Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

The Whitley took off in a steady drizzle at 10.15 and headed southwest toward Sussex, then over the Channel to Normandy, where it veered inland on a heading for Vichy. The drop site was a farm outside the village of Chantelle, 10 kilometres or so to the North of the city. A newly formed resistance group, alerted by the SOE, would be waiting, with torches and a car, and with luck they would be in Vichy before breakfast.

  It was difficult to talk in the Whitley, even though it was reckoned to be a quiet aircraft. They were both in any case thinking about Romero. Isabella remembered him in the church, telling her to keep her voice down. She couldn’t help thinking that Eddy had maybe been a little in love with her. That was nice, she thought, but sad. Bramall wondered if his friend had derived any real satisfaction from the life he led, or whether he simply followed an impulse, believing it to be right. He also wondered if he had been in love with Izzy – as he called her – and rather thought he was.

  Isabella had fallen silent. Children. Eddy would have liked children. He would have been a good father – though a strange one. But it would never happen. She tried hard not to think of his last minutes. The Spanish garrotte was a particularly gruesome form of execution and she could not bear to think of the horror he must have endured. She wondered what thoughts had occupied his last moments.

  It was a little after one o’clock – 2am French time – when word came through that they were over the jump zone. Bramall strapped the package to his chest. Inside, in addition to the two records and Hasselfeldt’s notebook, was a note from Churchill to Pétain that he hadn’t read and didn’t plan to. The corporal checked the parachutes and made sure they were in order. Then he opened the aircraft door.

  Cold air rushed in at 150 miles an hour. Isabella felt her teeth chatter.

  “I’ve only done this twice before,” she shouted into Bramall’s ear, “and that was in daylight.”

  “Me, too,” Bramall roared back. “But we’ll be fine.”

  The corporal was looking up at a light above the door, waiting for it to go green. “Okay,” he shouted, tapping Bramall on the shoulder. “That’s it. Good luck!”

  Bramall went first, then Isabella. After 30 seconds had passed, intended to get them below the worst of the cloud cover, they pulled their ripcords. The chutes billowed up and, after the initial “upwards” lurch, they began to float gently down. The lack of moonlight, combined with the cloudy conditions and steady rainfall, meant that they lost sight of each other during the descent. It also meant that it was hard to judge how high they were and when they should brace for impact with the ground. Bramall squinted into the inky blackness, looking for any trace of what lay below. At length, he saw three thin beams of light – hopefully from the welcoming party. It must mean he was almost down. He bent his knees and tried his best to relax his body. After a further five seconds, he thought he could make out some trees. Holy fuck!! He pulled on the lines, but it was too late. The canopy of his chute caught on a low branch and he came to a dramatic, breathless halt some six feet from the ground. The torch beams grew in intensity. He could hear footsteps in the undergrowth. Unbuckling his harness, he drew his revolver and fell the rest of the way to Earth.

  Isabella landed a hundred metres or so to the east in the middle of a field of maize. Suddenly, it was hot and sticky, and the tall cereal plants were sharp and brittle. The husk of one of them grazed her cheek. Other than that, she was safe. She undid her harness and stood up. She could see fireflies. The sound of crickets filled the air. But then, abruptly, she was aware of footsteps moving in her direction and of the flash of a torchlight .

  She waited, fumbling for her revolver.

  “Bonjour!” a man’s voice said. “Bienvenue en France.”

  She almost fainted with relief.

  The leader of the resistance group, who said his name was Thierry, took them to the home of the farmer in whose fields they had landed. As part of the deal worked out with SOE, the Whitley had also dropped a consignment of arms and explosives, with detonators and timers, which Thierry’s comrades were now gathering in. Once the leader was satisfied that his deal with the British was honoured, he told Bramall and Isabella they should get some sleep.

  “We leave for Vichy at eight. There is no point in going in advance. The offices will only be closed.”

  He directed them up a ladder, rather like the one in Bótoa, to a loft in which a mattress and blankets were laid out. He then pulled down the hatch. “I will wake you at seven,” he called. “Dormez bien.”

