She was smoking too much, she knew. One just crushed out and the next match flaring – in this small apartment above the hat-shop to which Guillaume had brought her an hour ago. He’d left her a whole pack. Black-market, obviously – the ration being only two packs a month, for God’s sake. Smoke-haze hanging in a thick layer: she got up, slid the nearer window further open to let some of it out. This was his pianist’s flat and she worked in the hat-shop under it: her employer owned it but had a house on the other side of town, apparently. Rosie had known, leaving the premises of Messrs Magne et Racke after a snack lunch of hard biscuits and cheese in Guillaume’s office, that they were going to visit the pianist, but he hadn’t mentioned her name or anything about a hat-shop; one could have been arrested in the street en route and interrogated until the cows came home, wouldn’t have been able to tell the bastards anything. So with no option but to hold out, you’d have suffered… Anyway, Guillaume had only said, ‘All right – if you’re ready?’ – and to his girl-assistant, Béa, ‘I’ll be out for a couple of hours, but I’ll probably call in at old Vasco’s stables – leave a message there if anything’s really urgent, eh?’ They’d left by way of the alley out to the street where de Plesse had dropped her, and turned left, heading further into the shopping centre. Southward: noting street-names where any were visible, walking beside Guillaume with a hand on his arm, about three steps to every two of his, Roxane’s skirt making that inevitable. Conscious again of her awful hair and make-up, pink blouse, new shoes noisy on the paving, Thérèse’s rain-jacket incongruously shabby but with room for her papers in its capacious inside pocket. Would have room for a 9-millimetre Spanish-made Colt-action Llama too – in due course – subject to decisions to be made in London, any minute now.
She’d left Michel’s sketch-map of St Valéry-sur-Vanne in Guillaume’s desk. It had no words on it, a snooper wouldn’t have made head or tail of it, but if it had been found on Justine Quérier she’d have been expected to explain it.
How? Mental exercise, while waiting to cross a road. Gazos, bicycles in streams. Over then, and turning left. Thinking of interrogation, how one might or might not stand up to it, because being out and almost on one’s own now, in a town where one’s face was plastered on street corners – and being in something less than the very peak of condition: knowing also that if she was caught again they’d make damn sure she stayed caught – unless she could convince them in the first five minutes that she wasn’t who she might have been. Explanation of that map, therefore – say it was the district of Sarrebourg – no, Souillac, where she’d been living with her sick mother. Sketch made to show a locum doctor, stranger to the district, how to find their terraced house in the Rue Celeste. There were a lot of people about, many just sauntering, idling away their lunch-breaks. Two Feldgendarmes shouldering through from behind: they seemed always to patrol in pairs, and there were far more of them on the streets than there had been a year ago in Rouen.
Releasing second-line troops who’d now become frontline, maybe?
Say priest, not doctor. Priest who’d offered transport to the hospital.
‘Over the road there – see?’
Guillaume pointing with his chin. They were passing through a more or less triangular place that had a railed grass centre; the Feldgendarmes had turned in at a stone portico that jutted out ahead here, with a swastika banner drooping from a staff above it. Opposite, across the street and behind those railings, was a hoarding crowded with official notices. Guillaume gesturing again: ‘This end – one from the end?’
Black and white. Others were framed in red – red and black being the Nazi colours, as on that filthy banner – and those were familiar enough, she’d seen dozens, wherever she’d been, notices of ‘executions’ carried out. The black-and-white poster on the left, though, at eye-level halfway up the hoarding – two side-by-side images – that they were of females was about all one could make out from here – with a caption in large black capitals and some lines in smaller print below that. Guillaume had muttered as she craned round, ‘See? Proof of your fame.’
‘Could we cross over?’
‘Better not.’ Tugging her along. ‘Feldgendarmes headquarters we just passed. Only take one of them goofing out of a window – wondering how to kill the next hour or two, getting you in his sights as you trip over to admire yourself…’
‘Any chance you might get me one?’
‘A poster?’ Nearing the end of the square. ‘Over here and then to the right there… I suppose – if they’re still on show when the balloon goes up.’
‘Get two, if you can? One for Lise – please?’
‘I’ll try. There will be a few other things going on, mind you. Along here now – Justine…’ To the right. She saw a tin street-sign, Rue St Jacques. Then they were passing a jeweller’s window – necklaces of amber and lapis lazuli in a small central display, second-hand items of costume jewellery around it. And next-door, now, a milliner’s.
‘We’re here. Keen on hats, are you?’
The inscription on the shopfront was Pauline Delacroix, Modiste. Guillaume was giving Rosie time to scan the contents of the window, telling her quietly, ‘Pauline is a good friend, a résistante, and Léonie works for her and lives up there – over the shop.’
