Saturday, late afternoon: they were coming into Rouen from the northwest, having detoured that way in order to send off the last of the requests for weapons drops from the countryside near Yerville. It had been Rosie’s fifth transmission since that one on Wednesday: six in all, and by this time at least five of them would be in Baker Street and decoded.
Romeo’s murmur, on her left: ‘We haven’t done at all badly, Angel, you know?’
Glancing her way… She’d been fiddling with her bra on that side, where she had the suicide pill. When she’d sewn the pocket into this one she’d left an edge which had now become scratchy. The other bra, which she’d washed on Tuesday night and left in her room at Ursule’s to dry, was the second she’d done and she’d managed it more neatly.
She’d agreed – massaging that shoulder instead – ‘A lot better than I’d have done on my own, I’ll tell you that.’ They’d given the bastards plenty to chew on. The Reichssicherheitshauptampt’s long-range radio direction finders would have picked up all her signals, the first from that place just north of Rouen, then four from the Neufchatel-Amiens area and today’s from west of the Rouen-Dieppe road. Six transmissions in four days. She could imagine the behind-scenes activity: cypher experts burning the midnight oil, detector vans deploying around Amiens – ready to lock on to further transmissions which wouldn’t be forthcoming – and wires humming between the various Security departments. A new pianist at work, a hitherto unknown hand and code prefixes: obviously a new réseau in being, in place of the one they’d smashed. If they’d been as thorough as they were cracked up to be, she thought, they’d have had checkpoints on all these routes by now, stopping every vehicle and searching it for the radio. After all, the previous réseau had been based in Rouen – why not assume the new one would be, and that the pianist might be on his or her way home?
In these four days they’d been stopped only once: the other side of Neufchatel, on the second day. Milice had checked their papers and asked the usual questions, only glancing casually into the back of the van and then releasing them. Romeo had muttered, as he’d put the gazo into gear and got it moving, ‘Eight days to go…’
He’d warned her, this morning, that the heat would be on now.
‘You could say you’re in a minefield – which is a basic, permanent situation, you could always tread on one any minute –’ a gesture, hands momentarily off the wheel, simulating an explosion – ‘but now there’ll be snipers too.’ A shrug. ‘If there weren’t before – who knows? I mean they’ll be out looking for you – for this pianist, they have a target now.’ Then, after about a minute, ‘I’ll feel bad ducking out on you, Angel.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’d recommend my system to you, incidentally. Staying clear, I mean. Other than César, of course. Like I worked with Max? Worked for me – eh?’
‘They’ll probably send a new courier in the Lysander that comes for you, though. He and I’ll have to know each other.’
‘Not to know where you live or what you’re doing. Not to hobnob with you either. Persuade César. Everything through him – pianist otherwise on her own. Other way of putting it, you’re his pianist.’ Glancing round at her, scowling… ‘Stay alive, Angel!’
Last night, Friday, had been spent in a forester’s house near Ardouval. Their second visit – it had been their first port of call on Wednesday and while they’d gone on eastward the forester had arranged for Resistance colleagues from Londinières, Evermeu and le Mesnil-Réaume to bring their wives to this social gathering. Only an hour or two before the party got together Rosie had listened to the BBC’s Overseas News broadcast and heard the pre-arranged message Ma belle-soeur est devenue malade. The timing had been perfect: she’d been able to tell the men around the table, ‘You may be interested to know there’ll be two drops tomorrow night, and a bombing attack in the same area as a diversion. Believe me, we are back in business.’
Romeo had been looking at her with an eyebrow cocked. This had been the first he’d heard of the Lyons-la-Forêt operations. Rosie had murmured, ‘Tell you later.’ Then looked from him to a réseau leader who’d leant towards her across the table to make some point.
‘Yes, monsieur?’
‘Certain other groups have been given priority over us, have they?’
