The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Did you return it?’ Tomas asked.

  Felix folded his arms defensively as if he was unhappy with the affair. ‘I had a revolver in my coat pocket and a balaclava up my sleeve, and I was leaving the area where a raid had taken place. I wasn’t going to do anything that invited attention. It was easier and quicker to let them have their fun.’

  ‘So you let yourself be beaten!’ Sylvie leaned towards him, looking him up and down. His white shirt was open at the neck and she could see a few dark hairs scattering his upper chest. ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  ‘Would you like to look and find out?’ Felix said, leaning over the table towards her. He gave her a wink. ‘I can show you later.’

  ‘Enough,’ Monsieur Julien said wearily. ‘Listening to you two, I feel like I’m in the rehearsal for a third-rate romance play.’

  They both sat back, though the tingle that raced up and down Sylvie’s spine took longer to subside than she liked. She forced herself to concentrate. This was a job. Flirting with Felix was all too tempting, but she was determined to be professional.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Marcel tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Sylvie, I question whether it is worth you pursuing Baumann as a target. Can you see any other benefit?’

  She leaned back against the wall and stared into space, reliving the afternoon. Dieter might not be the most useful target, but he didn’t feel threatening. He hadn’t tried to get her into bed, which Uncle Max had warned her might happen.

  ‘He’s strange. The way he talked – I don’t think he entirely believes that what Hitler is doing is right. He is a civil servant, not a soldier. It could be something we can use. A double agent who has access to letters sent back to Germany and works in transportation would be very useful.’

  Marcel steepled his fingers.

  ‘You’re in a better position than anyone else to work him, but if you’re going to waste your efforts for no gain, then I’ll have to ask London for advice on a better use of your time. You have a week and no more.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, though he hasn’t visited the club since the day we had lunch. I may have blown it.’

  The men looked at her with interest, clearly wanting elaboration.

  ‘He kissed me, and when I didn’t kiss him back he left.’

  ‘Why didn’t you kiss him back?’ Marcel asked. ‘That seems like a wasted opportunity to get closer.’

  ‘He took me by surprise,’ Sylvie said.

  Felix flashed her a look. ‘You didn’t punch him?’

  ‘You mean did I assault a member of the Nazi Party in public? No, for some reason I decided against that,’ Sylvie retorted.

  Felix grinned. He was maddeningly attractive. Maybe it was the summer heat or the wine taking charge, because she tilted her head on one side and gazed through lowered lashes.

  ‘Also I know him a little. I’d be less likely to punch someone who isn’t a complete stranger.’

  He said nothing, but raised his glass to his lips and stared at her over the rim as he drank.

  ‘Let’s move on to more important matters,’ Tomas growled. ‘I don’t want to spend all night watching them circling round like a pair of dogs on heat.’

  Sylvie flushed, and Felix began examining his thumb. Tomas was right; they should not be flirting when they should be thinking of more serious things. Monsieur Julien raised his hands and shrugged as if to say, ‘He’s right’.

  ‘First, there will be increased drops of arms. Something is in the pipeline, according to England. Something big.’

  ‘What?’ Sylvie leaned forward, excitement coursing through her.

  ‘I’m not privy to that,’ Marcel said, ‘But we need to be ready to mount an assault if and when we are given the word. Whatever happens won’t start here, but it might reach us. Sylvie, you’ll be responsible for making deliveries across the city a few at a time. Taking weapons and explosives.’

  She nodded. By now she felt confident enough to walk past checkpoints, knowing her identification papers would pass. It seemed years since she had shaken with trepidation at carrying Felix’s stupid cigarettes.

  ‘Now, onto the second matter.’ Marcel took out a rolled document and unfurled it on the desk. The paper showed the plan of a set of buildings. ‘The raid to obtain food tokens was a complete success. England have suggested – as we are such a well-coordinated unit – we carry out an act of sabotage on a factory on the outskirts of town on the other side of the river.’

  ‘Owned by a French company,’ Tomas said, frowning.

