There wasn’t a lot of sleep, the rest of that night. When she got down from the ridge Marc climbed out and opened a rear door, stowed the attaché case in there while she got in up front. The cabin was blue with smoke: seemed he’d been at it more or less continuously while she’d been up there. He’d heard that car of course and seen its lights; it had crept past, he’d thought it was going to stop, had been preparing a story that left her out of it: as far as she remembered, that he’d been making for Béziers where a customer whom he could name would have put him up if he’d got there earlier, but he’d been delayed somehow and realised that he’d be infringing curfew. He hadn’t been at all happy with this, since it didn’t explain the bicycle or the hatbox with girlie stuff in it, or why he’d gone to such lengths to get his van this far off the road.
‘Why should whoever it was go to the lengths of finding you – let alone questioning or searching?’
‘I don’t know.’ Pulling his door shut. ‘But I’d dropped off, and – anyway, it didn’t stop.’ Getting his Gitanes out again. ‘Smoke?’
‘Well, why not.’ Deserving one, she felt, after that climb. Coming down hadn’t been much easier than getting up there had been. Then she’d had another thought – to take the transceiver apart again, redistribute its components as she’d had them before, so as to be ready for an early start. Marc had pointed out that she could just as well do this when there was a bit of daylight and he’d be refuelling; he had charcoal in a large sailcloth container in the back. Anyway she’d preferred to do it right away, for one thing to have the transceiver less easily recognisable as what it was – which she’d explained to him, then gone to do it, and was crouched in the cargo-space with the torch in her mouth again when she heard the car returning.
Heard a car anyway – approaching from the direction of St-Chinian and Béziers. Coming at a normal speed, she thought – and by the sound of it a petrol engine. No reason to think of it at that stage as the car, but still hurrying now, especially with dismantling the transceiver and getting its parts out of sight. Using the torch was OK even, with the van facing the road and a solid partition between her and its cab.
It was slowing, was either going to stop or creep past at walking pace again. One could assume now therefore that it was the same vehicle: listening to it and thinking of Marc and his state of nerves – need of nicotine no doubt increasing even further, when she realized that it had stopped.
He obviously had been in a state, during her absence. It had come as a surprise, disappointed her, rather. Although she thought the best answer to their situation as it looked right now was probably what he’d suggested a few hours ago – say nothing, act embarrassed, let whoever it was conclude that they had come here for immoral purposes. Even if it turned out to be police of some kind, let them think that.
Crouching, listening for movement, footsteps, voices. If voices, try to catch what language…
Thump of a car door slamming shut. Then its engine revving. First reaction – considerable relief: then more guardedly, could be they were settling in, getting their car off the road… But no: definitely were leaving. Stopped for a look – or for a pee, timing would have been about right for that…
Might have been some kind of patrol – gendarmerie, or worse. Having had some reason to be interested in this place on their way east, and now on the way back stopped for another look. For whatever reason – which was hard to guess at. Anyway she’d done her packing; she slid out, shut the rear doors carefully, and back in the cab, found Marc – believe it or not – fighting yet another cigarette. Asking her with his head low and the match cupped between his palms, its flare suddenly dazzling in those thick lenses, ‘Want one?’
‘No. Marc, I suppose that was the same car as before. It must have been, mustn’t it? Any case all that matters is—’ Checking as her left hand encountered cold metal – on the seat: ‘What have we here, then?’
Pistol – in fact the distinctive shape of a Luger. Although they were no longer standard issue to the German military there were a lot of them about. He’d taken it, transferred it to a pocket of his greatcoat.
‘Going into action, were we?’
‘I’d pushed it down between the seat and the backrest. What you were saying – must’ve been the same car – yes. Although what they were doing —’
‘Stopped for a pee, was my guess.’
‘Could be right, at that. But this gun – no, I wasn’t going to use it, only (a) have it where I could get at it if I needed it, (b) where it wouldn’t be found on me if I happened to be searched.’
‘Expecting the worst, then. Although how they could have had anything to do with us—’
‘Not expecting, no. For that very reason. Only if one does have a gun —’
‘I don’t. By choice. I was given the option – and trained in their use of course, but – by and large, sooner not.’
‘Could be wise. On the other hand, circumstances could arise when you’d wish you’d had one.’
‘Well – with your escape-line, you’ve had more experience in the field than I have, but as you just said, if one did happen to be searched—’
‘I know. It’s debatable.’
‘Have you ever actually used yours?’
‘No – as it happens…’
‘Mightn’t be around now if you had. After all, it’s the enemy that has the fire-power, isn’t it – when it comes down to it?’
‘Yeah. Well…’
Silence then: five, ten minutes, during which time he got rid of his cigarette and almost immediately lit another.
‘Oh – I’m sorry, should’ve—’
‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t have wanted one. Any case I have my own.’