‘Your pianist – Léonie, right?’
‘Right. Makes hats too. Come on, plenty more inside. They make ’em out of everything you can think of.’ Pushing the glass-topped door open: ‘We’re in luck – I’d thought they might have been shut for lunch. In you go…’
Into a powdery, hot-house atmosphere in which an auburn-haired woman, fortyish with an hour-glass figure wrapped in a smart black dress, was holding a pink, cloche-shaped hat in her two be-ringed hands, offering it – for Christ’s sake, they were in the shop and it was too late to back out now – to a tall Boche officer who’d glanced round sharply – irritably, even – as Guillaume pushed the glass door closed shutting out the street’s noise… He – the Boche – had thrown them that quick glance, then turned back to the woman. His long-peaked Wehrmacht cap, Rosie saw, lay on the glass-topped counter, incongruously close to a wide-brimmed, floppy-looking flowered creation. A Boche was about the last thing you’d have expected to run into, in here: getting off the crowded street had felt like arrival at some place of refuge – just for a moment, with what Guillaume had been telling her about this rather voluptuous woman, and the girl they hadn’t met yet. She felt breathless suddenly, and was trying to keep her face averted. Although Guillaume was taking it calmly: lifting a hand in greeting to the woman, who’d flashed him a smile and made a lightning scan of as much as she could see of Rosie in that same swift glance. Horrified by even that much, Rosie guessed – but showing nothing, switching the smile back to her customer, assuring him huskily, ‘It’s an excellent choice, Herr Colonel, I’m certain the lady will adore it. And for your daughter what do you think of this little model? Extremely chic, don’t you agree, while also definitely young – for a young girl as you’ve described her?’
Guillaume was steering Rosie away to the left, into a longer, narrower part of the shop. The German muttering behind them in accented French, ‘This one I’m less sure of. But – come to think of it, I wonder…’
He’d turned this way just as Rosie had risked a look back over her shoulder at them: thinking that she should not have been taken so much by surprise. France was full of Boches, there was no way you wouldn’t run into them here or there… Guillaume’s hand on her arm though, turning her back again – towards a nearer display of hats. ‘How about this one?’
Made of velvet, a hideous shade of green. He couldn’t have meant it seriously. Hadn’t, of course; only didn’t want the Boche making any closer study of her than he might have done already. She touched the green hat: shook her head. ‘Not really…’
Guttural French behind them: ‘Do you think, Madame, you could persuade the young lady to assist us? There’s a slight resemblance to my daughter – very slight, I suppose, but – it might give one some idea…’
Imagining this?
‘Guillaume.’ Pauline’s throaty tone… ‘Did you hear? Might the young lady be so kind?’ Clicking of her own articulated wooden soles as she approached: Guillaume had put himself on that side of Rosie, shielding her.
‘Much as I cherish our friendship, Pauline, I do not believe your customers should—’
‘But I don’t mind.’ Rosie patted his arm: had come up beside him, facing Pauline and beyond her the German.
This wasn’t avoidable, had better be taken head-on. The German’s smile was as symmetrically curved as a child might have drawn it, on the round, pink face. Rosie added to Pauline, ‘Long as it doesn’t take too long.’
‘Extremely kind, Mam’selle…’
‘Although I wouldn’t have thought my suntan –’ addressing Pauline again, but the Boche cut in, ‘It’s primarily the hair-colour, also the general – should I say, combination of youth and – how to put it…’ With his hands, was the answer, outlining her size and figure. Presumptuous sod… Pauline and her scent in close-up then, though: ‘May I?’ Removing the scarf, and settling the little hat on Rosie’s head; adjusting its angle slightly, then stepping back. ‘There, Herr Colonel… Quite entrancing?’
He was giving Rosie a long, hard stare. Studying her more than the hat, she thought.
Wondering what might be familiar about her?
Guillaume protesting, ‘So happens we do not have time to waste—’
‘But – please –’ Pauline’s lashes fluttering – ‘just another tiny instant…’
It didn’t look like suntan. She knew it didn’t. Wouldn’t even to this bastard – couldn’t possibly, not for long, such close inspection… Could have been oil or cream of some kind on tanned skin: that had been how the hairdresser had suggested she might explain it. She glanced at Guillaume, forced a smile. Praying that the creature currently feasting its little gimlet eyes on her might not have studied the posters, not be straining its memory…
If they had memories. One could wonder as one might about dogs: did they actually think – or see in colour, or just in black and white?
Snap of its fingers like a pistol-shot. ‘I’ll take it.’
