She’d slept heavily, as far as she knew dreamlessly, and woke thinking of Ben. She might have been having some dream with him in it, she supposed; but the recollection as she woke was of telling him a few weeks ago: ‘My last excursion, anyway. I promise you.’
‘Can you promise? I mean, you can now – and mean it – but if your Baker Street chums turn the pressure on again—’
‘I’m giving you that undertaking now, Ben. I won’t go back on it, I swear.’
She would stick to it, too. One way or the other. What Lise called ‘Fate’ might even guarantee it absolutely.
Might be unwise, she thought, to think too much about ‘Fate’ – in that sense, anyway. Especially with factors such as ‘Hector’ in the background. There were no guarantees against betrayal: no more than Ben had had against his ship being hit and blowing up.
She wondered how he was getting along. Whether he’d reconciled himself to it yet.
Bath, now. Even though it meant trespassing on the doctor’s floor, and even if the water was lukewarm, as he’d warned it might be. Last night she hadn’t had the strength.
Over breakfast – ersatz coffee, toast and some unidentifiable kind of jam – Peucat told her he’d tackle the local permit office on his own, and leave it to her to follow up next week. He was going to be busy in his consulting room most of the morning, but he’d fit it in; the Lannuzel call was urgent, he thought, and if she was going on from there to Quimper the sooner she got on her way the better.
‘As a reason for visiting him – if I needed one – I could be getting some eggs, couldn’t I?’
‘That would be black market. What about an interest in hens, you’re thinking of keeping a few here for our own use?’
‘Subject to that being legal?’
‘Of course. Just don’t commit yourself. Last thing we need here is hens to look after. Guy’s a charming fellow, but he’s also a shrewd business man.’
In Quimper, she’d be visiting a dentist. Even if he didn’t work on Saturdays, the surgery was in his house.
She’d finished her ‘coffee’… ‘Doctor – as well as the Ausweis to let me be out after curfew, d’you think I could get a permit to drive your gazo? And would you allow it?’
‘I suppose – it might be useful. A patient to be removed to hospital and no ambulance available – if I were tied up elsewhere – one might present it that way…’
‘And I could drive you sometimes – on your rounds?’
‘What a kind thought!’
‘And stop sometimes when there’s a signal to be got out. Different places – and using the gazo’s battery, so I wouldn’t have to tote mine round. Wouldn’t be all that often, anyway.’
She’d done it that way during her last deployment, in the Rouen area. Gazo belonging to poor old ‘Romeo’. Remembering when she’d got the news from Baker Street that he was to be brought home by Lysander: his huge relief, a surge of delight which she’d found infectious, so that the trip for all its dangers had felt almost like a holiday, although as it turned out it had been a prelude to his death.
Ben woke in an unknown bed. Darkish room but daylight showing through a gap in the curtains. Traffic-noise from out there. Opening his mouth, shutting it again: a taste like floor-polish.
Joan Stack?
He pushed an arm out to his left. Empty bed. He was on this other edge, more or less. Pain in his head – on the side of the ear that worked.
Oh, Christ. Rosie. Rosie gone…
Pushing himself up. A flat in Ebury Mews, he remembered. A feat of memory, incidentally, that was enough to prove he had not been drunk. Definitely had not. Could remember other things as well: arguing with her: or rather, her arguing with him…
This wasn’t any floor he’d slept on. There’d been talk at some stage of sleeping on some floor.
At least, seemed to be alone in this bed. Checking that point again. And aware he should have been with Rosie.
Oh, Rosie. Rosie, darling…
It seemed impossible she’d actually – gone beyond recall… Chilling phrase, at that, God only knew where it had come from. Reaching with his right hand for a bedside light: he found it, switched it on.
Fair-sized room. Single bed with only himself in it, and the bedding noticeably – meaningfully – undisturbed. His watch had stopped. Looking around now, up on his elbows, seeing his uniform draped over the back of a chair and his halfboots standing tidily upright in the middle of the patterned carpet. Beyond them, at that end, a door was half open. No light beyond it. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, with a hand to the ache in his head. Feeling stupid, more than anything else: for not quite grasping yet where, what, how…
‘Hello?’
Voice like a croak: his own, though, and it went unanswered. Looking at another door, a closed one. Brass fittings, and some sort of notice on it in a frame.
Hotel room?
He manoeuvred his gammy leg out of the bedclothes, slid himself out with all his weight on the good one. He was wearing underpants, he noticed, and one sock. His shirt and black tie were over the back of a chair beside a writing-table. It was a hotel room. Memory beginning to trickle back: even before he got close enough to the door to read the notice – which was headed Grosvenor Hotel and gave instructions regarding blackout regulations and air-raid precautions, the locations of hydrants and stirrup-pumps, routes to shelter in the basement, et cetera.