‘I smoke too much, I know.’
She hadn’t noticed that he did, until that car’s appearance, but she let it go. Thinking about the return to Toulouse and seeing Jake, decyphering whatever Baker Street had sent them, and this now being Monday, listening-out from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m. in Berthe’s attic. With any luck they’d come through soon after eleven so she could shut down then and get some sleep.
She broke this silence, with ‘In the morning you might take me a few kilometres beyond Revel, save my poor legs.’
‘Take you to your door, if you like.’
‘No need for that – thanks all the same. Will you be going back to where they stole the charcoal?’
‘See to that and a few other things, then on down to the coast for fish.’
‘Near Perpignan somewhere?’
‘Beach-launched boats all along that stretch, yes. But I could easily take you all the way into town, Suzie – it’d get you there sooner to get on with your decoding.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘What about the poor legs you mentioned?’
‘Not about them either. They’ll have had a good rest by then.’
‘You don’t want me to know where you’re living.’
‘That’s true, I don’t. But you see, it’s the same reciprocally, I don’t want to know anything I don’t need to.’
‘On Jake’s advice, is that?’
‘No. Entirely my own philosophy. Or – self-doubt, call it.’
‘It’s very much Jake’s line. I don’t even know where he hangs out – or what his cover is. Businessman of some sort, that’s all. Not that I give a damn… How d’you mean, self-doubt?’
‘Well – the thought of Gestapo-type interrogation. Torture. How I’d face up to it. Whether I could. Especially the principle of holding out for forty-eight hours. And my point – personal, nothing to do with Jake – is that what one doesn’t know one can’t betray.’
‘Betray.’ If he’d been looking at her he’d turned away, she’d seen or sensed the movement as a reflex – the shift of his cigarette, and that hand moving to the wheel. Repeating the word – in French, the language they were using – ‘Trahir.’ A sigh then; she followed up with ‘Forty-eight hours is what our people expect, you know. Not just hope for, regard as – well, the very least.’
‘Think about such things much, do you?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I’ve always tried not to. If it happens it happens, better to think of ways of ensuring it doesn’t.’
‘Well – I dare say that makes a lot of sense. If one could do it. Thanks, I’ll try. Might be a very good tip… I’ll come clean with you, Marc, the self-doubt’s because I’m new to this, it’s something I never had to think about before, and – well, suddenly there it is.’
‘Despite being such an experienced pianist?’
‘Radio operator. In England. Other end of the line, like the one I was talking with tonight.’
‘Ah, well.’ A last drag at the glowing stub, then opening the window, no doubt pinching it out before dropping it. Window up again. ‘As to the other thing – interrogation, torture – SOE issue you with suicide pills, don’t they?’
‘Yes. Don’t BCRA?’
‘No. Didn’t when I started. Could you get me one?’
‘I don’t know how. I could ask, but – why don’t you ask Jean?’
‘Working with SOE as I am, I’d have thought they’d—’
‘Maybe they would, too. Ask Jean, he’s the boss.’
‘But you’re my partner—’
‘I doubt we’ll be making many of these trips together, frankly. It was Jake’s idea, but I think it’s better to move around quite independently.’
‘And the piano-playing?’
‘Keep it in cycling distance, that’s all.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Save time, mainly – a few hours instead of a day and a half. Probably more secure too, in some ways. Another thing is I’ve asked London for spare radios that I could set up in different locations.’
‘So as not to have one with you on the bike.’
‘Exactly. Except when moving them to new places.’
‘Are you expecting them in this next parachutage?’
‘That’s what I’ve asked for.’
‘The dropping-ground near Montbrun-Bocage, that’s to be.’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’
‘Telling you – if you didn’t already know.’
‘Where is Montbrun-Bocage?’
‘About – oh, a hundred kilometres due south of Toulouse. But this one was set up some little while ago, then postponed. It’s a couple of kilometres from Montbrun, a field we’ve used before. Déclan mentioned it the other day – it’s in his territory, you might say, not likely they’ll need my help.’
‘I thought he went pretty well all over.’
‘He does. But last time they made use of it for a Maquis band not far from Carcassonne, which was a very long haul and I helped with it.’
‘So where’s the Maquis who’ll be getting this next lot?’
‘I don’t know. Somewhere closer to it, I imagine.’
‘Well, well… Marc, I’m going to open this window, just for a minute.’
‘All right.’
‘Clear the air a bit. Might try to sleep then.’
