Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “Good memory. That’s the one.”

  “I could hardly forget him. If Boulier and his daughters survive the war, Ferrand is likely to be my brother’s father-in-law.”

  Momentarily distracted, Denniston cast a piercing glance at Claire. “Ah, yes. That was the issue that caused your hubbub with the director of MI-6.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Denniston took his seat behind his desk. “Well now, this Bergmann is a threat to Miss Rousseau. If she’s taken in for interrogation, the damage to other networks could be immense. What do you have on Meier?”

  Claire shuffled through the stack of messages she had brought. “He was Bergmann’s boss at Dunkirk. Meier was a lieutenant-colonel then, commanding one of the lead battalions on the thrust down through Belgium into northern France. He’s a favorite of General Rommel, and thus has somewhat of a protected status with Hitler. That was a good thing because shortly after Bergmann’s transfer to the SS, Meier fired him.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Claire looked through more messages. “What information I have is scant, but I gather that Meier was upset with the way Bergmann carried out his investigation into the death of a German soldier. That soldier was believed to have attempted to rape Boulier’s youngest daughter, Chantal. Bergmann accused Boulier of murdering the soldier out of revenge. In the process of searching for the old man, the major executed several citizens at Dunkirk while trying to coerce information. In retaliation, partisans attacked and killed some German soldiers. Meier apparently was infuriated by Bergmann’s actions, ordered him out of the command, and sent him back to Berlin.”

  Denniston had listened intently. “Hmm. A principled German officer. I wonder if he could present opportunities. What brought him to the headquarters in Dinard?”

  Claire looked through her papers again. “He seems to have been wounded. I don’t see how or to what extent, but he was hit badly enough to have given up command, and he convalesced for a while. He’s been promoted and is now the chief of staff in the operations section in Dinard, and…” She looked up, chuckling. “As I said, Bergmann once more reports to him.”

  Denniston broke an involuntary laugh. “Small world.” He sat quietly in thought for a few moments. When he spoke again, he did so pensively. “I’d like for you to monitor message traffic for anything to do with Jeannie Rousseau and those two officers. I wish she would get out now, but I gather she’s worried about repercussions to her family. Let me know of the slightest hint that she’s in immediate danger.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  9

  Marseille, France

  “The visit with Jeannie was good, but when I go back to Dinard again, I’m staying until we pull her out,” Phillippe told Fourcade.

  She stared at him blankly. “I don’t have a problem with that, but if she gets more intelligence that’s critical, we’ll need to pass it along to London quickly.”

  “I’ve thought of that, but we can’t just leave her unprotected. She shouldn’t have to handle the stresses alone. A few months ago, you sent an SOE radio operator to the Boulier network near Dunkirk. That area is fairly quiet right now. Maybe Boulier can lend her to us until we get Jeannie out. If something significant transpires, we can radio London directly.”

  Fourcade sat back and gazed at Phillippe while she thought. “That’s an idea,” she said slowly, “but I’m disturbed that you know about the radio operator. That’s not information you should have had access to.”

  Phillippe regarded her with slight agitation. “Look,” he said, “we’re a tight group. You sent Jeremy Littlefield to convince us to join your Resistance network. We know his story, and therefore that of Amélie and her father. We also know what happened to his brother, Lance, and the steps you’ve taken.” His lips widened in a slight smile. “We’re not the enemy. We talk among ourselves. We hear things.”

  Fourcade sat very still before responding, closing her eyes. “I worry, perhaps too much. I’m not the right person to be reminding naval veterans about operational security. I’ve never been tortured, but I doubt that I could hold out very long. That’s not to say that you can’t or that…” Her voice broke and she paused a moment. “I worry.”

  Phillippe gazed at her with a softening expression. Then he reached across and took her hand. “You’re right, and we’ve already had partisans captured who gave up information. We need to be more careful. I’ll remind the others.”

