City of Spies
Page 1
Contents
Character List
Part 1: Paris, Early June 1943
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part 2: Lisbon, June 1943
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Part 3: Late July to August 1943
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Part 4: October 1943
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Part 5: Lisbon, January 1944
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Touring the City of Spies
Q&A with Mara Timon
About the Author
Copyright
For my parents, without whose love and support I would not be where I am now. I could not have asked for better, and miss them every day.
Character List
* = real name, verified via print or online resources
~ = fictional characters in other novels
France
Pierre Alaunt: A Resistance fighter
Jean-Roger Demarque: A Parisian neighbour of Elisabeth’s
Antoine Gamay: A French fisherman
Köhler: (“the grey-haired man”) A German secret service operative
Franc and Christiane Laronde: Relatives of Madame Renard with links to the Resistance near Rouen
Elisabeth de Mornay: (codename Cécile, aliases include Nathalie Lafontaine, Solange Verin, and Veronica Sinclair) An agent within Special Operations Executive
~Edith Renard: A friend of Elisabeth’s, with links to the Resistance in Paris
Alexander “Alex” Sinclair: A Mosquito pilot from the 105 Squadron
Michel, Armand, and Mireille: Resistance fighters
Portugal
Rupert Allen-Smythe: A diplomat within the British Embassy
* John Grosvenor Beevor: Former SOE station head in Lisbon
* Hans Bendixen: Kapitän, head of the Abwehr’s Naval Intelligence in Lisbon
Alois Bergmann: A German assassin
Martin and Rosalie Billiot: French nationals living in Estoril, Portugal
* António de Oliveira Salazar: Prime Minister of Portugal from 1932 to 1968
Adriano de Rios Vilar: A lieutenant within the Polícia de Vigilância e de Defesa do Estado (PVDE), Portugal’s Surveillance and State Defense Police.
Claudine and Christophe Deschamps: French nationals living in Estoril, Portugal
Sabela Figueiredo: Elisabeth’s housekeeper
Eduard Graf: Formerly of the 7 Panzer division, now a Major in the Abwehr (the German military intelligence service)
Matthew Harrington: A diplomat within the British Embassy and godfather to Elisabeth
Count Javier: A Spanish count living in Estoril, Portugal with his wife Laura
Hubert “Bertie” Jones: (Code name “Ulysse”, aliases include Pete Aldridge) A Special Operations Executive agent shipwrecked in Portugal
Betty Jury and Nicola Langston: Secretaries at the British Embassy
* Agostinho Lourenço: (“The Director”) Captain of the Polícia de Vigilância e de Defesa do Estado (PVDE), Portugal’s Surveillance and State Defense Police
Andreas Neumann: Leutnant, formerly of the 7 Panzer division, now a lieutenant in the Abwehr (the German military intelligence service), and adjutant to Eduard Graf
Pires: A Portuguese man selling information to the Germans
Julian Reilly: An Irish novelist living near Estoril, Portugal
Gabrielle Ribaud: A French national living in Estoril, Portugal
* Amália Rodrigues: A Portuguese fado singer
Major Haydn Schüller: An SS officer based in Lisbon
* Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Huene: German Ambassador to Portugal from 1934–1944
Mrs Willoughby: Bertie Jones’ housekeeper
Great Britain
* Vera Atkins: Assistant to section head Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, and his de facto second in command, responsible for the recruitment and deployment of British agents in occupied France
* Colonel Maurice Buckmaster: (“Buck”) Leader of the French section of Special Operations Executive
~Kathryn “Kat” Christie: A friend of Elisabeth de Morney
~Big André, ~Jérôme, ~Dominique, and ~Robert: Code names for Special Operations Executive agents that Elisabeth trained with
Other Persons of note:
* Pietro Badoglio: Marshal, an Italian general who became Prime Minister after the Italian Council voted to depose Benito Mussolini
* Ronald Campbell: The British Ambassador in Lisbon
* Wilhelm Franz Canaris: German admiral and chief of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence service from 1935 to 1944
* Leslie Howard: An English film actor/movie star. He was actively anti-German and rumoured to be involved in British Intelligence. Returning from a trip to Lisbon, his plane was shot down by the Luftwaffe over the Bay of Biscay
* Benito Mussolini: (“Il Duce”) Prime Minister of Italy from 1922 to 1943
* Henri Philippe Pétain, Maréchal: A hero from WW1 who served as the Chief of State of Vichy France from 1940 to 1944
* Harold Adrian Russell (‘Kim’) Philby: An MI6 operative in charge of the subsection dealing with Spain and Portugal. Philby was later discovered to be one of the ‘Cambridge Five’ – double-agents working for the USSR
* Erwin Rommel: (“the Desert Fox”) A German general who served as field marshal in the Wehrmacht (Defence Force)
*Otto Skorzeny: A lieutenant-colonel in the Waffen-SS, he led the successful rescue of Benito Mussolini from where he was imprisoned in the Appenine Mountains
* John Vereker, 6th Viscount Gort: Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) in France
Part 1
Paris, Early June 1943
Chapter One
T
he café’s door chimed, allowing in the evening breeze, the hum of street noise, and a man. He shuffled past, head down, shoulders stooped. His right hand, deep into his pocket, signalled to us that he’d been compromised. Sorrow ripped through me; Pierre Alaunt was a good man, and a friend to the Resistance.
