by Mara Timon
*
I moved behind a bale and quickly changed into a cotton shirt and trousers one of the men had thoughtfully provided. When I returned, Alex had rolled up a spare blanket and positioned it lengthwise in the centre of the old mattress. He lay on his side, facing away from me to preserve my modesty. His uniform was neatly folded on the floor beside him.
‘I dinnae like this,’ he said. ‘He’s planning something.’
‘Of course he is. And right now we’re a complication. I don’t think he likes having us here any more than we do.’ I sat on the mattress and plaited my hair. ‘Once the girl validates my story, we’ll be on our way. You’ll be back with your squadron in no time.’
It sounded like a naïve platitude, even to my own ears, but Sinclair didn’t question it. Instead he blew out the candle and allowed darkness to descend. He lay quietly until his breathing evened out.
Sleep was far more elusive for me. I was less worried about Michel’s men than I was the rest of the journey. Each handover came with risks. Would I find someone to escort Alex the rest of the way, or would I have to take him back myself? And if we made it back to England, what then? He’d rejoin his squadron, of course, and I’d be debriefed; there was a school in Wandsworth we used for that. And then what? How long before Buck redeployed me? And then where? Paris wasn’t safe. Nor was a large swathe of northern France. Perhaps Alsace? Or maybe Free France?
Sinclair’s arm crashed down on my chest, interrupting my musings. He moaned again, clearly in the midst of another nightmare.
‘Alex?’ I threw his arm off and shook his shoulder.
His eyes snapped open – wide and staring. He looked straight at me but didn’t see me. He breathed in fast pants, as if he’d been running.
‘Alex?’
I touched his jaw with my free hand, feeling the rasp of his stubble under my fingertips. His hand grabbed mine as his gaze locked on to me. His hazel eyes sharpened and then went dark, reading something in my face that I wasn’t aware of. Before then.
His fingers moved to my cheek and then the back of my head, gently pulling me forward. My heart pounded as Alex guided my lips to his. He tasted of red wine and desperation. The planes of his chest were hard, and I braced myself against him until his arms came around me, pulling me over the blanket that separated us. He held me tight, his body pressing mine into the old mattress. When his hands found my breast, my breath caught in my throat.
‘Nathalie,’ he murmured, pulling the cotton shirt from my shoulders.
In the two years since Philip’s ship sank, I had never been tempted to take a lover. Alex was a stranger; I knew little about his background, his aspirations, or his desires. He hadn’t mentioned a wife but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one waiting for him at home. But he was a good man, I was sure of that, and equally sure that in that moment, I wanted him as much as he wanted me. In that loft, with half of the local Resistance resting downstairs, it was me he turned to and, when the time came, my name he called out, the sound muffled against my neck.
Once his breathing eased, he rolled on to his back, pulling me with him. Brushed a lock from my forehead and pressed my head to his shoulder.
‘I should apologise for that, but I canna bring myself to.’
‘Nothing to apologise for,’ I murmured.
My contentment was more than physical until the realisation hit me that, not only had I fallen into bed with him after only knowing him for two days, I had unwittingly turned myself into the wireless girl, Mireille’s rival. And in this situation, where neighbour informed on neighbour for less, she now had the advantage.
Chapter Seven
I
slept well, for the first time for weeks feeling almost safe. By the time I woke, Alex was gone, likely into the hub of activity in the room below. I took my time getting ready before joining them. Michel sat at the table, a steaming mug of ersatz coffee untouched at his elbow. His freshly shaven face was half-hidden behind a copy of Le Figaro, while Alex leant against a wall as the animated little wireless operator smiled up at him. His response was polite but it wasn’t until his eyes met mine that a slow smile spread across his face.
‘Good morning,’ he said, already moving towards me.
‘Good morning. There’s been news?’
Michel set aside his newspaper. ‘London has confirmed your story. It would seem your exploits are rather infamous in certain circles, madame.’ His voice was calm, but his eyes were amused. ‘I am almost disappointed to see you leave. However, Armand spent the night forging travel documents, and I would not wish to disappoint him.’
