Mid-morning. The drive from Metz had taken nearly two hours, but the traffic was thinner now. A lot of it had been military and mostly northward, in particular one convoy of heavy trucks which they’d begun to think would go on for ever. Mostly gazos and bicycles now, though, in this old town with its maze of narrow streets. De Plesse shifting gear as he took yet another sharp corner. Raoul de Plesse the new man, having been called to order by Michel… A wave of the hand towards some ecclesiastical pile ahead and to the left – ‘Les Cordeliers. Church, as you see, but also a convent. And this edifice now, right next to it – the Palais Ducal. Nancy was once the capital city of the Dukes of Lorraine – as perhaps you know. It became French in 1766. Having some interest in the history of this region, I am able to give you that date. And the university, by the way, which my boy will be attending in due course, is two hundred years older still.’ Glancing at her as if expecting to be congratulated: in some respects he’d pulled himself together but he was still a pain in the neck. Another corner not far ahead, and coming up behind them a black Citroën 15. He’d caught his breath, she’d glanced back, seen it too as he slowed, edged closer to the kerb to let the thing sweep by. He’d gone a bit grey around the gills in those few seconds, during which Rosie had noted that there’d been two occupants, males in civilian suits and – unusually – no hats. Too warm, she supposed: square heads overheating. She told de Plesse – chat aimed partly at steadying his nerve – ‘In Paris they’re wearing uniform now. Shifted out of civvies at the time of the Normandy landings.’
If the one in the Citroën’s front passenger seat had looked into this vehicle en passant, he might have guessed that the middle-aged collaborator – de Plesse looked too sleek to be anything else – had picked up a somewhat faded fille de joie along the way. Dark-skinned female with bright yellow hair under a white scarf (Silvie’s), which emphasized the swarthiness of her complexion. Cold cream with an admixture of boot-polish had produced this effect: recipe devised and supplied by Silvie’s hairdresser, whose efforts had also made a great difference to Rosie’s hair, not so much in colour as in overall shaping. It had grown enough in the past month to be shaped. Having trimmed it here and there, she’d bleached it before the re-dyeing, advising Rosie to keep it as it was now, if possible, since frequent bleaching made hair brittle, liable to break off. The yellow was really too bright, though.
Another improvement, of her own design, was the padding in her cheeks, pads cut from a pre-war rubber sponge, which she’d put in to fatten her face before the new ID photo had been taken. The forger had handled the photography as well, and on his way out through the DP yard he’d taken shots of a tractor that had been rebuilt and looked like new: this was for DP advertising purposes, maybe also to justify his visit. Rosie’s photo was to be processed within hours, but these would take a few days: he’d told de Plesse, ‘Can’t do everything in a tearing rush…’
‘You’ve done a fine job, Antoine!’
‘You mean “magnificent”. And when have I not?’
Little sharp-faced man in a straw hat that made him look like a dried-out mushroom. He’d fixed all the papers, though, and substituted ration-coupons of the type that had superceded the ones Justine Quérier had had. By trade he was an architectural draughtsman, he’d told her.
She hoped these papers would get her by, now.
‘Round this next corner is where I’ll be dropping you.’
‘All right.’
‘Also wishing you the best of luck.’
‘I’m more than grateful for all you’ve done.’
‘Oh. Very little, really…’
Might have been less, too, if it hadn’t been for Michel sorting him out, on Monday night. When they’d finished that late-night discussion de Plesse had gone out to do his security rounds of the yard and workshops, and she’d asked Michel whether he’d noticed a certain off-handedness in their host’s attitude towards her. Knowing that he had noticed it, wondering whether he could account for it.
‘I suppose I’m a nuisance to him.’
‘More a matter of his attitude to SOE. He’s – you might say, on his dignity – in relation to SOE, not you personally. I’ve had trouble with it before, problems getting him to liaise with your Nancy réseau over the transmission of wireless messages – although it was agreed in London that we might call on your people for that kind of help if we needed to. Did you realize, your administration has merged now with BCRA?’
’Really?’
BCRA stood for Bureau Central de Rensignements et d’Action: the Free French, Gaullist intelligence and sabotage organization. Between whom and ‘F’ Section SOE at staff levels there’d been a certain frigidity in past years, although in the field cooperation between agents had been more common-sense. Michel told her, ‘As of July 1st. Makes us brothers and sisters at arms, eh?’
‘None too soon.’
‘But the de Plesse problem – I mentioned to you before, didn’t I – on the subject of getting news of you back to your people? Part of it is he doesn’t like the Nancy réseau being able to contact him. Makes him feel exposed. Also – this is only a suspicion, why he might have such reservations – there were rumours which some believed – a year ago, about a réseau with the code-name “Prosper”?’
