They’d made an early start from l’Hôtel du Tennis, and stopped at an impressively massive, empty, fort-like château on a wooded summit east or south-east of Quillan, to send a short message away to Baker Street. Jake had known about this château – she guessed he might have made use of it in company with Wiggy at some time; he’d given her the text of the message over breakfast in the hotel and they’d encyphered it an hour and a half later in the Buick, smoking Gitanes and looking down through pines and a lingering early mist into that fantastic gorge. It was a very steep approach-road and by the time they’d got up there she’d been scared the car might have been about to cough its lungs out.
The message was to tell Baker Street that having discussed it with the commandos’ CO Jake’s expectation for the Hardball pick-up was 0400 CET Saturday 5th December, subject to Canet-Plage remaining wire-free, which they should assume unless they were notified to the contrary, and that Lucy would be listening-out every night this week from 2300 to 2359. She’d commented after tapping out the coded groups and getting an acknowledgement from Sevenoaks, ‘Cutting the listen-out period to one hour’s a good wheeze, Jake.’
‘I thought so too. Better be on our way though, when you’re ready.’
‘Of course…’
So peaceful up here you could forget you were handling equipment that was about as safe as dynamite, if you were caught with it. Anyway she wasn’t delaying anything – had already wound the aerial-wire back on to its reel, slid in now with the case open on her lap, pulled the door shut and began fitting the bits and pieces into their slots. Reminding herself that she had her daytime crystals in the set now – best take them out right away. Since one was going to cache this set somewhere along the way home and didn’t have spare crystals for use in the others: to have left these in situ would have been a really thoroughgoing cock-up. Jake had the Buick rolling, by this time.
‘Wouldn’t want to get caught up here – with only one way in or out. Otherwise not a bad spot, eh? For a summer picnic, say? Suzie – subject of listening-out time etcetera – yes, puts ’em on their toes, rather, and should get you earlier to bed. Which, as there’s bound to be some transmitting to do as well – further news of wire on Canet-Plage, not to mention possible developments at the Noé end—’
‘And if you’re going to be out of reach—’
‘Only twenty-four hours or so. Some time tomorrow until I’d guess Wednesday evening.’ Thinking about it… ‘Suzie, we’ll work something out. Might give Marc a cut-out telephone number, for direct contact when there’s anything that can’t wait?’
‘Would you want me going on the air to Baker Street without prior reference to you?’
‘If it’s straightforward – info they’d need double-quick for passing to the felucca, for instance – yes, surely. And if you did have to, Suzie, might make it from somewhere west or north-west of town. Vicinity of Cussecs, say – there are patches of forestry out that way. And two birds with one stone, leave the set somewhere around there when you’ve done it?’
‘Cussecs. I’ll look it up. But yes, fine – one on our way back today, and that one. No more toing and froing with sets on board – except just that once. Any thoughts on where we might dump today’s? Not too far out of town, for choice?’ Rubbing his blunt jaw, thinking about it. ‘Not easy to think of anywhere really handy. As we know – terrain being as it is. Unless – well, woodland to the north of Castelnaudary that might do – bit far out, mind…’
‘Sixty kilometres?
‘Christ. Yes, I suppose…’
‘I could manage it. Out one day, back the next. Not for ever, but in this somewhat crucial period, and time a bit short—’
‘As a temporary thing then, let’s check it out. And I’ll deliver the other set to you at Berthe’s in the morning. You’ll be listening-out tonight, I’ll drop by earlyish for any results from that, and bring you the set then. So when you take to your bike later on today—’
‘How far’s the Cussecs place?’
‘Twelve, fifteen kilometres?’
‘That’s much more like it!’
‘Just a matter of finding some – what, shed, hole in the ground – needs to be waterproof, I suppose—’
‘I’ll find somewhere, don’t worry.’ Nodding to herself. ‘Cussecs. OK. When I need to transmit, that’s where I’ll go.’
‘Fine.’ A glance at her, and a smile. Then he’d checked the road was clear and was turning into it. She asked him, ‘You’ll be with Déclan and his gang or gangs, will you?’
‘I’ll be seeing him, certainly. Train tomorrow a.m. to Pamirs is the first stage – and return some time Wednesday. Mahossier, Jorisse business, of course.’