She’d known this one was a communist; the forester had mentioned it. And his comment, she thought, was typical. Cooperation as long as his own group got what it wanted, but not a hint of friendship or gratitude, only suspicion that maybe they could be getting more. She’d told him – all of them – ‘These are drops that were asked for some time ago and arranged before I left London, obviating the need for radio exchanges which might be intercepted. But there’s no question of priorities – it’s first come, first served. This is a new start, and the requests you’re making now will be among the first that I’m transmitting… However – I have another subject to raise now. The Nazis’ so-called “Secret Weapons”. Have any of you any knowledge of construction work, or survey teams at work – German-led, possibly organized from Amiens – in connection with rocket-sites, in your districts?’
‘What form of constructions might they be?’
A big man: a farmer, name of Duclos. She told him, ‘Concrete, some sort of ramp pointing towards the Channel. There’d also be huts, accommodation for technicians and military guards, storage and so on. They’ll need to connect power-lines and telephones – which could be easy sabotage targets, incidentally. Probably a barbed-wire perimeter.’
‘How many such sites?’
‘We don’t know. Could be hundreds. But for our purposes, they’ve got to be located so our bombers can hit them, knock them out or at least delay construction. Otherwise the danger is of heavy and continuous bombardment of the south of England, even to the extent of making it impossible to mount the invasion we’re all waiting and praying for. That’s unthinkable, you’ll agree.’
They’d agreed, all right.
She’d had to let Romeo in on this line of enquiry. He was with her all the time, had to be, and in any case she felt sure of him now. She’d told him about it – this end of it, the field research, nothing about Jacqui or her colonel – right at the start of the trip, on Wednesday night in the house of a woman schoolteacher in Neufchatel. Romeo had dossed in the living room, and Rosie had shared the teacher’s bed. And there’d been several meetings similar to last night’s, at which she’d collected requests for weapons drops and asked for reports of rocket-site developments. The research was to cover a wide area – from Amiens, the word was being passed to réseaux as far away as Arras and Lille.
He’d asked her this morning, soon after they’d got on the road, ‘Two drops tonight, you mentioned?’
‘Should be.’ She’d touched the wooden dashboard for luck. ‘Catch that same broadcast later, I hope.’
‘In the area of Lyons-la-Forêt – both of them?’
She’d stared at him: and he’d chuckled… ‘Where you went last weekend, wasn’t it?’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘I was called upon to give you a reference. Friend of mine telephoned, asked whether I’d ever heard of an angel who rode a bicycle. He thought a real one might have used its damn wings, he said.’
‘Play your cards close to your chest, don’t you?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Georges Lebrun, I suppose.’
‘That’s the fellow. More to him than you’d guess at first sight. Dry old stick, eh?’
These had been well-spent days. She’d even managed to visit shops in Neufchatel and Amiens, offering the Cazalet range of perfumes. In one, an effeminate Belgian had sniffed at each sample, gone into raptures over some of them and promised to send an order direct to Paris. He had a friend who was a friend of Pierre Cazalet, he’d mentioned, and she’d thought, Small world…
She’d been doing some hard thinking about Jacqui. Another item from the advice she’d been given by the people in St James’ had been that there were often situations in which you had either to take a risk head-on, or bog down and get nowhere. ‘A tide to be taken at the flood’ had been the relevant quotation, and it seemed to her entirely apposite to the present situation, vis-à-vis Jacqueline Clermont: the basics of it being (1) that she couldn’t know how much time she’d have – realistically, this did have to be faced – and (2) that as things stood at the moment she did seem to have an exceptionally good hand to play.
So – forget those earlier qualms, push it along now.
See César on Sunday, she thought. It would be too late tonight. Call him this evening and arrange to meet tomorrow, and see Jacqui on Monday if possible. She’d be in Amiens until then. Call in at the shop: an excuse for dropping in might be to tell her that her willingness to stock his scents and toilet waters had been passed to Pierre Cazalet, who was delighted and would be writing to her shortly. Actually Rosie hadn’t done anything about it yet, but she’d give him a call early in the week. Tell him about the Belgian, too – make the old dear’s day for him.