‘Blown, wasn’t it? Usual problem – infiltration. But why—’
‘The whisper was that your people had deliberately sacrificed it, as part of some deception plot – connected with the invasion of Sicily, allegedly – and of course there were French nationals involved, who were all arrested. Anyway that’s the story that went round.’
‘And it’s rubbish.’ Crossing fingers: she hoped it was.
Michel accepting anyway, shrugging… ‘Could be that he likes to bear a grudge. I’ll sort a few things out with him. The basis of it with him though – what it comes down to is resentment of foreigners on his territory.’
‘So who’s a foreigner?’
‘Good question, Rosalie. I’ll bring it to his attention. One thing I have in mind to raise with him is that SOE in Nancy must know of a safe-house where you could stay a few days – and as he’s got to fix a meeting for you, he could fix that too. Otherwise it would have to be a last-minute arrangement, which might be difficult. Anyhow – you go on up now.’
‘You’ve been terrific in all this, Michel. I owed you my life already – now all this help—’
‘As I said, it’s as much in our interests as yours. And – in any case…’
Leaving it there: words ostensibly without meaning, left hanging in the air between them: in any case…’
Then yesterday morning when they’d been alone for a few moments – he’d given her Victor Dufay’s sketch-map of St Valéry-sur-Vanne, also explained where to find Dufay in Troyes – she’d asked him quietly, ‘How did you manage it?’ Referring to the already noticeable change he’d wrought in de Plesse. He’d only shrugged, grimacing slightly, conspiratorially: they’d been on their own for no more than a few seconds. And one final, private exchange just shortly before he’d left, when he’d explained to her that after he’d collected his pianist from somewhere in the Luxembourg direction they’d be driving south to his new area of operations, not stopping either here or in Nancy.
‘Sadly, therefore – may not see each other again. At least for – well, who knows…’
‘Good luck, Michel. And thank you again.’
‘Very good luck to you – with all of it.’
She’d suggested – quietly again, the de Plesse son, Maurice, being possibly in earshot – ‘Might manage a reunion, one day.’
A nod. Eyes on hers, and serious. ‘I suppose SOE in London would tell me where you are – if I asked them nicely?’
‘Don’t see why they shouldn’t.’ De Plesse had come into the room at that moment. Rosie not looking at Michel then; but excusing herself to herself, later on, by daydreaming of being with Ben in London, Lise joining them for a meal in one of Ben’s rather boozy haunts, and Michel just happening along – by her own crafty pre-arrangement, of course.
Might Lise see the man she saw?
Might not. Might not want to. Might hate the very concept of Noally being replaceable.
In any case, she thought in de Plesse’s gazo, getting into the middle of Nancy now – the Boches having put up posters with Lise’s portrait on them didn’t prove she’d got away. Any more than it did in her own case – she could have died in Thérèse’s house, for instance.
‘Here we are. The parting of our ways.’
Easing his gazo in to the kerb, and braking. On the other side a narrow alleyway led off at right-angles between tall buildings. Shabby, scarred, and the alley itself littered, its walls streaked. At a glance, she could guess how it would smell. He nodded towards it. ‘Through there. Only a few metres.’
‘Just a moment, though…’
Glancing back: her view of two gendarmes whom she’d spotted approaching the last corner, and who’d now reached it – she’d been watching to see whether they’d turn this way or the other – was abruptly blanked off by a military van pulling in beside them. Milice: at least, the one getting out on this outer side was. Khaki shirt, black tie and beret, wide leather belt and holster.
He’d gone to the rear. De Plesse grumbling, ‘Nothing to do with us…’
‘And let’s keep it that way. If you don’t mind.’
Not, in other words, cross the road within a few metres of them, burdened with her gear and looking like God only knew what… All right for de Plesse – he wasn’t on bloody posters all over town. Not that she’d seen any yet, the way they’d come, although she’d been looking out for billboards. It was enough to know they were there, that any of those men – the milicien climbing back in beside the driver and the two gendarmes with the rear doors open – getting in, she supposed – would as likely as not have likenesses of herself and Lise fairly well in mind; the posters must have been up for several weeks now.
The van was backing – past the corner, and across the end of the side-street.
‘All right now – believe me?’
It had stopped, was moving forward again, turning away into that side-street. She put her hand on the door. She was going to have to get used to looking as she did, but this first public appearance was unnerving. She told him – surprising herself – ‘I have had considerable experience of this kind of work, Monsieur.’
‘Yes, well…’ Pointing with his balding head towards the alley. ‘Up there, and round to the left. Give Rouquet my regards.’