  ‘The factory owner is known to have been sympathetic to collaboration in the early days of occupation and gave his factory over without too much hesitation. I don’t think anyone should feel guilty,’ Bernard said. ‘Others on the inside are more loyal to France and have provided us with details we need.’

  He walked around the room to stand over the map. He was a large man and had to ease his way past the table. He began to make soft marks in pencil at various points.

  ‘Three of our men will enter here during the day and leave with the workers. They go in with bags and come out with bags, but throughout the day they change the explosives and fuses for rags and tools. Our second team go during the cover of night before curfew. They will be responsible for detonating the charges.’

  He paused while everyone absorbed his words.

  ‘Sylvie, this is where you come in,’ Marcel said. ‘A woman waiting at the factory gates for her sweetheart to meet her for an illicit liaison won’t attract attention. You will keep a lookout for the night patrols, and signal when they pass, and it is safe for the team to leave the factory.’

  Bernard spoke again. ‘Felix, as you have embraced a more active role, you will—’

  Before he could tell Felix what his role would be, there was a rapid knocking on the front door. Sylvie froze. Marcel held his hand aloft.

  The knocking came again.

  ‘Sylvie? Fräulein Duchene, are you there?’

  Sylvie drew in a sharp breath. Dieter.

  ‘Who is calling you?’ Tomas asked.

  ‘It’s the one she spoke of who keeps sniffing around her,’ Felix said.

  Tomas drew out a revolver. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sylvie exclaimed. ‘You can’t shoot him! And what if he isn’t alone?’

  ‘You should never have used the club.’ Tomas glared at Marcel. Bernard rolled the schematic up and began to glance around for a place to hide it. Pointless. If the club was being raided, there would not be a drawer left unopened or a box missed.

  ‘There is no need to kill him,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’ll go out and see what he wants. ‘The rest of you go out the door into the alleyway while I distract him.’

  ‘The door is blocked from the outside,’ Monsieur Julien said. ‘We only move the rubbish in advance if we know it will be used. Can you climb out of the window in the dressing room?’

  Felix raised an eyebrow and glanced at Bernard. Despite the severity of the situation, Sylvie wanted to giggle. There was no way the man could fit through the tiny window.

  Dieter’s voice came once more.

  ‘Give me five minutes with him,’ Sylvie begged. ‘I’ll make him go.’

  Marcel nodded curtly and gestured towards the door. Sylvie straightened her hair and walked back out to the curtain that separated the backstage area from the rest of the club. She called in a bright voice, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It is Dieter,’ he replied. ‘I saw a light on.’

  Sylvie looked at the bar. A single lamp had been missed and was suffusing the room with a pearlescent light. On shaking legs, Sylvie made her way to the front of the club. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to hold down the feeling of nausea. It had been their foolishness that has caused this. She stopped and put her hand to her throat, fingering the reassuring coldness of the cross and the pill encased within. She heard a foot step behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Felix stood in the
shadows.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sylvie whispered.

  ‘Protecting you,’ he hissed back. He moved slightly and Sylvie caught the glimpse of metal in his hand. ‘I’m not going to let him take you.’

  Sylvie gave him a quick smile. Knowing he was there meant more than she could express in words. She walked stealthily to the front door and slowly turned the key.

  Dieter was waiting. He peered over her shoulder suspiciously. ‘What is happening in here? It’s after curfew.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Sylvie asked, ignoring his question and greeting him with a smile. ‘I haven’t seen you for a few days. I was worried I had upset you somehow.’

  He looked a little less stern. ‘I arrived after closing time. I hoped to see you tonight, but I missed you when the other women left,’ he said. ‘I waited at the Strassenkreuzung at the bottom of the hill to see if you would walk past, but when you didn’t, I walked up and I saw the light was still on.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sylvie forced another smile. ‘I was talking to Monsieur Julien about a new routine for the show.’

  Dieter didn’t smile. ‘You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it.’ His voice held an edge of steel that Sylvie hadn’t heard before. It chilled her. ‘For what reason do you not let me come in?’