Grosvenor Hotel, Victoria. Because he’d stored his luggage in the Left Luggage on this station, on arrival from Newhaven yesterday; he’d gone there from Pompey to collect gear he’d left there and tried unsuccessfully to have sent along to him before. And Joan was using her brother’s flat in Ebury Mews, which was close by and where she’d had the taxi take them. She’d been keen on his spending the night there with her. He remembered that. Also that Billy Big-Arse had been sent home hours before – soon after they’d finished supper. In any case he hadn’t been enjoying the evening very much. When Ben had first met Joan, a bloody age ago, Billy had represented himself to him as her fiancé, and it was a fact that her brother Gareth, the earl, had been trying to persuade her to accept him. Billy had money, apparently: and Joan had been acquiring a bit of a reputation, in the circle in which they moved – or in Billy’s case, floundered. It was surprising that he was still around, still taking punishment; and not in Italy where brother Gareth was – seeing that they were in the same regiment.
Extraordinary, though. Station hotels. Here now in this one solo, celibate – when he hadn’t exactly been forced to it – and two years ago the Charing Cross Hotel, with Rosie. In every way as innocent and pure as the driven snow, nothing in any way premeditated or even thought of, but as it had turned out, far from celibate. On the night of the day they’d first met: she’d had a husband shot down and killed, and he’d had the news that he was getting back to sea. They’d met in the SOE building in Baker Street, where she’d been for an interview and SOE had turned her down – on grounds of being emotionally unstable, or some such – so she’d had that on her mind too; they’d gone out to have a drink together, had ended up having practically everything there was to drink in London, then blundering into the Charing Cross Hotel where there’d been only one single room available and he was alleged to have promised to sleep in the bath.
It was a memory he treasured, anyway. Really treasured. He thought Rosie did now, too.
There was a telephone beside this bed, he saw. He went to it, and rang down to the hall porter.
‘I don’t know what the room number is but my name’s Quarry—’
‘Ah, the Australian gentleman. Room one-three-nine, sir. Like your bags sent up, I dare say?’
‘You a mind-reader?’
‘You left instructions with the night porter, sir, and he took the ticket round first thing. I didn’t send ’em up before on account of the “Do Not Disturb” notice on your door… Will you be wanting breakfast?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But what about paying Left Luggage?’
‘You left ample funds, sir, if you remember. I’ll send the bags up right away.’
Waiting for them to arrive – a page-boy brought them – he ran a bath. Then, lying back in the hot water, remembered more.
Joan’s assumption that he and Rosie had broken up, for instance: because she wasn’t with him and he’d been drinking on his own, she’d taken it for granted that Rosie’d chucked him.
‘I wondered what you could possibly see in her, anyway!’
He’d countered with something like, ‘Because the only time you ever saw her you were heavily involved with a shit by name of Furneaux.’
In Sussex – about six months ago. A country hotel that had weekend dances and where they weren’t too particular about who shared rooms with whom. Furneaux, with whom she’d been disporting herself that night, was an MTB man. She’d protested, ‘Mike’s no shit, Ben. Rather a pet, actually. Not that there was ever anything serious—’
‘Old Bob was entitled to take it seriously.’
‘Well – Bob—’
‘Good mate of mine and a hell of a nice guy.’
‘Salt of the earth. Absolutely. Just happens to be incredibly dull. You’re the man I should have married, Ben. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You’d have found me dull—’
‘Oh, cast your mind back!’
‘After a while, you would have. We weren’t married, it couldn’t have been more different.’
‘Exciting, is what it was. You know it, too!’
‘Suppose it was.’ It had been. ‘But I tell you – if I’d been Bob, the hell with divorce, I’d have bloody shot you.’
‘When we were up in Suffolk – wasn’t that a lovely time?’
‘Did have our moments.’
‘Didn’t we. Ben, I’d have married you like a shot!’
In the bath – turning off the hot tap with his toes – the dialogue was playing like a record in his memory. Maybe improvising a little here and there: but this had been the shape and tenor of it… Challenging her, he remembered, with: ‘Are we talking God’s own truth tonight, Joan – no mincing words?’
‘If you like.’
‘Right. Well – listen… It was terrific. Not denying that for a moment. Bloody marvellous. But I didn’t ever think about marriage. No – untrue – I did think about it, because you talked about it – but I didn’t ever contemplate it – didn’t pretend I had any ideas in that direction either – did I?’
‘No, but—’
‘Because I wouldn’t have bet a penny on you sticking to the bloody rules. And what you’ve done to old Bob proves I was right. I’m going to marry Rosie – you’d better know that.’
‘Except she doesn’t seem to be around?’
‘At the moment, not. Can’t tell you where she is, either.’
‘I bet you can’t!’