  Fourcade smiled. “Thank you. Now, back to the present. Your idea is a good one. You should take Amélie with you. We can put her SOE and MI-6 training to good use and she can fill you in on the Resistance members. You’ll have to take backroads, and you can travel as husband and wife—”

  Phillippe chuckled. “She’s attractive, but a bit young for me, and I wouldn’t want a misunderstanding with Jeremy.”

  “All right, she can be your sister. She’ll provide you instant vetting with Jacques and her father, and going there will give her a chance to see them. We’ll have Maurice get new travel documents forged.”

  “How about if we go by train until we’re near the dividing line between the occupied territory and Vichy France? We can use Henri’s network to move us across the boundary at night in a sparsely populated area, and then travel backroads the rest of the way. Doing that will cut down on travel time and we can avoid a few checkpoints.”

  Fourcade agreed. They discussed how they would make the move to Dinard and set up. “Coordinate your final plan with Jacques and Ferrand Boulier. They’ve already established their network to a degree in Dinard. We sent Amélie there ahead of you to make initial contact with Jeannie. Her father didn’t know she was the one going, but his network made the arrangements for where she stayed.”

  Phillippe exhaled and shook his head. “What a war this is. We send a girl into harm’s way, get her father to make the arrangements, and he doesn’t know it’s her.” He drummed his fingers absentmindedly. “I want to find out more about this Oberst Meier. His anger at Major Bergmann was unusual. I’ve heard that the Wehrmacht doesn’t care much for Hitler. Maybe we have an opening with him?”

  “Good point.” Fourcade reached into a pocket within the pleats of her skirt and removed a folded piece of typing paper. “This report came in from London this morning. It’s about Meier. I have no clue how British intelligence got the information, but it’s included with the response to what we provided from Jeannie.” She cocked her head. “You know, it’s almost as if they have people listening in on the Germans, but I don’t know how they would do that.”

  Phillippe had taken the paper from her and now studied it. “This is incredible. It says that Meier is a favorite of General Rommel, and—”

  Suddenly, Fourcade banged her hand on the table. Startled, Phillippe looked up. Fourcade gazed at him with bright, excited eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier. We have a woman right here who can give you the best insights. Anna, Ferrand’s sister-in-law. We brought her out at the same time we rescued Ferrand. She worked in Meier’s headquarters in Dunkirk and saw the interaction between him and Bergmann. She says that the two men hated each other. I’ll arrange for you to speak with her to get more detail.”

  “All right, but this mission is growing. We might need more than a radio and operator. We’re not only talking about watching over and protecting Jeannie, but also about exploring if we can contact Meier. What do we call him, a potential resistor?” He chuckled and rapped his knuckles on the table. “And you realize that we might have to take out this Major Bergmann, don’t you?” He mimicked shooting a pistol.

  Fourcade fixed her eyes on his face. “I know you won’t hesitate, and you might even be eager, but if that becomes necessary, put some thought into how you’ll do it. Jeannie is still there because she worries about her family. You won’t solve her problem if you shoot Bergmann; the Germans retaliate by executing people. Her parents could become their victims.”

  Phillippe nodded grimly. “Point
taken.”

  “I’ll get Anna. You can talk with her here.”

  Anna was as good as her billing. She was a frail woman, advanced in years, and very thin. The color of her watery eyes had faded, but her mind was intact.

  “That Bergmann is a bad man. A bad man.” She spat on the ground and repeated, “A bad, bad man. He accused Ferrand of killing a soldier, and everyone at the headquarters knew that the soldier abused people and brought his death on himself. But Bergmann executed civilians and threatened to kill more.”

  She rubbed her bony hands together while gathering her thoughts. “Meier is a good man. He was always civil to me, and he would not tolerate criminal behavior from his soldiers. When Bergmann transferred to the SS and then came back to the headquarters like a peacock, he thought he could throw his weight around. Oberst Meier clipped his wings very quickly.” She laughed and thrust her fingers in the air with a scissoring motion. “I hope that someday Bergmann gets what he deserves.”