A nod to the proprietress, and a small bow to Rosie: ‘I am greatly obliged, Mam’selle.’ Guillaume turned away, looking annoyed and making a show of checking the time again, as Pauline lifted the hat carefully from Rosie’s head, purring, ‘So very kind…’
He’d acted his part well, she thought. Affronted and impatient, but in a subdued manner, natural enough in the daunting presence of the Boche. And her own reactions had only really become noticeable – to herself anyway – after the event, when they’d got up here. The need to smoke as voraciously as this, for instance… She was glad of that, that at the time she’d managed it all right. She squashed out another stub, committed herself to waiting ten minutes now before lighting another. For one thing, cigarettes were rationed and not all that easy to come by unless one had black-market connections and money to spare. Which Guillaume probably would have. Her pulse-rate was still much too fast. Time now, ten minutes to two. The pianist, Léonie Garnier, should be getting the signal out by now, might even have sent it and signed off. Zoé proposes that as an alternative to immediate recall… Guillaume had told them he’d be back here by three thirty. Using emergency procedure and when a reply was called for, you’d get it exactly one hour and ten minutes after the operator in the communications centre in Sevenoaks had received your signal. She could see it all happening – having worked in that establishment as a radio-operator herself, before Johnny’s Spitfire had been shot down into the Channel and she’d applied to be accepted for training as an agent. Initially they’d turned her down: Johnny had been killed only the day before, and the interviewing officer had suspected her of harbouring some sort of suicidal impulse; then shortly afterwards apparently had second thoughts and called her back. She’d heard later that in fact Maurice Buckmaster, head of ‘F’ Section, had just about blown his top at hearing of the rejection of a candidate who was already a trained wireless operator as well as a fluent French speaker.
But she did know the Sevenoaks scene intimately: could hear the clicking of the Morse key as the operator acknowledged receipt of message and signed-off with the letters AS, meaning ‘Stand by’, simultaneously buzzing for the message in its five-letter groups to be rushed to the cipher room where it would be translated into plain language and passed to Baker Street by teleprinter. Supposing Sevenoaks had received it at 1350, say, it would be chattering through on Baker Street’s teleprinter in plain language by two fifteen, and ‘F’ Section staff would then have twenty minutes to think about it, reach a decision and draft a reply: so by 1440 the decision affecting her own future movements would be rattling off the teleprinter in the Sevenoaks establishment, where ciphering would then take twenty minutes and Léonie Garnier, somewhere in Nancy, with her ivory-white skin and blue eyes, near-black hair and delicate, artistic-looking hat-making hands would have it at 1500.
What she’d get first would be a code-group meaning I have a message for you, are you ready? to which she’d tap out in reply QRV – K: ‘Ready. Over…’
Wherever she was. Couldn’t be far because Guillaume had arranged to see her back here at three thirty, which meant Léonie couldn’t be more than half an hour away – across town or out in its fringes somewhere. You could get a long way on a bicycle in half an hour. Delivering a hat, no doubt, or collecting one. She’d taken a hat-box with her on the bike anyway. And she’d have had the set hidden in some loft, or a church tower, or – factory building, empty office or roof-space or a friend’s apartment which if she was wise she would neither have used before nor use again.
Nice-looking girl. A year or two younger than Rosie – twenty-two or three. Rather shy, quiet manner, smiles that were slow in coming as if she didn’t like to waste them. Rosie had apologized for putting her in such danger: the emergency procedure routine, especially in a town, wasn’t much less chancy than a game of Russian roulette. The German radio detectors would have caught that first transmission and the rapid acknowledgement from England, there’d be Boches listening out now for London’s further response and they’d know the SOE procedures well enough to be expecting it – as Léonie was – after the seventy-minute interval. So they’d be listening for her brief ‘Ready. Over’ and ‘message received’ transmissions – having perhaps got somewhere near to pinpointing her from the earlier exchange.
Could have watchers down in the street by then. She’d be acutely aware of it, and very, very cautious; checking whatever might be visible from the windows before she emerged, and so forth. Even then knowing she wasn’t anything like safe, but emerging into the street casually like any other citizen going about her normal business, while taking every possible precaution to ensure she didn’t have a tail.
Tailing her back here.
Two o’clock. Reaching for another cigarette. Pulse-rate still faster than it should have been, but – improving. She wasn’t anything like properly fit: couldn’t have hoped to be, after a whole month just sitting around. Emotional disturbance was what upset the rhythm, she supposed. Tension, fright, in other words. One was scared half to death, quite often. It had always been more or less OK, she remembered, when one was on the move and things were actually happening; the worst strain had always been before and after.
So think about something else – now. How it might be in 62–4 Baker Street, for instance, with the arrival of this signal, reactions of friends and colleagues, all of whom would earlier have written one off as dead. There’d be astonishment, even disbelief and suspicion of the authenticity of the message. But the rush to sort out the options, come to the right decision in a situation that might be complicated by factors of which here one had no knowledge – such as measures which might already have been taken with regard to ‘Hector’ – and with the rocket element in particular making for real urgency – having to tie it all up in twenty minutes flat wouldn’t allow for much jollification.