Guillaume Rouquet. Code-name ‘Boris’. Memory was still working: at breakfast yesterday she’d been able to recite the names from Michel’s briefing of the night before: Victor Dufay in Troyes, Jacques and Colette Craillot at the Auberge la Couronne in St Valéry-sur-Vanne. It was a relief that she hadn’t lost the ability to memorize: one did not want to make or keep notes. Flashback to Rouen a year ago, when she’d had to put everything on paper for the benefit of the man she’d later knifed to death in a train’s lavatory. Could have been ten years ago… She was out on the narrow pavement; de Plesse staying put, watching traffic in his rear-view mirror, making a show of it, she thought, to justify inertia. And of course keen to be on his way, to be rid of her. She opened the car’s rear door, hauled out her basket and the old suitcase Silvie had given her.
The basket had a cat in it. Cat trapped in the DP yard this morning by Maurice de Plesse before he’d gone off to school. He’d been rejoicing earlier in the fact that this was the last week of term, summer holidays imminent; he hated book-work, he’d told her, and after the cat’s capture she’d suggested to him that if he didn’t make the grade as an engineer he could always emigrate to the Yukon and become a trapper: he’d laughed delightedly and begun stammering about wearing the skins of skunks and bears, but Papa who’d been present hadn’t even smiled.
‘All right?’
‘Yeah.’ Shutting the rear door by pushing against it with the suitcase, then the front one with her hip. Movements intended to conform with her appearance. Calling to de Plesse then, ‘Adieu. Thanks for the lift.’
‘I trust the animal will recover.’
That exchange had been for the ears of passers-by: the nearest an elderly man and woman crowding past and staring with undisguised interest at the dusky-skinned artificial blonde and the pompous-looking driver leaning across to wind up the near window. The blonde with a smile on her face, watching him move off. The hairdresser had suggested, ‘Those beautiful teeth show to great advantage in contrast with the dark complexion. You should make a show of them, smile a lot, eh?’
‘Think that’ll help?’
‘Sure it will!’ She was a woman in her forties, well upholstered, and herself a blonde with a dark parting. She knew her business, and this kind of business too, it seemed. Telling Rosie, ‘It’s your mouth, my dear, not just the teeth, you got a smashing mouth, you know that? Yeah, course you do! See – they aren’t thinking hey, this is some résistante on the run; they’re thinking, boy, get an eyeful of that!’ Heavy body shaking with mirth…
In principle, good advice, though. A résistante with a price on her head wouldn’t be making a public spectacle of herself, she’d want to be invisible. As Rosie rather wished she could have been now – while aware that it was precisely the impression she must not give. Crossing the road, basket in one hand, suitcase in the other. Her skirt – one Roxane had grown out of – was a bit tight. New shoes – another present from Silvie, wooden shoes of course but with articulated soles – click-clacking on the cobbles: and a gazo deliberately not slowing – might actually have speeded up slightly – so that she only just made it without running. You didn’t have to be German, she thought, to be a shit. The cat was moving around inside the basket – Thérèse’s, with the central handle and a half-lid each side of it, perfect except that it had more room in it than any normal cat could need, and the balance kept shifting as the animal lurched around. Maurice had tied the lid flaps down for her, warning her that it was wild, a ratter and mouser, a yard-cat, completely undomesticated.
Poor thing. Probably scared stiff. Might have been worth its weight in diamonds though, if those miliciens had made a nuisance of themselves. Peculiar-looking woman with a wild cat, taking it to the vet – who’d want to see papers?
The alley was only about a metre wide, and stank as she’d known it would. Passing the side doors of shops that faced on to the street – or might have been entrances to apartments above the shops – then rounding the corner into a back-street – itself too narrow for motor traffic – and seeing the sign-board on her left: MAGNE ET RACKE, Vétérinaires.
Two front windows obscured by internal Venetian blinds, and a green-painted door between them. Knocker in the form of an iron horse’s head: she rapped with it, and a woman’s voice called immediately, ‘Entrez!’ She pushed the door open and went in: into a vestibule with a counter like a hotel reception-desk and behind it a short, stockily built red-headed girl in a white coat staring at her. Turning to push the door shut: conscious of that stare and wondering again whether she wasn’t a bit too noticeable. It was a point they’d discussed at some length, in the de Plesse house: but it was indisputable that the milk-chocolate tint did hide the scarring on her forehead, and for technical reasons – the hairdresser’s – blonde was the only colour she could adopt, without looking too much like the old Rosie with a suntan.
She’d put her suitcase down, and lifted the basket on to the counter. Surprisingly, no sound or movement from the cat.
‘Madame?’
‘It’s a cat. Monsieur Rouquet knows about it, he’s expecting me. I’m Justine Quérier.’
‘Mam’selle Quérier to see you – with a cat. She says you were expecting her.’
‘I was indeed, Béa.’ Sounds of movement in there – a chair scraping back, a drawer pushed shut. The redhead stood aside, wordlessly inviting her to go on in. She – Béa – had taken possession of the basket; asking her now, ‘What is its name, Mam’selle?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it has one.’