I’d made a few notes on the laptop, back in my room in the Mermoz, of various things she’d recalled or semi-recalled during that session in the Beaux Arts. Jake’s having told her for instance that Déclan and the commandos would have been spending that day holed-up in some Maquis hideout near Foix, and that the attack on the camp at Noé was to take place on the Wednesday night/Thursday morning. Actually Jake had amended this from ‘attack on’ to ‘infiltration of’, and this was a lot more than she’d have expected him to have let her know about that end of it. She’d have made her guesses, of course – Noé being something like 60 kilometres from Foix, for instance, the commandos would probably have made another move in the interim. And doubtless he as ringmaster so to speak would be conferring with Marteneau, Loubert and maybe the Noé insider as well as with Déclan. She was vague about it anyway – hadn’t needed to know, therefore hadn’t wanted to, and had no more to say about it now – left it to me to work out for myself I dare say. So over the black coffee with which we were finishing what had been a most enjoyable lunch, I suggested, ‘How about siestas now? A taxi to l’Ambassade – couple of hours’ rest, resume at teatime?’
She nodded happily. ‘Then we could go right through to supper – take a stroll perhaps – and there’s a tea-and-buns place we might stop at. Might be as well to keep clear of the Brasserie des Aviateurs at this stage. Our guest of honour being due here in the morning, as you know – allegedly in the morning but it’s rumoured might clock in tonight. I’ve a suspicion some of his former associates may be hanging around in that hope – and one tends to get trapped, you know?’
‘So, OK. Siesta now, then a walkabout and your tea place – then see how we feel. Might prop up a bar somewhere – the Grand Hôtel de l’Opéra, for instance?’
‘And dine at our home from home?’
‘Saturday, the Colombier’s shut. Les Jardins de l’Opéra, on the other hand – supposedly the best in town – go for bust, shall we?’ I’d signalled for the bill. Asking her, ‘Concluding that last bit though, your trip back with Jake, did you find a hiding-place for the transceiver in woods near Castelnaudary?’
‘Must have.’ She nodded. ‘And never saw that set again, come to think of it. So much effort getting the damn thing, and just that one message was all it ever sent. Same with the other one – took it out in the Cussecs direction the next evening – Tuesday, would have been – put it through its paces and then cached it. I remember that one well enough. It’s odd – a lot of the time recollection’s nil or at best hazy, then suddenly it goes vivid. At this stage maybe because it was what you might call the beginning of the end – all of it about to hit the fan, so one’s thought back to it more often?’
She was in the house on Place Marengo by late afternoon that Monday, and the fish she’d brought from l’Hôtel du Tennis was not, she guessed, quite as recently out of the sea as Madame Quétin had asserted, so after she’d cleaned herself up a bit she found potatoes in the larder and made a pie of it. Homecoming surprise for Berthe a couple of hours later: she was delighted with it, went so far as to produce a bottle of white wine that had been a present from some pupil’s parents.
‘Jean should be here to have supper with us!’
‘Yes, he should. But he had to clock in at Mahossier, Jorisse – and he was very tired.’
‘I envy you your little trip with him. He’s such a nice man. Don’t you think?’
‘Certainly do. He’s very fond of you too.’
‘Does he talk about me, then?’
‘Well – you know, from time to time…’
‘Saying what for instance?’
‘How attractive you are, and amusing – and extraordinarily kind to us—’
‘Is he likely to be calling in in the next day or two?’
‘In the morning.’ Rosie pointed upwards. ‘I’ll be doing my stuff tonight and he’ll drop by for any messages.’
‘Early, or—’
‘Yes. He has a train to catch. Jorisse business again – a day and a night, I think, I don’t know where.’
‘I might wait to say hello. By the way, I suppose you heard the news from Stalingrad?’
‘Haven’t heard any—’
‘They’re all talking about it. Well – whispering, more like. Russians have got the Nazis well and truly on the ropes. General von Paulus’s Sixth Army virtually destroyed – surrounded, something like eighty thousand of them killed or taken prisoner—’
‘Magnificent!’
‘Yes, it is. I personally have no time for communists, but those Russians must be really something.’
Berthe would have been in bed and probably asleep before Rosie had her set tuned in, a few minutes before eleven. Set plugged into the overhead light socket, torch in mouth in the attic’s darkness – blanket covering the window, of course – headphones on, pad and pencil handy. Thinking she might use the set’s battery next time, rather than the mains, not only for the convenience of it but because it was a way they caught you – if one had been transmitting, which of course tonight one was not, but still had to respond to any call.
