He’d parked his gazo on the other side of the road, further along, where there was a gate into the slope of field above that river view. An observer wouldn’t have reckoned on its driver being in the church: truck with open-topped load-space containing a set of tractor tyres, some fence-posts and coils of wire, and the inscription on its tail-gate reading DP AGRICULTURAL ENGINEERS, and in smaller print below RAOUL DE PLESSE, METZ.
So Michel’s ‘associate’ had a name, now.
Luc took her basket from her, gave her a hand up into the passenger seat then pushed it in beside her feet. Wordless, pushing the door shut then: Rosie with the impression that he was still thinking of her as an invalid. Watching him go round the front to his own side: he had a strangely dipping, long-strided walk – a lope, that went well with the working clothes, his disguise as a mechanic, but you’d never have taken him for a captain or lieutenant – whichever he was. The light-coloured eyes, she remembered, and the voice, but nothing else, not for instance the narrowish, fine-boned face. He’d been in the sun a bit: made his eyes look even lighter.
He’d climbed in, pulled that door shut. ‘On our way, then.’
‘How far, roughly?’
‘The slow way, maybe seventy-five kilometres. Slow way because your papers aren’t all they might be, uh?’
‘Getting papers at all, at such short notice—’
‘Thanks to the bishop…’ He had the truck moving. ‘Listen – cover-story is I’m taking you to the hospital – in Metz, being on my way back there anyway, the Father asked would I drop you off? Sick mother there – right?’
‘Which hospital?’
‘Let’s be vague. I’d need to ask where it was, anyway. But – Thérèse was arrested, is that right?’
She told him about it, while he circled back towards the centre of the village and then turned off to the left, on to a country road leading out northwestward.
‘No word since, eh?’
‘Nothing. Marie Destinier – well, if she hears anything I imagine she’d let you know.’
‘We’re not likely to be down that way again. At least, I’m not, and Michel won’t be around anyway… Invasion forces on the move at last – you hear about it?’
‘Yes – now and then—’
‘Once it gets going, it’ll be an avalanche. A few weeks, no more, we’ll be back to real soldiering. Please God…’
‘Don’t like what you’re doing now?’
‘This undercover stuff… No, not so much. We’re not one of what they’re calling the Jedburgh groups, you understand.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Inter-allied groups, dropped to work with Maquis forces. They’re in uniform. All over France now. At this end – well, when the fighting comes closer we can put on uniform, stop pussy-footing around… Meanwhile I can tell you we’ve been busy enough – so have the Maquis.’
‘I believe you. We heard – at Thérèse’s – that a lot of bridges had been blown?’
‘Delaying the transfer of a Boche armoured division from Strasbourg to the Normandy front by more than three weeks.’
‘That’s something!’
Nodding, hunched over the wheel: ‘It’s not all, either.’
‘You say Michel won’t be around?’
‘He’ll tell you himself. You’ll see him quite soon, don’t worry; but – it’s not strictly my business, what he’s up to. Only to the extent that I’m taking over his job here. Well, he’s set it all up now, to that extent it’s done – only a matter of – you know, keeping tabs, and waiting for the serious stuff to start – eh?’
‘So he’s – what, going back to your regiment?’
‘No. New assignment. Nothing I can talk about – well, obviously…’
‘How did you come to be in this sort of undercover work, Luc?’
‘Michel, is how.’ Tight corner: dragging the wheel over… ‘He was a natural for it because of his missing arm – who’d imagine he’d have dropped in? Or be any threat to them? Well, that’s a laugh, believe me. But mostly they’re surprised he can manage a few nuts and bolts… Anyway, he was allowed to pick his own team, I’d been one of his platoon commanders, and – there you are.’
‘Or rather, here you are. Is he in Metz now?’
‘Couple of days, he will be. He knows you will be, he told me to get you there… Did you get on with the Bish all right?’
‘Father Gervais? Yes, of course… Why call him that?’
‘If they don’t make him a bishop one day, there’s no justice. All right, who says there is… Michel was finding stuff out for you, wasn’t he?’
She’d nodded. ‘He was going to try to.’
‘He has. I think. In fact I know… Smoke?’
‘Oh, I’ve got some—’
‘Here.’
Gauloises. She took the packet, lit two – Father Gervais had left her his box of matches – and passed one back. Also the packet. ‘Thanks. D’you happen to know what he’s found out?’
‘No, sorry… You’ve made a great recovery, Rosalie.’
‘I think the powder Michel gave us made all the difference. He said it worked miracles, and he was right.’
‘Sulphanilamide. Yeah. In the field, it’s a blessing.’ Frowning at her: ‘Your hair wasn’t that colour, was it?’
‘Certainly was not. Thérèse dyed it for me – because they might be looking for me still.’
‘Well – they are.’
‘What?’
Taking a long drag at his cigarette: smoke curling from nostrils then. ‘Don’t want to alarm you—’
‘Come on, what—’
‘Posters. You and another girl – Michel said she might be one you’d mentioned to him, got away when you were shot?’
Silent: staring at his profile. He glanced at her quickly, shook his head: ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean they’re actively searching now. A month ago, after all – posters do sometimes just get left up.’
‘But I’m—’
Speechless – for the moment. Stunned…
It meant she’d got away. Or – at least – thinking fast, and hardly believing it – seeing the river, and the chains on her – they didn’t get her. Not there and then, anyway. And if they had since, or if her body’d been found—
Posters wouldn’t be up now. Not the way they did things.
‘Luc – are they separate, or posters of the two of us on one sheet?’