  They did not make love that night. It was too hot and clammy and they were nervous as well as exhausted. Instead, they curled up in each other’s arms and fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Next morning, at exactly seven, the hatch flew up and Thierry’s head appeared in the opening. “I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said. “There is coffee below. After that, we must go.”

  Vichy, until the middle of the nineteenth century an unexceptional provincial town in the north of the Auvergne, had been transformed by the re-discovery of its thermal waters. During the reign of Napoléon III, it was the most fashionable spa resort in Europe, acquiring hotels, parks, an opera house and concert hall, as well as hundreds of chalets and villas, noted for their ornate architecture and trademark ironwork.

  The new Government of France, with Pétain as a post-constitutional monarch and Laval as his enforcer, dominated the local scene. Hotels and other public buildings were now home to 22 ministries. The Maréchal himself had newly taken over the immense Hotel du Parc, which also contained the offices of Pierre Laval and his assistant, Alain Delacroix.

  It was just after 08.30 when Thierry, dressed as the schoolteacher he was, dropped Bramall and Isabella in the centre of the town, some 500 metres from the Park. “When you are finished, if all is well, I will meet you in the Hall des Sources. I will be there from three o’clock until five. If you do not come or you are not alone, I will not hesitate to leave without you, so please be careful.

  “Understood,” said Bramall.

  They walked down the street towards the hotel. Bramall carried the two 78s, in their paper sleeves, plus Hasselfeldt’s transcription, in a bag under his arm. The original recording, less the material relating to the assault on Gibraltar, had been re-spooled onto two doubled-sided reels hidden in slots built into the heels of his boots. These were backup, nothing more, designed to impress the French should they demand to know the provenance of the recordings.

  Everything looked normal. People were on their way to work, buses were running, cafés were serving breakfast. The first jarring note came when they looked up at the hotel itself. The new flag of France flew from its flagpole. It was the same red, white and blue tricolour, but in the middle, in the white section was the Francisque, a Frankish axe, chosen by Pétain to symbolise the resolve and patriotism of the new Republic.

  Two Gendarmes stood outside, wearing short waterproof capes against the rain which hadn’t stopped since their arrival. Bramall and Isabella produced their identity papers, freshly made in London three days before, showing them to be natives of Clermont-Ferrand.

  “You must go to reception,” one of the officers said. He looked vaguely bored.

  Inside was a further arrangement of flags, including those of Germany and Italy – the latter, like its French counterpart, featuring an axe – Roman this time – surrounded by birch rods superimposed on the green, white and red of the tricolour.

  The woman at reception was bright and chirpy. “Whom shall I say is calling?” she asked.

  “Monsieur Le Duc and Mademoiselle La Roche, come to take the waters.”

  There was a flicker of recognition. “Ah yes. But was there something else, perhaps? Something you have forgotten?”

  “Well,” said Bramall, “I suppose you might mention that the bougainvillea is in bloom.”

  “Bien. Wait here, please.
”

  While the receptionist made a telephone call, a gendarme examined the contents of Bramall’s bag and frisked him for weapons. A white-haired woman in her sixties, wearing a uniform dating back to the Hotel du Parc’s days as an actual hotel, examined Isabella.

  Two minutes later, a uniformed huissier arrived to escort them not to Laval’s office, but to that of Delacroix, on the first floor, overlooking the gardens. Seated at a desk that was slightly too large for him, the former Army captain was smartly dressed but had about him a strangely hunted look. He was obviously wary of his visitors. His eyes darted about, taking them in. After a moment, he ran a hand down his new moustache, intended to convey gravitas, that he had not entirely succeeded in growing.

  “I am Delacroix, principle assistant to Deputy Prime Minister Laval.”

  “Good of you to see us,” Bramall said.

  Delacroix cast his eye up and down Isabella’s trim form. She was dressed in a simple white blouse and pencil skirt. He then turned back to Bramall. “You are English, I believe,” he said. The description came out laced with contempt.

