City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  ‘Hein-rik Vayber.’

  ‘You know, he probably goes by Heini.’

  I struggled to keep a solemn expression. He stared for a few seconds before bursting out in laughter.

  ‘Fine, then.’ He got to one knee. ‘Ye teach me what you can, and I’ll teach ye how to throw the sgian dubh.’

  That afternoon we made a game of it, although it was anything but funny. Chances were that I’d never need to throw his knife, but how well he grasped the language could make all the difference to our survival. He’d never be able to speak well enough to fool the Boche, but as long as he could fool the French, we’d be fine.

  ‘We should keep moving.’

  I reluctantly gathered our things and allowed Sinclair to help me up. He had a nice smile and a sharp dagger. There were worse travel companions.

  *

  The countryside passed in a blur of farms and vineyards, interspersed with small towns and villages, all but indistinguishable from one another until the motorcycle stuttered. Sinclair guided it to the side of the road and cut the engine.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Out of petrol,’ he said.

  ‘And your German isn’t good enough to get more. Even if we had petrol coupons.’

  He gave me a dark look. ‘We passed a town a couple o’ miles back. We can turn around or keep walking until we find the next town. What do you think?’

  ‘There’s still plenty of daylight. Let’s keep going.’

  When those SS soldiers were reported missing, someone would start looking for the vehicle. I’d trained as a wireless operator, not a courier. All I had to go on were my instincts, and they told me to keep moving.

  Alex pushed the bike off the road and removed the goggles and leather helmet, flinching as it brushed over the bruise on his forehead. Fresh blood seeped through the bandage.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He shrugged and echoed my own words: ‘I’m alive.’ He removed the motorcycle’s identity plate and buried it some feet away, stamping hard on the earth. ‘Let’s keep it that way, eh?’

  Sinclair took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Without the stripes and lightning bolts, he was Alex once again, no longer SS officer Heini Weber. It was a dangerous look, but the sun was hot, and a man, even an SS officer, might relax when walking alone with his girl.

  ‘Do you have a plan?’ he asked.

  I didn’t, but wasn’t about to admit that.

  ‘Our best bet is to link up with the local Resistance. Then we get you on a boat back to Blighty.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘If they’ll have me, I’ll stay here. Continue working with the Resistance.’

  His tone was a cross between curiosity and suspicion.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they have you?’

  That surprised me; I’d expected him to ask why they would want me.

  ‘I . . . ah, I’ve had a run of bad luck lately.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘You think?’

  ‘Don’t be difficult. If there aren’t any posters warning people about me yet, there may be soon enough.’

  Now he was serious. ‘What have you done?’

  I met his eyes, offering no apology.

  ‘I’ve survived.’

  *

  Necessity proved a better teacher than the nuns, and we continued the German lessons as we walked, peppering them with a light banter that allowed both of us to pretend that the danger had receded. As his confidence grew, Alex spoke of his home, his family, his love of flying.

  ‘Ye’re a very good listener, Nathalie,’ he said. ‘But ye don’t offer much, do ye?’

  I wanted to talk to him, to tell him what had happened, how I got here. Already a strange sort of bond was forming between us. The couriers hadn’t really mentioned this phenomenon, and I hadn’t thought to ask whether it was usual or not. Whether they were able to keep themselves remote from the men they escorted, because I knew I was slipping.

  Despite that, something held me back. Maybe it was my training, maybe the experience working with the Resistance, but I knew what a careless slip could do. I could offer Alex my friendship, but not my trust. Not yet.

  ‘It’s easier that way.’

  He could have said something sarcastic; I knew my reply stung, but instead he nodded.

  ‘Fine. But please, whatever ye do choose to tell me, let it be th’ truth.’

  Very aware that I hadn’t even given him my real name, I tried to smile.

  ‘Moving forward,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you.’ I nodded. ‘Are you upset?’

  He seemed to think about that for a few steps.