  Sylvie tightened her hold on the doorframe. If she let him in, she would be signing his death warrant or theirs. He would never be able to leave alive once he saw the gathering of men. He was the enemy. He had been kind, but that was because he found her attractive. She’d been foolish to even consider that he might have sympathies towards the French, or that he would not hesitate to have her arrested if there was a need. Frantically, she thought of any excuse, and inspiration came to her from the most unlikely place. The picture on the wall that Marcel had painted. Something illegal that one might want to hide, but which would only result in a fine.

  ‘We are listening to jazz. It’s been banned. Please don’t reveal our secret.’

  She spoke clearly enough for the men listening in the back to hear her words. She moved aside to reveal Felix, who stood glowering in the corner. He’d had the sense to conceal his pistol.

  ‘Jazz?’ Dieter narrowed his eyes. ‘The music?’

  ‘Nantes is the French home of jazz,’ Felix said. ‘After the Great War ended, Theatre Graslin was host to the first jazz concert, played by American soldiers.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘An entirely black regiment.’

  Dieter pulled a disapproving face. Sylvie thought briefly of Rosetta, whose father had brought his family back to France after the Great War had ended so he could continue playing the saxophone, saying it was a country where men of his race could be free. Could Rosetta’s father have been one of the men Felix referred to? Again she wished she knew what had happened to Rosetta when war had been declared.

  Dieter peered past Sylvie into the centre of the room. ‘Where is your music? I see no sign of it here.’

  He was alert. Tense. This was a side to him that Sylvie had not seen before; however friendly he was and whatever the attraction between them, he was a German and would not hesitate to have them all arrested.

  She’d done precisely what she had assured Uncle Max wouldn’t happen and allowed his friendliness to blind her to that. Dieter drew his pistol from its holster. Perspiration pooled at the base of Sylvie’s back. He looked from her to Felix and back again.

  ‘Is it just the two of you?’

  Now Sylvie detected a return of the Dieter she knew, because there was a hint of humanity and jealousy in his voice. It would have been simpler to have told him that she and Felix were having a private liaison.

  ‘Not just us. Monsieur Julien and a few of his friends.’

  ‘We are in the back room,’ Felix said. ‘We wouldn’t be so stupid as to play it here where it could be heard from the street.’

  Sylvie tensed, hoping that Dieter would believe Felix.

  ‘I want to see,’ Dieter commanded.

  ‘Come this way,’ Felix said. He cocked his head at Dieter, who gestured towards Sylvie with his gun. Nervously she passed him and slipped through the curtain, not knowing what to expect. She followed Felix into Monsieur Julien’s office, where she was relieved to discover that he had obviously heard the exchange and had managed to produce half a dozen records. They were scattered on the table where the map of the factory had previously been and covered over with ledgers, as if he was in the process of hiding them. Bernard’s hair had apparently been a toupee, because now he was completely bald and had found a pair of crooked wire-rimmed spectacles, which were now balanced on the end of his nose. As disguises went, it was unlikely to fool anyone but was, nevertheless, a salutary effort. Tomas and Marcel were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’m afraid our secret is out,’ Felix said. ‘This officer knows about our music.’

  Monsieur Julien gave up his half-hearted attempt at concealing the records underneath and drew one out with a guilty expression on his face.

  ‘Are you going to report us?’ Sylvie asked. She gave Dieter a look of appeal. ‘I know we are breaking the law, but please, it is only music. We are doing no harm to anyone.’

  Dieter stood rigidly in the doorway. ‘Banned music. Negro and gypsy music. Degenerates.’

  Sylvie kept her face neutral, hiding her distaste as faces of more friends from her childhood in the theatres floated across her memory. In her peripheral vision, she saw Felix shift his stance, like a guard dog preparing to pounce. His pistol was nowhere in sight, but Dieter still held his close to his body at waist height. If Felix decided to jump Dieter, he would be shot before he reached him.

