24
MI5’s ‘B’ Section appeared to be headquartered in a slightly run-down country house north of Aylesbury. The house, brick-built, had worn steps and wired glass in the panels of the Edwardian front door. Flt Sgt Billy Angell was allotted a room on the second floor that had once belonged to the owner’s youngest daughter. Rabbits, in the style of Beatrix Potter, still featured on the fading wallpaper, and a child’s globe occupied the top shelf of the room’s only bookcase. For two days, chastened after a difficult interview with Ursula Barton, Billy Angell retired to the room between bouts of what Tam called ‘full submersion’.
They taught him how to make secret ink using a match head impregnated with a headache tablet. A Welsh instructor who looked like a Spanish bullfighter coached him in close-combat knife drills, a thick towel wrapped round his right arm. A woman from some outpost of the intelligence empire, petite and French, spent an entire afternoon teaching him a handful of phrases that just might help him to evade the ever-present possibility of arrest. And Tam himself arrived with a variety of pistols to test his shooting skills.
To Billy’s immense surprise, he turned out to be good. A cardboard target at twenty-five paces was infinitely preferable to anything with a pulse and by lunchtime Billy’s live rounds were creeping steadily towards the scarlet bull’s eye.
‘I don’t know about the enemy, laddie, but you’ve certainly frightened me.’
They’d driven to a nearby pub for lunch. It was a sunny day and Tam had found a table outside, shielded from both the wind and listening ears.
Billy wanted to know whether he’d be carrying a gun in France.
‘The jury’s out, laddie. Maybe yes, maybe no. Before this morning we thought it might be a handicap. I’ll have to take soundings.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘I think you’re probably best off without one. Play to your strengths, laddie. You’re a fine shot but you’re better thinking on your feet. In our game you need steady nerves and a knack for taking the right kind of risks. Tell me about that friend of yours. Hennessey? Have I got the name right?’
Billy nodded. Don had also been released from custody. Pledged never to discuss the incident at the Royal Clarence, he was back at the Palmview Hotel, preparing for yet another onslaught from the Babbacombe recruits. Outside the railway station, Tam had allowed the two of them a moment of privacy before the departure of the Paignton train. Billy had briefly embraced Don. When Don asked how on earth he’d managed to get them released down in Exeter, he’d just grinned.
‘Put it down to magic,’ he’d said. ‘That’s what I’m best at.’
Now Tam wanted to know where this Hennessey fitted in Billy’s life.
‘Important chap, is he? Close?’
‘Very.’
‘Long-standing? Known him all your life?’
‘Eight days.’
‘Magnificent. And I understand it was a four-poster. Shoot for the moon, laddie. God never cares if you miss.’
Billy laughed. In the cells he’d been close to consigning this new life of his to the dustbin. He’d had his chance and wasted it. Now, in ways he didn’t quite understand, the risks he’d taken sat perfectly with how these people operated. Ursula Barton, as implacable as ever, had warned him that there was no room for showmanship, for drawing attention to yourself, but Tam seemed to be saying something very different. People who make things happen come out of a different mould, he’d told Billy earlier. Wars have no respect for caution or the commonplace. Godspeed to Operation Aurore.
Was that a compliment? Billy had no idea. What mattered just now was getting himself back on track. He wanted to know about the reception he could expect in France.
‘Couple of blokes on the edge of a field. Plus the good lady who’ll take you in hand.’
‘Do you have names?’
‘Lots. They’re code names, of course. And they change by the week. I gather you’re liable to be making the acquaintance of a woman called Alice. That’s her real name. I’m told she’s good. You’ll be her intended.’
‘Intended?’
‘You’re her fiancé. Marriage in the offing, laddie. Lots of canoodling when you get on the train. Start working on your body language.’
‘She speaks English, this woman?’
‘She does, laddie, but never in public. Bit of a clue, speaking English.’
*
At the end of the week, Tam drove Billy out of London. They arrived on the south coast in time for curling sandwiches and a mug of lukewarm tea at an airfield outside Chichester. Billy pumped Tam’s outstretched hand, said his goodbyes and killed the evening with a game of solitaire in the draughty hut that served as a kind of Mess. He was being looked after by a sullen woman of uncertain age. She wore a pair of oil-stained dungarees and spent most of her time stripping out an aero engine in the neighbouring hangar.