‘Two of you together.’ Easing over, giving room to a herd of goats in the charge of a little girl with a stick, who waved to them. Rosie waved back. Luc nodding: ‘Posters all over Metz, and also in Nancy, we’ve heard. Anyway -’ looking at her again – I dare say dyeing your hair may help. Although – must say, it looks a bit – peculiar.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, heavens, I don’t mean—’
‘It’s all right. The scarf’s supposed to be covering my hair anyway. Snag is, these papers say I’m nearly twenty-seven – which would be OK except for the grey hair. So to any quick-witted Boche – at a road-block, say, or—’
‘Not so good. Will you dye it back?’
‘And look like the bloody posters?’
‘No. Well – a different colour, maybe. Red – or blonde—’
‘Ugh!’
‘Anyway, get new papers. Talk to Raoul about it. Raoul de Plesse, guy we’re supposed to be working for. He’ll solve it for you. Yeah, don’t worry. But hang on…’ Cigarette-stub between his lips, right hand up twisting the rear-view mirror so that she could see herself, to adjust the scarf. ‘How’s that?’
‘Fine. Thanks… God, what a sight…’
That amazing thought again, though: that Lise must have got away. At least, might still be alive…
‘Morehange, this place is called. We cross a larger road just here.’
Slowing for it. Poplars between them and the sun giving a signal-lamp effect as the rays stabbed through. Rosie asked him, shielding her eyes from it, ‘If we were stopped – OK, destination Metz and you’re giving me a lift to the hospital, but why taking a long way round?’
‘Because from here the next village is – Faulquemont. Some distance yet. I’m delivering these tyres to a farmer there. And if they stopped us beyond Faulquemont I’ll have picked the tyres up from him, he’s trading ’em in for better ones.’
‘Very clever.’
‘Well – wouldn’t want to boast…’
‘Are you naturally a good liar?’
‘It’s one of the acquired skills, isn’t it?’
‘Isn’t it, just. Mind another question?’
‘Many as you like.’ Braking, at the main road they had to cross. Glancing at her: ‘Question for question – all right? You ask one, I’ll ask one. Whichever catches the other out in a lie’s the winner, smokes the loser’s fags all the way to Metz. OK, you shoot first.’
‘Michel’s camouflage is his missing arm. What’s yours? Why shouldn’t you be recruited into some labour battalion, or the Milice or LVF?’
LVF stood for Légion des Volontaires Français. French fascists in German uniform. Luc pointed out, ‘You didn’t mention the Waffen SS. They’ve been recruiting Frenchmen into that too, you know.’
‘Recruiting Alsaciens – Thérèse told me that – but others can volunteer, can’t they. Anyway what’s your let-out?’
‘Problem with my lungs.’ Flicking ash away. ‘I could seize up and drop dead any minute. Don’t worry, I won’t, but I’ve medical papers to prove it, and meanwhile I’m pursuing a useful occupation. Papers to prove that too.’
‘You look healthy enough to me.’
‘Open-air life does that.’ Looking right and left: but the road wasn’t all that busy. Into gear, driving on over and into the continuation of their route to Faulquemont. Nothing on the road ahead except two horse-drawn carts. ‘My turn for a question now, though: you married, or engaged?’
‘As good as engaged. Not formally, but once all this is over –’ she held up a hand with fingers crossed – ‘all things being equal—’
‘What’s his racket?’
‘Officer in the Royal Navy – in motor gunboats in the Channel. Well – he’s on shore at the moment, as it happens, and I hope they keep him there. He’s been wounded twice.’
‘Deserves his luck, then.’ A shrug. ‘Well, well…’
‘And you, Luc? Fiancée pining her heart out somewhere?’
‘Yeah. Likely.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Oh. Was a girl – in London. Polish, as it happens. But –’ a gesture – ‘nothing special. At least, not to her, I don’t believe.’
‘How about Michel – is he married?’
‘Michel – married?’
Tone and glance of surprise: beginnings of a laugh…
‘You mean he’s not.’ She shrugged. ‘Were you stationed near London?’
‘No. Only there on leave, couple of times. No, we were in Ayrshire, Scotland. Two French para battalions, as part of—’
He’d checked. Glancing at her. ‘You could be Mata Hari.’
‘So I could. With a bit more flesh on me than I have as yet.’
Silence reigning again, then. Smoking another Gauloise and thinking about Lise, and the ‘Wanted’ posters. Not good at all, about the posters, but fantastic about Lise. If one could believe it…
They came into Metz from the east, on the main road from the direction of Saarbrücken, coming in towards the centre by way of what Luc told her was called the Porte des Allemands and a bridge across the Seille, then turning right, on a wide anticlockwise curve with the town centre and the cathedral as it were at the hub, off to their left. Over two divided streams of the Moselle then, two bridges, and on into an urban and industrial conglomeration – signs of bomb-damage here and there, rubble-littered open spaces and some burnt-out buildings. A district or suburb somewhere ahead of them had the peculiar name of Woippy – at any rate for a while it was part of the name of the road they were on. Luc didn’t know Metz all that well, though, was having to concentrate on making the right turns – overshooting at one of them, having to turn and come back a kilometre or two; explaining that he and Michel weren’t here all that often. It was their base, that was all, their work was all in the field. Well, obviously…
‘But we’re getting there. Getting there, Justine, don’t worry.’
Turning left: then right. Warehouses, or factories: and another flattened area. A gleam of water between buildings like aircraft hangars. Couldn’t be river there, must be a canal, she guessed, probably barge traffic on it. But now left again…
‘Oy, oy…’
Slowing. Military vehicle ahead. A half-track, going their way, filling more than half the road’s width. Luc reducing speed still further: he wasn’t going to try to overtake it.