Looking at her. The fact being he couldn’t tell her because – it was something one didn’t talk about. Nobody was in SOE, if you asked one of them they wouldn’t know what the letters stood for. He shook his head: ‘In any case, Joan, honey—’
‘I know what you’re going to say. You wouldn’t marry me, not if you were even more plastered than you are, you sod— you’re in Portsmouth now, did you say?’
‘At the moment. Won’t be for much longer.’
‘Where are they sending you?’
‘Can’t tell you. Sorry.’
‘You were never mean to me before, Ben.’
‘Not being mean. Damn it…’
‘All right. No, you aren’t. Actually that’s the last thing I’d—’
‘Not to you, anyway.’
‘Still comes down to the fact I can’t get in touch with you. If I wanted to ask you to my wedding, for instance?’
‘To old Billy? Well – I suppose you could do worse.’
‘How?’
‘Oh. I don’t know…’
‘I’ll give you all my numbers. So when you do see the light – or she gives you your marching orders…’ She cocked an ear to the music – they were playing ‘Guilty’. ‘Think you could dance?’
‘With a stick?’
‘Ben, I’m so sorry.’
‘So am I. Frustrating.’
– maybe I’m wrong – Loving you like I do-oo…
‘I never enjoyed dancing with anyone nearly as much as with you, Ben.’
He thought of Furneaux again: the pair of them on that dance-floor in the place in Sussex, with a room booked for the night and old Bob thinking she was miles away. It had been sheer bad luck running into them, that far from Newhaven. Nothing serious, she’d just told him: so what had it been, just fun and games? Nodding to himself: exactly that. As it had been with him, too. She’d caught a waiter’s eye, was holding the empty bottle up: singing under her breath: ‘– then I’m guilty – Guilty of loving you…’ Eye to eye with him, then: ‘That’s a fact too, as it happens.’
He’d nodded to the waiter. Back to Joan. ‘Listen. We had a hell of a lot of fun. It’s also a fact you’re about the loveliest-looking sheila I ever set eyes on. Let alone – you know—’
‘Yes. Oh, yes. Often think of it, matter of fact. Cigarette?’
‘Lovely memories. Yes – thanks. But listen – you’re beautiful, and so sexy there ought to be another word for it, and – fun, and – all of that. I was sort of gone on you, I admit it. But if we’d married I’d have finished up in old Bob’s shoes.’
‘You would not, Ben! That’s the whole damn point!’
‘Might’ve made three years instead of two, but—’
‘Ben – however you thought then or think about it now, here’s the truth. I was thinking about getting married and wanting to be married and it was all because of you. You had to be so bloody careful of yourself though, didn’t you, little old Ben mustn’t risk getting his bloody feelings hurt—’
‘Here comes the wine.’
It took a long minute or two, getting it uncorked and poured.
‘Thank you.’ Sniffing at it, wrinkling her nose. ‘Worse than the last one.’
‘Same label. Different bathtub, maybe. Joan – there could be something in what you were saying then—’
‘My absolute belief is if you’d asked me to marry you when we were up there – I say this in all sincerity, Ben – so there’d have been no Bob, no divorce, no what’s her name…’
‘Rosie, d’you mean?’
Rosie, who was back in France. He came out of the steamy bathroom, back into room 139 of this Grosvenor Hotel: remembering that he had got a bit mean with her at that point. And how it had come in waves – happy enough when he was letting her talk as if they were reunited lovers, less so when it was things as they actually were, such as the fact that he was going to marry Rosie. But he’d felt sad, too, that she was hurt, and so sure – genuinely, it seemed – that he and she would have made it.
Then the taxi, he remembered, arriving at Ebury Mews. Her brother Gareth’s flat, she’d brought him to; in Gareth’s absence she had the use of it.
‘Pay the man, will you, Ben?’
He’d had his wallet out, and she’d had her key in some door: he asked the driver, ‘Victoria just round the corner – right?’
‘Spitting distance, Guv.’
‘Right. So take me there, will you. Joan—’ looking round, seeing she had the door open and a light on inside – ‘Joannie, look, I’ll ring you – OK?’
She hadn’t said a word. He’d thought of telling her he couldn’t because of his knee, but that might have made the cabbie laugh.
Ring her now?
The thought of his wallet made him check it was still there, in the inside pocket of his reefer. As it was, of course. Spent a bloody fortune, last night… Anyway – first-class return warrant to Portsmouth, and a card – Joan’s – on which she’d written the telephone numbers of the flat in Ebury Mews, cottage – her aunt’s – at Rodmell in Sussex, and the MTC establishment in Brighton.
Ring her now?