At dusk she reappeared to announce the imminent arrival of the Lysander. The little monoplane performed a perfect crosswind landing and came to a halt on the apron of cracked tarmac. The woman wiped her hands on a rag and greeted the pilot as he climbed out of the cockpit. They appeared to be old friends and Billy found himself wondering how many other men and women Tam had brought down here for delivery to France.
‘His name’s Stanislaw,’ she announced, before heading back to the hangar.
A Pole, Billy thought. The RAF was full of them. They made the best pilots and often the best company. Given any kind of choice, they tended to favour Fighter Command because that way they got to kill Germans at close quarters, but he’d met a number of Polish bomber crews and got to recognise their trademark mania. On the ground they drank like fish. In the air they flew like angels.
Stanislaw. Perfect.
They took off at a minute to midnight. Billy sat in the passenger seat. He was wearing faded blue work trousers, a grey smock and a stout pair of leather boots badly in need of new soles. Also a beret, black, with a greasy leather rim. The parachute Billy was to hide beside the landing strip was wedged behind his seat, together with a small scuffed bag of French manufacture, containing a change of clothes, all French. Billy was carrying forged documentation including French identity papers in the name of Guillaume Berliot and the people in ‘B’ Section had acquired a wad of Reichsmarks that Billy was assured were genuine. Somewhat to his relief, he’d been spared a gun. Better to rely on your wits, Tam had told him. Good luck and good hunting.
The little plane soared into the darkness, quickly enfolded in cloud. The passage across the Channel was bumpy. Used to flying at 20,000 feet, Billy found himself hunting for glimpses of the full moon as the clouds briefly parted above his head. The weather over the landing zone, according to Stanislaw, was perfect: low cloud base, plenty of wind, a pitch-black night scored for the briefest of visits. With luck, thought Billy, his new Polish friend would be in and out within less than a minute and back in bed before the sun came up.
They began to lose height over Laval. Billy had the map spread on his lap. France was under blackout and when they finally broke free of the clouds he could see nothing beneath him except a thin ribbon of what looked like water. Stanislaw was grinning. A leather-gloved finger settled an inch or two south of the chinagraphed cross on the map. He’s been here before, thought Billy. Probably hundreds of times.
Stanislaw kicked the plane into a savage bank and then pushed hard on the control stick. Billy felt his stomach coming up to meet his gullet and then he caught a tiny white light through the smeary Perspex of the windshield, bang on the nose. Two flashes. Then nothing. Then three more. Stanislaw was singing now. The words meant nothing to Billy but that didn’t matter. These blokes flew like homing pigeons, he thought. Point them in the right direction and they’d never let you down.
A field was coming up to meet them. Billy saw a line of trees. Stanislaw cut the engine, hauled back on the control stick and settled the little plane on the racing turf. All three wheels. Perfect. Moments later they’d bumpe
d to a halt. Two figures had materialised from nowhere. One of them opened the passenger door. After the fug of the crossing, it was suddenly cold. The wind tasted of pine needles.
‘Venez!’ urged the two men. ‘Allez-y!’ encouraged Stanislaw.
Billy gave Stanislaw a squeeze on his arm. The Pole winked back, already reaching for the throttle. Billy grabbed his bag and the parachute and heard the door bang shut behind him. Then came the howl of the engine and the furious wash of the propeller as Stanislaw dragged the plane around. Seconds later it was gone, climbing away into the darkness.
Billy followed the two men towards the trees. One was young, maybe even a teenager, the other middle-aged. The older man made the running, hugging the treeline for a hundred metres and then finding a path that took them deep into the woods. The trees were in motion, bent to the wind. Once they paused while Billy found a hiding place for the parachute under a fallen bough, then they pressed on again.
After what felt like an eternity they came to a clearing. An ancient Citroën van was parked at the end of a track through the woods. Painted across the side, Jacques Perez, père et fils. Neither of the two Frenchmen spoke English.