  ‘No. Your secrets are yer own to tell.’ His smile was shy. ‘Maybe ye’ll tell me when ye’re ready.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He looked at the sky, clear and starry. The moon was nearing full and was bright enough for a pilot to see by, a drop to be made. We could have continued walking, but my legs hurt, in fact, my entire body ached.

  ‘Let’s bed down here,’ he suggested before I could. ‘It’s a mild night, and maybe safer out here in the middle of a field, than in a town.’

  ‘Sensible.’

  I dropped my handbag and sank to the ground, ignoring his laugh. Under normal circumstances, I’d have suggested that we took turns sleeping, but if either of us was awake in five minutes it would be nothing short of a miracle. I stretched out, using the bag as a pillow, the pistol at my side.

  ‘The wildlife will let us know if anyone comes close.’

  Alex was slower to lie down. ‘Nathalie?’

  I opened one eye. ‘Yes?’

  He rested his head on his neatly folded tunic. Stared at the sky and said, ‘I’m glad ye’re here.’

  His hand reached across and squeezed mine.

  Unsure whether he saw my smile, I closed my eye and answered, ‘I’m glad you’re here too, Alex. Goodnight.’

  What woke me was Alex’s nightmare. Arms like steel pulled me close against his chest, the buttons of his shirt digging into my cheek. His teeth ground together, making a horrible sound, and his face contorted as if he were in pain.

  ‘Alex?’ I squirmed to free myself – to breathe.

  He mumbled something and released me, rolling to his side in a foetal position. Awake now, I studied his face. It was difficult to believe I’d only just met him. Impossible to comprehend how much had elapsed in that time – in the last week, for that matter. I reached out, lightly holding his shoulder until the nightmare released him. His features softened to childlike innocence. Brushing a lock of sandy hair from his face, I impulsively dropped a kiss on his forehead.

  Strong arms pulled me back, this time protectively. Chaste as it was, it was the first time I’d slept in the arms of a man other than my husband. He would be horrified if he could see me now. A filthy ragamuffin, in the arms of a strange man. A spy on the run.

  I bit my lip and turned away from Alex. Philip wasn’t here to judge me; he’d left to go to war, and became one of its casualties. I’d get Alex Sinclair back to England and then would find myself another Resistance cell to work with.

  There was still work to be done.

  Chapter Five

  A

  pleasant monotony of wheat sheaves waved in the breeze, one field indistinguishable from the next, until something marred the uniformity. A slim line slashed through the field, about a third of the way in. Swearing reverently, I moved towards it, the pain in my body dissolving with budding excitement.

  ‘What do you see?’ Alex asked, following me.

  Two faint, parallel ruts bisected the field. I squatted beside one depression and allowed my fingers to trail along it.

  ‘A plane landed here.’

  He looked around, gauging the distance.

  ‘Pretty impressive flying if they did.’

  ‘They’re a pretty impressive lot.’

  I knew this from experience; a flak storm had buffeted my plane as we crossed the Chan
nel. The old bomber that had carried us was badly damaged; smoke billowed from one of the engines, visible through the window. A shard had pierced the wall, narrowly missing the dispatcher’s head. If the rent in the hull allowed the stench of petrol and kerosene to escape, it did little to salve our fear.

  My fingers curled into talons, digging into the bench. Across the aisle, one man genuflected in a continuous motion, pausing only to check his harness. The other, who didn’t have much of a neck to start with, retracted what little was left into the folds of his jump suit, like a large drab turtle.

  The dispatcher yanked open the hatch.

  ‘Get out! NOW!’

  As the only woman on board, I was first through the joe hole. Any drop was risky – the Germans were known to infiltrate and ambush the Resistance – but a blind drop bordered on suicide. We could have landed in an empty field, or the middle of a German platoon. Or on top of their offices. And still the option to drop was better than staying on the Lancaster.

  Those were the longest fifteen seconds of my life.