Might send her a bunch of flowers. Chances were, she’d be a little sour: especially if he woke her at this hour. Whatever hour it was… So – breakfast first, then the bill including flowers – hall porter’d handle that – then to Charing Cross for the train to Portsmouth. And ring her last thing before departure. Some such line as ‘Lovely seeing you, sorry I was a bit grogged-up, please let’s stay friends?’
Heading southeast from St Michel Rosie had to pass through a hamlet called Loc-Guénolé, then cross the Carhaix-Pleyben road, and after another two kilometres she’d be in Châteauneuf-du-Faou. Peucat had roughed out St Michel’s environs on the back of some medical form or other, extending it on another sketch to guide her to the Lannuzel poultry-farm, which was a kilometre or so east of Châteauneuf.
It was a pleasure to ride without all that weight of luggage. Not to mention the transceiver, or the pistol or vast sums of money…
She passed Loc-Guénolé almost without seeing it. Also a few farm carts, a herd of half a dozen Friesians driven by an old woman with a stick, and a gazo lorry full of rubble. Not a single Boche until she got to the main road, where she had to dismount and wait while a whole convoy passed. There were more of them about than ever, Peucat had said; a lot of such movements, too. All coastal regions were of course heavily garrisoned, especially around the U-boat bases; Brest was only about sixty kilometres away, Lorient the same, and Kernével – Doenitz’s U-boat command and communications HQ – was even closer, on the Lorient road to the east of Quimper.
She came into Châteauneuf-du-Faou from the north, and spent some minutes pedalling around. The Hotel Belle Vue, which Peucat had mentioned as the local Boche headquarters, was clearly identifiable by the swastika banner over its front entrance. She’d had a glimpse through trees of the same foul emblem decorating the former Mairie in St Michel. Then she was passing the Belle Vue when a Boche officer came out, hurrying towards a staff car that was waiting for him and calling back in German over his shoulder to some colleague in the hotel’s entrance. A joke, perhaps: a smile lingering on his face as he turned back, glancing at Rosie as she went by, as if inviting her to share in his amusement. A soldier-driver had slid out of the car, pulling a rear door open with his left hand and saluting with the other; she rode on past it, remembering Peucat telling her over his map-drawing this morning that the commandant here was an easy-going man who tried to get on with the locals.
She thought, So let him try. Please God, the bastard wouldn’t be here all that much longer. Invasion had to come this summer. Passing the church, which was impressive; she had a fair idea of the layout of the streets now. In case of future need… The staff car had continued straight on at the corner where she’d turned. There was a certain amount of other traffic, but not much, and it was virtually all agricultural: a gazo truck loaded with manure, a tractor with a trailer… In a shabby way, this was an attractive place, with views out to lovely countryside, the valley of the Aulne to the south of it with the river itself in giant loops and beyond that the wooded slopes of the Montagnes Noires.
Where Guy Lannuzel’s Maquis groups hid out. And between here and there, on the edge of the Forêt de Laz, the Château Trevarez. At which she thought she might do worse than take a look before pushing on to Quimper.
Really lovely country, with a hint of spring in the air making it feel and smell good too. Worth coming back to when it was truly French again, she thought. Bring Ben: show him the ruins of Trevarez, tell him ‘Look what I did!’
Well – I and a few others…
She came to the poultry-farm sooner than she’d expected: a board with a painting of a fat red hen on it, on a farm gate on her left, and a stone-built cottage set back from the road, sheds dotted over a field behind it. The track from the gate led to a barn, and there were fields on both sides, some of them recently ploughed. She dismounted, entered through a smaller gate at the side and pushed her bike up a bricked path towards the house. There was a gazo pickup truck parked at the side of the barn – from which a man emerged just as she happened to look that way again, past a corner of the house. Long-legged, and limping – a heavy enough limp for it to be noticeable even at this distance – with some heavy load balanced on his shoulder. That would be Lannuzel; Peucat had told her last night that he’d lost most of one foot in 1940 when he’d climbed out of a tank and trodden on a mine. In Peucat’s opinion he’d been lucky, not only to survive the explosion itself but also to have been invalided while the going had so to speak still been good.
Dogs were barking somewhere up there. And the man had seen her, and stopped. Then called – having studied her for a moment, long-distance – ‘Hold on a moment.’ He went on to the truck – yelling at the dogs to shut up – dumped his burden, then came limping over to her.
Thin. A greyhound look about him. Lame greyhound. Dark hair greying at the temples, face dark with stubble. A young, lively face though; she’d have guessed his age as about thirty or thirty-two.
Rather a Ben type. Even to the limp…
‘Help you?’
‘Captain Lannuzel?’
‘Guy Lannuzel. Rank’s useless around here, stupid hens won’t salute. How can I help you?’
‘I’m here to help you. Count Jules suggested I should come. Suzanne Tanguy – working for Dr Peucat, as from today.’