They’d done a lot of talking – on the road, mainly, but also practically all night on the one occasion they’d shared a room – Thursday, on a farm near Foncarmont, where as well as conducting S.O.E. business he’d mended a tractor. He’d slept on the floor on a mattress of folded blankets, and she’d had the couch, which had probably been less comfortable. In the course of hours of sporadic chat, she’d asked him what had got him into S.O.E.
‘The same as everyone else. I was recruited. Fluent French and sterling qualities – isn’t that it?’
‘But you were over here in the first place – I mean, to be recruited.’
‘Sure. Came by boat. Big one, very tall funnels, French boat. Oh, the Pasteur.’
‘To England?’
‘France, then England after the debacle… D’you know Mauritius?’
‘Hardly. Heard about it.’
‘It’s the loveliest place on earth. Come visit us one day, eh? Meet the wife and children.’
‘I thought you told me she’d run out on you.’
‘New wife. I told you the old one skipped out, that’s true. Incredible, don’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Yeah, well… She went with this French guy, to Réunion. Kids are in Mauritius though, with my sister.’
‘And this new wife—’
‘Some lucky girl got a big surprise coming, uh?’
‘Oh.’ She’d caught on. ‘My, hasn’t she!’
‘It’s a pipe dream. You have to live on something, eh? What does your man do, Angel -your new one?’
‘He’s in the Navy. Thought I’d told you… But he’s also an artist.’
‘Painter? Good one?’
‘I don’t know. Haven’t seen any of his pictures yet. Did I tell you he’s Australian?’
‘Don’t think you did. But look here – Mauritius is on the way to Australia – if you come round the Cape, that is. You and he might stop off sometime, eh?’
‘Lovely idea… You’ll definitely be going back there, will you, after all this?’
‘Oh, sure. My kids…’
Then – out of the dark, after a minute or two of silence – ‘He’s got to be a very good man to deserve you, Angel.’
One of the things she’d remember all her life, she thought, as the gazo carried them through the Bois de Guillaume. Not only what he’d said, but that gravelly voice out of the surrounding darkness in which they’d both been very much aware that any such continuance – survival, to enjoy it – could only be a hope, never an assumption.
Pigot wasn’t in the garage, but Romeo had a key to the wrecked Ford’s boot; he extracted an old wireless-set and plugged it in, in the office. He checked his watch: 1915 Greenwich Mean Time meant 1745 Central European Time, and it was now 1754.
‘Just made it, Angel. If we’re lucky.’ In time, he meant, for the messages that would follow the bulletin. He lit their cigarettes: as an essential preliminary, she supposed – fretting, slightly… Twiddling knobs then, getting atmospherics as well as bursts of the usual jamming, and finally Bruce Belfridge’s voice, thin at first – summarizing, repeating the headlines. Palermo had fallen to Allied forces, Mussolini was thought to be on his way out, Allied bombers had hit Rome.
Lost it again, in the jamming: the bit that mattered. Adjusting the tuning, microscopically…
Bernard vient d’acheter un complet neuf.
Good for him: but that would be news for someone else. Not that it mattered if she and Romeo missed out on theirs – as long as the others got it, Lebrun in Lyons-la-Forêt and Juvier in Beauvais. They’d have heard it last night and alerted their reception teams, would probably be with them now, straining their ears for this confirmation.
The broadcaster’s voice broke through a lot of crackling: ‘— est devenue malade.’
Rosie murmured, ‘There…’
Watching Romeo, who was still crouched over the wireless, glancing up smiling as the repetition came ‘Ma belle-soeur est devenue malade.’
She cycled through the town to Ursule’s. Romeo had given her the rations that were left – some stale sandwiches and an apple – and she might be able to make tea in Ursule’s kitchen, she thought. Ring César first, though, get that over. She was very tired suddenly, the exertions of the past few days catching up on her.