  “That is correct. My true name is Bramall …Charles Bramall.” They spoke in French.

  “And you, Mademoiselle, are from Spain.”

  Isabella smiled sweetly. “I am, Monsieur.”

  Delacroix sniffed. “I must tell you, your national origins do not exactly imbue me with confidence. For the moment, I shall indulge you, but do not take me for a fool. Should I decide that you are in any sense working against French interests, I shall not hesitate to have you deported under guard to the Occupied Zone, where you will be handed over to the German authorities. Two Gendarmes are at this moment standing outside my door. Try to bear that in mind when you talk to me.”

  “Charmant, monsieur,” Isabella said. “May we sit down?”

  Delacroix gestured vaguely towards some chairs. “If you think you will be more than two minutes.”

  “Before we begin, Bramall said, “I have a letter here for Maréchal Pétain, written by the British Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Perhaps you would be good enough to see that he gets it.”

  Delacroix’s eyes opened wide as Bramall handed over the letter. “How do I know that it is genuine?”

  “Don’t ask me. I haven’t read it. If you think it’s a forgery, you can always throw it away. But I really do think that would be a pity.”

  “We shall see,” said Delacroix, placing the letter, with its Downing Street seal, in pride of place in the centre of his desk, next to a paperweight based on the Arc de Triomphe. On the opposite wall was a photograph of Pétain, taken after Verdun, in which his moustache was particularly luxuriant. He was in his 60s even then. The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. “Now, why are you here? Proceed.”

  Bramall felt like a second-rate actor. “Until two weeks ago,” he began, “I worked for the British Government in Spain. While there, I came into the possession of some remarkable information.” He paused. “As you know, the Caudillo considers the whole of Morocco, plus the western portion of Algeria, centred on Oran, to be a natural part of the Spanish sphere of influence. You may be less aware of his desire to expand the enclave of Spanish Equatorial Africa at the expense of the French empire, specifically your territory of Gabon. At any rate, in the context of the present war, in which Spanish membership of the Axis is even now being negotiated, these claims have risen to the very top of the Spanish agenda.”

  Delacroix’s eyes were darting about quite feverishly now. This was exactly what Dominique had suggested – though without proof of any kind. If true, it could spell ruination for France. But Laval had assured him there was nothing to worry about.

  “I am aware of these developments,” he said, sounding nervous and agitated, as if overwhelmed by some force greater than himself. “France, too, has its sources of information. What do you bring me that is new? And why is the young lady here?”

  “I am here,” said Isabella, “because several times in recent months I have met personally with Minister Serrano-Suñer, who, with the Caudillo, is preparing a challenge to the French empire. I am also here because I can corroborate what M. Bramall is about to tell you. I can provide details of Serrano’s recent conversations with my father, a senior government aide, that confirm the hostile intent of the Government in Madrid towards France.”

  Delacroix’s palms were now sticky with sweat. “All this is very interesting,” he said. “But what proof do you have? I do not deal in speculation.”

  “The proof is right here,” said Bramall, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He and Isabella had not discussed the cyanide capsules concealed in their lapels, but their significance was not lost on them. He opened the bag at his feet and took out the two records. “I suggest you ask one of your aides to fetch a gramophone and then listen carefully to the two records I am now handing to you. You do speak Spanish, I take it.”

  “Of course I speak Spanish,” Delacroix sniffed. He rose slightly out of his chair and took the records from Bramall’s grasp. He looked at the first one, still in its sleeve, a hole cut out to expose the label. “Maurice Chevalier – not one of his best, if you ask me.” He turned to the second. “And this – what is it?” He squinted at the label. “Ray Ventura, ‘On Ira Pendre Notre Linge sur La Ligne Siegfried.’ Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Not at all,” said Bramall, “though it is, arguably, in poor taste. The two records you have there in your hand are proof positive of a high-level conversation – a negotiation, really – between Berlin and Madrid. The purpose of the negotiation, from Germany’s standpoint, is the capture of Gibraltar. That explains my interest in the matter. From Spain’s point of view, the object is somewhat different.” He glanced at Isabella.