Then: ‘Oh. Jesu!’
‘Uh?’
‘Don’t look now. We’re being followed.’
By a Wehrmacht truck. Small one, half-tonner or whatever, with yellow-and-black military insignia painted on its front mudguards. Behind it then – rounding the corner into this straight thoroughfare – it wasn’t the Avenue or Rue de Woippy, whatever he’d said it was called, she knew they’d left that one some time ago – a heavy lorry in the same camouflage paint, splash of the same colours on the outer front mudguard: then yet another, identical, rounding the same corner – and a third, for God’s sake, on that one’s tail.
‘Convoy.’
‘Yeah.’ They were down to about 15 k.p.h. The half-track in front, this other stuff crowding up behind. Luc squinting into his rear-view mirror again. ‘Convoy. And we’re in it…’
Motorcycles: two outriders, coming up screaming fast, swinging out around the big trucks, then up to this one. Powering forward to check on whatever was making them all put the brakes on, no doubt. One of them seemingly tucking itself in close behind them – close enough to be fairly deafening – and the other decelerating but slowly overhauling. Getting a look inside… Rosie keeping track of events now only through her ears, definitely not looking back: she had at first, but with the bikes this close hadn’t again. And now, that one was dropping back. Squinting out of the left corners of her eyes she’d seen Luc push out his left hand, either waving them on or – just a friendly wave… Rosie began: ‘What—’
‘Hang on.’
Hanging back – leaving a gap of about twenty metres between the gazo’s nose and the Boche half-track’s rear. Troop-carrier, whatever it was. Machine guns of some kind, probably Spandaus, one each side under canvas covers. Luc telling her – hunched over the wheel, pale eyes fixed on that thing’s rear – ‘We’ll be dropping out of this shortly. Any second now. There.’ Stabbing a forefinger towards an entrance coming up on the right. Slowing even more. Half-track pulling away ahead, half-tonner closing up astern: the outriders gunning their engines suddenly, swerving out and passing – on the outside, of course, the left, the side away – thank God – from Rosie: despite which she’d put her hands and forearms up to obstruct any view of her as they shot by. Luc shifting gear: and swinging the wheel over now – hauling the gazo – rather too fast, so as not to impede the Boches behind them any more than he had already – off the road and into this open gateway. Fence of wire mesh on iron uprights, gates similar, and a painted sign DP AGRICULTURAL ENGINEERS. The heavy trucks were pounding past behind them as they nosed into a concreted yard with tractors parked here and there – also some cars and lorries. Further in, she saw a house that might have been converted from a stable building: L-shaped, actually quite pretty, a country-cottage look, although the base of the ‘L’ looked unconverted. Luc drove straight through and pulled up outside that bit, which seen in close-up now consisted of workshops or stores, with what looked like living-space above them. He switched off, lifted both hands in a gesture of helplessness… ‘Sorry, Rosalie.’
‘What for?’
‘Well – military depot just down the road there. Stuff’s always passing. Should’ve damn well thought!’
‘Then what?’
‘Put you on the floor. Blanket over you.’
‘Thanks. In this weather…’
The outriders had checked the company name on the tailgate, seen they had every right to be coming here, therefore had had no reason to stop them. Even if they’d seen her: a truck-driver could have a woman with him, without posing much threat to the continuance of the Third Reich. She put a hand on his arm: ‘Luc, you’ve done marvellously, I’m grateful.’
The big surprise of the evening came at bed-time.
Rosie and Luc had had supper with the de Plesse family in their cottage, and Luc had stayed down there, having business to discuss with their host, while she’d gone up to bed. At least, to her room: but intentionally, to bed. It had been a long day and by that time she’d been feeling it. Hadn’t enjoyed the evening much, either. Her room, previously used by Luc, was in the flat over the workshop; there was a larger one which had been Michel’s and to which Silvie, Raoul’s wife, had moved Luc’s gear; the two men would share, when Michel turned up. It was known as ‘the mechanics’ flat’, could be entered from the first floor of the cottage but also had its own entrance/exit by a ladderway down into one of the workshops.
The de Plesse family consisting of Raoul himself – a short-legged, big-bellied man, three-quarters bald, mid-forties, with shrewd, watchful eyes: the look of a peevish dachshund, she thought – and at that, with a strong sense of his own importance – and his wife Silvie – tiny, with straight fair hair fading into grey, and a tendency to speak only when spoken to, at any rate in her husband’s presence – and a daughter, Roxane, who was plump, blonde, shy – and son Maurice, aged fifteen, afflicted with a crippling stammer but according to his father a technical genius. Rosie had thought to herself during supper that he probably had to be, poor kid. Chip off the old block, was the implication. He was expected to get into the university in Nancy to read engineering, and meanwhile his out-of-school hours were spent working in the business, which consisted largely of supplying and repairing farm machinery, particularly tractors. New ones being unobtainable, it was a matter of salvaging wrecks, either rebuilding them or cannibalizing them for spare parts, also converting diesels and petrol-fuelled machines to gazo. Converting motor vehicles of other kinds as well. It was obviously a successful business, which of course would also allow de Plesse and his people virtually unlimited scope for getting around, pursuing more covert interests.
She’d been anxious for a chance to discuss her own situation, but the first chance she got wasn’t until after supper, when she managed to catch him alone for a minute. He’d seemed surprised that she’d wanted to discuss anything at all, before Michel’s arrival; but he confirmed that at Michel’s request he’d initiated enquiries about a firm of manufacturing engineers by name of Marchéval.
‘That’s your interest, I believe?’
She’d nodded.