Jacqui’s money was all there, in the cavity under the floorboard, and she put the Mark III in with it, brushing dust over the board when it was back in place. The radio’s next use would be tomorrow night, the first of her listening-out routines; Baker Street might have some responses to her requests for drops, by then.
Really, one had achieved quite a lot.
She went down to see Ursule – who reminded her that a week’s rent was due, but agreed she could use her stove to boil a kettle – then went out to the telephone in the hallway. It took a few minutes to get Monsieur Rossier down to the Belle Femme’s telephone.
‘That you, Jeanne-Marie?’
‘I’m back, Michel darling. Ringing just to let you know all’s well. How are you, sweetheart?’
He’d grunted – surprised, for a moment… Rock of a man not all that quick on the uptake, she mentally noted…
‘Will you come here – now? We could have something to eat?’
‘Oh, I’d love to, but—’
‘Uh?’
‘Michel dear, it’s so late!’
‘Late?’
‘The curfew, darling. And by the time I’ve cleaned up and changed – have to, I’ve ridden about a hundred kilometres today – frankly, I’m exhausted!’
Two tarts on their way out stared at her as they passed. Skinny legs under short skirts, wooden shoes clacking on the linoleum. All the lads would be in town of course, tonight. César was agreeing reluctantly, ‘All right – so come tomorrow. As early as you like, but you could lunch with me here, or—’
‘Can’t wait. Lots to tell you, darling…’
‘Went well, did it?’
‘Very well. Except I missed you—’
‘Anything about our mutual friend?’
‘Yes, it’s all fixed.’ The tarts were in the doorway to Ursule’s apartment, and one of them was listening. And over this telephone line, anyone might be listening… Rosie told him, ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll—’
‘Talking to him tonight, d’you expect?’
‘I don’t know. Might try, later. Anyway—’
‘He’s got to be told, hasn’t he – as soon as possible, surely. And perhaps now he’d consent to talk to me – might join us tomorrow, if you asked him nicely?’
‘I’ll ask him -if I get him.’
‘Another thing is I’d like a list of the new customers you’ve found. The whole business. When you can?’
The idea was highly unattractive. But she agreed – ‘All right. If I can stay awake that long.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be done tonight, Jeanne-Marie.’
‘All right. I dare say… But Michel – darling – I really must go and have a bath, while the water lasts. So—’
‘It’s finished, honey!’ The tart in the doorway had called this to her. Adding – by way of explanation – ‘It’s Saturday, after all!’
She sighed, turning away. ‘Michel?’
‘Who was that?’
‘Just another – inmate. Says there’s no hot water left. Look, I’m going to run – it may not be completely cold. See you tomorrow?’
She did all her chores before turning in: including a repair to the bra that had begun to irritate. Laundering it then, with other ‘smalls’. The thought in her head meanwhile of having to put all those Resistance men’s names, addresses and other particulars on paper appalled her. Names on bits of paper could be death warrants. If she were stopped and searched on her way to the Belle Femme in the morning, for instance… There was a sense of treachery involved, simply in risking it. Not only those individuals’ lives, but their families’ as well: and they were paying her the compliment of trusting her, for God’s sake…
She wrote slowly, unwillingly. By the time she’d finished she was so tired she could hardly think straight. Preparing for bed, finding the suicide pill on the bedside table where she’d put it before starting the sewing job: she barely remembered having put it there. The rice paper was intact but discoloured, somewhat. Sweat. All the long, hot days. Might not be such a marvellous idea – if it got really soaked. If sweat had the same effect that saliva was supposed to have?
Marilyn’s voice: Bring the beastly little thing back with you – uh?
She’d dropped off – almost. Perched on the edge of the bed: jerking awake again, and pushing herself off it – to attend to the window: light off first, then drawn back the heavy blackout curtains – she already had the sash window pushed right up, not only for air to breathe but with thoughts of the bombing raid on La Haye, the chance of hearing it. Straight-line distance being roughly twenty-five kilometres – thirty at most.
