Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  Bergmann’s face gave way to chagrin momentarily, and then morphed into one of stone. Reichenau’s expression changed to one of allowing for the possibility of what he was hearing. “You both make good points,” he said, directing his attention to Bergmann. “You’re proposing that of all the people who work in this headquarters, the security concerns come down to one girl, as the oberst pointed out. Why? Because she’s pretty and charming?”

  “There was a French girl in Dunkirk you liked very much,” Meier cut in again.

  “Who did not work for us, sir,” Bergmann retorted.

  Reichenau scrutinized the major and sighed. “I appreciate that you’re trying to do a good job, but you overstepped by getting the Gestapo involved without running it up your chain of command first. And have you given any thought to the notion that you might be giving Rousseau too much credit? She’s a girl, and one with no life experiences. She couldn’t possibly put all the data, schedules, and logistics together in any meaningful way and communicate it. Have you seen any radios or evidence of any?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what is your justification for detaining her?”

  Bergmann took another deep breath and looked about the room as if searching for a vestige of support. “It’s a feeling, sir. She’s always there, at the files, in the documents, helping out at meetings, smiling at everyone, and never becoming flustered or angry when challenged—”

  “Well by all means,” Reichenau said, chortling, “we should arrest all the nice, hardworking people of the world who give us no problems.”

  “Sir—”

  Reichenau lifted his palms in a placating manner. “Your job is security. I understand that. I have no wish for friction with either the SS or the Gestapo, and I won’t fault an officer in my command for being thorough.” He rubbed his eyes. “When Fraulein Rousseau gets here, I’ll ask the questions. I’ll allow her house and personal items to be searched under my conditions. If you find any real evidence, like documents, communications equipment, weapons—nothing conjured up or planted—you can take her away. Otherwise, she goes free. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jeannie and the Gestapo arresting officers entered. Reichenau, Meier, and the chief of staff watched, horror-struck, as she made her way in. Absent was the confident, pleasant, charming person who had graced the German 10th Army headquarters and had been so helpful for months. Her normally well-coiffed hair was disheveled, eye makeup smudged her cheeks, and tears had streaked them. She hunched her shoulders and walked with small, uncertain steps while looking around fearfully.

  Bergmann watched her stone-faced.

  Reichenau squirmed in his chair. “Would you like to freshen up, Fräulein?” he asked gruffly. “You may use my private lavatory.”

  “Thank you, sir, I would, but I don’t have my bag with my things.” Her normally musical voice was soft, almost timid.

  Reichenau turned impatiently to the Gestapo escort. “Have you gone through her bag?”

  The officer in charge, Oberleutnant Lukas Bauer, nodded.

  “Did you find anything?”

  Bauer shook his head.

  Annoyed, Reichenau growled, “Well then give it to her, and get her some drinking water, for heaven’s sake.”

  As Jeannie made her way to the lavatory, Reichenau addressed the chief of staff. “Send Bauer’s three Gestapo men and three of our senior staff officers to the fräulein’s house. Make sure ours are combat veterans with instructions to take no guff. Let the Gestapo search, but—” He turned to the agents. “My officers will watch each of you. You will not tear up Rousseau’s house or personal belongings. If you do, I’ll charge you for failing to obey my orders. Now go.”

  When Jeannie returned from the restroom, her hair had been put in place, her face cleaned, and she had straightened her shoulders. A chair had been set in the middle of the office in front of the field marshal’s desk. Looking around uncertainly, she went and sat in it.

  “I’ll do the asking,” Reichenau said pointedly, with a scathing look at Bauer. He turned his attention to Jeannie. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  She looked at him, her eyes doleful, holding back tears. “No, sir, I really do not. Something about stolen documents, but I don’t have any. You can look anywhere.”

  “And I’m sure they will,” Reichenau said with a glare at the remaining Gestapo man. Then he continued with Jeannie. “I’m told you left very suddenly this morning after Major Bergmann confronted you. Why did you do that?”

  Jeannie took a deep breath, closed her eyes momentarily, and re-opened them. “I could see that the major was angry with me, but I had no idea why. I needed a moment to settle down. I go for coffee at the café across the street quite often, but usually later in the morning. I decided to go then. It was an impulse.”

  “Did you plan on coming back?”

  Jeannie lifted her head with a quizzical look. “Why wouldn’t I? I had promised to bring a cup of coffee to the security manager at the entry checkpoint. I even had the waiter change my own order so that I could bring it to him while it was still hot.”

  Reichenau glanced between Jeannie and Bauer. “Did you tell them that?”

  She nodded.

  The field marshal glared at Bauer. “Did you check out that detail? If you tell me no, I’ll have my own officers double-check her story.”

  Bauer nodded.

  “Did the waiter at the café and the manager at the checkpoint confirm her story?”

  Again, Bauer nodded

  A collective groan went up in the room. Reichenau sat back in his chair, obviously disgusted. Then he sat forward and pointed a finger at Bauer. “This young lady is no longer in your custody. She’s in mine and will remain so until we hear the results of the search. If your men find anything, I’ll return her to you. Otherwise, she will be free to go.”