‘Well – Michel has been following up on what I was able to tell him. He was going to visit a certain individual – a résistant – who if anyone can help at all—’
‘Whereabouts, exactly?’
‘Well, that’s a major factor – Marchéval’s is near Troyes. Not south of Paris as you’d indicated.’
‘Troyes—’
‘Michel will tell you more. He’ll know more than I do, by this time. But he won’t be with us long – you realize?’
‘Luc said that.’
‘And you’ll want to move rather quickly, I imagine. Which brings me to the question of your papers – which Luc was telling me are – unsafe… Well, as I’ve understood it, your plans are by no means certain, so I suggest waiting until Michel gets here, when presumably you’ll decide what you are going to do. All right?’
‘You think he will be here in two days?’
‘About that.’ A shrug. ‘But – who knows…’
‘My own priority is to get in touch with London. I don’t want to delay that now if I can help it. Michel said you’d put me in touch with local SOE?’
‘Yes, he spoke of that. And it could be arranged. Not here, but in Nancy. A problem however is that you’ll have to go there yourself – so the business of your papers again becomes important. To be on your own – in that town at all, in your situation…’ Shake of the head: ‘Not without its hazards, Mam’selle. I think the answer can only be to wait for Michel. Sleep on it, eh, talk again in the morning?’
She wasn’t sleeping on it yet, only thinking about it, in her room in the flat. On edge, rather, moving around. Apart from the hour or so she’d spent on her knees she’d been sitting all day in any case. Tired, certainly, but her feet weren’t; and she doubted whether if she turned in now she’d sleep.
Troyes, for God’s sake. She’d been visualizing a factory in some Parisian industrial suburb.
She thought that in the morning she’d try to push de Plesse into arranging a meeting with the SOE organizer in Nancy right away – not wait for Michel. Or maybe – with this thing about papers – the SOE man could be persuaded to come here. She’d already done a lot of waiting, things could be moving fast elsewhere, and Michel’s ‘two days’ this last time had stretched themselves to a month. OK, no blame attaching, obviously, he had a lot on his plate, but this was her business and SOE’s, no one else’s.
Talk to de Plesse again in the morning: explain the urgency, get out of him anything else he might have discovered about Marchéval’s – to give Baker Street as much background as possible, in case they wanted her to do anything about it. To which she certainly wouldn’t be averse. Michel’s musing rang in her memory: But how you’d get to him… Then the bit about when the shit hit the fan – i.e. when ‘Hector’ went on the run. When, and/or if. There might be a chance of nobbling him, that was all: and for herself, a chance to clear up that unfinished business, at least assist in the nobbling process, conceivably instigate it, even carry it out – if Baker Street opted for that, would allow it, didn’t have plans laid already… In which case – well, forget bloody ‘Hector’, leave him to others. Send up a prayer of thanks when they caught or killed him, but meanwhile – midnight pick-up, magic carpet home.
Within just days…
Home – with Ben. Safe.
Why think for even a split second of anything else?
Eyes shut, for a moment: remembering from previous occasions the bewilderingly sudden transition to safety – which only in recent years one had learnt was the ultimate, stupendous luxury.
People didn’t realize – at least, outsiders didn’t. Might guess, but could never really get near it. Since of course one never told them.
Ben knew, through having virtually shared her nightmares. Holding her sweat-slippery body, stroking her, murmuring into her ear – calming, comforting. Time and again she’d woken out of sheer terror into that urgent reassurance, taking a few moments sometimes to recognize this as the reality – Ben’s voice, hands. Ben’s love. There, now, waiting for her: all she had to do was get back to it… She’d been perched on the edge of the bed but was up again and moving, putting her mind back to the present situation’s realities and needs: one element of its bloodiness being that she didn’t much like Raoul de Plesse, and guessed from his reactions that she might have been unguarded enough to have let him see it; another, perhaps more easily solvable but only with that man’s help, the problem of how to get by in Nancy for some period of time with papers that wouldn’t stand close inspection and one’s portrait on ‘Wanted’ posters all over town: having to be there at least several days, first seeing the réseau organizer, then waiting for an exchange of signals, and maybe further signals, elucidations.
Get Justine Quérier’s papers doctored? Maybe just a few essential alterations and up-datings would be enough, if they had someone here who could handle it. Getting new papers forged would take too long. Easy and quick in England, where SOE had a suburban house equipped and staffed by expert forgers. But even here, with papers already existing and needing only slight adaptation – changing a date or two, replacing a passport-size photograph with a new one, duplicating the rubber stamp that had been applied to Justine’s…
Brain flagging. Not yet back in anything like peak condition, either mentally or physically. Although the heart – pulse-rate – seemed OK at the moment. Another temporary condition – please God… Should have thought before of getting changes forged into these papers, though. Couldn’t have expected Luc to have – he was a soldier, not an agent. And Raoul de Plesse wouldn’t have, she supposed, because Luc would only have told him this evening that they weren’t up to scratch.
De Plesse was probably all right. You couldn’t expect to like every single person with whom you found yourself working. Up to now, no doubt at all, she’d been extremely lucky.
But also, up to now, hadn’t had to sit around waiting for other people…
A tap on the door, so soft she barely heard it. Then a murmur: ‘Rosalie?’
Silvie de Plesse. Trying again, more audibly: ‘Rosalie? Are you awake?’
‘Yes. Hang on.’ She’d been turning down the bedclothes, went now to unlock the door. ‘Something wrong?’
‘You’re still dressed. How fortunate. My dear-Michel—’
‘What about him?’
‘Well – he’s here!’
Staring at her: while that sank in. Then – masking a surge of relief – ‘I’ll come down.’