Conditions were good, for the bombers and for the drops. Very little wind, no cloud that she could see, stars paled by a nearly full moon. Leaning in the window, her head and shoulders out, gazing up at it: thinking of it as a bombers’ moon tonight, and that next weekend when it would be only about half the size it would serve as a Lysander’s moon. Thinking of which led her to that question of César’s – but there’d been no danger in it. A breach of the convention to have asked, but – she could hear it in her memory, an entirely conversational tone, and he’d made no attempt to return to the question when she’d hedged.
Exhaustion bred paranoia.
And the remedy for exhaustion was – bed.
And sleep. Like the surf on that dark beach – washing over her, washing her into dreams conjured by her last waking thoughts. Distant drumming of exploding bombs, flames reflected in the sky, and a few miles away – she’d got there herself, somehow – in the forest clearing with other dark, wordless characters grouped here and there, pinpoints of red torches marking the extremities of the dropping ground, and one torch unmasked, white, flashing the recognition signal into the sky. Lebrun, that was – his pale face upturned to the moon, the torch aimed at a single oncoming aircraft – black, twin-engined, blasting over in its own welter of deafening sound and the containers spilling out, ’chutes opening as the noise peaked and immediately fell away. Gone: but the loads swinging earthward, men standing back staring up to catch sight of them in mid-air before each crashed down shaking the hard-baked ground and was then surrounded by the dark shapes desperately bundling the masses of material and lines then humping the containers into the cover of the wood and to whatever transport they had waiting – a farm-cart, coal-lorry, forester’s tractor with a trailer… Rosie woke in the morning – having heard nothing, slept without moving from the moment her head had sunk into the pillow – with the thought in her mind that Lebrun would have seen to it, surely, that the villagers were warned: a whisper of unknown origin, family to family. She hoped they’d have managed that.
César hadn’t heard the bombing either, but he’d heard of it. By breakfast time everyone in Rouen had heard that the target had been a Wehrmacht ammunition dump at La Haye, part of which had blown up: there’d been one extremely loud explosion, apparently. It was also said that there’d been considerable loss of life. The younger son of the house, Gaston, had told César this when he’d brought him his morning ersatz coffee.
‘We’re less well informed, on Rive Gauche.’ Rosie had attended Mass in the Saint Sever church, breakfasted late and got to the Belle Femme in mid-morning: she’d been shown up to Monsieur Rossier’s room by the other boy, Emil. ‘All we heard was there’d been a raid somewhere east of here.’ She added, ‘Let’s hope the lives lost were all German.’
César stared at her for a moment. She added, ‘Not only as a worthwhile end in itself, but it doesn’t help us much to have our own people killing Frenchmen, does it.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ He changed the subject. ‘Did you get hold of Romeo?’
‘Sorry, no. Being Sunday – and having no idea where he lives. Catch him tomorrow, I expect. His pickup’s set for Friday night, by the way – Lysander, a field near Bellencombre. If you’ve got your map—’
‘Bellencombre…’ He went over to the briefcase which he kept locked, and opened it. He was wearing lightweight khaki trousers and a white open-necked shirt. Barely thirty, she’d have guessed – let alone the forty or so they’d said he was. He came limping back, opening the map. ‘Show me.’
‘Here. It’s a clearing in woodland, quite high. The R/V’s set for midnight, French time. I’ll go out there that day and be on hand to meet the new man – if they send one. I’d guess they will – wouldn’t you?’ He’d nodded; she went on, ‘The réseau leader there is a forester by name of Plumier, lives at Ardouval.’ She put her finger on the map again. ‘I spent a night in his house, he’d got some of the others together so I was able to kill several birds at one go. Did the same in a couple of other places too. Saving legwork – and time on the road is time one’s exposed, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve thought it all out.’