‘Montez.’ The younger one already had the rear doors open.
Billy climbed in and lay flat while the Frenchman covered him in blankets. The engine coughed into life and suddenly they were bouncing down the track between the trees. Minutes later, the squeal from the suspension eased and there was the hiss of tarmac beneath the wheels. It had started to rain and Billy shifted his head to avoid a steady drip from a leak in the roof.
Time was hard to judge but at least an hour must have gone by before the van slowed and finally came to a halt. The boy was first out. He pulled the rear doors open and helped Billy get out. It was still dark but a thin smudge of light on the horizon told Billy that dawn couldn’t be far away. They were in some kind of farmyard. The arrival of the van had triggered a frenzy of barking from two tethered dogs and it was the older man who silenced them.
‘Suivez-moi.’ The boy led Billy towards the open doors of the barn. The yard was muddy underfoot after the rain. Inside the barn the boy moved silently towards a ladder that led to an open loft. At the foot of the ladder he gestured upwards.
‘Servez-vous.’ He mimed sleep. ‘Dormez bien.’
Billy offered a whispered ‘merci’. There was a flash of white teeth as the boy grinned in the darkness, and then he was gone. Billy climbed the ladder. A thick layer of straw covered the bare boards. From somewhere close came a thin mewing. A cat, he thought. With kittens.
He heaped up the straw and made himself a bed. The floor of the loft lay under the eaves and a tiny rectangle of grey suggested a nearby window. On hands and knees he crept across. He was right about the cats. As the light grew stronger he could see the mother eyeing him from the nest she’d made in the corner. She was a tabby. Billy counted three kittens playing around her, a tumble of arms and legs. He returned to his makeshift bed and used his bag as a pillow. Within minutes, he was asleep.
He awoke to the cackle of a motorbike. Daylight flooded the barn. Alarmed, he rolled over and checked below. One of the doors was half open but he could see nothing. Back beside the window he peered out. The motorbike lay parked below. It was field-grey. Germans, he thought. After a while he heard laughter. Then a young soldier appeared. Bareheaded, he was carrying a paper bag with some care. With him was a woman Billy judged to be in her late twenties. She watched while the soldier stowed the bag in one of his panniers and kicked the motorbike into life. A pantomime salute drew another peal of laughter from the woman and then the soldier was gone, easing the bike through the maze of ruts that criss-crossed the yard.
‘Our friends love eggs, monsieur. Welcome to France.’
Billy spun round. All he could see was a face at the top of the ladder. She must have climbed like a ghost, he thought.
‘Alice?’ he said uncertainly.
‘Oui.’ She was smiling. ‘You like omelettes?’
*
They left the farmhouse after breakfast. Alice could have been the sister of an actress Billy had known before the war. She was slight and pretty and moved with the awkwardness of delayed adolescence. A mass of red curls framed a face that would burn easily in the sun and among her repertoire of hats was a wide-brimmed straw confection she’d decorated with a green velvet ribbon. The station, she said, was half an hour away. At this time in the morning, this deep in the country, they’d be unlikely to encounter any Germans.
Wrong.
The outskirts of the town were a straggle of brick-built houses, most of them shuttered against the sun. Paths led off the road towards the fields beyond.
Alice saw the German first. It was the soldier who’d called for the eggs. He was straddling his bike while inspecting the contents of the petrol tank. He had his back to them.
‘There,’ Alice was pointing to a copse off the road. ‘Wait until I come.’
Billy did her bidding, resisting the urge to look back and check on the soldier. Nor did he run. Alice is in charge of this production, he told himself. She gives the stage directions. She makes the calls. Act naturally. Pretend you belong here. Attract no attention.
The far side of the copse looked out across the field. Billy sat on the damp earth with his back propped against the tree, enjoying the sun on his face. Above his head, he recognised the call of a blackbird. He sought to find it among the tangle of leaves and then caught the single tiny movement that gave the bird away. The turn of the head. The tiny adjustment. The melting sweetness of the bird’s song.
‘He’s gone. You were good. Very good.’