She couldn’t safely have made one up either, not knowing its sex. But she’d know this man’s English name, in a moment – with an effort of memory… He was staring back at her, obviously startled by her bizarre appearance, and just as obviously wouldn’t have any recall of one of a class of trainees to whom he’d lectured three years ago at Beaulieu in Hampshire, where she’d been in the final stages of her SOE training course and he’d come down as a visiting lecturer. At that time he’d been one of the few who’d already been in and out of France as a chef de réseau.
She’d heard of him since then, too. He was one of the Stars. Looking older than she remembered him. Light-brown eyes intent on hers, as if trying to read her mind. On his feet, bony hand now enfolding hers. Narrow face with high cheekbones, brown hair. She’d remembered now: first name was Derek. Could have been all they’d been told, in fact. Murmuring. ‘Enchanté, Mam’selle.’ Slight frown: ‘I’m trying to recall who it was that telephoned. Only yesterday, but – alas, my rotten memory…’
‘Raoul de Plesse?’
‘Of course. Of course… And he said he thought perhaps cat flu, but – rather unusual symptoms. One couldn’t altogether rule out rabies – as I warned him. Please – sit down.’ To the receptionist then, who must still have been in the doorway behind her, ‘Transfer the animal to a cage, Béa. I’ll take a look at it in a minute. See what you think meanwhile – but be careful, wear your gauntlets.’ He was returning to his side of the desk: ‘Of course, if it should be rabies, Mam’selle, you realize – only one thing for it.’ A shrug: ‘But let’s hope that is not the case.’ The door clicked shut behind Béa, and his eyes came back to Rosie. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Yes. As it happens.’
‘I had that impression – that perhaps I should know you. But – I’m sorry—’
She told him in English, ‘The boot-polish probably wouldn’t help. Yellow hair-dye wouldn’t either.’ Touching her cheek: ‘Boot-polish mixed into cold cream. There’s some scarring on my forehead and it hides it. Your first name’s Derek – or it was, about three years ago. I was one of a group of trainees you gave some lectures to at Beaulieu. You couldn’t possibly have remembered.’
‘And would Baker Street recognize the name Justine Quérier?’
‘No, they wouldn’t. You know of Michel Jacquard, though?’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, you do. He got the papers for me – ones I have now. My cover-name was Suzanne Tanguy, code-name Zoé. I was in Brittany, and – things went wrong, we were making a dash for the Finistère north coast, but – well, the car crashed, I woke up in hospital in Morlaix with Gestapo standing around the bed. Also an SOE traitor code-name “Hector”, real name André Marchéval – our former air movements officer?’
Staring at her. As motionless as if paralysed.
‘Zoé. Field name Suzanne… Am I right in thinking you’re – a bit famous around here?’
‘You mean the posters.’
‘But how – how on earth…’ A long-fingered hand to his forehead… ‘Where does Michel Jacquard come into this?’
‘He found me – saved my life. I’d been shot. I was on a train – a group of us en route we thought to Ravensbrück. The train was stopped – because of another on the line ahead which Michel’s people had sabotaged – this was in open country somewhere near Baccarat, but where the line runs close to the river – the Meurthe – and – I made a run for it, to divert the guards’ attention—’
‘So the other girl on those posters could get away.’
‘Exact—’ She’d cut the word off short. Then: ‘You heard of this from Michel, I suppose.’
Shake of the narrow head: ‘Haven’t spoken to him in weeks. Only to de Plesse. But allow me to surprise you now. That other girl – fellow agent of yours, you’d known each other before and then met in Fresnes prison – her code-name was Giselle, real name Elise or Lise?’
‘Yes, but –’ leaning forward, hands white-knuckled grasping the desk’s edge: ‘But what—’
‘She was sitting in that chair –’ pointing at it with a nod – ‘well, August 2nd today, must have been three, four weeks ago. A Monday.’ Exercising memory: ‘July the tenth. I arranged a pick-up for her. Hudson, from Tempsford. Which is what you’ll want, I imagine?’
Looking for her affirmative, but not getting it: she was still staring at him, hardly daring to believe it. Thought en passant, Hudson because you’d be out of Lysander range here, for the return trip. Asking him – almost incredulously – ‘And she went – was picked up?’
‘Certainly. Later that same week, what’s more!’
Lise not only alive, but in England – for three weeks now. A derivative of which was that Baker Street must already have the low-down on ‘Hector’, one wouldn’t need to explain anything like as much as one had envisaged. And they’d have taken action to warn any agents in the field who’d still been in the clear but might have had contact with him at some stage.
Lise alive…
He was offering her a Gauloise. ‘You’re supposed to be dead, you realize. Baker Street will shortly resound to the popping of champagne corks.’
‘Or they’ll be reaching for the smelling-salts. Thanks…’
He’d smiled. ‘Lise was certain you were dead.’
‘I thought she was.’ Leaning to the match. ‘How did she get to you?’
