City of Spies

by Mara Timon

  *

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alex murmured. ‘I couldn’t think of another way to get out of there.’

  Still slung over his shoulder, I hissed: ‘You think this isn’t drawing attention to us? Put me down, you oaf!’

  My toes touched the ground only briefly before he cradled me in his arms.

  ‘Put your arms around my neck,’ he ordered. ‘The auld bastard is still watching – we need a hotel for the night.’

  I obeyed as he made his way through the door of the nearest hotel.

  ‘One room, please,’ I said to the startled clerk, trying to preserve what dignity I had left.

  ‘I . . . I think we may be full.’

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he licked the tip of one finger and ran it down a page in the ledger.

  ‘Put me down, darling,’ I told Alex.

  The Scot might not have understood my French but understood the tone. He set me down on my feet and, with one hand on my waist, took an aggressive step forward. His glare was more eloquent than any words would be and the clerk shrunk back.

  ‘Ah yes,’ the clerk squeaked, running his hand through thinning hair. ‘Yes, we do have a room. Last one left. Room five. Down the hall, on your left.’ His hand fluttered in the general direction. He pressed a key into Alex’s hand and looked, wide-eyed, at both of us. ‘It’s one of our best rooms.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I took hold of Alex’s hand. ‘Come, darling.’

  Alex glowered at the clerk for a final moment before stomping towards the room. He locked the door behind us and leant back against it. Slowly, his body slid to the ground, his forehead resting against his knees. I didn’t know whether to go to him or remain quiet. After a few moments, he spoke – his words so soft I had to struggle to hear.

  ‘I had to get out of there.’ He raised his head but looked through me. His blunt fingers pressed against his temples, disrupting the beads of sweat forming at his hairline. ‘I had to get out of there. They were taking too much notice of us.’

  It was easy to forget that Alex wasn’t trained for a spy’s shadowland. For him, enemies were marked with crosses and friends with stars and circles. It wasn’t less dangerous, but it was straightforward. This couldn’t be easy for him. Hell, with all my training, it wasn’t easy for me.

  I sank to the floor and rested a hand on his shoulder. There were no words that could make this situation right, but perhaps it would be enough to remind him that he wasn’t in this alone. He shook off my sympathy and lurched to his feet.

  ‘I’m fine. Just tired.’

  Feeling strangely rejected, I moved out of his way, watching as he stumbled to the bed and fell across it, face down. He was still fully clothed, his legs hanging off the edge, when his breathing evened out.

  I couldn’t promise him that things would be better in the morning. Couldn’t promise that we’d even see the new day, but whatever was coming, he needed to be ready. I unlaced his boots, gently pulling them off and putting them neatly beside the bed. Removed the socks, lightly touching a blister that had formed and broken some time during the day. He’d never complained. About anything.

  I tried to be gentle when I pulled his legs onto the mattress, but didn’t dare remove any more clothing for fear of waking him. The lines began to fade and his colour returned. I closed the curtains and began to work on his papers, altering them as best I could. It didn’t need to be perfect, just good enough to withstand the cursory inspection of one Nazi to another.

  Sinclair cried out, shuddered, and jerked upright, eyes wide and staring. He blinked a few times, orienting himself.

  ‘Are you always plagued by nightmares?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were tossing and turning. Once or twice you called out, but I couldn’t understand what you’re saying.’ Then I added: ‘Thank God.’

  He sighed and rubbed the stubble bristling his face.

  ‘I was back in my Mozzie, getting shot down. Fielding was screaming. But this time, I couldn’t get out. Tim Fielding, my navigator, was a good man. Got himself hitched three months ago to a lass from Stirling. I stood up for him.’ He stared into the distance. ‘Christ, I have to tell Caroline.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The words were inadequate, but what else could I say? ‘At least you survived, Alex. They didn’t get you both.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘They didn’t. What time is it?’

  The stubble gave him a dangerous look, but with the pride of Deutschland clean-shaven, he’d stand out in a heartbeat. We’d need to stop at a chemist for supplies, and not just for him. Auburn roots gleamed at my hairline, and if not many SS officers were bearded, not many Frenchwomen were redheads.