She’d done it again. Not a single giveaway footfall as she made her approach. Just those same green eyes shadowed by the hat.
‘Sit down,’ Billy patted the grass beside him.
She laughed and shook her head. The train was due in twenty minutes. The one thing this war had left intact were the timetables. Allons-y.
Wrong again. The train was more than half an hour late. Billy had settled on a bench near the end of the platform, his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Alice fetched a couple of stale baguettes from a woman in the waiting room who eked a living from the line. Billy wanted to pay for them.
‘No need,’ Alice ate at breakneck speed. ‘The woman is my aunt.’
The train steamed in. Three carriages, already full. Alice had said the trip would last a couple of hours. Their destination was a town called Sainte-Maure. From there, they’d face another walk.
Billy found a space beside the lavatory door. Alice was with him. When he nodded at the nearby compartment, and whispered in her ear that one of the men might surrender their seat, she shook her head. Her job was to deliver Billy in one piece. What if there were Germans on the train? What if he was asked for his papers?
Just as well. They were slowing for the next station when the guard appeared from nowhere. He was French: neat moustache, impeccable uniform and a hint of impatience in his eyes. Alice had bought tickets for both of them. She nodded at Billy to indicate she knew him.
The guard studied Billy for a long moment.
‘Vos papiers, m’sieur?’
Billy understood papiers. It was the first word he’d been taught. His ID was deep in his pocket. He fetched it out for inspection. Under occupation, it read bibliothécaire. Librarian.
‘Fascinating, M’sieur Berliot. You have some favourite books perhaps?’
He was speaking in English. Billy knew it was a trap but Alice was standing on his foot just in case.
He shrugged, spread his hands wide. The guard looked at him a moment longer, said something in French that Billy didn’t understand, then moved on down the corridor. Eyes settled on Billy. He began to sweat. Another giveaway.
The train came to a halt. This wasn’t Sainte-Maure but Alice appeared not to care. She eased him towards the door. Billy had never been so relieved to get off a train.
It was a tiny halt. The handful of
passengers were already making their way off the platform.
‘What did he say?’ Billy nodded at the departing train.
‘He said you have to do better than that.’
‘He thought I was English?’
‘Of course.’
‘And now I expect he knows it.’
‘You’re right. But there may be Germans on the train. And he may need a favour or two in the future.’
‘That’s the way it works?’
‘Of course.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘What did you expect?’
They walked for the rest of the day, taking a series of back roads that Alice seemed to know by heart. Once, she knocked at the door of an isolated house and waited for the door to open. When the woman appeared she gave Alice a hug and they both disappeared inside in a flurry of sing-song patois. When Alice emerged, minutes later, she had a bag of fruit and some pastries still warm from the oven.
‘She wants to know whether we’d like to stay the night.’
‘Does she know who I am?’
‘No, but she knows me and I think she’s guessed the rest.’
‘You think it’s risky?’
‘It might be. Her husband is a brute. He’s out at the moment but he hates the English.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re not French. And because they killed a brother-in-law of his at Mers-el-Kébir.’
Billy nodded. Mers-el-Kébir was in Algeria. Earlier in the war the Royal Navy had sunk half the French fleet there to keep them out of the hands of the Nazis. More than a thousand French sailors had died.
‘Let’s keep walking,’ Billy said.
An hour or so later he was beginning to regret it. His arms ached from the weight of his bag and his boots were giving out. Two blisters had burst and the back of his heel was bleeding where the leather pinched. At this rate, he’d have no problem feigning injury.
‘How much further?’ He’d paused to take the weight off his feet.
‘An hour. Maybe more. We should arrive in daylight. People get nervous after dark.’
And so on they went. Alice walked with the grace of a young antelope. Her long legs swallowed kilometre after kilometre and when, for the umpteenth time, she offered to carry the bag, Billy finally said yes. Months of sitting on his arse and bombing Germany had done nothing for his stamina and he was beginning to doubt whether he’d make the chateau before nightfall. Then they came to a bend in the road and found themselves looking across a valley. They hadn’t seen a soul since they’d left the house and Billy was beginning to suspect that France was empty.
Aurore Page 18