‘Such a surprise! Only just beating curfew – he’s been here half an hour, they’ve been talking in the study, but he’s having some supper now. We wouldn’t have disturbed you, only—’
‘One moment.’ Going quickly to the mirror that was on the chest of drawers, and smoothing out uneven, patchy-grey hair with her fingers. Not that it made much difference to it… The whole outlook was different though, suddenly: no more waiting about – touch wood… She faced Silvie again: ‘Still awful, isn’t it.’
‘Your hair?’
‘Better than it was, but—’
‘It’s not all that bad, dear.’
The hell it wasn’t. She was acutely conscious of it… Out into the passage, shutting the bedroom door as her hostess opened the one into the main part of the house. Glancing round with a solicitous, motherly look: nice enough, kind et cetera, but out of her element in all this – and under that sod’s thumb. Telling Rosie, ‘With professional attention – your hair that is, Roxane and I were talking about it – we do know someone who’d come. I mean, someone – safe. If you like, I’ll ask her?’
‘Terrific. If you could. Except I should mention I’ve no money. Although of course my people will—’
‘Don’t even think of it!’
They were in the living-room then: Michel getting up from the table, coming to meet her. Very much as she remembered him. Memory had worked reasonably well, considering how it had been that night – the state she’d been in, and having seen him only in semi-darkness. A big man, over six foot and powerfully built, with a lively, humorous expression – which she realized she had not seen in the oil-lamp’s glow in Thérèse’s attic. Big nose, wide jaw, and that smiling – slightly wild look. Thatch of rough, black hair. His hand – the one and only – was extended towards her as if to take hold of her arm or maybe slide behind her shoulder, as would have been a natural movement if he’d been about to stoop to kiss her – as he had been, she realized; seeing him register – at the last moment, holding back – that they weren’t on such terms, in fact barely knew each other.
If he had kissed her she wouldn’t have minded.
Because he’d saved her life – the feeling that at some depth she did know him?
‘Rosalie.’
She’d put her hand in that one of his. The other shirt-sleeve was missing, had been removed, the shoulder sewn up. She’d taken that in without consciously looking at it, certainly wasn’t seeing it now… ‘Very nice surprise, Michel.’ A new, rather startling thought had formed in her mind just in that moment, but she hadn’t time for it. ‘They said two or three days. You’ve done far better!’
‘I had a good reason to cut it short, where I was. But you’re looking a lot better too, thank God.’
‘Thank Thérèse.’
‘Oh, Thérèse—’
‘And your sulphur powder?’
‘That – yes. While I think of it, though – sorry I couldn’t get back as I said I would. Several reasons, I’ll explain… But this shocking business of Thérèse—’
‘Did you just hear of it?’
‘At the weekend – through Raoul here. In code, you might say – at first I hoped I was getting it wrong. How lucky you were outside the house, though. Luc was telling me. And the Destinier place close by—’
‘Marie Destinier was superb. But what anyone can do to help Thérèse—’
‘Nothing. If news of her did leak out we’d hear from Marie – that’s to say, Raoul would. But I’ve a lot to tell you, Rosalie – truly vital stuff—’
De Plesse cut in, ‘Finish your supper first, then we can really get down to it?’
There was a place set at the table, where Michel had been sitting and went back to now. A plate of left-over rabbit stew, Rosie saw, a bread-loaf and a glass of red wine. The food and the wine would be black-market, she supposed. Would have to be. De Plesse well able to afford it – despite most of the populace especially in towns being on near-starvation diets. In Paris, one had heard, a lot of people literally were starving.
Michel murmuring to Silvie: ‘Apologies – letting your delicious food get cold.’
‘Finish it, then we’ll talk.’ De Plesse, looking at Rosie, smiled in a slightly more friendly way than he had before. ‘Sit down, girl. He eats like a wolf, this fellow. Even if he has another helping it won’t take long.’
Michel admitting as he began to eat, ‘It’s a fact, I was slightly famished.’ Movement of the head towards Rosie: ‘As she was, when we got to the Michon place that night. They’d starved her in the prison – and whipped her, the swine…’ Glancing back from her to de Plesse: ‘Killing their own generals now, did you hear?’
‘The bomb-plot generals, you mean.’
‘And working down from that level – God knows how many’ll pay for it. Like a pogrom with the victims all his beloved Aryans. He’s raving mad, of course.’ Switching to Rosie again then; she’d parked herself at the end of the table, beside Luc, Silvie had asked her whether she’d like coffee, and she’d said yes, please – Michel telling her, ‘It’s not going to take long now, Rosalie.’ Meaning the war, not coffee or what passed for coffee. ‘Not here in France, that is. I mean, if you want to get that creature before he disappears?’
‘You’ve been investigating. I hear. I’m grateful – and surprised you’d have remembered, let alone spent time and—’
‘Big thing on your mind, wasn’t it, but it rang alarm bells in mine too – danger to us all – at any point of contact, it is. Therefore – logical reaction – eliminate it, if there’s a way of doing so. Should say, help Rosalie eliminate it. But now there’s more, much more – it’s a big thing you’ve started. I’ve been to see a man I was put on to by Raoul here. Who incidentally may have told you the business is near Troyes, not where you thought?’
‘Yes.’
‘Making it easier for me, as it happens – made this recce possible, only a slight diversion from what would have been my route anyway. In fact, two diversions, because after I’d left him I was near Dijon, he was able to get a message to me through mutual friends, and I went back there. Where I’ve come from now, you see – because the sooner you heard this, the better. I take it you’re still of the same mind – to go after that vendu?’