  Phillippe’s eyes hardened into a glint. Then they softened as he gazed upon the old woman’s lined and wrinkled face. He patted her hand. “Rest on that hope, Madame. It might not be an idle one.”

  Fourcade smiled broadly as her terrace filled with people she had come to care for. Phillippe and Anna still conversed at one end of the table, and then Maurice arrived, bringing with him the Boulier sisters, Amélie and Chantal.

  He was a huge man who had been Fourcade’s friend for many years. When she and an officer on Marshal Pétain’s intelligence staff had first perceived that war was inevitable and imminent, she had contacted Maurice. She and the officer, codenamed Navarre, had set Maurice up in a vegetable vending and delivery business in Marseille that catered to high-end hotels and fine restaurants, their belief being that he could circulate and recruit among employees in places where conversations could be overheard and intelligence gathered. Further, the enterprise could help finance a local Resistance unit.

  When the war came and millions of refugees flooded south and east ahead of the German blitzkrieg, Fourcade and Navarre’s prediction had proven correct—many French people, including members of the wealthy and aristocratic classes, had descended on Marseille, an obvious place to seek refuge. The city had a history and culture of independence and was positioned on France’s Mediterranean coast midway between Italy and Spain. Germany had already spread its forces across northern and eastern Europe, and with an air war still going on with Britain and ground combat in North Africa, Germany’s military resources were stretched thin. Therefore, the possibility of Germany thrusting its army this far south in France anytime soon remained in doubt in the minds of Fourcade, Maurice, and many of their countrymen. That was particularly true since General Pétain, iconic hero of the Great War and now titular head of Vichy France, had become the Nazis’ willing marionette.

  Maurice’s size, his bulging eyes, and his lumbering gait could be intimidating, but his gregarious manner and warm smile disarmed people instantly. As a result, the notion that he could build an organization to eavesdrop and report on conversations in high-society establishments rarely crossed anyone’s mind. But he proved adept at doing so, and he had also recruited from the underworld, bringing in members with special skills, such as forging documents and breaking locks. “The Germans will come eventually,” he told them. “You’re loyal Frenchmen. We must be ready.”

  The effort had already paid dividends as groups of British, Dutch, Belgian, Polish, and French soldiers, abandoned after the debacle at Dunkirk, had evaded south, acquired counterfeit travel permits, and made their way into Spain and Gibraltar or across the sea into colonies still held by Vichy France, and from there to Great Britain.

  From Marseille, Fourcade’s network had organized and staged raids into German-occupied France along the southern end of the Atlantic coast, blowing up bridges, ammunition dumps, and fuel-storage tanks, among other targets. When Henri and his former French navy-officer comrades joined her, Maurice had quickly supplied many of them with the forged documents they needed.

  Fourcade watched him fondly as he approached the table. “I got a message that we should talk,” he said quietly.

  She nodded and rose to kiss his cheek. “Yes, but today the weather is so beautiful, and the sea is sparkling blue, I thought we could make it an afternoon with friends, eat good food and drink wine. I’ve invited Horton, Kenyon, and Pierre, and I told Henri to come and bring as many of his compatriots as he wants to. We can talk this evening.” She gestured with her chin. “I’m sure Anna will be happy to see you, and Phillippe will have some business for you when he gets here.”

  As Maurice went to greet his friends, Fourcade turned her attention to Amélie and Chantal, who waited patiently behind him. They were both petite, Chantal an inch or two shorter than her sister; both had auburn hair and honey-colored eyes and were beautiful.

  “Ah, my two favorite nieces,” Fourcade said, putting her arms around both at once and squeezing. “I hope I’m not presumptuous. We’ve become family, you know. I haven’t seen either of you in weeks. Let me look at you.” She stepped back to observe them. “Chantal, you’re changing so fast and looking so mature.” Her expression changed to one of playful scolding. “Don’t grow up too fast. When this war is over, you’ll need to make up for all the fun you missed.” She tilted her head toward Maurice. “He tells me that you’re becoming quite the accomplished observer, drawing sketches of possible targets, taking notes of approaches and escape routes, checking for choke points, etcetera. You weren’t supposed to enjoy doing it so much.”