But then there’d be some whoops of joy, she thought. Tonight, maybe, the pop of a cork or two. At least, a cork. Smiling to herself, thinking: Damn well better be…
They’d pass the news to Lise, of course, right away. Glancing at the clock, thinking Might have already… Except Lise might not be in Baker Street, might be in one of SOE’s country-house establishments. Might even have been sent on leave. Wherever she was, when the news did get to her she’d be pole-axed.
And Ben?
Better if they didn’t tell him, she thought. At least, not unless the decision was to recall her forthwith.
At three twenty there was a rap on the door: she opened it to Guillaume, and he locked it again behind him.
‘All right?’
She held up two crossed fingers. ‘You’re early.’
‘Had a date with a horse and it took less time than it might have. So –’ he flopped on to the sofa – ‘here I am, playing truant.’
‘Do your partners – Racke and Ruin, whatever – they know you have these outside interests?’
‘One of them does. The young one – son of Racke. The other’s – well, frankly ga-ga.’
‘Were you a vet before the war?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Reaching to the pack of Gauloises. ‘Mind?’
‘They’re yours, why should I?’
‘No – your very own, a present from the management.’ Peering into the pack, ‘Been going it a bit, haven’t you?’
‘I’m afraid I have.’
‘Nerves?’
‘Well. You know. Time heavy on one’s hands.’ She saw a hint of mockery, and admitted, ‘That Boche downstairs—’
‘You coped marvellously. Should give you confidence in your disguise, eh?’
‘I’m sure he was wondering where he’d seen me before. And if he sees a poster now and it jogs his memory—’
‘Mistake to give the imagination too much rope, Rosie.’
‘Only thing is – you were with me, and you’re a friend of Pauline’s – which would have been obvious to him… But OK, you’re right, spilt milk… Were you a vet here in France?’
‘No. England. Boyhood and some schooling here though – hence the lingo.’
‘I suppose you and Son of Racke were students together, something like that?’
‘Something like it, yes.’ He’d lit their cigarettes. Sitting back now, checking the time again. ‘Come on, Léonie…’
‘Not actually late yet, is she?’
‘Well – not quite…’
‘There you are, then. What’s her background?’
‘Rosie – you know better than—’
‘Anyway, she’s nice.’
‘Understatement of the week. What I can tell you is she was born and brought up in Belgium, father a Venezuelan who skipped home in ’39. In the oil business – or was.’
‘What about Mama?’
‘Skipped too. Not as far as Venezuela, fortunately.’ Checking the time again. ‘Now, she is late.’
‘Using a bike, is she?’
‘Yep.’ He got up, went to the window, then pulled back from it. ‘What’s that specimen holding the wall up for, I wonder.’
‘Where?’ Beside him, and seeing the object of his interest. A man in exceptionally shabby clothes, propped with his back against the wall close to the door of a baker’s shop. Dark-blue cap, pale blob of a face, head forward as if dozing. Guillaume had taken a step back from the window: the ceilings were low, on this upper floor you weren’t all that far above street level.
The man was obviously waiting for something, or someone. Or to see who came and/or went. Rosie said, ‘One thing I mustn’t forget – that shopping list, pistol and cash and so forth – another thing I’ll ask for is a wristwatch.’
‘Boches pinched yours, I suppose.’
‘Didn’t have it when I came to in the hospital at Morlaix. The Feldgendarmes who I was told picked me out of the car-wreck must have taken it.’
‘They would have.’ Looking round at her, shaking his head: still at the window but she’d gone back to her chair, perched on its arm. ‘But Rosie – in your shoes, I really would grab at the chance of getting home. The more I think about it – after all that—’
‘All that is over and done with. And I feel I need to. For instance – lacking a watch hasn’t bothered me because I’ve been in other people’s hands all the time – like a child… All right, I’m very grateful to all concerned, very, but—’
‘I’m still betting Baker Street will recall you.’
‘In which case – as I said—’
‘You’ve no husband, I imagine… Any boyfriend who matters?’
She shrugged. ‘I keep getting asked that. There’s a man who wants to marry me, yes. Australian.’
‘Are you going to marry?’
‘Probably. As of this moment, he most likely thinks I’m dead. I imagine they’ll have—’
‘Hey.’ Pointing down at the street: Rosie moved up beside him again. A woman had come out of the baker’s shop, stopped on the pavement looking round as if she’d lost someone, while the man who’d been leaning against the wall had straightened – head up, and right behind her. Then – he must have spoken or yelled, right in her ear – and she spun round… He was laughing, she moved as if to swing at him with her shopping bag but he stepped inside her guard, and they embraced: were on their way then, his arm round her shoulders. About to pass out of sight behind a parked gazo van from which crates of cabbages were being delivered to a café-restaurant.