Rosie told me in our restaurant, ‘Must have managed a few hours, I suppose. I do remember that dawn, the sky silvering over the Cevennes and wine for breakfast, then Marc tipping charcoal into his van’s burner and me getting my stuff back on the bike. Well, to be accurate, don’t recall actually doing it, but I know I did – to have it ready for when we stopped somewhere short of Toulouse where I’d take off. But he’d talked in his sleep. I think that’s the memory that sticks – the rest sort of clings around it. He said – more like shouted, as I remember it – “Oh, Denise, Denise, whatever the salauds want –” and a moment later, “Christ almighty, if one could even trust the pigs!”’
She’d just murmured this. Just as well – the place was full, it might have attracted embarrassing attention. She added, still sotto voce, ‘Waking then, he actually moaned – loud, despairing. I didn’t react, pretended I was still flat out, didn’t mention it during the drive back either, but it stayed with me. OK, just nightmare, but a high degree of reality about it – frightening just to hear, for some reason. Partly because it seemed rather starkly to contradict what he’d said about not thinking of – well, what that had sounded like.’ She smothered a yawn. ‘We ought to be getting along quite soon – d’you think?’
I considered that, and came up with ‘How about a kümmel, for the road?’
‘Oh, isn’t that a beaut of an idea!’
It had been her favourite liqueur, apparently, and so long since she’d had any that she’d almost forgotten its existence. Suggesting ungratefully though, after I’d sent for some, ‘Just to keep me gassing, eh?’
‘Not a bit of it. Prolonging the enjoyment of your company, Rosie. And the night’s still fairly young.’
‘Even if we aren’t. Well, who cares.’ A smile, shake of the head. ‘But I really must cut a corner or two from here on. Tomorrow being our last full day. Mind you, with no functions I need to attend, we can spend the whole day at it.’ A flutter of eyelashes: ‘As the actress said to the bishop…’
Jake enquired, limping after her from Berthe’s front door to the sitting-room, ‘Did you get any lunch?’
Because she’d asked him if he’d like tea – this was mid-afternoon – and he’d said no, he’d come straight from a rather long, late lunch with Mahossier, Jorisse clients, which was why he was later than he’d meant to be. She’d told him before this that she’d done the decyphering, encountering no problems, had it upstairs, would get it; answering the lunch question now though: ‘Onion soup and cheese in a café on my way into town. Marc dropped me at a place called Labastide-Beauvoir, which gave me about twenty kilometres to pedal, and he turned down towards – well, Castelnaudary eventually, en route to whatever that village of his is called.’
‘Villerouge-Ségure. Did you get on with him all right?’
‘Oh, yes. A bit jumpy though, isn’t he?’
‘Marc, jumpy?’
She told him briefly about the spooky car, Marc’s subsequent chain-smoking, and the Luger, adding that they’d concluded the car – or patrol – could hardly have had anything to do with them.
‘Right. How could it… Unless – oh, if you’d passed it in one of the villages and they’d recognised the van, thought they’d see what he was up to. Pretty girl with him they hadn’t seen before? The local gendarmes all know him: to them he’s a gars – bit of a lad.’ Jake nodded. ‘That could have been it. If they’d tailed along keeping well back, maybe got as far as Béziers then realised they’d lost you, thought your clearing was the sort of place he’d make use of?’
‘For what?’
‘Well – guess.’
‘That was going to be our act if we needed one. His idea, I may say. But if that had been it – tailing us, lost us, coming back – gone to that much effort, they’d have searched around and found us, surely.’
‘Van was so well hidden, accepted they’d drawn a blank, gave up? But – Suzie, Baker Street’s latest?’
‘I’ll get it.’ From upstairs where she had it all – one-time pads, the transceiver itself and its separately-wrapped crystals – under loose floorboards in the attic. Telling Jake over her shoulder as she left, ‘Parachutage Thursday – day after tomorrow.’
‘Crikey, that soon?’
She came back down with the single page torn from her notebook; skimming through it, he muttered the salient points aloud… ‘Thursday November 19th, ETA on coordinates as arranged, 2300/2330. Containers 8, of which 5 for Printemps, 3 for Charpentier, marked respectively P and C, recognition signal likewise PC.’ He shrugged: ‘At least taking care of both in one drop. It’ll be a Lancaster, of course – round trip’s about a thousand miles.’
‘Those are Maquis code-names, are they?’
‘Just for this operation – the drop and then Hardball, in which they’ll both be taking part. “Printemps” being the Maquis de St-Girons, leader by name of Emile Fernier, and “Charpentier” the bunch at Montgazin. Actually St-Sulpice-sur-Lèze, near Montgazin, which is only spitting distance from the target. Leader’s Michel Loubert, ex Foreign Legion. Hang on though.’ Eyes down again… ‘BBC message to be “Véronique dances like an angel”. And Hardball Stage One provisionally between 28th and 30th, confirmation by the 27th, Le Barcarès or St-Pierre, team of 5 plus 3 BCRA agents for on-routing to Marseille.’ A shrug: ‘Feluccas still at work, then.’