‘Certainly not,’ I murmured, under no illusions.
He might have wanted another wireless operator in his cell; he might have even wanted another SOE agent. What he didn’t want, however, was someone who would draw too much attention to his activities.
‘You, Monsieur, will remain Heinrich Weber. He’s fixed the work Madame did to those papers. The photograph of Herr Weber will have to do. Your colouring is the same, and your features similar enough that differences can be explained away with weight loss, age, and experience. I’m sorry. There just isn’t time to have a new photograph taken.’
‘Thank you,’ Alex murmured, pocketing his papers.
Michel gestured to the wireless girl, who had so far been following our conversation from a safe distance, her eyes never leaving Alex.
‘Mireille and Claude will go on ahead to arrange your passage, or at least the first leg of it.’
‘You’re sending a pianist? That seems a strange choice.’
‘She has other duties here, and knows the contact. Claude knows the roads better than she does, he can protect her.’
His voice, while directed at us, left no room for debate. Mireille, shoulders dropped, followed a wiry man out of the barn.
‘They won’t be back until nightfall. Stay close to the barn today. You’ll leave at first light tomorrow.’
We nodded, and stepped outside into the sunlight. Meandered along the perimeter of the barn, and then took a seat on a low stone wall under an apple tree, and far enough away from the others to give an illusion of privacy.
‘Why first light? Why no’ during the night?’ Alex asked.
‘That eager to get away from me?’ I teased. ‘I’m sure Mireille wouldn’t be too upset if you decided to stay.’
He pretended to consider that for a moment.
‘Aye. She’s sweet, and bonny.’ Unable to maintain a straight face, he grinned. ‘But I’m no’ daft enough to throw over a woman who can handle herself like you do, for a wee thing like her.’
‘If that’s what you want –’
Still smiling, he kissed the top of my head.
‘I don’t. I am, however, keen to hear more about these “exploits” of yours.’
‘Michel, and probably your bonny wee lass, made more of it than there is.’
‘I dinnae believe you.’
I shrugged. ‘The Official Secrets Act trumps your curiosity.’
He seemed to consider that, and then, unbelievably, the Scot had the unmitigated gall to tickle me.
*
Secrets intact, even if my virtue wasn’t, we climbed down the ladder an hour before dawn, for Michel’s briefing in the barn’s large room.
‘As you may know, the Germans have closed most of the fishing channels heading north. If you head towards England, you’ll be caught in their net. So you will head for Spain. A fishing boat will take you as far as Bilbao. From there you take a train to Madrid. Your embassy will arrange your trip home.’
‘Spain?’ Alex’s face broadcast his dismay.
How long would it take us to get back? At least by checking my credentials with Baker Street, Mireille had let Buck and Vera know that I was here, and still alive.
‘Be careful. The border police arrest people sneaking into the country,’ he added.
How many people like Alex, like me, had he helped? He wouldn’t answer even if I asked.
Instead I simply said: ‘Thank you, Michel.’
He rubbed his eyes. ‘The boat is called Le Rêve. She’s not big and certainly not pretty, but she’s fast and hasn’t got caught yet.’
‘The Dream,’ I translated. How appropriate.
‘It’s white, edged in blue. The man who’ll take you is called Antoine Gamay. You’ll be able to spot him –’
‘He has eyebrows like caterpillars,’ Armand said, demonstrating by waving his fingers from his brow.
Michel wasn’t amused. ‘Not now, clown.’
Armand shrugged, good-naturedly, and handed Alex a thin envelope with Spanish notes.
‘You’ll need this when you cross the border,’ he said. ‘It’s the best we can do, but don’t let anyone find it on this side of the border. I’ll drive you to the outskirts of the village. I can’t go any farther without being recognised. You’ll want to buy provisions there. Make it look like an impromptu picnic.’
‘But instead of heading out on a yacht, we find a fishing boat?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave tomorrow morning dressed as fisherfolk?’