‘She’d holed up with some people – middle-aged artisan couple – down where you mentioned, roughly – offered them a lot of money, the man’s wife talked to a friend who knew someone who was an active résistant, and a colleague of his had had dealings with my courier. Who checked, very cautiously, and – there we were. Didn’t take long at all… Extraordinarily enough – this really does take a bit of getting used to – it’s only the Boches who’ve had some reason to believe you’d survived – that poster, a million francs—’
‘No body, near the train – and there should have been, they knew they’d shot me. But Michel had carted me off. And Lise having vanished too – which they couldn’t have discovered until later, I imagine—’
‘She was back in England before the posters went up. She’d told me all about you, of course. She was quite positive – that you’d been shot – and I might add deeply distressed.’ Shaking his head – in his own lingering disbelief – staring at her across the desk… ‘Zoé – field-name Suzanne. Mind telling me your real first name?’
‘Rosie. Christened Rosalie.’
‘Yes. Lise said that. Tell me one other thing – when and where did she get to know it?’
‘In the train.’ She nodded. ‘By which time that sort of security detail didn’t seem to matter any more. You’re thinking I might be an impostor.’
‘Not seriously. Considering it – as an outside possibility.’ He spread his hands. ‘In fact, it’s highly improbable and not all that obvious what purpose might be served – by what would have been a fairly tricky ploy – although it would of course explain the heavy make-up.’
‘So do the posters. But – the purpose – your head on the block, to start with?’
‘They’d have had to have known, to send you to me in the first place.’
‘Uh-huh. De Plesse knows all about you, obviously. I could have fooled him. So his head and yours, and of course any others of your réseau to whom I might be introduced. Plus maybe a Hudson and its crew shot up as it lands, and the reception team bagged or killed.’
Such things did happen, had been known. His slight shrug acknowledged it. Rosie added, ‘I wouldn’t trust de Plesse further than I could spit anyway. I mean if they put the screws on him.’
‘You could be right’
‘I can put your mind at rest about me, anyway.’ She leant towards him across the desk – head tilted sideways, cigarette into left hand, pushing the white scarf up above her ear with the other. ‘See the groove? Hair’s covering it quite well now, thank God. This one knocked me out, I think. See it?’
‘Crikey.’ His fingers replaced hers: the tip of one forefinger gently traced the line of the indented scar. ‘A couple of centimetres to the left, you and I would not—’
‘No, we wouldn’t. But the most damaging one was in the back of this shoulder.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘Came out here. Sheets of blood. Probably what fooled them into thinking I was dead. A sage-femme fixed me up, in the safe-house Michel took me to. Where I spent a month, in fact. He left us some sulphur powder too. Sulphanilamide, some such name?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘I’ll tell you the rest, just briefly. Michel was in the vicinity because he’d blown a train ahead of the one we were on – why ours stopped, how Lise and I escaped the crematorium. He and Luc – his number two, another para – heard there’d been some shooting, came looking, and took me off to – well, other side of the Vosges mountains. Close to the Natzweiler camp, as it happens.’
‘And eventually transferred you to Raoul de Plesse.’
‘There was a stop in between, but – yes. What do you think of de Plesse?’
Slight grimace… ‘Awkward to deal with. Great opinion of himself. Wields influence in Resistance circles, therefore has his uses. But you’re right, I’d say he values his own hide above all else. Absolute phobia about using the telephone, for instance. Fair enough as a matter of general principle, but—’
‘Michel called him to heel over his attitude to us. To SOE generally, was Michel’s analysis, but it seemed to me at the time it was directed at me personally. He read him the riot act anyway – don’t know what he said, I wasn’t present.’
‘The root of the trouble is that he has political ambitions. De Plesse, I mean. That’s enough to make him anti-foreigner. Playing to the gallery – you know? But he wouldn’t want to fall out with Forces Françaises de L’Intérieur or the Free French army or de Gaulle – especially not at this juncture – so I suppose Michel could crack the whip. Michel’s FFI title incidentally is Commandant, First Maquis Liaison Group – if one needed to refer to him in any communication with Baker Street, for instance. But what are we going to say to them… Something like Agent code-name Zoé previously believed dead has recovered from wounds and is in the care of this réseau. Request pick up soonest – and I’ll specify the landing-field. Anything more than that?’
‘Yes. A lot more. A lot to explain—’
His telephone had rung. ‘Damn it.’ Snatching it off its hook: eyes on her, frowning… ‘Yes?’ Listening, he’d sighed. ‘All right, put him through…’ Hand over the mouthpiece: ‘Won’t take long – I hope… Yes, Guillaume Rouquet speaking…’
He’d had to rush off, and Béa had produced coffee. The cat was in good health, she said – temperature at forty degrees a little high, attributable to stress, but it had been released into a spacious cage, given milk and a fish-carcase. If any enquiry should be made, it was being kept here for a day or two for observation. Bea was an insider, obviously, but it was better to leave it at that, not ask questions. Meanwhile there were comings and goings – white coats here in the building, rough working clothes on others arriving or departing, all seemingly in a rush. Virtually all the work was with horses, cattle, sheep and pigs, Béa told her, very little these days with domestic pets. Guillaume was absent for about an hour, then rejoined her: his ‘coffee’ was stone-cold, and Béa brought more for both of them.
