City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  Please, God, don’t let me die this way!

  The carriage leant too far to the left. Wood protested, cracking. A couple of casks slipped their restraints and crashed into the little space by the door. I dropped to the ground and shielded myself as best I could as the train derailed and rolled. My stomach rolled with it, and I gagged.

  Would Baker Street learn what had happened to me? Drowned in a cocktail of wine and vomit. What then? Would the very proper Miss Vera Atkins, Buckmaster’s second-in-command, write to my mother?

  Dear Lady Anne.

  I regret to inform you that your daughter, while on assignment, drowned in a sea of burgundy. You’ll be proud to know she did her best . . .

  To what? Drink her way out? A high-pitched giggle escaped, ruthlessly cut off by a sob.

  Think of the scandal! my mother would wail. If she could be bothered to read the letter.

  Pull yourself together! Miss Atkins’s cool voice cut through my panic. You know what to do!

  I forced a breath into my lungs, and another. I’d get out all right. Sod the scandal, I wasn’t ready to die. I pushed myself free of the casks and fought my way to the door. Any sound I made was inaudible over the roar of the engines and screaming voices.

  Another bomb threw the carriage as if it were a child’s toy. I made myself as small as I could, held on until the motion stopped. I’d been battered by the casks, but nothing was broken.

  Smoke stung my eyes and filled my lungs. I doubled over, choking, and this time I allowed the bile to escape. Wiped my mouth clean with the back of my hand . The carriage wasn’t yet ablaze, but I was surrounded by wine casks. Wooden casks, in a wooden carriage. On a train that also carried munitions. I had to get out.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

  Splinters clawed my legs as I sloshed through the spilt wine. The carriage lay on its side, with the sliding doors above and below, and the smoke thickening.

  Desperation reinforced determination. I began to climb towards the door. Grasped a piece of metal that must have once circled a barrel. Ignored its heat and wedged it between the doors, working it until they slid open with a screech of protest.

  Damn it, I will get out!

  I dried my hands on my skirt and reached up. Gripped the door jamb harder, pulling myself up and through the door. I crouched on top of the carriage to minimise my silhouette and took stock. The engine and first three carriages of the train disappeared into the distance. The bombers too were fading into the night. The train had become a conflagration. And four soldiers, guards I guessed, stood about one hundred feet away, cradling rifles.

  Crouching low, I moved to the far side and slipped over the edge, my feet finding purchase on the undercarriage. The metal was hot, and my hands were already blistered. I didn’t feel either, yet. The next carriage exploded, the blast flinging me from the carriage. I moved with it, rolling as I hit the ground.

  The countryside was flat and open; there was nowhere to hide. Making myself as low as I could, I ran from the blaze and the soldiers guarding it. I’d be damned if I allowed them to catch me now. I ran, Luger in hand, until I found a small copse of trees. A quick glance behind confirmed that I hadn’t been followed and I allowed myself to drop to my knees and gasp for air.

  I stayed that way for several moments. Until I felt cold metal press against the back of my head.

  Chapter Four

  I

  slowly raised my hands.

  ‘Drop the gun,’ the voice growled.

  I lowered the gun to the ground, realising that the voice, a raspy baritone, spoke English – with a slight Scottish burr – although without seeing him I could make no assumptions. It could be a trick to get me to compromise myself, although covered in blood, sweat and smoke, it wouldn’t take much. Leaving the Luger on the ground, I raised my hands, turning to look at him.

  He wore the simple cotton shirt and trousers that RAF men often wore under the flight suits. His sandy-blond hair was plastered to his head, but his face was clean-shaven. He was probably shot down within the last few hours, and ditched the helmet and flight suit along with the plane. Sensible, although the cut of his clothing, not to mention the Webley pointed at my forehead, marked him as foreign.

  ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Nathalie.’

  ‘Good. Ye speak English. Where are we?’

  ‘France.’

  The pilot winced. A bruise was forming high on his forehead. The skin hadn’t broken, but it was probably enough to give him a monstrous headache.