‘Go after him.’ Nodding – but uncertainly. Vendu meant a person who’d sold out. Michel’s dark jaws chomping. She explained, ‘Standard procedure would be to recall me. And they may have something on the go already – or after they hear about it from me may set something going. They’ll want him tracked down, for sure – and whatever you’ve found out, I’ll pass on – obviously – when I make this contact in Nancy – which I hope—’
‘We’ll go into that presently.’ De Plesse had cut in without looking at her, but with a glance round at the other members of his family – the boy doing homework, Roxane just sitting. Silvie with sewing on her lap but hands folded on it. His glance might have been to tell them that their presence could be dispensed with shortly, if not sooner… Adding, ‘When you’ve had that second helping, Michel. That is, if you wouldn’t prefer to put this off to the morning, er – Justine – or Rosalie, if that’s what we call you now…’
‘Rosalie is my real name. Justine’s the one on the papers. No – I’d like to hear about it now.’
Silvie put in, ‘You are looking tired, Rosalie.’
‘Twice the girl she was, believe me.’ Michel studying her. He had kind eyes, she thought, but a moment ago you wouldn’t have thought so. He’d noticed the way de Plesse had cut her short, then the slightly contemptuous Or Rosalie, if that’s what we call you. She’d seen a flicker of warning: that second time, she’d thought for a moment he wasn’t going to let it go. But he was wiping the last of the stew out of his plate with bread – quick shake of the head at Silvie’s offer to refill it, then glancing back at Rosie: ‘Hair’s grown a lot, too. Can’t say the colour suits you.’
‘Disguise, supposedly. Since I’m featured in street posters?’
A nod. ‘I’ve seen some.’
‘But the good thing – marvellous thing – at least, if I’m reading it correctly—’
‘I can guess – the other girl they’re looking for. The one you told me you were hoping might have escaped, by way of the river?’
‘It must be her. If they’re looking for her as well as for me – maybe assuming we’d be together—’
‘Might well assume that. I think in their shoes I would. Putting you together on the same poster – an encouragement to reward-seekers—’
‘Reward?’
‘A million francs each. But – yes, she must have got away. Only thing is – to be completely realistic, Rosalie – if they’d caught her since—’
‘She might still be on the posters. Rather than reprint them with me alone.’ She nodded. ‘Even if they haven’t caught her, though, there’s the question of how far she’d have got – where she might be now.’
‘In any case it’s closer to good news than the other kind.’ Michel took a swallow of wine. ‘But –’ pointing at her with his head – ‘tell you, Raoul – to my dying day I’ll remember it – with the most intense – well, astonishment, for one thing, but also – you know, a very happy thing? To have found that lifeless body – almost lifeless – and now after just a month, hey presto, to have with us this highly personable young lady – alive and kicking and – in my view, much more than just attractive—’
‘Oh, please—’
‘And I may say extremely brave. What this young lady did – on top of the horrors she’d already been through – I personally would call the height of courage. So to have had the privilege – Luc and I – of being responsible for this – this miracle—’
‘Hear, hear.’ Luc had been quiet, just listening. He raised a glass with no more than a drip of wine left in it: ‘To our foundling!’
Enfant trouvé, was the expression he’d used. Michel watching her over his own half-empty glass: Rosie meeting that calm regard, appreciating that the exaggeratedly complimentary remarks he’d been making would have been largely for the benefit – or rather, reproval – of de Plesse, a counter to his rudeness. Michel was a man and a half, she thought. Asking her as he put his glass down, ‘The bullet-wound in your shoulder – turned out all right, has it – no bones smashed, or—’
‘Collar-bone was fractured – so the sage-femme told me. The bullet passed just grazing it, was actually diverted downward slightly.’
‘I don’t believe that, Rosalie.’
‘Well – it’s what she found – said—’
‘Did she say you had steel collar-bones?’
‘All I know is it went in here, behind, and came out lower down – here—’
‘I remember very well how it looked. But that’s nonsense, what the woman told you. Angle of entry might have been downward, I suppose – if you’d been angled backward at that moment – sort of staggering, might have been?’
‘Might have. Doesn’t seem likely, but – one doesn’t remember every split second. And the sage-femme was quite certain.’
‘Quite wrong, I’d say. Fixed you up well enough, obviously, but I’d guarantee the collar-bone wasn’t touched. A bullet would have smashed it, not been deflected, you’d have been in a far worse state. Of course it would have hurt badly, having torn through muscle – you’d have believed her—’
‘Not sure I still don’t – despite your own obviously extensive knowledge—’
‘I know a little. Rudimentary – as one needs in the field, rough and ready – just to get by.’
‘It’s true.’ Luc nodded. ‘Enough to get by.’
She’d smiled at Silvie. ‘May they both continue getting by.’
‘Hah.’ Michel picked up his glass. ‘Let’s drink to her again. Here, Luc, I’ll spare you a millilitre of this…’
The family had gone to bed, and Luc went up too. He was leaving in the morning, for Verdun and St Mihiel, ostensibly on de Plesse company business. Michel would be leaving too but not so early.
Luc had kissed her hand. ‘Goodnight, and good luck.’
‘You too. And thanks – for everything, including getting me here.’
As he’d told her earlier, he was taking over the top Maquis-liaison job from Michel up in this area – in whatever stretch of territory it was. They had other paras out there in the field, she’d gathered, instructing and organizing. Watching them from where she was sitting at the table – Luc on his way to hit the sack, Michel crossing the room beside him with a hand on his shoulder, talking quietly, a thought which she’d had earlier came back to mind – the similarity between him – Michel – and Lise’s Alain Noally. Michel was younger of course – Noally’s wiry hair had been grey as well as unruly, in conformity perhaps with what she’d learnt was his public image – as an artist of some stature, a sculptor, well known in France even before the war apparently. By the time of his betrayal and death a couple of months ago he must have been at least in his middle fifties. Twice Lise’s age, therefore.