  ‘I am a musician,’ Felix said. ‘Petty matters of race are beneath me.’

  Sylvie blinked and Dieter looked taken aback. ‘I could have you arrested for those words.’ He gestured his pistol towards the records. ‘Play one.’

  Monsieur Julien narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this a trap?’

  There was a spark of interest in Dieter’s eye, and Sylvie suspected he was genuinely interested in listening to the music.

  ‘Go on,’ she urged. She reached for the top record. ‘This one.’

  Felix stepped forward and took the record out of her hand. His fingers closed over hers, a small, reassuring pressure.

  ‘It is my choice today, in case you have forgotten,’ he said. ‘Please come through to the club, Verwaltungs-Sekretar Baumann, and I’ll put it on the gramophone there. The quality is better, and for the first time a man hears Al Bowlly, it must be the best conditions.’

  Felix led the way, Dieter following close behind.

  Tomas appeared from the dressing room and seized Sylvie’s arm. ‘What? Now we are running a covert jazz club for Germans?’ he hissed.

  ‘Better than digging a grave to hide his body,’ Marcel muttered, appearing from behind him.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Tomas said.

  ‘None of us like it,’ Sylvie answered, shaking free. ‘But it is better than being arrested.’

  From the front of the club came the opening bars of ‘The Very Thought of You’, a slow, romantic number.

  ‘I have to go or he’ll get suspicious,’ she said.

  She pushed through the curtains, humming the song. It was a good choice. Nothing too harsh or fast. Felix knew his music.

  She caught Felix’s eye and nodded discreetly. He jerked a finger at Monsieur Julien, who slipped behind the bar and produced a bottle of wine and glasses. As the song played, he passed them around. Dieter took his with a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the gramophone.

  Never had the response to a performance been so eagerly anticipated. Sylvie held her breath, sensing she was not the only one. When the record ended, all eyes were on the German. If he sensed, his life was in danger, he made no show of it. He nodded slowly.

  ‘Sehr gut. Another one.’

  The release of tension was almost tangible. Monsieur Julien changed the record. Sylvie didn’t recognise the song or singer, but it was faster with ho
rns and drums. Dieter’s brow creased a little. He was less keen on this, clearly.

  ‘Let me show you how to dance,’ she said, taking his glass from him and not giving him time to object. She put one of his hands on her waist and took the other, then began to move, showing him simple steps that fitted with the rhythm. She hoped fervently he could not feel the pounding of her heart in her chest. He was a quick learner and she felt the instant he relaxed and began to enjoy himself. From the corner of her eye, she saw Monsieur Julien and Bernard begin to dance too; less intimately but still as a couple might. She laughed.

  ‘I have the most handsome partner,’ she said, moving closer to him and gazing up into his eyes.

  When the song finished, Sylvie clapped until everyone joined in, Dieter included. Felix quickly put on another record, and the dancing began again. It was the strangest half-hour Sylvie could remember in a long while. Sylvie danced with each man in turn while the others watched and applauded. Dieter appeared to have embraced the music wholeheartedly, though how much of that had to do with the liberal pouring of wine was anyone’s guess.

  ‘I see why this music is banned,’ he said after a second dance with Sylvie. ‘It is stirring. Too disorderly.’

  ‘Talking of disorderly, my wife will be waiting. Goodnight everyone,’ Bernard said. He pulled his collar up and left, signalling the night was over.

  ‘Fräulein Sylvie, may I walk you home? I would like to speak to you on the matter I came here for,’ Dieter said. He put his cap back on and adjusted the belt of his coat.

  She could hardly object but Monsieur Julien came to her rescue.

  ‘Sylvie, you told me you would debone the pigs’ trotters and press them before morning and you still haven’t done that. You can’t leave yet.’

  Sylvie flashed Dieter a look of apology. ‘Can I see you tomorrow? I am free all afternoon. We could walk in the park again.’

  ‘Tomorrow is not good for me. The day after, that will be good,’ Dieter said. ‘Twelve fifteen at the gardens.’