Lifting his hands… ‘Says it all, doesn’t it?’
He had a slow, slightly lop-sided smile. Hadn’t shaved for two or three days, she guessed. It was a strong face, under that camouflage; piercingly blue eyes, a firm handshake. Hard, dry hand. ‘Come along in. Brigitte will give us coffee if we’re lucky. You said “as of today” – meaning you’ve just arrived?’
‘Last night. After two days on this.’
‘So you can’t have met Count Jules yet.’
‘He’s away. Back today, Dr Peucat thinks, but he’d left a message that I ought to see you right away.’
‘Good of him.’ A nod… ‘Are you – English?’
‘French.’
‘That’s what I thought – you sound it.’
‘Well – since I am—’
‘And proud of it?’
‘As a matter of fact – intensely so.’
‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? Goes for me too, but – must be cracked, mustn’t we… Park your bike there, if you like.’
Against the wall, between a window and the door which he now pulled open.
‘Brigitte! We have a visitor!’
Gesturing to Rosie to go on in: into a warm odour of lamp-oil. Lannuzel called again, stooping through the doorway of a small front room, ‘She’s called Suzanne – the one we’ve been waiting for!’
‘You can stop fretting now, then.’ A girl came through, saw Rosie and put her hand out, smiling. ‘You’re very welcome, Suzanne.’
She was taller than Rosie: and by no means fat but large-boned, wide-hipped. About Rosie’s own age. Brown hair tied back, blue eyes, features markedly similar to her husband’s. Rosie said, ‘Sorry to turn up without warning. Should have telephoned. Suzanne Tanguy, by the way: I’m a nurse, of sorts.’
‘You’ve joined Dr Peucat. I know. That’s to say, we knew you were expected – this brother of mine’s been counting the hours… Please, sit down?’
‘Brother?’
‘Thought she was my wife, eh? But that’s something I don’t have. Brigitte has a husband though – still locked up, prisoner of war, in Germany.’
‘So we believe. Not a word for months, however.’ She added, ‘My married name is Millau. My husband is – or was—’ she crossed herself, swiftly and economically – ‘a bomber pilot… Suzanne, would you like coffee?’
‘I’d love some – if it’s no trouble…’
‘But listen.’ Her brother cut in: ‘If we should be interrupted, you might have called in to ask whether it’s possible to buy eggs – which of course it is not—’
‘And which I’d know. So the truth is I’m interested in acquiring a few laying hens. I came only to enquire about it – I’d need to build a pen for them, and heaven knows what else – so I’ve come to ask for advice, that’s all.’
‘Feeding them would be a problem, unless you grew your own corn as I do. And I doubt old Peucat’s got room for that, has he? But OK, that’s what we’re discussing – now or any other time, should we need to explain ourselves.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Oh, they sniff around. Neighbours, mostly. Never tell anyone anything, around here. Fine people, salt of the earth, but – you know…’
‘I’ll get coffee.’
‘Bless you. And now, Suzanne.’ He sat down, facing her across the table, having discarded a donkey-jacket. Tough-faced, muscular, the collar of a checked shirt visible above a sweater that had seen much better days. It was a rectangular table with four straight-backed chairs at it; two matching carvers flanked a fireplace heaped with ash. One picture only – the Virgin Mary with her infant in her arms. Lannuzel asked Rosie, ‘How soon can we arrange for a parachutage?’
‘Arrange for it – immediately. It should happen then within a few days. Or say a week. Depending on the weather, of course. But in London they’re waiting for my signal, and they’ve promised immediate action. All I need is your shopping-list and map coordinates for the drop.’
‘It’s all ready for you. But – easy and quick as that, is it? Truly, no more than a week?’
‘Is it a dropping zone that’s been used before?’
‘Yes. Not recently, but—’
‘If it has been, and it’s in the RAF’s records, that’ll save some time.’
‘It must be, surely.’
‘And have you done it before, you personally?’
‘Parachutages? Sure. Several. But there again, not recently. Things have been bad for us – you know? Two of the three caches that we had were discovered – and hostages taken and shot—’
‘Any idea how they were discovered? Infiltration?’
‘One boy, they got hold of. He’d helped with an earlier drop. They beat him to death – he died in the gaol in Morlaix afterwards. They got both locations out of him, the other one he didn’t know about. Poor kid… Christ, but they’ve a bill to settle when the time comes, uh?’
She nodded. ‘On ropes from lamp-posts, and not too quickly.’
‘We’re of the same mind, then. But I was saying – those caches discovered, while at the same time Maquis numbers have trebled. From various causes – maybe you know—’
‘Primarily because it’s getting into people’s skulls that the Boches aren’t going to win.’
‘Yes. That’s about it. And that there’s likely to be an invasion soon. That’s my next question – when?’