Noally and Michel could have been brothers – with that gap of age between them, of course. But it wasn’t only a physical likeness – from as little as she knew or had known either of them, they’d have been brothers under the skin as well.
Tell Lise, she thought. One day. Touch wood…
He was coming back to them. De Plesse pushing a chair out for him with his foot: Michel’s hand on the table then, taking his weight as he let himself down. All three were smoking. De Plesse leant across, moved a saucer-ashtray to where they could all reach it.
‘Go ahead, Michel.’
A nod. Sitting back, exhaling smoke, dark eyes on Rosie. ‘First thing – Troyes. On the Seine, one hundred and eighty kilometres from Paris. Southern end of the district of Champagne. As I said, I’ve just come from there, from this man Dufay. Incidentally, I’m working a patch of country to the south and east – Dijon at its centre, more or less. You’re thinking I needn’t have told you this, but it’s relevant, in a way. First though – most important for you to know, is that there is no SOE presence at all now in that region. There was a réseau, a very active one I gather, but – gone.’ He drew deeply on his Gauloise. ‘Tell you also, Rosalie – in the weeks since we met I’ve had some idea of co-opting you as my pianist. Damn cheek, eh? But not really – I’d have asked you first, obviously, and then – if you’d agreed – asked my people in England to approach SOE. You told me you’re a pianist, and we’re short of them – as Raoul here knows. Anyway –’ shake of the shaggy head – ‘it wouldn’t have worked. I’d thought it might have suited you, a basis on which they might have allowed you to remain in the field – only for a few weeks, you see. But it wouldn’t have worked, because of the distances involved – which is why I’m going up to Luxembourg tomorrow.’ Addressing this to de Plesse. ‘Collect one pianist. Leaving Luc with one fewer in his area. Too bad… Anyway – the Marchéval factory, Rosalie. Not in Troyes itself but to the west of it, a village called St Valéry-sur-Vanne. Little place on a little river with Marchéval’s, you might say its beating heart. To be honest, someone else said it.’ A nod to de Plesse: ‘Your man, Dufay. Incidentally, Rosalie, it’s also close to the Forêt d’Othe.’
‘Maquis country?’
A nod. ‘So I was told. But another thing Raoul discovered for me through his business connections, before I went down there, is that the factory has been on war production for the Boches right from the start, and still is.’
‘To be expected, surely. Proprietors of manufacturing industry don’t have much option?’
‘None. Well, except – Peugeot, for instance – down near Montbéliard – they were making turrets for Boche tanks. London ordered it blown up, and who helped? Well – Robert Peugeot… Anyway – next item: this guy Victor Dufay is a leading résistant with a business similar to Raoul’s, only he specializes in borehole pumping systems. It was he who told me that the SOE réseau had folded. He also gave me the name of a colleague of his who’s more closely on the spot, in St Valéry-sur-Vanne. A Resistance colleague, that is – in fact an hotel-keeper, proprietor of L’Auberge la Couronne. His name’s Jacques Craillott, his wife Colette is also an active résistante. In the morning, Rosalie, I’ll jot all the names down for you – unless you’ve already committed them to memory?’
‘Might check in the morning, see they’re still in it.’
He’d nodded. ‘Auberge la Couronne, Jacques and Colette Craillot. If you should happen to be there, and need a safe-house. Which I imagine you would. Introduction to them would be made by Dufay. OK?’
‘As I said, it’s unlikely they’ll let me—’
‘In which case you’ll soon be in London briefing others – huh?’
She nodded. ‘Maybe… What sort of age are the Craillots?’
‘He’s in his forties, Dufay said. I didn’t visit St Valéry. Time, distance – had to push along. I have a sketch of the place, though, which Dufay made for me, on this second visit… Oh, by the way, Luc mentioned the papers we got for you aren’t so good, you’ll need new ones?’
‘Actually, may not. At least I hope…’
‘Sounds like she’s going to save you trouble, Raoul.’
‘Well – good… But – Michel – you found you had a good connection with Dufay, you were saying?’
‘Yes.’ Michel turned back to her. ‘I’ll tell you where to find his place in Troyes – or Raoul will. But just for more background information – my crowd have run some clandestine operations from time to time, and one not long ago was to knock out the Radio Paris transmitters at Allouis, near Melun. The sortie was commanded by a good friend of mine, and Dufay was at this end of it, met them when they dropped. It was a long-range job – not from Troyes, long way north of there, but still several nights’ hard slog to the target, lying up all day, so forth. Those transmitters had been jamming RAF signals; our boys blew up the main pylons and got away again without a scratch. Well – success and a mutual friend makes for a good rapport, which Dufay and I now have. I told him you might turn up and that you were – something special, so – use my name as the password, you’ll be welcomed. OK?’
Looking at him: ‘So what is it?’
‘What?’
‘Something more than just Michel?’
‘Oh.’ He laughed. ‘Michel Jacquard.’ A frown: ‘Do I know yours? Other than Rosalie – which you say is—’
‘Justine Quérier?’
‘Ah. If you stick to that—’
‘I think so.’ A glance at de Plesse: ‘If a few small changes could be made. The photo – a new one, obviously – also date of birth, and the paper’s date of issue?’