  ‘I kind o’ figured that much. Where in France?’

  It was a good question, and as I had no answer, I shrugged.

  ‘Alexander Sinclair,’ he said. ‘RAF. I need you to take me to the Resistance.’

  I looked down at myself before meeting his gaze.

  ‘Don’t really know where to find them.’

  He looked as if he wanted to challenge that until his shoulders drooped. He stared up at the moon.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Put the Webley away. I don’t know where they are, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. Just not while you’re pointing the gun at me.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged, not entirely sure of the answer.

  ‘We’ll look less suspicious travelling together.’

  ‘And ye’re already running from something,’ he guessed. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing that concerns you.’ I got to my feet and dusted off my hands on my bottom. ‘Unless you’re planning to shoot me, put that damned English gun away.’

  ‘You have a plan?’

  I didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from improvising.

  ‘For now, we walk.’ I pointed in the direction away from the burning train. ‘I need clean clothing and you need something that looks less English.’

  ‘British,’ he corrected, in a way that seemed more automatic than condescending.

  Refraining from pointing out that while the French might note the difference, neither they nor the Germans would care, I started walking. He tucked the gun away and caught up easily.

  After a mile or two of silence, I murmured, ‘That bruise is fresh. When did you get shot down?’

  ‘Couple of hours ago. We hadn’t dropped everything on the bombing run, and the squadron leader thought it was a good idea to drop them on the train. Didn’t see the 109s until it was too late.’ His wry smile faded when he took in my singed clothes. ‘Stupid idea.’

  ‘That was you, wasn’t it? The squadron leader?’

  His shrug was as good as an answer.

  ‘Got into the RAF, despite the accent, because I could fly. Moved through the ranks because I was better at staying alive than a lot of good men. One stupid decision and here I am.’

  ‘Well, you’re not dead yet, so that’s a bonus. Let’s keep moving.’

  *

  We took turns standing on guard, back turned, while the other washed in a stream. Sinclair again turned away when I filched a blouse and skirt from an unattended clothes line. The skirt was too short, and the blouse a bit loose. Neither of us would stand up to scrutiny, but from a distance, we were passable enough.

  We stayed off the main roads, opting for the less-travelled ones, as much in the hopes of finding Sinclair more appropriate attire as it was to avoid unnecessary attention.

  In England road signs were removed or altered in case of a German invasion. Assuming French road signs were reliable, we just skirted another town near Vouvray when we heard the roar of a motorcycle. I pulled Sinclair back into the shrubbery and lay flat beside him. His breath caught in his throat as the motorcycle slowed.

  ‘Through your mouth,’ I whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Breathe through your mouth. It’s quieter.’

  He nodded, his hand clenching his sidearm. The motorcycle stopped and the driver helped the man in the sidecar out. The latter stretched, and pushed his driving goggles onto his forehead. Hand on the flies of his black uniform, he ambled
towards us.

  ‘SS,’ I mouthed at Sinclair.

  The man’s trousers were now undone and he was braced to relieve himself. He was close enough that if he looked to the side, he’d see Sinclair.

  The man must have heard something and his head turned towards us. There was no thought, and no other option. My hand tensed, fingers pressed together. Thumb up, palm down in a familiar gesture. In two long strides, I was out of the brush and striking the back of his neck next to his spine.

  No one could have been more surprised than me when he crumbled to the ground. The move was well-practised, but had never been used outside the practice grounds. There was no gunfire, but the second man fell, a small blade quivering from his eye.

  ‘Gunfire echoes. I didna think we’d want to attract attention.’

  He was right, and from what I could see, capable of handling himself. Maybe there were worse travelling partners.

  He pulled the knife free from the dead man and was about to clean it on the black tunic when I stopped him.

  ‘He’s about your size, isn’t he?’ I said.

  And with a similar fair colouring to Sinclair; an idea began to gel. We made quick work of plundering the bodies and hid them in the woods. They would be found, but hopefully not until we were long gone.