  ‘It’s just gone eleven.’

  Rhythmic thumping from the next room indicated that at least someone was having a good time.’

  A faint smile curled his lips. ‘What time is curfew?’

  ‘About five minutes ago.’

  ‘You’re not sleeping?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He stood up and stretched, vest pulled tight against a lean abdomen. I turned away as he reached for the shirt. ‘Ye want to check out those tracks?’

  ‘There’s no guarantee they’ll be there tonight, but linking up with the Resistance is our best chance. Take whatever you have – we won’t be coming back.’

  Nodding, he inspected the papers before slipping them into his breast pocket and moving towards the door.

  ‘Not that way,’ I whispered, pulling the heavy drapes from the window.

  ‘Wait here.’

  He stepped out of the window and disappeared into the night. He may have good instincts but one passing soldier, one question that couldn’t be answered, and there would be one less Scot.

  Minutes dragged, plagued by doubts and fears before a twig snapped outside. It was likely Alex, but there were no guarantees. I fumbled for my gun and pointed it at the window.

  Someone tapped on the glass and I held my breath. Another tap, and then, softly, he murmured my name.

  ‘Jesus!’

  I slid the gun into my waistband and scrambled out of the window, grateful that the room was on the ground floor, and even more grateful that he hadn’t been picked up.

  It took less time to reach the field than I anticipated. It was cloudier and the moon’s dim light was barely enough for us to find our way. An owl hooted and a fox screamed – the sound uncannily human. A flock of birds took flight from the other side of the field, winging their way north.

  ‘Someone’s there,’ he murmured. ‘Birds don’t move like that unless they’re startled.’

  We reached for our guns, knowing we could be walking into a trap.

  A twig broke somewhere ahead and Alex pushed me gently behind him. We crept forward in single file, unsure what we were creeping towards. It could just as easily be a group of Germans as the Resistance.

  Any sensible person would get out of there. What’s wrong with you?

  It wasn’t uncommon for the Germans to find a field, or some other place the Resistance used. They would put it under surveillance, until they could spring their trap. That’s what had happened last spring. We made it out of there alive, but at a high cost: I’d been shot twice, and Dom had been arrested. Recovering from my wounds, I hadn’t been able to help with her escape, but the news she’d survived, relayed on the back of Madame Renard’s postcard, gave me hope.

  The snick of a gun’s safety preceded a voice demanding we raise our hands above our heads.

  ‘French,’ I breathed. ‘They’re speaking French!’

  It was my own hope that spoke; not all Frenchmen were on our side, but my instincts told me that this was the Resistance, and that we hadn’t found them so much as they’d found us. Smiling broadly, we raised our arms.

  Against the pale wheat, dark shapes began to materialise. Men, women too, moving surrounding us.

  ‘An SS dog and his bitch,’ someone sneered.

  ‘If he’s
dumb enough to come out by himself, then he’s dumb enough to die here.’ The voice rang with authority and hatred.

  ‘Repercussions?’ Another voice. No less strong, but pragmatic.

  ‘We’re not Germans,’ I protested, my optimism turning to bile.

  ‘Sod the repercussions,’ the first man said. ‘Take them into the woods and shoot them.’

  Chapter Six

  T

  he Resistance fighters formed a loose circle around us. There were six of them: two women and four men. Their faces maintained the same expression, resolute bordering on hatred. Their guns, a mix of handguns and rifles, American, British, and even German, gleamed dully in the moonlight.

  ‘He’s not a German,’ I told them. My hands, still raised, turned outwards in protest. ‘I’m not either. He’s an RAF pilot. We’re English!’

  Sinclair stiffened, but he didn’t correct me.

  ‘Is that so?’ The man who’d just sentenced us to death stood forward. ‘Then why’s he wearing an SS uniform?’

  The words were out before I could stop them: ‘Well, I couldn’t get him to the bloody coast in his RAF kit now, could I?’