Cabbage soup tonight, she guessed. In her mind, she could smell it. Guillaume asked her, ‘This Aussie’ll be thinking you’re dead, you say.’
‘Probably. Since Lise’s got back. He’ll have been in touch with Baker Street, badgering them for news of me, and—’
‘He’ll be in for a surprise now, then.’
‘Won’t he, just… You married?’
‘Me?’ Quick glance at her: shake of the head. ‘No.’
She looked at the clock: three forty-two. Way past schedule. Sitting again, visualizing Léonie on her bicycle. She thought Guillaume might be the girl’s lover – or shaping up to be. That ‘understatement of the week’: and his tone, expression when he’d said it. Also that sharpish denial of other attachment: as much rebuttal as denial. And the look of him now: leaning across the low table to stub out his cigarette, he’d frozen in that position – head up, motionless, eyes on the door.
Like a pointer. Even to the extent of having one paw still raised…
Scrape of a key being pushed into its lock: the first sound she’d heard, but he must have heard the girl coming up the stairs. He was at the door unlocking it and jerking it open, then she was inside – he might have yanked her in, was reaching past her now to push the door shut, simultaneously hugging her: ‘At bloody last…’
‘There was a hold-up. On the Sarreguemines road.’
‘And?’
‘Nuisance, that’s all. They were searching lorries and vans mostly, and car drivers’ papers. I showed them the hat, wasn’t even asked my name. There’s a heck of a lot of military traffic heading north, by the way.’ Disengaging herself, she smiled at Rosie. ‘Hello. Sorry you had such a wait. I’ve got London’s answer, all we have to do is decode it.’
She’d fetched her one-time pad – a pad of microfilm pages, rice paper, easily destructible, even edible, each page for use only once – and a pencil and paper, magnifying glass for reading the micro-lettering, her own personal alphabetical table printed on a silk handkerchief, and Baker Street’s message; she’d pencilled it on the inside of a used envelope which she must have opened up and then re-folded into envelope shape again – so that it looked like nothing but an old, used envelope. She’d had it in her pocket with a receipted butcher’s bill stuffed into it.
‘OK. Key…’
Three groups each of five letters to form the top line, in capitals. Rosie did the writing-down, Léonie dictated; Guillaume was in the kitchenette making what might pass for coffee. The cipher-text as received from London had to be written letter by letter horizontally below the key; translation into plain language came from reference to the table printed on the square of silk.
The message wasn’t a long one.
All here are overwhelmed with joy and send Zoé our love and congratulations. Include shopping-list in your Thursday transmission, also confirmation that Xanadu is usable. Listen out tonight midnight CET for detail of special courier visit probably Saturday with pick-up Sunday for courier with or without Zoé depending on further deliberation and investigation at this end.
She’d called it out, word by word, commented as Guillaume came from the kitchen with mugs of coffee-substitute, ‘Seems as if they’re keeping their options open.’
‘Does, doesn’t it.’ He put the mugs down, took the decoded text from Léonie. Muttering to himself, ‘What investigations at that end…’
‘The rocket dimensions – if there’s any Intelligence data?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Glancing at her, then: ‘Keeping options open, mind you, doesn’t mean they’ll give you your head… But – all right – first thing is to be listening out at midnight, Léonie. From here, huh?’
She’d nodded. Rosie asked her, ‘Spare transceiver here?’
‘Yes.’ Movement of her smooth, dark head, pointing upwards – attic or roofspace up there. ‘Receiver only – in case I was ever tempted to take a risk.’
‘Wise.’
A shrug, as she gathered up her bits and pieces. ‘Careful, anyway.’
‘Better be.’ Guillaume smiled at her. ‘But listen – it might be best for Rosie to stay here with you – d’you think? Tonight anyway, with more guff coming in?’
‘Yes – definitely. If that couch would do you, Rosie? I’ve slept on it, it’s quite comfy.’
‘Do very well. Yes – thanks…’
‘Better all round.’ Guillaume was dispensing sugar-substitute. ‘Save time and a lot of running to and fro. Also exposure of you to the outside world. I’ll have to fetch your suitcase, that’s all. And I’ll bring some rations. Later on, Léonie. On second thoughts, I’ll send Willi with the case.’
‘I should be downstairs earning my living – now, I should. Rosie, you could let him in when he comes?’
‘Of course—’
‘Rather a big lad, Rosie, answers to the name Willi and looks savage, but he’s harmless – to his friends, anyway. Some time around five, when he knocks off – OK?’