He shrugged. ‘If that’s all…’
‘If it could be done quickly, though. Tomorrow? Wouldn’t be more than a hour or two hours’ work, would it, for an expert? Except for the photo. And conceivably one or two of the forms may have been superceded – which your expert would know. Well – you would. But even the photo could be done in a day – I would have thought—’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And your wife said something about a hairdresser.’
‘She did, did she?’ Slight shrug. ‘Well, we’ll make that her department.’ A glance at Michel: ‘Go on?’
‘Yes. Well… As you ascertained, Raoul, Marchéval’s are primarily makers of metal tubes – pipes, cylinders, so forth. And the factory’s never been bombed. One reason is that it’s part of the village, workers’ cottages all around it – in an air attack there’d be women and children killed. It wouldn’t be an important target anyway – right? Dufay thought not, anyway. Important to them locally, but that’s about all. There’s never been any sabotage either – not that he knows of, and this he thought would be accounted for by (a) the target’s lack of importance, (b) sabotage brings reprisals, and in a small, isolated place like that – well, we know how they handle such things, huh?’
‘A ratissage. Shootings, burnings.’
‘It’s been known, hasn’t it? But now listen. After my first visit, Dufay thought he should look into the situation at St Valéry. And we’re lucky he did – that my visit got him off his backside to that extent. D’you know what they’re turning out there now?’
De Plesse shrugged. ‘How would I?’
‘Rocket casings. For some weeks now, apparently. There was some re-tooling and a break in production a few months ago, now it’s going full-blast. Craillot has had suspicions about it for some time, I gather, but having no channels to SOE at all now – also the problems I’ve described, difficulty if not impossibility of bombing, even if he could get word through, and the local people’s disinclination to indulge in sabotage… He’s not exceptionally bright, Dufay admitted – Craillot, that is. It wasn’t said disparagingly, his words as I recall them were that he’s a good guy but no genius… So there it is, Rosalie. I’d guess – Dufay guesses – that what they’re making might be casings for Hitler’s secret weapon number two, about which we’ve heard so much. These are very large objects – twelve metres long and two in diameter, approximately. Dufay suggests they might be using factories in France because Germany’s being bombed to pieces – and a plant such as this, four years untouched, they might even consider as immune from bombing – eh?’
‘Immunity likely to be lifted very shortly.’ Rosie leaking smoke, staring at him through it. ‘Just have to get the people out of the way somehow. Last-minute warnings. But mind you, if your friend’s guess is right—’
‘Bombers’d be over that village the minute we were sure of it. No doubt of that. But here’s another line of thought, Rosalie. Remember I suggested – more or less – staking out the Marchéval place against the chance he’d show up there?’
‘When the merde hits the fan.’
‘Exactly. Meaning then, when our troops get into Paris – or sooner, when the Boches take to their heels. But they might take him along, you know? Or dispose of him some other way. Or, he might take off on his own before that. So I thought, what if it could be arranged for the factory to be bombed or sabotaged? Eh? Which now it may have to be?’
‘If the rocket report stands up.’
‘Exactly—’
‘Only Craillot’s story via Dufay, though – plus guesswork. It’s not a lot. If it does stand up, of course – well, crikey—’
‘Dynamite. And to have turned it up like this – for sure it’s last-minute stuff, but any interruption of that programme—’
She’d nodded: it went without saying. ‘As regards “Hector”, though – whether in fact a bombing attack would bring him rushing down from Paris—’
‘I agree – an attack on the works, that is. This is another angle, now. After my first talk with Dufay I couldn’t see such an attack being laid on – for the reasons we’ve discussed – unimportant target, risk to local families’ lives. So I thought then – before anything came up about rockets – why not target Henri Marchéval’s own residence? Henri is André’s father, I should have said. Mightn’t that bring your boy running?’
‘Maybe it would. If he was able to get there. And heard about it in the first place. One doesn’t know how free or otherwise he may be. Might help if there was sabotage – the Gestapo might take him down there with them.’
All speculation… Remembering how they’d brought him to Morlaix in the hope he’d identify her; and how in Rue des Saussaies he’d been allowed freedom of movement – apparently – but still jumped to obey when the man with the whip had yelled ‘Get out!’… She’d finished her cigarette; dropping its remains in the saucer, looking at Michel again across the curve of the table’s end.
‘This house – not right in the village?’
‘Little way out, in walled grounds. I’ll show you on Dufay’s sketch. Quite a big old place, apparently – Manoir St Valéry. Marchéval père has been allowed to retain one wing of it, the rest’s occupied by Boches.’
‘Oh…’
‘Attractive target, huh?’
‘Could be… But so are rocket casings. Any idea how they’re shifted – by rail, for instance, or—’
‘By road. Flat-bed trucks in military convoy. Dufay – or Craillot – couldn’t say at what intervals.’
‘Still seems barely credible. When all you were prospecting for…’ She shook her head. ‘Do they know anything about the son?’
‘Dufay knows of him, and has reason to believe he’s an agent of SOE and working in the Paris area. I didn’t comment, thought it safer not to, but that’s his belief and the Craillots’, apparently. He was educated in England – didn’t you say?’
‘In Scotland – according to the staff officer who – I told you, conducted my final briefing and swore he – André Marchéval – was straight. You asked about him, then?’
‘And the answer to that?’
‘Oh – not possible. You scared me for a minute, but – absolutely not, Michel.’
‘What he said about young Marchéval – didn’t you say?’
‘Different – really, entirely. In any case – he was only giving his view. André was being brought home, and if he’d got there he’d have been put through the wringer. Really would. Which he’d have been well aware of, of course – why they staged his arrest. OK?’
‘If you say so.’ A shrug. ‘Anyway, the rocket thing’s got to be checked out double-quick by someone – right?’