  ‘I like this one – she has spirit,’ one of the other men said.

  ‘Collaborating bitch,’ someone else disagreed.

  ‘Take the blasted gun!’ I pushed my pistol into a pair of waiting hands and jabbed Alex in the side. ‘Give them the Luger, will you?’

  He handed over his gun, but he was looking at me with a strange expression in his eyes – like I was a creature he’d never seen before.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  Alex continued to stare at me with an expression midway between horror and fascination. Was he surprised that a woman would snap back? Or did he resent being told what to do by one? When our future was being discussed around us, and in a language he didn’t understand, he’d have to deal with that hurt on his own. We had bigger problems.

  ‘Who are you?’ the Frenchman asked, echoing Sinclair’s unspoken question.

  ‘You can call me Cécile. Most of my friends do, anyway.’

  Actually, none of the people I called close friends these days knew my real name. And those who knew the name I was born with would be horrified to see me now.

  Alex’s shoulders stiffened and he looked away.

  ‘And who are you, Cécile?’

  The man stepped closer, and despite whatever he felt for me, the Scot moved in front of me, shielding me with his own body. His chivalry was misplaced. I put a hand on his shoulder and stepped around him.

  ‘I’m an agent for Special Operations Executive,’ I said. ‘Check with Baker Street. Or better still, give me a wireless and I’ll contact them myself.’

  The leader gestured for his men to circle us and herded us westwards in silence. We weren’t restrained but we were no less their prisoners. We would be treated as the enemy until proven otherwise. My feet hurt and I was exhausted, but no one would tell us how much farther we had to travel.

  ‘Your new friends seem better at asking questions than answering them,’ Sinclair noticed. ‘How did you know they were on the right side?’

  ‘If they were Germans, they wouldn’t have called you an SS dog.’

  His full lips twitched. ‘And if they were tryin’ to trap a few Resistance fighters?’

  ‘Then we’d have been stuffed the moment you opened your mouth.’

  He grunted and we passed the next few minutes in uneasy silence. Every so often he would flash me a wary glance, as if he was trying to gauge how much he should worry based on how worried I was.

  The man in charge paused at the side of the path and waited for us to catch up.

  ‘Tell me, Cécile. What do you do for Baker Street?’

  ‘That depends on what’s required. And who’s asking.’

  ‘I’m the one with the gun. Good enough?’

  ‘No,’ I bristled. ‘You’re not the first man to wave a gun in my face, and if you were inclined to shoot me, you’d already have done so.’

  He might not understand the words, but my tone was clear enough.

  ‘Steady,’ Sinclair cautioned. It was too late for that.

  ‘You’re asking me a lot of questions, but I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here. We passed a town that has more swastikas than Berlin. We’re heading away from that place so I’m guessing you’re not going to bring us to the Boche, but I’m not going another step until we have some answers.’

  He returned my gaze. ‘You’re not in a position to negotiate.’

  He was right, but that didn’t stop me from folding my arms across my chest and giving him a mutinous look.

  ‘Oh hell,’ Sinclair groaned.

  The Frenchman’s dark eyes narrowed as he considered me. Finally he nodded.

  ‘You can call me Michel.’

  ‘And the second question?’ I prompted.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve nothing against the Germans, so long as they’re on the other side of the Maginot Line.’ His mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘I’d like to think I’m helping them go home.’

  Despite myself, I laughed. Alex, unable to follow the conversation, looked taken aback. Without taking my eyes off the Frenchman’s, I laid one hand on Alex’s arm to stop any reaction.

  ‘Fair enough, Michel. As I said, I’m a pianist. Been working in France since December.’

  He understood the slang. ‘How does a wireless operator get lumped with chaperoning pilots?’

  ‘Abject masochism.’

  Alex, catching the gist of the conversation, looked offended. Michel met his gaze, and with a slight nod, switched to English.

  ‘Wasn’t manning a wireless exciting enough? They say Jerry can pinpoint you in half an hour these days with their radio detection finders.’

  ‘Less than that.’

  ‘You must be good.’