Sevenoaks began its chatter at a minute past eleven, and within seconds she’d given them the go-ahead – Receiving you strength 4 – which in fact improved when the message began stuttering in, Rosie jotting the groups down – not all that many of them, before the AR for Message ends, when she switched instantly from ‘Receive’ to ‘Send’ and gave them a K.
Done. Switched off… Visualising Funkabwehr listening now to nothing but atmospherics. They’d have the Sevenoaks message on tape in Paris, and might or might not have picked up Rosie’s own two blurts on their direction-finders here too. Please God, would not have had the time, luck or skill to get a bearing on her, let alone a fix. Couldn’t guarantee they hadn’t – once again, simply a risk one had to take, couldn’t spend every night in ditches… On her feet now, removing the plug from the overhead light fixture. The trick they’d been known to play with the mains supply when they had a pianist at work in an urban area was to cut off the power to one section after another while listening-in: when the transmission was cut off in full flow they knew which part of the town to target, with their vans and/or men on foot in the streets, all that.
Bed now. Decypher this lot in the morning. Prayers now, and bed.
She’d thought Jake might have been there by about seven, and had been ready for him at that time, but in fact he didn’t show up until after nine. She’d been getting a bit worried, and Berthe had long departed to catch her bus.
He’d brought the other transceiver with him, as he’d said he would. Taking it from him in the front hall, she asked, ‘Missed your train?’
He kissed her cheek. ‘The early one, yes. Must not miss the next. Gives me about an hour. Everything all right?’
She’d nodded. ‘Would you like coffee or—’
‘No, thanks. Thing is, I’ve had Marc on the blower. He’d been trying to get through to me since some time yesterday, made his connection a couple of hours ago, and – you know, it can take a little while, the call back, and—’
‘Your cut-out system.’
A nod. ‘Did Baker Street have anything for us?’
‘Had this.’
Her decrypt of it. They’d acknowledged the message she’d sent giving the pick-up as 0400 Saturday subject to the beach being still wire-free, and were warning that it might become necessary to cancel in the event of the felucca skipper crying off, for whatever reasons he might have.
Jake read it twice. ‘Might, might not. Doesn’t help much, does it.’
‘What’s Marc got to say?’
‘That the Canet-Plage and Barcarès beach-launch fishermen have been told those beaches won’t be available to them after Sunday, they’re advised to make arrangements to shift to Port Vendres or Collioure. They’re desperate about it – well, you can imagine!’
‘At least OK until Sunday.’
‘On the face of it. Bit of a close thing though, isn’t it. Anyway we’d better let Baker Street and the mad Pole know. I’ve told Marc to keep his ear to the ground – and as we were saying yesterday, Suzie, since I’m going to be out of town—’
‘He may want to contact me.’
‘Easier in fact the other way about. I told him I’d give you his cut-out number. It’s a bar in Perpignan. Here – this number. Call from a public phone, ask for Raoul, say you’re Lucy and give them a pay-phone number to call you back at – at say two, three or four p.m., whatever suits you. Make your calls to him at midday today and tomorrow, using different call-boxes each day. Got it?’
‘The onus being on him then to call back at whatever time I say.’
‘Which I can tell you he doesn’t much like. But as I said, at such short notice it’s the easiest way to do it.’
‘And tonight I’ll go out to this Cussecs place or the woods around it, and tell Baker Street present indications are beach-wiring starts Sunday.’
‘Unless you get any variation on that from Marc at noon.’
‘Any reason to think there may be?’
‘Well, who knows – but so far it’s only what he’d heard. He was urgently seeking confirmation, but guessed we’d want to get it to Baker Street sooner rather than later anyway.’ A shrug. ‘As of course we must. But Suzie, listen – Marc doesn’t know we’re scheduling the pick-up for Saturday, for all he knows it mightn’t be until some time next week. Which would make his news fairly vital, you see.’
‘The need to know…’
‘He still doesn’t need to. Doesn’t matter now, but Sunday night he was setting off with those BCRA characters who’ve damn-all to do with us but might on the other hand be thick with him, and I’d sooner did not know our business. Incidentally, he put them on their train, all right.’
‘I’ll keep off the subject of pick-up dates. Canet-Plage not looking too promising though, huh?’