She’d nodded. ‘Is he your courier?’
‘God, no…’
And he wasn’t telling her who was. Béa, maybe. She shrugged: ‘Anyway, thank you both. Where would I have been staying?’
‘A rooming house – west of here, other side of the railway station. We need to keep in touch though – with this message coming in tonight, and ours with your shopping-list out tomorrow. Better finalize that, hadn’t you? And it’s best to keep you off the streets as far as possible.’ He turned back to Léonie. ‘I’ll check the Xanadu field myself. I’ve business in that direction, and I’ll have a word with the Déchambauds – family with a cottage out that way, Rosie, it’ll be handy if this courier’s to be with us for a day. We could move you out there too. Now that’s a good idea. Directly from here to there – Saturday evening, say, in my gazo – then you’ll have your day with Baker Street’s courier, and either go back with him or – well, from there to wherever you are going.’
‘How?’
‘What?’
‘How – from your friends’ cottage to St Valéry-sur-Vanne?’
He nodded. ‘Have to think that out. Easier if you went back with the courier, of course.’
She’d been dreaming that Marilyn Stuart was on the blower to Ben telling him that she, Rosie, would be back in London within two or three days, while she was screaming that it wasn’t true – and grabbing for the telephone, fighting, yelling – Marilyn cool as a cucumber, fending her off easily and laughingly, having of course the advantages of height and reach. Rosie bawling at her that she had no business raising his hopes when they both knew it wasn’t true, in fact that she might never be back – and Ben’s voice suddenly booming over the line, ‘What in hell are you drongoes at?’
Ben’s Aussie voice, all right, but not his face. Michel’s face. Marilyn taunting her, ‘Don’t know one from the other, do you!’
‘Bitch!’
‘Hey, hey…’
Léonie: with a hand grasping Rosie’s shoulder… ‘Rosie, hush. Dreary old nightmare… Over now, you’re awake, OK? Listen, I’m on my way up to take in this message…’
To the attic, to listen out for Baker Street’s midnight call. Murmuring in the semi-dark – the only light was coming through from the half-open bedroom door, Léonie a black cut-out against it – ‘Too much cheese for supper, probably. Like in that Will Hay film, feeding the old man cheese to make him dream… Will you be all right now?’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry…’
‘I’ll take the key, lock you in – then if you fall asleep—’
‘I won’t, I’ll wait and—’
‘Won’t be long – touch wood.’
Baker Street and Sevenoaks permitting, she wouldn’t be. But how, even in a dream, confuse Ben and Michel, Rosie wondered? Echoes of it still in her mind. Or how see Marilyn as such a bitch? Marilyn who, when she’d been seeing her off on the Lysander flight from Tangmere a few months ago, had actually wept! Wet-faced in the dark – having thought the darkness would hide it, no one would see her tears, so what the hell – forgetting the goodbye kiss, the contact of a damp cheek, and Rosie wondering then why, why this time? Thinking third time unlucky, maybe? One would never have expected tears – or any lack of emotional control – from Marilyn, of all people: she was a tall, cool blonde, had come to SOE from the Wrens, in which she’d been – still was – a Second Officer, and in ‘F’ Section she’d started as an agent but then been taken out of field work because her French was so appalling. Strictly English-schoolroom French, grammatically correct enough but the accent of a vache espagnolle – as someone had rather cruelly described it – cribbing that from the Rattigan play French Without Tears, of course.
Brainwave striking, then: they might send Marilyn as the ‘special courier’?
Might well. Short visit, minimal need of conversational French. She’d go for it, sure as eggs – not only because the two of them were as close as they were, but because behind that cool façade she’d loathed being confined to admin and training work, sending others into the field. Just as Rosie herself had felt at one time – between deployments, when Ben had been begging her never to go back. But Colonel Buck would approve, for sure: he thought highly of Marilyn, one knew, and he’d see the sense in sending someone with whom Rosie was in close rapport.
Bet on it, she thought.
And London – or rather Sevenoaks – would be on the air by now. Léonie up there crouched over her receiver, having paid out the thin, matt-black aerial wire from a window. Listening out on a frequency pre-set by her own personal quartz crystal – the night-time crystal, not the one she’d have had in her transmitter this afternoon – and only listening, doing nothing that might attract the Reichssicherheitshauptamt boffins’ attention. Crouched with the headphones flattening those small, neat ears and shiny dark hair against her head while she jotted down the message stuttering from the Sevenoaks operator’s transmitter key. Baker Street maybe saying they’d changed their minds, would be making other arrangements about the rocket-casings – for instance, having that village flattened, without any confirmatory check? It was – conceivable. The rockets would be what mattered now – mattered most. ‘Hector’ mattered quite a lot, but compared to the rockets he was very much an SOE domestic matter; the War Cabinet, for instance, or the Chiefs of Staff or the top brass of SIS wouldn’t have heard of him, wouldn’t give a damn about him one way or the other even if they had, but they’d know all about the threat from ‘Hitler’s Secret Weapons’, which the Boches were still claiming were going to win the war for them.