  He looked at me appraisingly, and I stared back. Michel was about forty, but he wore his age well. While his dark hair shone with silver glints, his face was strong and spoke of his confidence and character. It would be good to work for someone like him.

  ‘I can hold my own,’ I said.

  ‘And him?’

  ‘Ask him,’ Alex said. ‘Him might no’ speak French, but does fine wi’ English.’

  ‘Or Scottish.’ I tried to lighten his mood, but from his dark glare I was, apparently, unsuccessful.

  ‘And how did you come to be here?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Shot down by a swarm of 109s.’

  ‘Bomber or a fighter?’

  ‘Six o’ one.’ Sinclair straightened his shoulders and raised his head proudly. ‘I piloted a Mosquito.’

  ‘Beautiful plane.’ Michel clapped Alex on the shoulder and moved on to a trio of men farther ahead.

  ‘She was,’ Sinclair whispered, mourning the de Havilland as if she were a lover. Then he sighed. ‘I’m guessing that Cécile isn’t your real name either?’

  ‘Not any more than Nathalie is.’

  ‘Complicated woman,’ he murmured.

  When we neared a farm, Michel dispersed most of his people and fell into step with Sinclair. The remaining woman walked in silence beside me. She was pretty, with long curly hair and an air of naïve sweetness. I didn’t think she was the one who’d called me a collaborating bitch, but looks could be deceiving. Or at least some of them.

  ‘He’s not bad looking, your Englishman.’ The woman’s voice was carefully modulated, but the coquettish tilt of her head and the way she played with her long curls when she looked at him, gave more away than she, perhaps, intended.

  ‘Don’t call him English if you want to get anywhere with him,’ I advised. ‘He’s Scottish.’

  She nodded, her lower lip pouting as she processed this information. For a few moments, she studied me. ‘Is he your lover?’

  Heavens, she was blunt.

  ‘He’s in my charge. At least until I can get him to safety.’

  ‘I hope you can do so.’ She didn’t take he
r eyes off me for a long few moments, before commenting, ‘But you have not answered my question.’

  Michel had brought us to a farmhouse surrounded by a couple of outbuildings. He unlatched the barn door, holding it open as the men entered. Aching feet and exhaustion made my voice curt. ‘No. He’s not my lover, and for what it’s worth, I’m not a German spy. I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but by all means, try your luck with him.’

  Moving past her, I tried not to laugh at her expression, and joined the men in the barn. Once we were all inside, the door was secured and the windows shaded. Several lamps were lit and crates rearranged to form a circle. Michel pulled the young woman aside. He spoke too softly for me to hear, but whatever it was, it didn’t please her. With one last backwards glance at the Scot, she grabbed a case held out by another man and all but stomped outside.

  ‘Going to check on my story, I imagine,’ I murmured to Sinclair.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ he said.

  ‘We’re the new dogs in the village,’ I explained. ‘The pack is sniffing us out, trying to determine whether to accept us or run us off.’

  ‘Or kill us.’

  ‘Also an option, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Because you’re Special Operations? What does that mean anyway?’

  ‘I’m a spy.’

  It wasn’t entirely false, but it was a very small part of what an SOE agent was trained to do: explosives, firearms, unarmed combat, sabotage. In short, our job was to prop up the Resistance and make life as difficult as we could for the Nazis.

  ‘I’m the link between the Resistance and London. Usually,’ I added wryly. I turned to Michel. ‘Now that we’re here, and safe for the moment, would you be able to tell us what you’re planning?’

  Michel uncorked a bottle and poured four glasses.

  ‘You stay in the loft tonight while Mireille, as you guessed, verifies your story. If you are who you claim to be, we will help you get you to the coast. If not?’ He shrugged, his eyes dark and inscrutable. ‘Then perhaps someone else will find you.’

  Your body, he meant. I took a small sip of wine and nodded. We were outnumbered, and I wasn’t inclined to fight if I didn’t have to.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘When you finish your wine, go upstairs and sleep while you can. Whatever happens, it will not be before dawn.’