‘Because of this stuff of Marc’s?’ A shrug. ‘I don’t think it should worry us. 0400 Saturday’s comfortably this side of Sunday, after all. Baker Street and the felucca’s problems are another thing entirely, sure… But by and large, getting off a beach is a lot quicker and easier than climbing mountains – if the felucca’s going to be here – and – hang on – another point is that after a couple of years in prison camps our Gustave may not be in exactly prime condition.’
‘That is a thought…’
‘On the other hand – new thought – the felucca skipper might decide to pull out of it later in the time-scale than we’d find easy to cope with. Or the beach-wiring might start say on Friday – if their posts and stuff arrived, for instance, or troops were suddenly available – so we’d have to rethink at dangerously short notice. Well, what did seem the obvious answer was to send him and the commandant with the rest of them, but now I’m not so sure. See – the main party’s going straight from Noé into the mountains – initially in the hired lorry that’s bringing them up to Noé – while Déclan brings Gustave and Marteneau down to a Maquis bolt-hole near Lavelanet. They get there around dawn on Thursday, lie low until dark on Friday – that’s all set up and actually looks rather good. Earlier on Friday, for instance, Déclan’s supposedly working on some borehole pump in the Lavelanet area – actual fact he can be catching up on sleep in his truck but it’d still explain his presence in the area if he should need to. And by that time the other lot’ll be into the mountains, Maquis covering their withdrawal or at least hampering pursuit – if there is any, if the alarm’s been raised, which with luck and good management it may not have been. One way and another, in fact, it’s not bad: and on balance, if we can’t have our beach pick-up I’d sooner send those two over the mountains on what one might call Marc’s route – from Banyuls and through the Zone Interdite.’
‘Have Marc set that up?’
‘Maybe. Although he’d have to get there in the first place, he’s not essential to it, and thanks to him we know of a café-bar in Banyuls he told me he’d used for most of his evaders – including the pair Gabrielle Vérisoin helped with. I think that was when he told me about it. The bar’s proprietor’s a Basque by name of – well, the bar’s called the Etoile – I’m pretty sure—’
‘Shall I ask him?’
Blinking at her. Fingering a pack of Gitanes: looking at them then and changing his mind, pushing them back in his pocket. ‘Yes. Please. Then if we do have to switch—’
‘I’ll ask him when he calls me back this afternoon.’
‘And then – listen, call me at Pamirs, so I can brief Alain and Marteneau. Marteneau does have to agree to any change, of course, he is the military commander. And if – no, no… Talking faster than I’m thinking… But listen – telephone directory – Berthe must have one here, I’m sure. L’Hôtel France in Pamirs. Ask for me – my own name, Samblat, you’re Madame Samblat – give me the bar owner’s name, and confirmation it is the Etoile. This Basque’s a fixer – middle-man for the local passeurs – smugglers, smuggle people as well as other things.’
‘Fascinating. But crikey – talk about “need to know”!’
‘Well, you do need to!’
‘Do now, sure. Don’t I, just…’
Hands on her shoulders suddenly, and smiling down at her. ‘I may have said this before, Suzie, but you really are quite a girl.’
‘Oh. Well… But – what time will you be at that hotel for me to ring you?’
‘Say between five and five-thirty? Then back again later, but you’ll be on your bike by then… Suzie, plain fact is I’m nuts about you. D’you mind?’ Laughing then – as if at her. Or at them maybe, this situation. A hug then – quick, tight bear-hug – and disengaging but still face to face. She said quietly, ‘I rather go for you too – since you mention it. Might also mention though, Berthe really is a fervent admirer. A mere twenty-four-hours’ absence seemingly making the heart grow fonder? She was hoping you’d be here before she took off this morning, but—’
‘Oh, Christ.’ He’d let go of her. ‘That damn train…’
She was at the Matabiau station at noon, picked one of the half-dozen public phones at random, made a note of its number, asked for that number in Perpignan and put her money in. A male voice answered, and having established that Raoul wasn’t there but would be later she left a message asking him to call Lucy at this Toulouse number at about 2 p.m.
Home for a snack then, and with time to kill she worked out the signal she’d send Baker Street tonight.
Your message received and understood. Present indications are that beaches should be accessible until the end of this week, but in case of need an alternative exit route for Gustave and escort is being prepared. Decision on this should please be made either by us or by felucca through you latest pm Thursday.