‘So – let’s hear it – finally?’
‘Yes.’ First drag at a new cigarette… ‘First – to put it all in perspective – how I’ve come to know all this – there’s a lot to explain, I’m afraid—’
‘Take your time. We won’t be interrupted again, officially I’m out of town.’
‘Right. To start with – the traitor – “Hector”, real name André Marchéval – was with the Gestapo in Morlaix when they visited me in hospital, and then in Rue des Saussaies—’
‘You must have told Lise all this.’
‘She told you. Good… But when you think – the knowledge he must have had – has – details of réseaux, individual agents, landing fields, dropping-zones – escape lines too, probably – when you think—’
‘It’s staggering. Fortunately London will now be cognizant of it, through Lise.’
‘Which helps a lot, yes. But it’s what I’ve learnt since – I’ll come to it… She may have mentioned that “Hector”, at a stage or two removed, was almost certainly responsible for the death of her Organizer in Rennes – then her own arrest?’ Guillaume had nodded: she explained, ‘The relevance of it is that from her point of view as well as mine it’s – quite personal, this “Hector” thing.’
‘But we’d all agree – the sooner we have him behind bars—’
‘On a rope, would be my preference.’
‘All right. Or in front of a firing-squad. But he should be able to tell us plenty first. In particular what’s happened to a lot of agents who’ve disappeared without trace. Then – by all means, due process of military law.’ An eyebrow cocked: ‘Where is this leading us, Rosie?’
‘There’s a lot of it. I did warn you. I can’t give it to you in a dozen words.’
‘All right…’
‘At the safe-house in Alsace I told Michel about “Hector” – André Marchéval – including the fact that his father has some sort of engineering works somewhere south of Paris. Which I was told in London – by Bob Hallowell, incidentally. Michel’s reaction was instantaneous – “Hector” should be knocked off, immediately, if not sooner, and he’d try to find out exactly where the factory is. Idea being that when the Boches pull out that’s where he’ll turn up – chez Papa. Papa’s name is Henri, by the way.’
‘Has Michel located the factory?’
‘Has indeed. West of Troyes, village called St Valéry-sur-Vanne. And he visited – intro by courtesy of de Plesse – a résistant in Troyes by name of Victor Dufay who runs yet another agricultural engineering business, and – well, the background is, Marchéval’s is under Henri M’s management but Boche control, they’ve been turning out pipes and cylinders to Boche requirements right from the start, couldn’t be bombed without killing workers’ families because the works are integral with the village itself, and the workers wouldn’t want to go in for sabotage either, for fear of reprisals. Boches are on the spot, apparently, occupying most of Marchéval senior’s house, a manor-house outside the village.’
‘So – bombing ruled out, and sabotage unlikely: and the product’s not particularly important anyway—’
‘Well, wait… After Michel had talked to Dufay he pushed on – some new brief he has now – to Dijon, and Dufay decided it was time he updated himself on the St Valéry situation – only reminded of the place’s existence, it seems, by Michel’s interest.’
‘Some distance from Troyes, is it?’
‘Yes – but anyway, Dufay then got in touch with Michel in what must have been a bit of a flap, to tell him the Marchéval product is now rocket-casings – allegedly, for Boche secret weapon number two.’
‘Christ! Whose allegation, though – Dufay’s?’
‘I think a man by name of Craillot, a résistant who runs an auberge there. But now bombing can’t be ruled out – right?’
‘Not if this is confirmable.’
‘They did produce some detail – overall measurements, might give some clue – and Michel seemed fairly convinced. But it’ll have to be checked, obviously – on the spot, and preferably by a pianist, who could then report to London from the spot. I gather we’ve no SOE presence in that area now?’
‘Regrettably, not.’
‘Réseau blown eight or ten weeks ago, I’m told. Maybe another “Hector” casualty. But going back a bit – what I would have proposed to Baker Street anyway was that they might leave me here long enough to stake out Marchéval’s and/or St Valéry on the off-chance of “Hector” turning up – when, or if, the Boches dispense with his services, or whatever. It was Michel’s idea originally – and he then suggested having the works or better still the manor-house bombed. Manor preferably because no villagers’d get killed and it’d be more likely to bring André running to Papa.’
‘If the Gestapo let him go.’
‘He might have more freedom of movement than you’d expect. He’s not a prisoner, he’s sold out to them. But – a chance, that’s all.’