‘Well. Common sense, really. Anyway this isn’t my first deployment, Michel.’
‘No. Of course…’
Looking at her as if she fascinated him. Although why she should have was a mystery. He was a far more experienced agent than she was, by all accounts. And Buckmaster’s blue-eyed boy. She thought, Perhaps it’s my damn mouth again… Telling him, ‘The other places, I had several together at once, were Neufchatel and a village just south of Amiens called Dury. The king-pin there is a cattle dealer by name of Mattan.’
‘As I said, Angel – although you didn’t exactly enthuse – I need to have all the names and details. If anything should happen to you – and with Romeo out of it—’
‘I know. I just hate putting names on paper. To be honest, I didn’t much like having to talk about it on the phone, either. Also I was – exhausted.’
‘I realized that. As to telephones, though – well, you’re right, but – frankly, Angel, speaking as a very experienced agent – one can put too many obstacles in one’s own path. Obviously, one doesn’t articulate certain words… Huh?’
It was true, she thought, as she remembered their conversation, that it could have been some business subject they’d been discussing… She shrugged. ‘Anyway – here it is.’ Unrolling yesterday’s Le Matin, which she’d picked up at Ursule’s, and flattening the curled sheets of paper which she’d had inside it. ‘Item one, copies of all the transmissions I made. This on its own gives you most of the story, really.’
‘Let me see.’
She sat back, reached for a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
A quick shake of the fair head: impatient, eager to read the stuff. The moustache still looked silly. When they knew each other better, she thought, she’d pick a good moment to suggest it didn’t really suit him. Or that he’d be handsomer without it… He was engrossed in the material she’d given him, narrow eyes sliding to and fro, diverting now and then to check a location on the map.
Finishing, he glancing across at her. Looking surprised – or admiring, or both…
‘This is a heck of a lot of munitions they’ll have coming in.’ Glancing down at the pages again, flicking through them… ‘What, a dozen different groups here?’
‘Eleven. It’s been some time, remember, since they had anything. And the closer we get to the invasion the more they’re anxious to stock up. Incidentally, there’ll have been two drops last night, under cover of the La Haye bombing.’ The slit eyes glared at her.
‘Last night? Last night, Angel? Drops you arranged?’
‘Not exactly. London did, before I came out. All I had to do was tip the boys off to be ready for it. I did that the weekend before you arrived.’
‘And decided not to mention it to me?’
He looked angry. Really very angry: you could see it growing in him. She shook her head, holding his stare. ‘It was done. On Colonel Buckmaster’s orders. If you’d been here when I arrived – but you weren’t, I simply got on with it. I’m sorry – perhaps I should have told you about it – but really, what for? Never occurred to me, I don’t think.’
‘Never occurred to you… Jeanne-Marie – I’m the Organizer here. Remember? Don’t you think I should know what’s going on? Are you working with me, or are you an independent operator?’
‘Now you’re here, I work with you. Under your direction. Obviously.’ She exhaled smoke. ‘Goes without saying. But why you should be – as furious as you seem to be—’
‘Furious…’ Still glaring… ‘Yes. Also – amazed… I’m your Organizer, for God’s sake, I insist on being informed of every damn thing that goes on here! What you do, or intend doing, or are told to do by London—’
‘Michel, listen.’ She’d got up, was standing at one of the windows, her back to it. ‘Let’s understand each other… I work under your orders – now. Before you got here I didn’t – obviously. I was under orders from Baker Street. What’s more, I was trained – as you must have been too, and both of us must have practised this in the field – not to provide people with information they don’t need. I certainly don’t want any I don’t need… All right?’
‘Well –’
‘Romeo’s case is relevant, isn’t it? He’s proved something – by distancing himself from all the members of his former réseau except the Organizer he’s alive although the rest of them are dead – or may wish they were… I think I’d like to work in much the same way – contact with you, no-one else. We could work like that, couldn’t we?’