Which would be cutting it about as fine as one dared. Thursday being when Déclan would have von Schleben and Marteneau at the place near Lavelanet, Jake presumably having some way of communicating with him there.
She encyphered it, then put her feet up and thought about Jake for a while before setting out for the station and that call-box. To ensure the line stayed open she shut herself in the box and put the receiver to her ear while holding its bracket down and reciting snatches of verse into the speaker until the ringing started.
‘Yes?’
‘Lucy?’
‘Yes, Raoul. I called on Jake’s instructions—’
‘It’s nice to hear from you.’
‘Thanks for calling back. Can you confirm what you told Jake this morning?’
‘I think we can take it as certain, although I haven’t been able to speak with the ones I need to. I’ll have seen some of them by this time tomorrow, though. Will Jake be back by then?’
‘Doubt it. I’ll call you again at noon. But listen—’
‘Why don’t I call you when I’ve got the answer?’
‘Because this is the way Jake wanted me to do it, and I don’t know where I’ll be at noon, or where I’ll want you to call me back. There’s a name Jake wants from you, though—’
‘When will he be back?’
‘I don’t know. What he wants from you is the name of some café-bar in Banyuls you told him about – might be l’Etoile, he thought – and the name of the man who runs it. A Basque?’
‘What’s this for? Alternative to Canet-Plage – consequent on the news I gave him?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Give me the answers for him, please?’
‘The man who runs the Etoile calls himself Gérard. It’s at the back of l’Hôtel des Pyrénées.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
‘When will you be seeing him, to pass this on? Might be better if I saw him myself – I could tell him plenty about Gérard, and the brother, and—’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow noon, Raoul.’
‘Couldn’t we meet, instead?’
‘Let’s do that soon, but I must run now. ’Bye.’
She hung up. L’Etoile, Gérard, back of l’Hôtel des Pyrénées… A couple of hours’ snooze now maybe before calling Jake at Pamirs. Borrow Berthe’s alarm clock…
The Hôtel France’s number, the operator told her, was engaged. Five-twenty now. The boxes were in constant use at this time of day, and a large man in a fur coat and Homburg, who’d been glaring at her, took her place as she backed out of this one. She’d dwelt a brief pause before getting the operator back and asking her to try again – and finding it still busy – and he’d been looking daggers at her: having what he wanted now, he raised his hat and showed his teeth, muttered ‘Mam’selle… Half-smoked cigar back in his mouth then; he’d have to be a collaborator, she thought. Staying where she was therefore, guessing he’d have a clear purpose in mind, might therefore be quick – an instruction, a demand, and finish, bang the thing back on its hook… She’d guessed right, and after only about a minute was back in there, getting a different operator and this time thank God connecting, pushing the coins in.
‘Hôtel France, how may I help you?’
‘I think my husband, Monsieur Jean Samblat, may be waiting for this call?’
‘He is indeed, madame. One little moment?’
A buzz, and clickings. Then: ‘Lucy, that you?’
‘You did catch your train, then.’
‘Chérie – this line’s not too good—’
She raised her voice: ‘You had the name of that place right, and the man’s name is Gérard. Our friend had no other news, won’t be seeing those concerned until tomorrow.’
‘So there we are. Sweet of you to have called. See you tomorrow.’
‘Good. Take care.’
‘Oh, you too. Goodnight, chérie.’
Old Rosie again now: smiling like a girl, in the course of our stroll later that Saturday afternoon… ‘Calling me chérie – and meaning it – acting as my husband, of course, for the benefit of listeners-in – telephones were never safe, you realise, we were advised not to use them unless it was really necessary, a lot of the operators were said to be informers – but the chérie bit was more than that, sort of a reference to that earlier exchange – you know?’
‘You’d fallen for him. You did touch on this earlier, I know, but—’
‘We’d fallen for each other. You’re thinking about Ben again, aren’t you?’
‘Well – to an extent—’
‘I didn’t know Ben at that stage. I was getting to know Jake. What had happened between me and Ben all that time ago had nothing to do with this. He was – like something out of a byegone dream I’d sooner have forgotten, I neither expected nor wanted ever to set eyes on him again – he’d gone, d’you understand me?’
‘Yes, of course, Rosie. As you felt then. OK. Anyway, you’d made that phone call – to Pamirs—’
‘I know that tone too. You’re saying leave that, let’s get on with the stuff that matters!’