‘Chance of what, precisely?’ Stubbing out his cigarette. ‘OK to call you Rosie, by the way?’
She’d shrugged: ‘Wouldn’t you agree the sooner he’s dead the better?’
‘You mean that if he did put in an appearance, you’d kill him. You would?’
‘Well – if I was there on my own—’
‘You know what Baker Street will say?’
‘I can guess what you’re going to say.’
‘They’ll say pick-up coming, Rosie, get yourself back here double-quick!’
‘Although in these new circumstances—’
‘Obviously the rocket issue’ll be taken care of – if it’s confirmed. If it is, it’s – putting it mildly, top priority, obviously. As far as “Hector”’s concerned, though – OK, if it was thought necessary to knock him off because he was still imperilling agents in the field—’
‘Isn’t he? As far as we know?’
‘You see – if your aim was simply to track him down, make sure he doesn’t just bloody vanish or if he does we’ll know where to—’
‘Baker Street would support that, you think.’
‘When the Boches pull out there’s going to be chaos, isn’t there? Gadarene swine stuff. Thousands on the run. Odds are he will go to ground.’ Tilting his chair back, fingers drumming on the desk, eyes on the high, ornately decorated ceiling. ‘But not for ever. Not even for very long. He’d surface when the waters calm a bit – a Frenchman under French jurisdiction – right? – and foreigners by then strongly discouraged from poking their noses in. You can bet on that. Gallic bullshit’ll rise like a dense fog – out of which I can see Marchéval emerging, presenting himself as one of about forty million totally bogus heroes of the Resistance – alongside the real ones, of course – indignantly denying any charges we lay against him.’ Looking at her again: nodding. ‘I’d say there definitely is something to work on here, Rosie. Baker Street would go for it.’
‘Good!’
‘Unless of course they’ve taken steps already. They may have – Lise having got back and spilt the beans – thanks to you, and as you intended. I may say I admire what you did enormously. But whether they’d let you stay in the field for any purpose at all, after all you’ve been through… Frankly, I doubt it. They’ll want the job done, but not by you. I think if I was advising them I’d say pick her brains – whatever she’s found out – and drop in a small team, commando-style. Find him, grab him, fly him out.’
‘Fly them in when and where, find him and identify him how?’
‘Well—’
‘You see, being a pianist, I could go down there, check the rocket-casing report – using the pub that man runs as my safe-house, incidentally – do the groundwork on the bombing – which as you say would be top priority – then deal with “Hector” – Marchéval – if he shows up. Point is I know him – I’ve spoken to him, been spoken to by him, I could pick him out in a crowd—’
‘Well – makes a degree of sense—’
‘I’d like to see it through, too. Where this started, you realize – in the train, talking with Lise, en route Ravensbrück – then the chance came up, a faint hope she might get away, purpose being precisely what she and I had been talking about – ensuring bloody “Hector” does not live happy ever after!’
‘Baker Street would agree wholeheartedly in all respects except that of leaving it to you.’
‘Despite the time factor?’
‘Well – I don’t know. But – it’s going to be their decision, anyway, I’m only guessing. Look – we might say something like Zoé proposes – as alternative to recall… But – do you honestly think you’re fit enough?’
‘Yes. I do. Am.’
‘Another aspect – has it occurred to you that it would suit Marchéval down to the ground to see you dead?’
‘Hadn’t thought about it.’ Blinking at him. ‘But – yes, I dare say…’
‘He knows all about you – must do. And it’s odds-on he’ll know you’ve escaped. When you met in the Gestapo building, would he have known or guessed that you knew who he was?’
‘He’d have realized I’d catch on, I think. There and then, of course, he wouldn’t have given a damn either way – I was as good as labelled “Ravensbrück” – which he couldn’t not have known.’
‘He’d know now, therefore, that if he went on trial you’d be the key witness.’
‘But they’re looking for me anyway, aren’t they? The Gestapo, I mean.’ She gestured dismissively. ‘He’s only their stooge, he’s nothing.’
Guillaume thinking about it, gazing back at her across the desk. Giving up, reluctantly… Shaking his head as he reached for paper and pencil.
‘My bet stands – they’ll recall you. But let’s see now…’
Eyes down: murmuring it aloud…
‘Agent code-name Zoé previously believed dead has recovered from wounds and is in the temporary care of this réseau… Might follow with: If immediate recall is decided upon, suggest early pick-up from Xanadu, subject confirmation.’
Glancing up: ‘Xanadu is the field Lise went from. Reasonably easy reach from here. Confirmation depending on my courier taking a bike-ride to check that in the last couple of weeks it hasn’t been littered with tree trunks or concrete blocks.’
She nodded. That sort of check was standard procedure. He went on.
‘But as alternative to her recall she proposes that she might be left in the field in order to track movements of the former agent ‘Hector’…
‘How soon will this go out?’