She lit a cigarette – partly to stay awake, not slip back into that ridiculous dream. Hardly a nightmare, as Léonie had called it: nightmares had to do with torture and mutilation. They had since Rouen, last year. As Ben knew, having on occasion vicariously suffered with her… Picturing him in her mind, in the smoke curling up from her Gauloise and melting into darkness under the low ceiling where the light from Léonie’s bedroom door didn’t reach; seeing him, recognizing him as unquestionably the most important factor in her life.
To have and to hold. Cling to like a bloody limpet.
Scrape of a key in the door. Rosie holding her breath, watching as Léonie slipped in, closed the door softly and re-locked it.
Expelling a lungful of smoke… ‘All right?’
‘Far as I know.’ Flipping a sheet of paper out of the pocket of her gown. ‘Want to help?’
What Baker Street was telling them in this message was that subject to the contents of Léonie’s transmission on Thursday night – tonight, it was Thursday now, of course – the ‘special courier’ would be dropped by parachute on the Xanadu field on Saturday half an hour before midnight and collected by a Hudson at 0200 Sunday morning. Confirmation of both the paradrop and the pick-up two and a half hours later would come on Saturday afternoon/evening in a message personnel stating ‘Gaston has become the father of twins’. And – as one had more or less expected – the courier would have Baker Street’s authority to decide whether Zoé should remain in the field or return to London in the Hudson.
That was all, except for detail of recognition signals to be used between the aircraft and the reception team. The main change from their earlier, off-the-cuff response was that the courier would be on the ground for only a couple of hours instead of twenty-four.
Léonie was putting her bits and pieces together. Rosie asked her, ‘What time did Guillaume say he’d get here?’
‘Seven thirty, or thereabouts. Then he’ll be going out to inspect Xanadu, of course – so I can give them an OK on it tonight. The other thing I’ll need is your requisition list.’
‘I’ll get down to it first thing. Money’s one problem – how much to ask for… I’ve guessed who the courier’ll be, by the way. In Baker Street, ever meet Marilyn Stuart?’
‘Marilyn… Yes. But is she a parachutist?’
‘Yes. Was, and she’s kept it all up – she’s done refresher courses at Ringwood. I happen to know because I did one with her.’
Guillaume arrived on the dot of seven thirty, had a light breakfast with them and left soon after eight. He’d drop in again when he got back from his visit to the country, he said, but if he failed to show up – i.e. had run into trouble – Léonie was to make her transmission with Rosie’s shopping-list in it and the warning that no reconnaisance of Xanadu had been possible. If he still didn’t appear – by Saturday, in which case it would be obvious he was in real trouble – Léonie was to arrange for their courier to take Rosie out to the Déchambauds and supervise the reception of Baker Street’s parachutist.
‘Then the usual team – Déchambaud would get them together for him – for the reception of the Hudson.’
Muster them for him, Rosie had noted: so Guillaume’s courier was not the veterinary receptionist. She commented, ‘We’re looking on the black side rather, aren’t we?’
‘Wouldn’t you agree it’s wise?’
‘I suppose…’
‘Things can go awry. And in this situation you’d be stuck, wouldn’t you.’
‘Certainly would be if Baker Street cried off too.’
‘Well.’ A shrug. ‘In my hypothetical situation there’d be no reason they should. It also assumes that having collared me, the Boches weren’t immediately rounding up the rest of you as well. I admit that’s no better than a fifty-fifty chance. But – in this hypothesis you wouldn’t set out for Xanadu without hearing first about Gaston’s twins, would you? And if there was reason you knew of to call it off, Léonie’d talk to Baker Street.’ Looking at her. ‘Knows her onions, this kid. But I’m a wily bird myself, Rosie, don’t worry. Matter of thinking ahead a bit, that’s all, having some notion how one might react.’
Léonie went to work at eight thirty, came up for an early snack soon after noon, and told Rosie she’d be out for a while.
‘Moving your transceiver to wherever you’ll be using it tonight?’
‘Hah. Aren’t you the wily bird!’
‘Not really. Being oneself a pianist, and damn-all to do all day except put two and two together.’ She paused, then asked her, ‘Guillaume’s a good one, isn’t he?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well –’ dissimulating, somewhat – ‘a good man to work with?’
‘I enjoy working with him, certainly. He’s – considerate, usually a step or two ahead, and one does feel – well, if things did go wrong, (a) he’d cope and (b) his priority would be to look after us.’