‘Well – we do need to get on with it – having only this evening and whatever’s left of tomorrow after your lunchtime shindig – but obviously your relationship with Jake does matter – enormously. I thought you’d said as much as you were going to on the subject, that’s all. In fact in that area I dare say I have a sort of preconception – prejudice, if you like – having written as much as I have about you and Ben, consequently seeing Ben as the man who really mattered in your life?’
She didn’t comment, and I partially changed the subject. ‘He’ll be coming into it soon, will he?’
‘Quite soon.’ She’d nodded, but was pointing across the road at a patisserie – I guessed the ‘tea and buns place’ she’d had in mind. ‘OK?’
‘Cross at the lights, shall we?’
‘What you were saying then… You’re quite right, Ben was the man who as things turned out came to matter gigantically in my life. No argument, you know all that. But it only came about because of how things went with Jake. I’m not for a split second implying anything like Jake versus Ben, Jake comes out on top or Ben does – that’d be quite unreal. Leave it at that now, shall we?’ She took my arm as we crossed the road. ‘I’d like Lapsang Suchong and a chocolate eclair, please.’
After the call to Jake at Pamirs she went back to Berthe’s, disassembled the new transceiver into its component parts and packed them and the battery into a jumble of spare clothing in the bike’s panier, under an old macintosh. The transceiver’s leather case, which was to all intents and purposes waterproof, went on to the bike’s carrier with a thermos of coffee, sandwiches and her spare sweater to pad it out. Her thinking behind this being that a jumble of old clothes shouldn’t attract much attention but the neat little transceiver case might. To any Gestapist or Abwehr officer who knew his onions, would – so one could only count on not running into any such creature… In which hope, having got herself dressed up – warm trousers, sweater, coat and headscarf – she set off shortly after dusk, and within a couple of hours was on a tree-covered hillside a few kilometres west of Cussecs. She made her transmission at eleven, the Sevenoaks operator acknowledged and then told her they’d nothing for her, so she didn’t have to stay up, had several hours’ broken sleep in the shelter of a fallen elm whose enormous upturned roots in an overhang of impacted soil would she thought serve as a hiding-place for the set. She fixed this at first fight – the set by then assembled and in its case, of course – building it into a contrivance of sticks and other debris not unlike a ground-level squirrel’s dray, before setting off for home.
Wednesday now. The Noé ‘infiltration’ would be taking place tonight and in the small hours of Thursday: by this time tomorrow, therefore – for better or for worse… Pedalling out of the forested area – and not through but past Cussecs – she was visualising a successful outcome: Alain Déclan hunched over the wheel of his old truck, with the German and Commandant Marteneau under the tarp in rear, plugging southward towards Lavelanet, and the others in their hired lorry escaping into the foothills of that towering snowbound range. Please God, escaping, all of them. It would be a while before one knew for sure, she guessed, maybe several days.
It was past eight when she got back, and Berthe had already left for work. There was an ambulance parked on the other side of Marengo – white with a green cross on its side, and just sitting there, no activity around it. Traffic had been heavy on the way into town, at any rate the last hour of it, and she was looking forward to shedding the gear she’d hiked and slept in, immersing or at least sluicing herself in water that with any luck might still be warm. After that – well, tea and toast, for want of anything more like a proper breakfast.
Washed and dressed, she went downstairs – first to her bike in the rear hallway, to clear out the panier – thermos to be rinsed out along with the breakfast things – might well need it again tonight, thermos and bike. Having the commitment to listening-out, of course, but odds-on that Jake would have stuff for Baker Street as well. For instance he’d have discussed the alternative exit-route via Banyuls with Marteneau and Déclan.
Kettle filled, hot-plate switched on. Tea…
Berthe had left her a note – a few scribbled lines on the bottom of their shopping-list.
An ambulance has been in the square all night and still is, is now quiet but when I went over to see what it was doing there were squeals and whistles audible which sounded like some kind of wireless activity. Most sincerely hope nothing to do with us?
This kettle was always slow in coming to the boil. She left it with the hotplate glowing red and ran upstairs – because from the ground floor one’s view across this end of the square was interrupted by a stone memorial in the centre.
Ambulance no longer there.
Having spent the night listening-out for her? Would have heard her, too. But Berthe wandering over there out of curiosity, and sharp enough, considering her ignorance of pretty well everything that was going on, to have caught on to the likely truth of what it was about. She’d have been curious in the first place because ambulances didn’t usually spend nights parked and doing nothing in town squares.