‘Oh.’ He paused in his scribbling. ‘Next scheduled transmission would be tomorrow night. So – emergency procedure, for this. This afternoon, I expect.’
‘Emergency procedure’ meant the réseau’s pianist having to conduct a two-way exchange with the home station – making contact, then getting confirmation that the signal was coming in intelligibly, then again that they’d received it, and there was always a heightened risk of such transmissions being picked up by German radio direction finders. Which was a steep enough risk in any case. Long-range detection to start with, then radio-detection vans positioning themselves for more accurate fixing, sometimes men on foot with headphones and radio packs. Then, the black or grey Citroëns, thugs in ill-fitting suits and soft hats… But she’d used emergency procedure often enough herself – recently in Brittany for instance, sending urgent requests for parachutages of weaponry for Maquis groups. Tapping the messages out in roadside ditches, mostly, the transceiver powered from a gazo’s battery, aerial-wire strung out between trees.
And old Dr Peucat as look-out, puffing his pipe…
Guillaume was having trouble drafting this signal. Scratching several lines out… ‘Here, Rosie – you’ve got it all clear in your head…’
‘OK.’
She picked it up from the words movements of former agent ‘Hector’ – and added in her own rounder hand,
by observation of Marchéval engineering works at St Valéry-sur-Vanne near Troyes, where he might be expected either when Rue des Saussaies evacuated or sooner if the factory or family residence were bombed or sabotaged. Factory is part of village so bombing would endanger workers’ families, whereas residence is isolated and occupied by German officers as well as by Marchéval senior. A safe-house in St Valéry is known to Zoé and she has introductions to local résistants. More importantly, research in last few days has elicited a report that the factory is now producing rocket casings believed by Resistance informant to be for V2s, casings’ approx dimensions length 12 metres and diameter 2 metres, which are shipped into Germany in Wehrmacht truck convoys at intervals as yet unknown. Suggest this calls for immediate investigation and, if confirmed, for early bombing attack, targeting residence as well as factory, which might also result in surfacing by ‘Hector’.
She pushed it back over to him. Adjusting the soft-rubber padding in her cheeks while he looked over the lines she’d written; telling him as he finished and shrugged approval, ‘If they did give me the job, there’d be some things I’d want. For instance money, a pistol, cyanide pills, Mark III transceiver. And I think I might ask for a Eureka beacon.’
‘Lug that around with you?’
The ‘Eureka’ was a ground responder navigational beacon, which came to life when triggered by a device in an aircraft called a ‘Rebecca’ on-board interrogator. It was in use all over France; but you could hardly have carried it on a bicycle, for instance. Rosie acknowledged, ‘I know – it’s a problem. Might make do with an “S” phone. With a Eureka I’d do without any battery, anyway. Scrounge one locally – or something. But incidentally, the American Eureka – PPN1, I think they call it – isn’t all that big. If one was available, of course.’
‘Common or garden variety weighs about fifty kilos, doesn’t it? “S” phone – what, about seven kilos.’ He paused. ‘Well – if they gave you the job – and in my book this is still only a matter of going through the motions – we’d do better to ask for the drop here, and make arrangements to get you and the gear moved down to –’ checking the draft of the signal – ‘St Valéry. Maybe with help from de Plesse. If Michel Jacquard’s strictures are still an influence… What about Michel himself?’
‘Gone. Unfortunately. Might ask de Plesse just to lend us a gazo – which he’d get back. I could drive myself down there and leave it with the man in Troyes.’
‘Wouldn’t advise it. On your own, and “wanted”. Not even if your papers are a hundred per cent. Are they, by the way?’
‘Maybe not quite a hundred, but—’
‘Anyway – as far as this is concerned’ – the draft of the signal – ‘I’ll mention that if they were leaving you in the field there’d be a shopping-list to follow.’ Shake of the head: ‘Won’t be, but – notionally, Rosalie: transceiver, “S” phone, cash, pistol.’ He’d begun roughing out a list. She prompted, ‘PC capsules.’ ‘PC’ standing for potassium cyanide, suicide pills. He’d grimaced slightly: ‘Here and now we’ll just say,
If Zoé’s proposal that she should remain in the field is approved, a parachutage of transceiver, codes, “S” phone, cash, pistol and capsules etc, will be requested.’
Glancing up at her: ‘What kind of pistol would you ask for?’
‘Llama, please.’
He looked surprised. ‘I’d have thought something lighter, easier to carry hidden. Summer clothes, after all. A Beretta .32 for instance – reason I ask is it happens I’ve one here you could have.’
‘Thanks, but Llamas suit me, and 9-millimetre’s easier to find than .32.’
Quizzical smile: ‘Wouldn’t be fighting a battle, Rosie!’
‘No. But still…’
Thinking, Just killing one man. Reaching to the desk, touching wood.