  It was December, and cold. The snowdrift I’d landed on was a scant cushion but at least it wasn’t a pond or a river. A small dark animal – maybe a fox or a cat, with yellow eyes that reflected the moon – stared at me for a few moments until it silently disappeared into the night. In the sky, three other ’chutes trailed from the plane, and with our weight gone, the bomber began to climb. I never found out if the pilot made it home.

  Alex hunkered down next to me, touching the ruts.

  ‘The tracks look recent. Maybe a few days old. The Resistance?’

  ‘The Resistance don’t have their own planes.’

  ‘So the RAF then. D’ye think the Resistance are active here?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  The only question was how to find them.

  *

  The next village was small, with a single main street meandering through it. A post office and village shop sat on one end, on the other, a hotel and a restaurant. Some buildings had advertisements painted on them while others allowed vines to creep up the sides. On the whole, the town looked well maintained, if not prosperous. Possibly explained by the swastikas, flying from most buildings.

  ‘Why would the Resistance operate so close to a town like this?’ Alex asked. ‘What wi’ the town clearly supporting the Nazis?’

  I had no ready answer. It was dangerous, maybe even foolhardy, but looks could be deceiving.

  ‘Perhaps they believe that by supporting the Nazis – at least on the surface – they’ll reduce the risk of any retaliation? Or maybe the Resistance has enough eyes and ears in town, maybe even with the police, to warn them of any action ahead of time?’ It wasn’t likely we’d ever find out, and I shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be my first choice, but we haven’t eaten since finishing off the bread and cheese for breakfast.’ I gestured to the restaurant’s entrance, under a neat green and white awning. ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Alex asked. ‘I cannae speak French or German.’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight. They wouldn’t expect anyone like us to stop here, so there might not be so many questions.’

  It was a calculated risk, but given the more than fair chance that we had already been seen entering the town, it would seem only right that we stop to eat. It might reduce the question as to why an SS officer was walking anywhere.

  ‘If we stop for a newspaper,’ I thought out loud, ‘then you could hide behind it and leave the ordering – and the conversation – to me. All you need to do is grunt in the pauses and we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ye’re married, aren’t you?’ he joked, but looked unconvinced. He ran his hand through his hair, his blunt fingers gingerly exploring the scab on his forehead. His stomach rumbled, sealing the deal. ‘Any paper in particular?’

  ‘There won’t be a lot of options. Point to something that looks like it’s written in German and hold out a note. You’ll be fine.’

  Uncertainty flashed in his eyes before he nodded, the corners of his eyes tightening in grim determination. A faint smudge ran down the side of his face. I sighed. Reaching up to caress his cheek, I dusted it off.

  ‘I’ll wait for you over there,’ I said, indicating a low stone wall shielded by a cluster of trees.

  His back was as straight as any officer’s, the swagger as authentic as it could be, as he made his way into the shop. I watched until the door closed behind him, and reached into my bag. Under the guise of brushing my hair, I studied the town. It had a strange feel to it, retaining its vigilance even after its neighbours had lapsed into a wary tranquillity. People bustled past in groups of two or three, under the watchful eye of the German soldiers.

  Alex reappeared with the newspaper and a remote expression. I met him halfway across the street. Tucking my hand in the crook of his arm, I allowed him to escort me down the street and into the restaurant.

  The restaurant was quaint. Murals decorated the walls, giving it the atmosphere of an establishment that was trying hard to be more than it was. Not unlike the short man in the pristine suit who swanned up to us.

  With a smarmy grin and a not-so-discreet glance at my cleavage, he asked: ‘May I help you?’

  ‘A table for two.’ I took hold of Alex’s hand.

  ‘Do you have reservations?’

  One chubby finger consulted a well-worn book with very few entries.

  ‘Thank you, the table there will do just fine.’

  Twenty-five years of watching Lady Anne’s tactics hadn’t gone to waste. Without waiting for his answer, I swept past him to a table in the corner with a good view of the door. The maître d’ scurried out of our way, any protest silenced by Sinclair’s black uniform.