Thank God one had not been on listening-out watch here last night. But they’d have had some reason for picketing this quarter?
Kettle boiling. Toaster already plugged in. Wake up now – make the tea and slice bread. Tear off that lower part of the shopping-list and burn it.
Get rid of the set?
Dismantle it, toss it in the canal piece by piece, like someone feeding ducks?
Not yet, anyway. Have it ready for ditching. Jake would be back at any rate before dark, please God sooner, and this didn’t have to mean curtains, shutting up shop. That in fact was practically inconceivable. Unacceptable. They were showing interest in this quarter of the town, not this house. Anyway not yet this one. And one did have the spare sets stashed away, thank heavens. Jake would certainly want her to be listening-out tonight – if not transmitting. One could hardly have picked a worse time to be even considering shutting down.
Even remembering being warned in the course of training: ‘A show of interest often precedes a break-in. Never wise to stick around unless there’s some absolute imperative…’
Might say there was?
Fumbling bread-slices into toaster. Accepting that on the night before last the Funkabwehr might have been either remarkably quick in their reactions or just plain lucky. Alerted by her response to the Sevenoaks call-up, then staying on-beam and the right megacycles to catch the blip of acknowledgement minutes later?
Ten to one, they’d only have got a single bearing – and with only about a second in which to adjust for direction, so no great accuracy. This square, the station area, a few acres of streets around, maybe – any house in that sort of area… But could have been other ‘ambulances’ around, not just that one. Jake would insist, obviously, no more listening-out from here: and that in coming or going on the bike one should be a lot more cautious than of late. Nothing from now on that risked drawing attention to this house.
Digging her toast out of the smoking toaster with the prongs of a fork; toast somewhat blackened, in need of a scrape. Hands betrayingly shaky while doing so, and heartbeat a little fast. Remembering her first days here, determination to take no risks, call her own shots. Even laying down the law to Jake about it – telling him she’d never ‘do a Wiggy’, all that stuff. Now of course one knew better what one was up against, the risks one had to accept if one was going to do the job at all.
Jam, but no butter. Most of the butter was being taken for the occupying forces or railed off to Germany, the ration was ridiculously small. Time now – nine-twenty. Had to be at the station at noon, to call Marc; in the interim might try to sleep, in preparation for a second night in the open, but doubted she’d be able to.
She’d done some housework, also attended to her bike – tightening nuts, oiling, and adjusting the chain, seeing to the tyres. She’d also checked that the transceiver was as well hidden amongst the attic junk as it could be, ditto smaller items – one-time pads and crystals.
Cyanide capsule secure in its very much more personal location.
Out of the south-east corner of Place Marengo – forty or so metres from where the ambulance had been parked – and to her right along the boulevard. Quite a lot of traffic on it: through that fluctuating racket, the regular clacking of her wooden-soled shoes on damp paving. A light drizzle was fading but it was warmer than it had been and she was wearing a raincoat which Berthe had said she could use whenever she wanted; it was loose on her, and too long, but that at least served to keep her legs dry.
Gare Matabiau. Several Boche army trucks were parked in the forecourt, other transport double-parked for want of space, gendarmes making an issue of it here and there. She went on in, picked a phone-box she hadn’t used before, made a note of its number as the one he should call, used another one to call the bar in Perpignan and leave the message as before – Raoul please to call Lucy at 2 p.m. It was a woman who took the message this time.
She bought some cigarettes – Caporals, which was all the man had – at the corner-shop Jake had used on the day she’d first met him, her first day here, when they’d subsequently found themselves stuck in the station bar for a while and begun to get to know each other. But Caporals were OK as far as she was concerned; oddly enough, she hadn’t been smoking much in recent days.
Was odd, when you came to think of it. From the way she felt now, might well change.
Better get some lunch anyway. Early for it, but having come this far, and not keen either on going back to the house or eating in the station bar, on the other hand remembering Berthe having told her of a café-restaurant on Place Belfort, only six or seven hundred metres from here and not bad, not the kind of place you’d usually see Boches either, she decided to try it. She took her time getting there, smoked one cigarette over a small cognac before ordering her meal – soup, and some kind of pâté with bread – and another afterwards over a liquid they called coffee. It wasn’t bad, there were no Boches, and it had taken about an hour, i.e. half the time she had to kill. The rain had stopped and she thought vaguely of taking a look at Place Victor Hugo, where Jake had his apartment and the Gestapo had taken over an hotel – l’Ours Blanc, the White Bear. That square was no great distance. On the other hand it would roughly double the distance she’d have to walk back, exercise was about the last thing she needed, and who’d want to see Gestapo headquarters when they didn’t bloody well have to?