‘But no time for the training programme you had hopes for.’
‘No. But there are experienced men among them. Loubert for instance exceptionally so. They’ll be all right.’ He’d crossed his fingers. ‘And finally – oh, here I detect the cheering tones of Buck!’
The last item, which he was attributing to Maurice Buckmaster, head of ‘F’ Section SOE, read: ‘For info of you all, churchbells are ringing throughout Britain today Sunday in celebration of victory by Eighth Army at El Alamein. Lovely sound, wish you could hear it.’ Jake handed her back the signal. ‘Old Buck’s a charmer, isn’t he. D’you know much about Maquis in general, Suzie?’
‘Only that they live in the woods and kill Germans when they get the chance.’
‘Well, I’ll give you a run-down on it later. Immediate priority is to get hold of Déclan. He’ll have his work cut out now – visiting those two, also the farmer whose land the drop’s to be on. He’s a good man and we’ve used his place before.’
‘At Montbrun-Bocage?’
‘How on earth—’
‘Marc mentioned it. Déclan told him – that he, Marc, wasn’t likely to be concerned in it, as he was apparently on some previous occasion.’
‘Well.’ Thinking about it for a moment. ‘Yes, he was. And since he knew you’d have to know about it—’
‘No harm done.’
‘Although Déclan would have done better to keep his trap shut. Anyway, I must call him. You should know about this too. A tobacconist he’s in daily contact with, I call and ask whether he has any of his own rather special tobacco-mix in stock, Déclan gets the message and we foregather. I’ll give you details of that procedure too.’
Wry smile. ‘In case I ever need it.’
‘Exactly, Suzie.’
‘Will you make the call from here?’
‘Heavens, no. Public box. Station’ll be the handiest. Be back in twenty or thirty minutes, OK?’
Old Rosie said, having refused a second tot of kümmel, ‘In some areas memory doesn’t fail, it’s non-existent. So it’s odd how one does recall a lot of names. People, villages, whatever. Couldn’t be because one memorised them sixty years ago – d’you think?’
‘Extraordinary, but how else? Locked in there. Wouldn’t last five minutes in my memory.’ Which was why I’d been jotting them down in my notebook – St-Girons, Montgazin, St-Sulpice. Names of Maquis leaders didn’t matter, for the fiction I’d invent some, but the villages had to make sense – distances between them, and so forth. Rosie was saying as I put the notebook away, ‘I’d guess you’ll want to jump a couple of days now. I mean with the story – jump to the 19th and me on my bike heading for a rendezvous with Alain Déclan?’
‘To attend the parachutage?’
‘Well, yes. Oh, haven’t mentioned this yet, but listening-out that night – aerial wire dangling from the attic window and the set plugged into the mains – actually into a light-socket, so I was working in the dark again—’
She’d paused while I glanced at the bill and gave the man a credit card; then went on, ‘Sevenoaks came through within minutes of my setting up shop, notifying me when translated into plain language that my spare sets and batteries had been ordered for inclusion in Thursday’s drop, in a container of their own marked L for Lucy. And you’re right, this meant I’d have to get there myself, since Déclan would have his hands full ensuring that each Maquis got the goodies it was entitled to, with no poaching, and that whatever transport had been organised was loaded accordingly, and nothing left behind, so forth. Well, you can bet that any of ’em’d pinch my transceivers, given half a chance. Wouldn’t know how to use ’em but that’d make no odds, they were after anything they could get. Can’t use it, find a market for it. Most of the bands lived to some extent from pilfering, even robbing the odd bank. Not on their own doorsteps, tended to go foraging elsewhere. They had supporters – suppliers – priests, local farmers and others who contributed either goods or cash – church collections, local whip-rounds, and here and there some baron organising behind the scenes. All set, are we?’
We were. Had only to get into our coats and find a taxi, which might best be done on the boulevard. Heading that way along Rue Bayard with her arm hooked into mine, Rosie rattled on about the Maquis, how since the German invasion of what had been unoccupied France their numbers had been swollen by new people, in some cases even whole families. Hardcore members were escapers and evaders, Jews on the run from rafles – round-ups – and young men avoiding compulsory labour service – STO – which had been set up that summer by Laval. Those were known as réfractaires. Some of the bands were in fact becoming over-large, the ideal strength for active Resistance purposes being no more than fifteen men, under leaders who ranked militarily as lieutenants. In that shape, in times of emergency – army sweeps, for instance, for which the Boches tended to use their imported Cossacks, oddly enough – they could shift camp swiftly, usually to another forest hideout ten or more kilometres away. Whereas cluttered-up with what might best be called camp-followers—
‘Not so good. But –’ I gently disengaged my arm from hers, needing it to wave with – ‘we’re in luck, Rosie, here’s a taxi.’