Blue eyes blazing as if they had lights behind them…
‘Invasion?’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t tell. Don’t know. But I think it has to be this summer. Could be next week, next month—’
‘If it’s next week we aren’t going to be much damn use here!’
‘So let’s hope it won’t be. All we can do is work as fast as we can. You’ll have your drop, whatever you’re asking for – within reason—’
‘Brens, mortars, grenades, Stens, arbalettes – and listen, a dozen of the Stens with silencieux?’
Arbalette was the Maquis term for a bazooka. She’d nodded: aware that they might not get every single item – Brens were in shorter supply than the far cheaper Stens, for instance – but if they didn’t it wouldn’t be her fault. She added, ‘And rifles, presumably, and hand-guns. Explosive and detonators too. There’ll be a lot of rail tracks to be blown up, when the time comes. I’d like to get together with you on that, sometime soon, make some outline plans for it. And what about training – would you accept weapons instructors if they were dropped to you?’
‘We’d accept them, but we don’t need them. There’s a team of guys – well, my own sort, up there, and they can train the rest – when we have the weapons. You know I was a soldier – so were these. Good men, all of them. Only thing is, if there’s anything new we don’t know about—’
‘I could help. I finished a refresher course only a few weeks ago.’
‘You?’
Staring back at his stare… ‘It surprises you?’
‘You’d come into the mountains, teach us?’
‘Well – how else?’
‘I think I love you!’
On his feet, reaching to her across the table: Brigitte was in the doorway, edging in sideways with mugs on a tin tray. Her brother glancing round at her, holding both Rosie’s hands in his: ‘I’ve just fallen in love with this woman!’
‘Well, don’t overdo it.’ Setting the tray down, she smiled at Rosie. Her face was weathered: you could see she spent a lot of time outdoors. Nodding in her brother’s direction: ‘Goes a bit haywire, sometimes. Sometimes I think he might have been hit in the head as well as that foot. One day a piece of shrapnel may pop out of one ear and he’ll come back to normal… Guy – sit down!’
‘What I wanted to ask—’ Rosie had lit a cigarette – ‘was about to ask, just now – you said you’ve received paradrops before, but did you organize any of them yourself?’
‘One, I did. Others I only helped with. Why, d’you think I might not be up to it?’
Getting up, shutting the door properly… Brigitte had left them again, having drunk her coffee scalding-hot. Lannuzel didn’t want her to hear more than she had to. He’d told Rosie as the door was drifting more or less shut behind her, ‘Safer that she shouldn’t. I want to have her safe and fit for when her husband gets back to her. One of these days, please God.’ Crossing himself, as she had. Rosie wondering whether they had parents alive; or what news had reached them of the husband. But there wasn’t time for chitchat. From here to Quimper would be the best part of forty kilometres, she wanted to have a look at Trevarez en route, and to be back in St Michel before curfew. Didn’t have much idea how long her business in Quimper was going to take, either.
Ring the dentist from here, maybe.
Lannuzel was back at the table; she answered his last question… ‘No – of course I’m not doubting your competence. But very large resources go into every drop, and I’m expected to know how it’ll be handled. The location, for a start – it’s been used before, you said, but not lately: has the area around it been checked out recently?’
‘For signs of Boche interest in it, you mean. Yes – the boys would know of anything like that. It’s high ground, not overlooked from anywhere higher, accessible by way of a forest track so we can have transport right there. The transport’s available and ready, too. The clearing’s about a kilometre long and half as wide, thick forest all round. I have the coordinates written down, but I’ll show you on the map as well. As to how it’ll be handled – there’ll be a reception team of sixty men – four groups of fifteen.’
‘In the Montagnes Noires, all this?’
‘Where else?’
‘Will you have new caches ready – pits dug, or whatever – have it all out of sight before daylight?’
He nodded. ‘Locations already picked. Better security, too, only a handful of us will be in on that part of it. We’re very conscious of the urgency, Suzanne – that’s why I’ve been pressing for it. And we could turn out four times as many men if we needed to.’
‘That’s something else. You’re alert to the threat of infiltration, are you? Because – I’m sure you’re aware of this, but the more numerous your Maquis become—’
‘The more careful we have to be. Yes. Vetting new arrivals is – rigorous. If there’s doubt – well, they don’t get by. A committee sees to it, I only advise when they ask me.’
‘What happens?’
‘Depends. When it comes to the worst – a hole in the ground. But you needn’t concern yourself, Suzanne.’
‘I’m sure not. It’s your business. But it is a very real danger, isn’t it. I know – a Boche infiltrated a réseau I was in, not long ago. And with the numbers you’re dealing with – don’t have to be Boches either, do they…’ She took a pull at the stub of her cigarette, then squashed it out. ‘Let’s see what you’re asking for. If I can get it coded in time, London will have it tonight. Or tomorrow – I’ve a full day ahead of me… Incidentally, there seems to be a lot of troop movements going on?’