She set off back – via the top end of Rue Bayard and that bridge over the canal – which brought her virtually into the station forecourt.
Still about forty minutes early. Find a bench maybe, take the weight off. Didn’t want anything from the bar, and couldn’t have sat for long without ordering something. Out again therefore: back into the main hall and past the line of phone-boxes. A couple of them were in use: she reckoned on following the same procedure as she had yesterday, establishing occupancy of that one a few minutes before zero-hour.
Benches in railway stations really didn’t attract one much. Wandering on, therefore. Thinking about the ambulance, that its camouflage actually made it very noticeable. Once you knew what it actually was, of course, which one did thanks only to Berthe’s God-given curiosity. Without that, it was distinctly possible one would have been listening-out from the house tonight.
Curtains then, all right. Leading to – all that business. In the course of it, discovering basic truths about oneself, not least one’s capacity to endure excruciating pain.
As an alternative to revisiting the Cussecs area though, take this set out to Buzet? Less dangerous than transmitting on two nights running from the same location, probably. That had been a near squeak a few nights ago, but the Funkabwehr didn’t have to know she’d even been there, and there was a lot of forest, with more than one approach to it.
Discuss it with him.
She’d come to another exit, which she recognised as the one from which that young gendarme had stood watching her – and infuriating Jake – a few days ago when they’d been setting off for Canet-Plage. Smiling at the mental picture she had of him, in his cloak and kepi, confronting the Luftwaffe people with that air of slightly amused contempt.
Drizzling again. And only – twenty minutes to two, still. When you were in a tearing hurry, time flew, when you wanted it to fly—
To her left, opposite but this side of a more central entrance, a grey Citroen Light 15 had just swept in, was rocking to a halt with its front tyres against the kerb, where – unusually – there were several vacant parking spaces. She’d edged back under this doorway’s arch – instinctive reaction, but doing it with a degree of stagecraft, glancing up as if being dripped on and for that reason withdrawing into shelter.
Driver getting out. Standard kit for La Geste – trench coat and soft hat. From the rear seat also on this side, that one’s virtual twin except for having a fatter, whiter face, emerging simultaneously and pausing with a hand on the open rear door, waiting for some other person to slide over and climb out.
Marc.
Marc.
Rosie frozen. Trying to tell herself she had to be deluded: some flare of lunacy stemming from her jumpy, fraught imagination. It was him for sure, though – in that shabby old army greatcoat, rain-hat, pebble glasses glistening, already wet from the drizzle. And in no way the Gestapists’ prisoner: addressing them by the look of it quite affably, even excitedly, waving a hand in the direction of the telephones – direction of other things too, but this was plainly telephone business. Where in about fifteen or twenty minutes she would have been, to receive his call. Or if she’d arrived nearer the appointed hour – in a hurry maybe and in any case unsuspecting, blind to any such possibility, dementia such as this…
Although she could see instantly how he or they might have pulled it off. Not having given it a thought until this second, but it was there in a flash. Shock galvanising the intelligence? Should have given it some bloody thought, not have used only station telephone numbers, both for calling and for him to call back on. This time after she’d called at noon, someone waiting for it in that bar in Perpignan would have called him – or them – in l’Ours Blanc, even.
They’d gone inside – doubtless to check which box then merge into the shifting throng, Marc eventually nudging them with a whispered ‘There. That’s her coming now…’
Nightmare in watery greyish daylight. Marc a traitor, a vendu – and the réseau blown. Not only the appalling, visible fact of it, sense of absolute enormity, but what it left you with – faced her with here and now – Jake on his way back from Pamirs, Déclan and company on the brink of action. Not even Déclan could have much chance of making it out, away – Marc knowing about Canet-Plage, l’Hôtel du Tennis and l’Etoile in Banyuls. Which – Christ – blew everything. He even knew where Déclan lived. Those three having gone inside she’d moved instantly, was by this time halfway across the forecourt – stunned, never having wanted anything as badly as in that moment she wanted Jake.