  I fiddled with the strap for the goggles, watching Sinclair from under my eyelashes. Dressed as an SS-Untersturmführer, he looked frighteningly authentic. His Webley was out of sight and the German’s Luger was holstered at his side. I swallowed hard, and tamped down the visceral fear that the uniform brought as he straddled the BMW.

  ‘Most officers are driven.’

  ‘No’ when they have a girl wi’ them. Stop arguin’ and get in the sidecar.’

  I shook my head at this demonstration of male ego, and slipped the goggles over my eyes. Sinclair fired up the engine and revved it a few times.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘They’ll expect us to head to Vouvray or Tours. Maybe north, towards the coast. We’ll go south, I think. At least for now, then we can head west. We’ll need to keep to the small roads.’

  ‘I don’t know these roads.’

  ‘South,’ I repeated, pointing. ‘And don’t forget to drive on the right-hand side.’

  *

  We skirted Vouvray and picked up the road leading south. The first checkpoint was at Montbazon, a simple barrier manned by two soldiers with a third sitting in front of a little hut. I held my breath as we approached. Had my description made it this far? Were alarms raised about the missing SS soldiers and their vehicle? Or the dead Gestapo thugs in Rouen? What if we were stopped and the Scot questioned? He had no French, and probably not a lot of German, if any. If we were caught, we’d both be shot as spies.

  The same thoughts must have been running through Sinclair’s mind, but his expression, or what showed beneath his goggles, was stony. Maybe even arrogant. He didn’t stop for the checkpoint, just slowed the bike enough to allow the guards to see the SS flashes at his neck.

  His gamble paid off. The two guards snapped to attention and saluted us, the third moving quickly to remove the barrier. I counted to twenty before releasing the air from my lungs. Sinclair glanced over. One corner of his mouth twitched and he winked.

  We drove for another hour before stopping in a small village. Sinclair stretched before helping me from the sidecar. He patted down his pockets and thrust a wad of French francs into my hand.

  ‘Food and beer,’ he directed, before stalking off behind a tree to relieve himself.

  For someone who had baled from a plane, cracked his head, held me at gunpoint and killed an SS officer in less than twenty-four hours, the Scot was doing rather well. But there was one other thing to do first, even more important than food. I spat on a handkerchief and cleaned the grime from my face. Applied a coat of lipstick and sauntered through the town until I found several broadsheets nailed on a board in front of the post office, captioned with names, aliases, and alleged crimes. Even with a healthy dose of imagination, none of the likenesses bore any resemblance to me, or anyone I knew. With a forced smile, I walked into the shop, surprised to find it well-provisioned. A young woman, neatly attired, put down her duster.

  ‘May I help you?’

  I hummed a response and wandered through the aisles. Most of the goods were local, which explained a fair amount. A small area stocked beer and wine, in the blue bottles that had become common since the start of the war.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day for a picnic.’ The woman’s voice, high and strident, jerked me out of my thoughts.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Unfamiliar with the labels, I directed her towards a bottle of red table wine and a locally brewed beer for the Scot.

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’ Her brown eyes narrowed as she studied me.

  ‘No. Just travelling through.’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed again. Her voice was chilly as she quoted me an inflated price for my purchases. I gritted my teeth and handed her a note. Turned away without waiting for my change.

  ‘Have a good day, madame.’ Her voice dropped when she added, ‘Hope you get bombed, collaborating bitch.’

  With one hand on the door frame, I turned and stared at her. Animosity blossomed, palpable between us. It was nothing short of foolish. If I were the collaborator she accused me of being, I could make life difficult for her, and still she showed defiance. I didn’t know if it made me proud, or sick.

  *

  We stopped at an open field far enough from the town to risk speaking in English. A handful of trees clustered into a corner, under which Sinclair set up the little picnic.

  He took a swig from the beer bottle. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘I’m sure the shop girl would be glad to hear it.’ I sat beside him and looked at the meagre feast. ‘Damn, I forgot to buy glasses. And a knife . . .’