  Chantal blushed, and her smile spread across her face beneath sparkling eyes while she twisted back and forth on her feet.

  Fourcade laughed and hugged her again. War is hell. She’s still a little girl. She should be shopping with her friends.

  Amélie, waiting patiently beside them, nudged Fourcade’s arm. “Is there any news from Jeremy?”

  Fourcade pursed her lips in a sad smile and shook her head mournfully. “I don’t have any. I’m sorry.” When Amélie’s face dropped in disappointment, Fourcade added, “The bad news is the war is still on, but the good news is that we have no bad news about Jeremy.” She laughed softly and hugged Amélie. “If we get word that he’s coming here, it’ll be for a covert mission that could be dangerous; and if we don’t, he’s probably flying fighter combat patrols. So, for the moment, let’s wish for no news.”

  Amélie smiled glumly. “I know. I can’t help hoping, though.”

  Fourcade placed both hands on Amélie’s cheeks and pulled her face close to her own. “Stick with hope. It’ll get you through this mess. Jeremy will survive all right. I’m sure of it.”

  Amélie sniffed, threw her arms around Fourcade, and held her close. “I’ll be fine,” she said, straightening and wiping her eyes. “I want him safe. That’s what matters.”

  “You need to stay busy,” Fourcade said. “We’ve got another task coming up for you.”

  Chantal’s head snapped toward them. “Where is she going?”

  Mentally scolding herself for the lapse, Fourcade patted the side of Chantal’s face. “We’ll go over all that later. Look, more guests have arrived.”

  She stepped away to greet Horton, Kenyon, and Pierre. Chantal darted in front of them and tugged Horton’s sleeve. “Have you heard anything about Jeremy’s brother? Do you know where he is?”

  Horton laughed and looked into her bright, expectant eyes. “Well, aren’t you the plucky one,” he said. “And yes mum, we know where Lance is, but we don’t know much about the prison aside from its name, Colditz. That means ‘dark forest’ in Serbian.”

  Chantal pulled back in teenage shock. “He’s in Serbia?”

  “No mum, he’s on the east side of Germany in a place that once belonged to Serbia. Seems like les Boches have broken the commandment about not envying your neighbor’s stuff for a long, long time.”

  Fourcade and Amélie had joined the group and listened in. “Why don’t we know more about Col
ditz,” Fourcade mused aloud.

  “Well, mum, we just—”

  “I’m serious. We provide all sorts of information to London and risk our lives getting it. We should know what comes in about the prison camps. I’m going to ask.”

  Henri appeared at the periphery of the group and gestured to Fourcade. When she greeted him, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “We need to talk.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “I don’t think it should.”

  She excused herself from the others, and they moved to a secluded part of the terrace. “What is it.”

  Henri dropped his head, shamefaced. “I’m not trying to ruin your party. I think it’s wonderful that you thought to have everyone here. God knows we could use a release of tension.”

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “First, to let you know, our security plan is in place. We have people watching the villa now. They know what to do if something looks strange.”

  “That’s great, Henri. Thank you.”

  “Here’s the part I wish I didn’t have to say. I think having a party like this is a bad idea. It draws attention.”

  Fourcade drew back in some disbelief. “I understand the concern, but I don’t agree. This is Marseille, not northern France. If we suddenly stopped our social lives but had people coming in and out of here all the time—that would attract attention.”

  Henri stared as if the thought had not occurred to him. “Good point, but I’d still urge caution. Maybe avoid loud music—”

  “We don’t have any, but if we danced to music on the radio, that wouldn’t be unusual. But I understand your concern. We’ll keep things low tone and let people know to leave early.”

  “I’m sorry, Madame.” Henri was obviously chagrinned.