She nodded, thinking about it. You could tell, she thought – the ones you’d trust and the ones you might have when you were green but with experience wouldn’t.
Léonie was getting ready to depart. She added – as if she’d been pondering whether or not to say this – ‘But answering your question about Guillaume – that’s as far as it goes. I mean, professional relationship, mutual liking and respect – that’s it. What you were really asking, wasn’t it?’
‘Well—’
‘I’ll tell you anyway – strictly entre nous. He’s in love with Pauline. She is with him, too. It’s the real McCoy, they’re crazy about each other. Look, I must run…’
Guillaume came by in the early evening bringing them a fowl for boiling, half a dozen eggs and some potatoes. Booty from the countryside – enough to have got him arrested if he’d been caught bringing it into town. The Xanadu field was clear, he said, and the Déchambauds would gladly lend Rosie and her visitor their sitting-room on Saturday night: unless, he added, she and the courier might prefer to save time, conduct their interview right there on the field. Because allowing for the arrival and for the departure preparations they’d be unlikely to have more than an hour, hour and a half for actually conferring. Rosie suggested, ‘Best just to see how it goes.’ By ‘it’, meaning Marilyn’s parachute landing – might be quick and neat, on-target, might not. People out of practice broke legs sometimes, for instance. Guillaume agreed, said he’d provide a Thermos and sandwiches just in case they decided against trekking back to the cottage.
‘All on foot, will it be?’
‘Use a cart probably, coming away with the gear. We’ve used Xanadu several times like that – softly, softly. It’s a good field, I wouldn’t want to compromize it.’
‘So if it was a large-scale parachutage—’
‘We’ve had a couple. Used farm-carts, trans-shipped the stuff to lorries elsewhere. But listen – if it’s decided you’re staying on, I’ll take you as far as Troyes in the office gazo. Leave the Déchambaud place at six, be there – well, middle of the day, roughly. But using minor roads or even routes blanches where possible. I’ll check the map, see how best to plan it.’
‘But that’s marvellous!’
Routes blanches meant unpaved roads. Not only to avoid checkpoints, he explained, but for his own cover, ostensibly visiting some farms. He asked her, ‘You do know where to find this man in Troyes, do you?’
‘Yes. Michel gave me all that. Guillaume, this is very nice of you.’
‘Frankly, the sooner you’re out of Nancy, the better. Not that we aren’t enjoying your company—’
‘Oh, goes without saying…’
‘From Troyes onwards, you’ll be on your own. I can find spurious reason to be there, but not any further west.’
He’d been taking Léonie away with him then, dropping her off at whatever address she’d moved her transceiver to. Wherever it was, she’d need to be installed there before curfew cleared the streets, and he’d pick her up and bring her in with him in the morning.
‘So I’m afraid you have a lonely evening ahead of you, Rosie.’
‘Dare say I’ll survive it.’
‘And a fairly boring Friday and Saturday too. But it really is much safer for you not to go out at all – agreed?’
‘Being so famous.’
‘Seriously, don’t be tempted. No runs round the block, or—’
‘I’ll do my exercises. Press-ups, sit-ups—’
‘You might give some thought to a cover-story for use if we get stopped on the way out of town on Saturday. Could be chancy – they’re going to look twice at young females leaving town. Meanwhile, stay away from windows, and if anyone comes to the door don’t go near it, don’t make a sound. OK?’
On the Friday, Léonie came and went, from time to time. So did Guillaume. Léonie’s transmission had gone out all right. Baker Street would have all Friday and most of Saturday in which to organize the shopping-list. Guillaume was asking for the container which they’d be dropping to have its otherwise empty compartments filled with mainly sabotage materials that he wanted for his own réseau: and one rather fiddly part of Rosie’s list, which Marilyn would probably attend to even if she wasn’t to be the parachutist, was to collect a few items of clothing from the flat in North London which Rosie shared with another girl, and have any English labels removed, if possible French ones substituted. Marilyn knew the flat and had a key to it; she’d also have a good idea of the sort of things Rosie would want.
Get rid of some of this awful gear, then.
Saturday, at last. The hat-shop was open in the morning, but shut at midday. Rosie and Léonie lunched on what was left of the boiled chicken, and Guillaume joined them just after seven in the evening, in good time for the BBC’s French-language ‘personal messages’ programme. Léonie’s illegal domestic wireless was plugged in in the kitchen – the most sound-proof corner of the apartment – with the volume turned low, and eventually they heard amongst a confusion of assorted gibberish as well as bursts of jamming and static that Gaston had fathered twins.
‘Good for him.’ Guillaume stubbed out a cigarette, and kissed Léonie’s cheek. ‘Bless you. Come on, Rosie.’