‘You’ve noticed, have you. Invasion fever, we’re calling it.’ He was on his feet: ‘In other words, they’ve got the wind up… Sit tight, I’ll get my notes.’
She’d glanced over his list, and checked the coordinates against his map. This lot wouldn’t take long to encode: there was a set form for paradrop proposals and a code-letter combination for each type of weapon. He’d also listed supplies other than weaponry and ammunition, items ranging from bandages to corned beef – which he’d put down in Maquis terminology as singe, or monkey.
She poised a pencil over a blank space at the foot of the ruled sheet of foolscap. ‘We’ll need a message for the BBC to send. How about “The first signs of spring are always welcome”?’
‘I’ve often wondered who thought up that gibberish.’
‘It takes a rare talent, let me tell you. You’ll remember it though, will you, and listen for it – in case I break my neck, or something?’
‘In case – yes. And in case I do I’ll tell it to a few of them up there.’
‘One other thing. No, two. The first is we don’t have a code-name for you, and we may need one.’
‘Well… Friends in the Army used to call me Guido. A long time ago, no one does now.’
‘Guido. Fine.’
‘Brigitte calls me that, sometimes. But between ourselves only.’ A jerk of the head, towards the kitchen. ‘What I was alluding to a few minutes ago, by the way – keeping her out of it, as far as possible – if you’d assist in that, I’d be grateful.’
‘Of course.’
‘This place is actually her husband’s. Was his father’s – a small-holding, it was my idea to go in for chickens. But it’s theirs – I’m only caretaker, you might say, until he gets back, I want to hand it over in good working order – and his wife with it. If you get the point?’
‘Sort of.’ Staring at him for a moment. Then a shake of the head. ‘Guy, listen. There’s one matter you haven’t raised. OK, so I haven’t either, yet.’
His turn to look blank. She prompted, ‘Château Trevarez?’
‘Trevarez. That…’ A shrug. ‘Does it need to be raised? It was a suggestion from certain quarters, not from me – and in any case—’
‘Are you against it?’
‘Well – in a way, yes. I’d say the parachutage is what’s most vital – and Trevarez, after all—’
‘The parachutage you could say is in hand, now. There’ll be others too – in the Montagnes d’Arrées for sure and perhaps elsewhere, and you can come back for more too – when you can handle it. The Trevarez project, though – obviously you haven’t been told – we’re going to hit the place, and we’d like help from some of your Maquis.’
‘Count Jules know about this?’
‘It was his idea. We’ve elaborated on it a little, that’s all.’
‘I’m amazed.’ His eyes seemed to go duller, when the subject under discussion was of less interest or appeal to him. He shrugged, rubbing his unshaven jaw: the thumb pointing southward then: ‘A few of them will be delighted, of course.’
‘The groups you and the count have been restraining.’
‘Yes. Our communist brethren. I’ve got more than he has, it’s my problem more than his, but we see eye to eye on the subject. In a nutshell, those fellows want to be at it all the time – assassinate a Boche officer here or de-rail a locomotive there – with the result hostages get dragged out and shot, and the Boches are stirred up and make life more difficult for us, while what we need is time to get ourselves into shape for the time that’s coming.’ He opened his hands, palms upward: ‘What does Trevarez have to do with anything? Upset a few U-boat sailors, spoil their holidays a little, and in return get a whole gang of innocent people shot?’
She nodded. ‘I can answer that.’
Checking the time. Although this was as important as anything she’d be doing today. ‘D’you have a telephone here?’
‘Oh, yes. When it’s working.’
‘I’d like to make a call before I leave, if I may. Then how long’ll it take me to get to Quimper?’
‘On your bike?’ He gave it a moment’s thought… ‘Two and a half hours, maybe.’
‘I’ll aim to do it in two, then. I’m a flyer. A Boche called me that yesterday. But – Trevarez, now. Actually there’s a code-name for the operation – “Mincemeat”… I agree about cutting out pinprick actions, but this won’t be anything of the sort – not simply to kill or inconvenience a few sailors. Although there are likely to be some in the château at pretty well any time, isn’t that so? Submariners from Brest, Lorient, St Nazaire?’
‘Brest and Lorient anyway. Yes, they come and go. We’ve thought of ambushing their transport, but it’s always heavily escorted – armoured cars, so forth. But the fact is, Suzanne, their presence here does us no harm, they’re no part of the garrison. The boys who want that place hit don’t give a damn – they’re communists, that’s all, for their own political ambitions they want to be seen as taking the lead – and the hell with hostages. You know?’
‘So we give them this Trevarez action, in return for their agreement to toe the line elsewhere – including joining the FFI.’