‘He’s being followed,’ Michel muttered. ‘Two goons. Ten paces behind him.’
Which meant they weren’t here for Pierre; they were here for whoever approached him.
I rotated my glass of Pernod and stretched my fingers. It was less than two months since I’d narrowly escaped a Nazi ambush, and no one had ye
t identified me. I was in no hurry to put myself back in the Nazis’ cross hairs, not with a set of forged papers hidden in my handbag. Michel nodded; five minutes and we would leave. It was just long enough not to look suspicious.
‘When will you speak with your Uncle Maurice?’ Michel lit a cigarette, and slipped the case into his breast pocket.
‘Uncle Maurice’ was my commanding officer, Maurice Buckmaster. As the head of Special Operations Executive’s French Section in London, he would need to know that Pierre was no longer reliable, and get word to whoever else Pierre worked with. I took a deep breath, inhaling Michel’s nicotine, and wishing the Nazis hadn’t taken such a dim view of women smoking.
‘Tomorrow.’
A glass shattered on the floor. The woman who had dropped her drink was unfamiliar, and if she worked with the Resistance, it wasn’t through our cell, but that didn’t stop Pierre’s shadows from mobilising. One of them moved towards the woman who had dropped her drink while the other blocked the door. A low rumble of voices rose and then subsided at a sharp glance from the first man.
‘Merde,’ Michel muttered, the only visible sign of his nerves.
I finished my Pernod as the goon finished searching the woman’s satchel and signalled for her to move to the door. His colleague would search her person for anything suspicious, like the set of forged documents hidden in the lining of my handbag. My fingers explored the underside of the table for a nook, a nail, anything to hide the documents on, but found nothing.
The goon searched two other tables before coming to us. Michel’s shoulders arched in a Gallic shrug. He retrieved his documents from his breast pocket and handed them across with a neutral expression. I hoped I looked as blasé as I placed my own papers on the table. The goon’s nose flared as his thumb stroked my photograph. His head tilted to one side, watching my reaction as his fingernail worried the edge. His eyes were black, almost opaque, beneath a single dark brow. A corner of his mouth rose. From across the river, Notre Dame rang half past ten. I met his gaze.
‘Curfew’s approaching.’
He tossed my papers onto the floor, watching them scatter. Michel shook his head, warning me to hold my tongue. Teeth clenched, I dropped to my knees to collect them. The goon stepped closer so that his crotch was level with my eyes. Options ran through my mind. I could easily disable him. Even kill him. But for what purpose? A fleeting satisfaction followed by incarceration? Holding that thought in my mind, I waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
He stood back and pointed to the man at the door. I’d passed the first hurdle; the second would be worse.
The second thug emptied my handbag on the table, watching as the detritus of my daily life scattered across it. I caught the compact before it fell to the floor. Buck had given it to me the night I parachuted in to France last December. I ran my fingers over the words etched onto it. Bonne Chance. I hadn’t thought I’d need luck back then, but I wouldn’t mind a healthy dose of it now.
He stared at my silver cigarette case, and I held my breath. The Nazis had decreed that smoking was unladylike. I refrained in public only because I had to. Would he use that as an excuse to arrest me?
‘It’s mine,’ Michel said, picking it up. ‘The lighter as well.’
Snatching the case from his hand, the thug opened it up, inspecting it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d used it to carry notes, but this time it was empty. He slid out a cigarette and lit it. Blew the smoke in Michel’s face.
‘Is it?’
‘Her bag is big enough to carry it.’
‘So it is.’
The goon peered inside, and then ran his fingers around the interior, feeling for any anomaly. He must have touched the papers, felt the ridges in the lining. The tingling in my spine intensified.
My bag was thrown aside as he moved to inspect my coat. I tried not to sigh. The coat was clean; the danger passed. Michel was shovelling my belongings back into the bag when the goon rotated his finger. I followed his instructions, turning while he patted down my back. I focused on the wall, trying not to react, but when he reached around me and fondled my breasts, my temper erupted.
‘Cochon!’ I whirled around and barely stopped myself from driving my knee between his legs.
He gave me a slow, smarmy grin. It was a challenge; he wanted a reason to arrest me. A reason that his fat fingers hadn’t found. I was seething, but not stupid. A trip to the Gestapo’s headquarters wasn’t on my agenda. I raised my head, looking down my nose at him. He laughed, and waved us through, as if it were all a game.
‘Opportunistic sod,’ I growled once we were on the other side of the door.