Michel shook his head. ‘Too risky. Every day you remain brings you closer to being captured.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Even if you looked the sort, and you don’t, fishermen don’t usually take their women on the boat with them. Bad luck, you see. So you get on the boat, and you all get below – out of sight. Fast. Got it?’
He waited for both of us to nod before holding out his hand, first to Alex and then to me.
‘God be with you.’
*
Despite Michel’s faith in Mireille, I wasn’t convinced. Trusting anyone else was dangerous, and Alex had chosen me over her. She didn’t strike me as vindictive, or foolish enough to risk someone she was interested in to destroy a rival; then again, I hadn’t expected Jean-Roger Demarque’s betrayal in Paris. My fingers stretched and clenched in turn, wishing for the comforting grip of the PPK, knowing that it wasn’t possible without attracting undue attention.
The village wasn’t large, but was comfortable in its anonymity. Fish-sellers and restaurants touted the local catches, and the small harbour at the edge of town was mostly empty, the fleet of ketches and trawlers having already gone to sea. If it wasn’t picturesque, at least it did possess a wall devoid of broadsheets with Alex or my likeness on them, a boat that would take us away from France, and a village shop.
Wearing the SS uniform and a grim look, Alex stomped beside me, deep in thought. He waited until we were far enough from the nearest person to risk sharing those thoughts with me.
‘I know we dinnae have much time left, Nathalie. But I wanted to thank you.’
I raised an eyebrow and tried not to smile when he blushed.
‘No’ for that. Well, yes, for that too. What I meant is that ye’re doing your best to get us out and I ken I’m no’ helping.’ He rotated his shoulders as if trying to shift an uncomfortable weight. ‘And that hurts. I dinnae like not being able to hold my own.’
‘For someone who wasn’t trained for this, you’re holding up amazingly well. Sure you don’t want to trade a Mozzie for French lessons and a wireless? I think I know someone who’d be willing to teach you.’
He snorted, but his expression softened.
‘No’ cut out for it.’ He linked his fingers with mine. ‘You told me what you were yesterday, but ye ken what I am as well. I cannae make you any promises, Nathalie, but . . .’ He took a deep breath and his words came out in a rush. ‘When we get back, will ye allow me to call on you?’
I stared at him. Suddenly he looked young and awkward.
‘Alex, just how old are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’ A wry smile. ‘One of the oldest in the RAF, I think.’
It was experience, I supposed. Losing his friends, his wingmen, must have made him mature quickly. I had guessed about twenty-five. A three-year difference between us wasn’t so bad, but five?
‘Christ, Nathalie, stop laughing. I ken ye’re older, and I dinnae care. Will ye step out wi’ me, or no?’
I leant over and kissed his cheek.
‘Count on it. Now, go and look for the ship while I buy food for our “picnic”.’
Still smiling, I walked into the village shop and watched as the woman lined my purchases on the counter. As she tallied the cost, I glanced out of the window.
A pall fell over the square as a dozen drunk soldiers formed a rough circle. It wasn’t large enough to kick around a football, but whatever was in the centre held their full attention. Just outside the circle, standing apart but intent on the proceedings, was the grey-haired man we had seen in the restaurant, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t participating in their game but he wasn’t stopping it either. Whatever reason he had for being here boded ill for our escape; he struck me as too observant not to notice us or to wonder what had brought us here.
One of the soldiers, a big brute of a man, kicked forward. An unearthly shriek carried on the wind and I came close to knocking over the parcels. Someone was in that circle – a woman. What could she have done to deserve that?
The old woman at the counter met my eyes, and then glanced away. Her face was harsh with years of sun and toil, but her eyes were kind.
‘Jesus have mercy on her soul,’ she muttered. ‘Resistance. Foolish enough to get caught. Brave enough not to speak.’
She stared at her hands, before systematically putting my purchases into a wicker basket.
The woman’s shrieks subsided to whimpers, almost drowned out by the cheering soldiers.
‘Why didn’t they just arrest her?’
I was unable to take my eyes from the tableau.
‘And pass on the fun?’