  I looked meaningfully at his ankle where he sheathed the small blade.

  ‘You’re no’ using my sgian dubh to serve lunch.’

  He ripped off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

  ‘No? Well, fair enough. Your little dagger has other uses.’

  ‘That it does,’ he said through a full mouth.

  He moved to one knee, and pulled the knife from his sock.

  ‘Can you teach me how to throw it?’ I asked. ‘Like you did this morning?’

  He eased back and looked at me with calculating eyes. So far, he hadn’t commented on the bloodstained clothes he found me in, or the ease with which I’d killed the SS man earlier. It wouldn’t last.

  ‘First I want to hear how an English girl comes to be in Occupied France.’

  ‘Wrong turn at Brighton?’

  ‘Ye’re wanting me to guess?’

  ‘Go ahead. This could be fun.’

  I leant back, enjoying the sun on my face, and a rare moment of peace. When I opened my eyes, Sinclair was giving me an odd look.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Ye’re one cool customer, Nathalie. Do you kill men often?’

  ‘Only when they’re trying to kill me.’

  I looked away. How could I explain that the moment I thought of them as men – as sons and husband, fathers and lovers – I was done for? It was easier to pretend they were the dummies we used in training – mannequins moving on unpredictable tracks.

  His warm hand closed over mine. ‘You did well.’

  ‘I’m still alive,’ I murmured.

  He squeezed my hand and, reaching, produced a multi-tool pocketknife from a pocket.

  ‘Let’s hope you stay that way.’

  He unfolded a small metal curl and worked the cork from the wine bottle.

  ‘Convenient,’ I murmured.

  ‘Ye can thank the uniform’s previous owner.’

  He handed me the bottle, laughing as I raised it to my mouth. Harsh tannins assaulted my tongue, and I struggled to swallow. I looked at the label. It wasn’t the wine I had sele
cted; the shop girl must have switched it. Damn her.

  ‘No’ a good vintage?’ Sinclair drawled.

  ‘Better than what you can find in Scotland.’

  I took another mouthful, more carefully this time.

  He squinted into the sun. ‘That doesna take much. Ye’ll be fluent in French then?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Why is it so hard to get you to talk?’

  ‘Usually it’s hard getting me to shut up,’ I admitted.

  His full mouth twitched and I was surprised at how much I was enjoying his company. He took another swig of beer and sighed.

  ‘At least one of us can speak the native lingo. I can’t speak a word, short of finding . . . ah. Yes. No French.’ A red flush crept up his cheeks.

  ‘Finding a whore?’ I guessed. His eyes raised in shock. Did he think I’d never heard the word? ‘You can say that in French but you can’t order a glass of wine or a loaf of bread?’

  ‘One phrase isn’t that hard to remember,’ he said. ‘Dinnae get me wrong – the nuns tried to teach me French in school. The “Auld Alliance” and all that. It just didn’t take.’

  Catholic, then. And well educated, for all he dismissed it. Coupled with the comment about his accent when we first met, a picture of Alex Sinclair was beginning to form: of a man who achieved whatever he set his mind to, despite the odd ‘stupid decision’. A useful ally to have.

  ‘How’s your German? The Boche can get away with not speaking French, but you may have a problem if you don’t understand German either. Did the nuns manage to drum that into you?’

  ‘Never thought I’d be needin’ it.’

  I frowned. ‘Your head injury will buy us a bit of time, but not a lot. My German is passable, Squadron Leader. I’ll teach you enough to get us through.’

  ‘Alex.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“Squadron Leader” is a mouthful. Ye may as well use my name. Alex.’

  ‘No. Your name is . . .’ Bracing one hand on his chest, I reached into his breast pocket for his papers, opening them with a flourish. ‘Heinrich Weber.’

  He grabbed them back and repeated the name.

  ‘No. The Germans pronounce W’s like V’s, and ch’s, well, rather a bit softer than you would.’ I demonstrated, exaggerating the sounds. ‘Try again.’