He sighed, passing a hand across his eyes…
‘Yes, we could. I’d have no objection to that at all. But sit down, Jeanne-Marie. And let’s calm down. As you say – we must understand each other. I’m sorry – you took me by surprise – you’ll admit it’s unusual for an Organizer to be told after a drop takes place… I still think you should have told me. I take it, incidentally, that you’ll be following up, to check they got it all?’
‘No need.’ She shook her head. ‘If anything went wrong, I’d hear. Anyway – here’s the next instalment.’ A second sheaf of notepaper: she pushed it to him across the table. ‘The last two names on this are last night’s recipients. I met them both in Lyons-la-Forêt, in the schoolmaster’s house – as I said, the weekend before you arrived. I was looking for you here that Thursday, of course, and you weren’t here so I went ahead. Lebrun is the schoolmaster. Mousey little man, but he’s right on the ball.’
He was lost again, absorbed in her notes. His insistence on having it all on paper was justified, she’d realized, in a way. Usually you’d make one contact at a time, or at most two or three, and commit them to memory; she did happen to have an exceptionally reliable and capacious one. But César could hardly have managed this lot without having notes to refer to when he needed.
‘You won’t leave that screed lying around, I hope?’
‘What?’
Still reading… Glancing up then, a finger at the point he’d reached. Blank for a moment, before it sank in. ‘No – of course not.’ Eyes down again. Rosie watching him, her cigarette nearly finished, holding the stub between fingertip and thumbtip to get the last of it. Sounds of a brass band out there: some Boche parade. They were inclined to dress up and goose-step through the towns which they infested, on Sundays.
Music certainly not the food of love, she thought. More a cacophony of hate.
He’d finished. Shuffling the sheets together, folding them; his hands shaking slightly, she noticed. Glancing up at her then, hesitating – as if he was getting himself together… ‘Last night’s bombing was intended only as a cover to these drops, you said?’
‘Three birds with one stone. Hitting the Boche ammo dump at La Haye would have been a worthwhile effort anyway, I’d have thought. But listen, Michel – I’ve another thing to tell you about. Before you complain of being left in the dark again. When I met these people I wasn’t only collecting requests for drops and suggestions for dropping-fields and so on, I was asking them for something in return.’
She told him about the rocket-site research. Not mentioning Colonel Walther, of course, only the fact she’d asked for reports on any survey operations or construction work.
‘In fact this isn’t S.O.E. business, Michel, it’s S.I.S. Maurice Buckmaster agreed they could use me for it, and he suggested I should let you in on it if I felt I needed help. S.I.S. on the other hand made it clear they’d rather I kept it to myself.’
‘Buck’s the man I’d follow. He’s a great guy. Truly is. Did I tell you he came to my wedding?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘In Dublin?’
‘Well – no. But—’
‘It’s where my wife is. She’s there now. Out of the bombing, thank God … But are you saying you’ve found you do need my help?’
‘No. No, I’m not.’ She added – with a quick smile, softening it – ‘Thanks all the same… It’s only that we’re sure to get messages coming in about it, I don’t want to have to keep them from you, so it’s best to tell you. It’s my personal brief, though, there’s nothing for you to do.’
‘All right… They’ll cooperate, will they?’ He touched her notes. ‘This bunch?’
‘It’s very much in their interests, isn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘And not only them – every réseau to the north and east, right into the Pas de Calais.’
‘They’re passing the request along – that it?’
She nodded. ‘Some reports may go direct to London, of course. That’s what I’ve asked for, hope for. But we’re likely to field at least a few here too – if anything of that sort’s happening.’
‘Yes. Yes – if it is… Anyway – as you say, it’s your personal brief, so – just keep me informed. Primarily, in case anything happened to you – and there’d be pieces to pick up… Meanwhile, Angel,’ – he patted her notes – ‘I must say, you’ve made a flying start…’