Bitter, angry tears trembled in her eyes. They widened as she realised her mistake: her sympathy for the woman and her cause was too clear, and for all she knew, I was one of them. I wanted to reassure her – wanted to help the woman on the street – but anything I did would jeopardise our escape. And I had no desire to join her in the centre of that circle.
The whimpering ceased. A soldier reached into his tunic and took a long gulp from a silver flask. Passed it to the next man. Their game seemed to be breaking up. One man spat and clapped another on the back before they moved off, falling in behind the grey-haired soldier as they crossed the square, leaving the woman crumpled like a broken doll. Her long dark hair curled protectively around her – shielding her in death as it couldn’t in life.
We had to leave before the grey-haired man saw us. I threw a couple of notes onto the counter, grabbed the basket and scanned the village for Alex’s tall form. He stood nearby, his body stiff and vibrating with anger. Where my instincts directed me to take the distraction as a divine gift and use it to escape, Alex’s directed him to act. I grasped his arm, holding him back.
‘You don’t know who’s watching,’ I hissed, hoping no one would hear the English.
‘They killed her, Nathalie.’ His voice was filled with the horror we both felt.
‘There’s nothing we can do.’
He shook off my grip and straightened his tunic.
‘I didn’t sign up to turn a blind eye to that.’
Held together by horror and determination, he strode to the fallen woman. For a second, I imagined green eyes under that long hair – the friend who had fought beside me.
It was lunacy. I knew this woman wasn’t Dominique. Even if it was, Dom wouldn’t want me to jeopardise myself for her. But I was no more able to stop myself than I was able to stop Alex.
Ignoring the drunk soldiers, he turned the woman over. Her face was beyond bruised – it was broken, her cheekbones shattered, teeth missing. Blood flowed from her nose and a dozen or more cuts. Under the gore, brown eyes stared sightlessly at the sun. Whoever she was, even her mother wouldn’t be able to recognise her. But it wasn’t Dom. Of course she wasn’t; little Dominique would have fought back.
My relief was short-lived.
‘Mirielle,’ Alex mu
rmured, seeing past the disfigurement to identify the pretty girl who’d gone to arrange things with the fisherman. I’d known I’d see her again, but not like this. Had they been watching her? Had they caught her before or after she spoke to the fisherman with the caterpillar eyebrows? The old woman said Mireille hadn’t talked, but how could she know?
‘We need to go, Alex. Now.’
‘No,’ he whispered, throwing off my hand. Then louder: ‘No!’
He pulled his gun from its holster and pointed it at the soldiers, his Viking features twisted in hatred.
‘No, Alex,’ I whispered, horrified. ‘Don’t . . .’
The Luger coughed; a soldier fell. The grey-haired man unholstered his sidearm as the others stared, confused by Alex’s SS uniform. He stood statue-still, squeezing off shot after shot, bullets arcing as the Luger’s knee joint expelled and chambered cartridges. And yet, the enemy advanced.
Until Alex’s gun clicked on an empty chamber and the knee joint stayed up. He stared at it, then at the oncoming horde.
‘Shite,’ he breathed.
‘SHIT!’ I dropped the basket and pulled him away as the Germans returned fire. ‘Dolt!’ I accused. ‘Idiot!’
There was no word strong enough to describe the sheer lunacy of his actions.
‘They kicked her to death, what was I supposed to do?’ he panted, running alongside me. We turned towards the harbour, and I hoped the fisherman was still waiting for us. ‘An’ where the devil was Claude? He was supposed to protect her!’
He pointed at a small white skiff moored at the end of the pier, bobbing on the tide. An old man in a dark cap sat in the waning light, polishing the metal bracings. I yanked my pistol from my bag as we thundered over the planks.
‘Go!’
The old man threw the rag aside and stood, mutely watching. A shot rang out, the bullet almost hitting him. He dropped to a crouch, with his hands locked over his head, and crawled to the ropes mooring the boat.
I hunched forward and leapt across the gap between the pier and the boat, my gun remaining pointed at the fisherman. My left hand hit the deck first, the wood scraping the scabs from my palm and the skin from my knees. My elbow gave way but neither my pistol nor my will wavered.