  “Obviously,” she said, “the Government of General Franco would like to retake Gibraltar. I do not need to explain this to you, I think. It is a matter of national honour. But the real reason for their interest – indeed the only reason they are prepared to join the war – is that they have an understanding with Hitler that will grant them the whole of Morocco, plus Oran, as well as a large section of French Africa, at the close of hostilities.”

  “Don’t take our word for it.” Bramall resumed. “Listen for yourself. On the German side, the speakers are Baron Eberhard von Stohrer, Ambassador to Madrid, and Colonel Walter Bruns, the embassy’s chief military attaché. Those taking part for Spain are the Interior Minister, Ramón Serrano Suñer, the Foreign Minister, Juan Beigbeder, and the Army Chief of Staff, General Vigón.”

  “How did you get hold of such a thing?”

  “I told you. I work as an agent for the British Government. It’s my job.”

  “But wait! I remember. There was an attack recently on the German Legation. Were you responsible for that?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “And you, Mlle La Roche. What do you know of this?”

  “I alerted M. Bramall to the existence of the meeting and the names of those taking part.”

  Despite himself, Delacroix looked palpably excited. “I see. Well, I do not have a gramophone in my office. It is not a nightclub. But I have no doubt one can be found.” He picked up the receiver of his telephone and dialled a number. “Bring me a gramophone,” he ordered. “Yes, a gramophone. At once.” He replaced the receiver and shot out a finger in Bramall’s direction.

  “How did you record this alleged conversation? You cannot expect me to believe that you set up microphones and equipment in the German Legation.”

  “No, M. Delacroix, it was originally recorded by the SD – the Sicherheitsdienst – on a device known as a Magnetophon. I obtained the recording. As no one outside of Germany possesses a Magnetophon, our technicians – with considerable ingenuity – transferred the original onto gramophone records. Should you be interested, I also have the SD transcription into German of part
of the original Spanish.” He smiled. “Apparently the fellow was interrupted before he could finish.”

  Delacroix sat back. This was a real coup. First, he had been given an intimation of what might be happening from Dominique, who had presumably obtained her information in flagrante from the Spanish Foreign Minister. But that was only hearsay. Laval had dismissed it. Now, however, came the proof.

  Bramall was studying the Frenchman. A thousand different thoughts seemed to be running through the fellow’s mind. “Might I suggest something?” he asked. Delacroix shrugged. “It’s just that we were specifically instructed to speak with Deputy Prime Minister Laval. Do you think you could possibly let him know what’s happening so that he too can hear the recording?”

  Delacroix put on his stern face, which in fact was very similar to his “brave” face and was equally unconvincing. “Once I am satisfied that the information you bring us is real, I will bring it to the attention of Minister Laval. Then, and only then.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Your gramophone, Monsieur,” said a huissier, slightly breathless from carrying the machine from the former hotel’s rooftop bar.

  “Well, set it up.”

  The man plugged in the gramophone and turned it on, Bramall took the first record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. As gently as he could, he lowered the needle at the end of its heavy metal arm onto the outer groove.

  “Good day, gentlemen.” The guttural Spanish of Eberhard von Stohrer filled the room.

  Over the next five minutes, as the first side of the first record wound to its conclusion, Delacroix listened, mouth trembling.

  “This is incredible,” he gasped – incroyable!”

  “Exactly. So do you think you might now, possibly, contact Deputy Prime Minister Laval?”

  “But of course. Naturally.,” the functionary replied. “We should waste no time.”

  After the faintly ludicrous Delacroix, Deputy Prime Minister Pierre Laval seemed to Bramall a man of real political substance. A former head of government as well as his country’s Foreign Minister during the Abyssinia crisis, he was a politician of the first order. But he was also something of an enigma, even perhaps to himself.