means to burn us out. Means to kill us all. You think that wouldn’t be easy? Two o’clock in the morning? Everyone asleep?’ He levelled two fingers at Hélène. ‘Bang. Bang. Sleep well.’
Agnès stirred. ‘He’s seen the radio. He knows about it. How did that happen?’
The question had the force of an accusation. Hélène sensed denial was pointless. She explained about Benoit watching her in the forest. He’d seen everything. He’d even read the message she’d sent her husband. He’d had this thing with him, this contraption with him. The Pole was horrified.
‘A contraption?’ Malin was staring at his hands. Already he seemed resigned to an early death.
‘A crossbow, Malin. Farmers normally have guns. Maybe Benoit prefers the old ways. But I still don’t understand.’ She was looking at Agnès again. ‘How do you know all this? You never leave the house so who told you?’
‘I got a message. On the radio. A warning. Benoit belongs to the crazies. My people know about him. This man has a big mouth. He doesn’t believe in secrets.’
‘These people are mad.’ This from Malin. ‘First they boast. Then they kill. Then they boast again. Is that what this war is about? Dying at the hands of a madman?’
At first Hélène had been inclined to treat this outbreak of panic lightly. Village gossip never killed anyone. But the sight of Malin’s face across the table told another story. This was a man who’d survived the attentions of the Jew-haters in his native Poland, who’d outrun the Brownshirt thugs as he’d made his way across Germany, who’d managed to build a decent living in Paris, who knew about the lethal consequences of misreading a glance in the street or a whispered betrayal by a neighbour. If Malin was taking Benoit seriously, she said to herself, then so should I.
‘So what else do you know?’
It was a question open to everyone.
‘Benoit has a code name,’ Agnès again. ‘He calls himself le Corbeau.’
Le Corbeau. The Crow.
‘And?’
‘He’s killed before. In Nantes there was a battle between the FTP and the crazies. He shot two men to death. The FTP offered money for his corpse. Maybe that’s why he’s here.’
Les Francs-Tireurs et Partisans were left wing, fiercely committed, and controlled by the Communists.
‘Your people told you this?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the radio?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about the crazies.’
‘They act like gangsters. They hate everyone. Vichy. The FFI. The FTP. The Armenians. They behave like kids. They love attention. They think life is a movie.’
‘There are lots of them?’
‘Not so many.’
‘They’re well organised?’
‘No. These people belong in an asylum. Or maybe the graveyard.’
‘And Benoit’s definitely one of them?’
‘So my people say.’
Agnès’ people, to the best of Hélène’s knowledge, were FFI, followers of the exiled madcap colonel, Charles de Gaulle. They were well-funded and enjoyed a certain respect, even among the Germans. In Paris, at the apartment late at night, Klimt had occasionally talked about them. In his view you could only be a resistant if you’d always been a misfit in society but he accepted their sincerity, and their courage, and had once told Hélène that one day France would wake up to find de Gaulle in the Elysée Palace. That small revelation had warmed her heart. Just another reason she’d made room in her life for Bjorn Klimt.
‘Your German friend,’ Agnès again. ‘Benoit wants to kill him, too.’
Hélène stared at her. This was almost telepathic. Did this young résistante really need a radio?
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Not me. My people. Benoit likes an audience. One day it will be the end of him. The FTP? The Milice? The Germans? Who knows? But one day someone will knock on his door and put a bullet in his head.’
‘That would solve everything,’ Malinowski growled. ‘Can you make that happen?’
Agnès didn’t answer. She was looking at Hélène.
‘Well?’ Hélène asked. ‘Can you make that happen?’
‘It might be possible but nothing is easy. One death always leads to another. The Germans love us killing each other. It spares them a lot of time and effort.’
‘So you won’t pass the wor
d? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying nothing. I’m just telling you the way it is.’
Hélène nodded. A rogue résistant with debts to repay. A known killer with madness in his eyes. Add a bottle or two of home-brewed spirit and anything could happen. Malin was right. The situation deserved Hélène’s serious attention.
She reached for her glass and enquired whether anyone was hungry. There was silence around the table. Food was the last thing these people needed. Her little ménage wanted an answer.
‘Leave it to me,’ she was looking at Malin. ‘And get some sleep.’
The faces round the table drifted away. Malin was the last to leave. He wanted to know that Hélène really understood about Benoit and was going to do something about it. Hélène put a hand on his shoulder and told him not to worry. The old man was getting thinner by the week. His face was gaunt in the candlelight. He badly needed reassurance.
‘The situation will be resolved, Malin. You have my word.’
*
Hélène slept badly. She was thinking of Klimt. She couldn’t get him out of her mind. She’d begun to take his presence and his support for granted. This was a man who was in love with her. He’d never admitted it, not until a couple of days ago, but she’d seen it in his eyes, in the thousand ways he attended to her, in the moments of near-intimacy when he shared his contempt for the regime he was obliged to serve.
Klimt, her Klimt, could think like a Frenchman. Maybe that was a qualification for his job. Maybe that was why he seemed to be so good at it. He could understand the anger of a nation forced to pay for its own occupation. Having a third of a million Germans on French soil cost twenty million Reichsmarks a day. That had been Klimt’s figure and Hélène knew it was true. Thus the sullen faces on the streets of Paris, and the blank resignation in a deeper, more secret France. That money came from French pockets, from French pastures, from French pantries, and everyone knew it. Twenty million Reichsmarks was two billion francs. A day. And all of it going to Berlin.
Merde.
She lay in the darkness, wondering whether she’d ever see him again. All the signs were ominous. The listening ears in the Hôtel Meurice. The cold-eyed attentions of Sturmbannführer Huber. The little tableau Klimt had staged afterwards in the nightclub. Serenading her. In English, for God’s sake. In front of an audience of drunken Germans, certainly, but Germans of some rank, of some significance, Germans with power and influence. Klimt didn’t take risks like that. It wasn’t his style. This was a man who locked everything down tight, bolted every door, let no one close unless it suited his purposes. Had Hélène suited his purposes? She hoped so. She had no idea how or why but she hoped so. A good man, she thought. Gone.
Aurore Page 14