‘You working for de Gaulle now?’
‘Cooperating – we have a common aim, after all.’
‘And have that lot agreed to this – line-toeing?’
‘Count Jules believes they will. I’m surprised he hasn’t discussed it with you. Anyway he must have known I would.’
‘We haven’t spoken in the past few weeks. He goes to Paris a lot, you know. But – Suzanne – it seems to me – well, it’s still the same project, isn’t it? One old château, a few Boche sailors shaken up – and afterwards, hostages murdered – to please the hotheads?’
She shook out two cigarettes and pushed one over to him. Leaning towards the match he struck then. ‘May I fill in some strategic background for you?’
Gallic shrug: lighting his own Caporal, eyes blue slits above the flame… ‘If you want to.’
‘Don’t assume this isn’t relevant – because it damn well is… The U-boat war – it’s far from over. The Royal Navy fought them to a standstill last spring, and they pulled out of the North Atlantic altogether – to the Azores, West Africa, Mediterranean, leaving the northern convoy routes alone for a while. But they’re back at it now – with a new type of U-boat, new guided torpedoes – et cetera. And one thing vital to invasion prospects is to keep the convoys coming. Before, and after. Right?’
He nodded. ‘So?’
‘So – obviously the U-boats themselves, but also their command, communications, the whole administrative structure behind them, are now targets of great importance. Anything we can do to disrupt their operations is something we’ve got to do.’
‘But not with pinpricks.’
‘No. And unfortunately the bases themselves are too heavily protected for ground action to be a realistic option. As you were saying about their road transport.’
‘Better targets for your air forces.’
‘The bomb-proof submarine shelters make that largely ineffective too. Trevarez, on the other hand – well, you know it only as a leave-centre, rest and recreation for U-boat crews. On the face of it, a pinprick target. Although if one could knock off enough of them—’
‘Break open the detention camp where hostages are held at the same time, maybe?’
‘Well, that’s a thought. Except they’d just take other hostages, wouldn’t they…? Anyway – did you know that once in a while the château is used as a weekend conference centre for the Kriegsmarine’s top brass?’
She saw momentary surprise: then recollection… ‘I’d forgotten. We did hear there’d been some such occasion. About a year ago.’
‘It’s a regular thing, now. Well – periodic. And our information is there’ll be another one soon. Think of it – the naval staff all under one roof – and on your doorstep. The admiral commanding in the west here – name of Bachmann, he’s the one who ordered the so-called “execution” of two Royal Marine canoeists about fifteen months ago – he invariably attends. Also—’
‘How do you know this?’
‘We do know – that’s all. Take my word for it?’
‘Very well.’
‘I was saying – if we’re lucky, Grand-Admiral Doenitz may favour us with his presence. He has only to nip up the road from Kernével: and those are his U-boat bases, all in spitting-distance – eh? But when he can’t make it – off hobnobbing with Hitler, or whatever – he’s represented by his chief of staff, Rear-Admiral Godt. Godt’s his deputy, runs the U-boat force from day to day – another prime candidate for having his weekend spoilt… You with me, Guido?’
‘Yes. Indeed…’
Fingers drumming softly: eyes bright again. Forehead creasing, then: ‘One also sees snags, however. First, would your source alert us long enough in advance?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded quickly. ‘That’s essential. Several days’ notice – and time meanwhile to work it out. It’ll be a night thing, anyway.’
‘Night thing…’He picked a shred of tobacco off this tongue. ‘Yes, it would have to be. Beyond that, however – well, we’ll put our heads together. And obviously we’ll use the red brigade… But – any practical ideas? The château’s surrounded by open park-land, for instance – perimeter fencing, and big iron gates with a guard on them – one might anticipate they’d reinforce that—’
‘Yes. The guard’s always reinforced, substantially. But nobody’s asking you to assault the place, Guido. It’ll be done from the air – RAF. That’s one reason we have to have advance notice, to give them time to set it up. But – Pathfinders to light the place up – d’you know what I mean by Pathfinders?’
‘Flare-dropping aircraft.’
‘Right. Mosquitoes or Halifaxes. They come in low, illuminate the target for bombers right behind them.’
‘So what d’you want of us?’
‘Your men in ambush. Not too close – but all around, in the lanes and fields. It’s for you to work out, you’re the soldier. Might arrange to block the road approaches, at the last minute? There’ll be panic – evacuation in all directions – wouldn’t you expect?’
‘Like cutting a cornfield. Catch the vermin as they scoot out.’
Nodding, stubbing out his cigarette-end. Low-voiced then, glancing up – keeping it quiet so Brigitte wouldn’t hear… ‘Better no shooting, maybe. When it starts, anyway, before they know we’re there. Just throats to cut…’