‘Fucking pig,’ Michel agreed. He put one hand at my back and guided me into the crowd. ‘Do not forget – they are closing in,’ he murmured. ‘You must be careful, Cécile.’
‘Always.’
We walked together as far as the Pont Neuf. As he leant in to kiss my cheek, Michel reminded me: ‘No unnecessary risks, ma chérie.’
Pierre Alaunt was proof that sometimes being careful wasn’t enough. I mentally formed the message to Buck as I passed the darkened lamp posts that lined the bridge. The City of Lights, temporarily extinguished. And yet, there was something oddly comforting about it. In daylight, it was easy to get distracted. The dark allowed the senses to come alive. Only in the moonlight would I have noticed the man on the far side, scuttling along the Quai des Grands-Augustins, hunched into a dark coat despite the warm night.
A sensible woman would continue home, but he held my attention. Memory put a name to the face: Jean-Roger Demarque, a collaborator who lived in my district. If he was up to something, I wanted to know what it was. Ignoring Michel’s warning, I followed him.
Demarque eased down a side street, pausing outside a bistro where a group of German soldiers tried to persuade a pair of women to stay for one last drink. He looked around and, satisfied that he’d attracted no undue attention, stepped inside.
The blackout curtains were drawn, hiding him from sight. In truth, I’d already risked too much. With the incriminating second set of papers in my bag, and curfew fast approaching, I needed to get home. Whoever the little weasel was after would have to fend for themselves.
Instead of moving, I counted the seconds with each heartbeat, with each couple rushing past.
Five minutes later Jean-Roger emerged, flanked by a German officer and two soldiers. I followed at a discreet distance as he led them into the labyrinth of Saint-Germain, weaving through the little streets to an unassuming building. Wrought-iron balconies hung like dark lace from the second and third floor windows, and the flowers in the window boxes were lovingly maintained.
By my landlady.
That bastard had led the Germans to my home.
The officer banged on the door with the butt of his gun.
My landlady was a good woman, but she wouldn’t risk her life for me. How long before my image was nailed to buildings and signposts?
I shoved my hair out of my eyes and forced my breathing to slow. My backup flat was on the other side of Paris, and the house where I stored my set and transmitted from was in the suburbs. Too far to go without getting caught for breaking curfew. Assuming that the Gestapo weren’t already waiting at those locations.
That left only one option.
Madame Renard had proven her loyalty to the Resistance and to me – standing fast in the aftermath of a Gestapo ambush, in which I’d been shot twice. Despite being under suspicion herself, she hid me, wounded and feverish, in her cellar. It wasn’t fair to put her in danger again, but there was no other choice. If Demarque knew where I lived, he knew the name I was using. A quick flare from my lighter took care of that problem. Pulling the loose thread in the lining of my bag, I retrieved the spare set.
Voices echoed in the night as a gendarme questioned someone. I eased around the corner to see him shaking his head at a young couple. Shivers racked my body, and sweat trickled down my spine. Madame Renard’s home was less than a quarter of a mil
e away but seemed farther away than London.
I doubled back to make sure I wasn’t followed. Spent the better part of an hour ducking in and out of the winding streets until I was convinced it was safe to turn into the small alleyway leading to Madame Renard’s house. Torn between regret for involving her and my own need to survive, I paused before raising my hand to rap once on her door, almost too soft for an old woman to hear. The bolt scraped open and one gnarled hand pulled me into the house. She closed the door firmly behind her and leant back against it.
‘What happened?’
‘I need a place to hide for the night. My cover was blown.’ Her face paled and I added, ‘No one followed me here.’
‘Of course they didn’t.’
She folded her arms over her bony chest, the Luger a lethal black mass, incongruous against her yellow dressing gown.
How on earth had she acquired a German pistol? And a Luger at that? Then again, if anyone could, it would be Madame Renard. She had enough food stashed in her cellar to single-handedly stock the black market, so why not a Luger? She set the gun down on a side table, and led the way into the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry to ask this of you, madame.’
‘Faugh!’ She waved her hand dismissively and uncorked a bottle of wine. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone sold me out.’
‘A friend?’
‘A neighbour. Jean-Roger bloody Demarque. I’m not sure why, but I don’t suppose it matters, damn him.’
As I removed the last cigarette from the silver case, the memory of an awkward dinner invitation, followed by a polite but firm refusal surfaced. At the time, he seemed to take the rejection well, but that was months ago. Had he been planning his revenge all this time, or had he found some shred of evidence? It took three tries with the lighter before the blasted cigarette ignited. I sucked in the smoke, savouring the familiar rush before exhaling a cloud of smoke and nerves. ‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ I repeated.
‘I don’t suppose it does.’ Madame Renard placed two glasses on the table and shooed her cat off a chair. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Out of Paris, obviously.’
‘That’s not much of an answer, Cécile.’ She pushed a glass across to me. ‘Is there somewhere you can go?’