  Alex took the corner seat and snapped open the newspaper. I sat on his left, with a clear view out of the window.

  The waitress brought wine that was slightly better than what I’d bought the previous day. Her nose flared as she took my order; she would tolerate the Germans – she had no choice – but collaborators might find their food seasoned with spit du chef.

  The door banged open as a group of men entered. Like us, they brushed past the maître d’ and claimed two nearby tables, pushing them together. Unlike Alex, they wore no uniforms, but I didn’t need to hear their accents to know they were German. And plain-clothed Germans in France meant one thing: Gestapo.

  I swallowed the dust at the back of my throat at the thought that they might notice that his trousers didn’t match the tunic. Or what they’d do about that.

  ‘Wine!’ one demanded, and he pinched the waitress’s bottom.

  In a saner world, if one of them had pinched mine, I’d have smacked him into next week, but this world was no longer sane, and the waitress was too wise to show any indignation. She moved out of reach, a fixed smile in place. If she ordered the chef to spit in my food, these men were likely to get something worse.

  Alex’s hands, holding the paper in front of his face, tensed, the veins standing out. I brushed one with the back of my hand, and tried not to look apprehensive.

  ‘So, my dear,’ I prattled in rapid-fire French, hoping that these soldiers would see only what they expected to: a silly woman boring her man. ‘I forgot to tell you I saw dear Annette yesterday,’ I said in a stage whisper and began to bore even myself with some fiction about a woman who’d had an affair and found herself pregnant.

  Alex’s newspaper crackled but otherwise he showed no interest. The story wasn’t that uncommon, but I hoped dull enough to deflect any attention from us.

  The waitress set the plates down and retreated, neatly avoiding the Germans, who were now banging on the table like naughty children. The bottle of wine on their table couldn’t be their first.

  There was a slight tremor in Alex’s hands as he folded the paper and placed it on the table. He centred his plate and looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Bon appétit, Heini,’ I said.

  ‘Bon appétit.’

  Nerves made his v
oice harsh, but improved the accent. Alex’s full lips had tightened and his naturally fair skin had gone white.

  Most of the Germans seemed preoccupied, but one of them – an older man with a rugged face and grey hair – inclined his head, acknowledging Alex. Alex responded with a curt nod and just the right amount of disdain for an officer to show a comrade from a rival organisation. Despite the salute, the grey-haired man watched us, his expression giving nothing away. Had I missed an incriminating image? Did he know of me? Recognise me from Paris? Was it Alex who had captured his interest? He looked the part, but had his accent given us away?

  Hoping for the best, I reached out to caress Alex’s jaw. Allowed my fingers to drop to the collar of the black uniform. Alex played along. He took hold of my hand and raised it to his lips. He glanced over and met the grey-haired man’s eyes. Raised an eyebrow, challenging the other man before putting my hand on the table and turning his attention to his meal. The grey-haired man took a deep pull from his beer glass and raised it to me in a mocking salute. I breathed out, grateful Alex hadn’t seen it, or at least pretended he hadn’t. Pushing my fork through my food to test any unwanted ingredients, I too pretended not to notice.

  Alex shovelled another forkful of lentils into his mouth. The grey-haired man still watched us, his expression crafty. A dark shiver slid down my spine. The others murmured to themselves, their heads held close. Every moment or two they cast the odd glance our way.

  Alex’s muscles were tense; he wouldn’t last much longer.

  ‘I’m boring you, aren’t I, darling?’ I reached across and stroked his hand.

  He stood so suddenly that his chair slammed back against the floor. Silence blanketed the room and all eyes focused on us as Sinclair pulled me to my feet and clamped his mouth on mine. Someone wolf-whistled and he flung a few notes on the table. Grabbed me around the waist and slung me over his shoulder, pausing only to let me grab my bag, before striding out the door.

  As we left, my last look back was of the German soldiers, on their feet, laughing and applauding. All except the grey-haired man who, still seated, again raised his glass at me.