  Bauer stepped forward. “I must protest—"

  “Protest what? That you get her back if you find evidence?” He turned his glare on Bergmann. “You’ve wasted nearly two hours of my time and that of my senior staff. I won’t have witch hunts in my command.”

  “Let me remind you, Field Marshal,” Bauer growled, this time in a menacing tone, “that I support your command, but I don’t report to you. I need a word with you privately, and I’ll need Major Bergmann with me.”

  Stemming anger, the field marshal indicated a side door. “Fräulein Rousseau, please wait inside my conference room.” Turning back to Bauer as Jeannie exited, Reichenau added, “My chief of staff and Oberst Meier will stay for this ‘discussion.’”

  Bauer, still standing, acquiesced, but said, “I’m here to detect and stop any internal threats to the Nationalist Socialist Party.”

  Reichenau stared at him, seething. “I know your job. Are you threatening me?” Without waiting for a response, he went on. “Maybe one way to protect the Party is to avoid making enemies where they don’t exist.”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I was hand-picked by the führer to lead the Wehrmacht through Holland, Belgium, and into France. Apparently, I did a good enough job that he asked me to lead the planning and invasion into Great Britain.

  Are you suggesting that your judgment in selecting me is superior to his?”

  Bauer blanched momentarily, but he recovered quickly.

  Reichenau continued. “You interfere with my staff and operations based on what? Spurious instinct?” He glared at Bergmann, who sat listening in silence. Turning back to Bauer, Reichenau said, “So far, all you’ve provided are suppositions from a pompous SS major with no specifics and no evidence.”

  He placed his hands on his hips, lowered his head, and glared at Bauer. “If you are questioning my loyalty,” he said, “then our next meeting will be with Reichsführer Himmler, and then, if need be, with the führer. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Bauer said, appearing far from acquiescing.

  30

  Bletchley Park, Engl
and

  Claire hurried through the mansion to Commander Denniston’s office, knocked rapidly on the door, and dropped her hand to the knob. As soon as she heard him respond, she burst through. “Sir, something is going on at the headquarters in Dinard. You asked me to let you know if Miss Rousseau was in danger.” She took a breath. “She was arrested by the Gestapo.”

  Denniston stood with a grave face. “Fill me in.”

  “The coders all over the German headquarters in Dinard were abuzz. We’re intercepting and decoding many messages from there. Apparently, Bergmann confronted Miss Rousseau. That resulted in a big meeting in the field marshal’s office. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, she was arrested. I don’t know of any resolution.”

  “So, it’s come to that, has it?” the commander said. He saw the anxiety on Claire’s face. “I know you feel responsible for her.” He thought a moment. “I’m aware of some things I can’t speak about. Let me just say this. Keep in mind the old phrase, ‘things are never as good or as bad as they seem.’”

  Startled, Claire fixed her gaze on him. “Exactly what is that supposed to mean, sir?”

  Denniston chuckled. “If I could tell you exactly what it meant, I wouldn’t be speaking in riddles, would I? No, I wouldn’t.” Sensing her hidden frustration, he continued, “Look, I’m trying to give you hope without crossing a line. But I appreciate your coming to tell me. I’ll put the information through to where it might do some good.”

  Puzzled and not mollified, Claire left the office.

  As soon as she closed the door, Denniston called Major Crockatt at MI-9 and relayed the conversation. “You still have that radio operator up at Dunkirk, don’t you, codenamed Brigitte?”

  “We do,” Crockatt replied, “and we’ve been in contact regarding this matter. She and the rest of the team are in Dinard now, and Rousseau’s rescue is their objective.”

  “Had you heard that Rousseau’s been arrested by the Gestapo?”

  “We received an emergency message informing us a little while ago from Brigitte. I don’t think there’s anything we can do from here, particularly since Rousseau is in Gestapo hands. The Alliance group in Marseille thinks highly of their man leading the operation. He’s one of the former officers recruited from the French navy. At this point, I think we leave it in their hands. Have you clued in SOE on the situation yet?”

  “That’s my next call.”

  “I’ll ring up Lord Hankey, if you like,” Crockatt offered. “I think he’s still there, although he’s supposed to hand his reins over to someone else when SOE is finally up and running.”

  “Yours and Hankey’s are the action units,” Denniston responded. “It’s better if you talk to him, and if you need any more information, I’ll see if there’s any to supply.”

  Crockatt hung up and called Lord Hankey.

  “I had not heard,” Hankey said after Crockatt advised him of the situation. “What a shame. She’s so young, and she’s supplied such good information.”

  “Right. Well, I called to see if you had any ideas about how to help the rescue. If she’s tortured during interrogation, she could blow a hole in both the Boulier and the Marseille Resistance groups. That would set us back quite a bit.”

  “The difficulty is that the work Miss Rousseau has been doing is normally run by MI-6. The team that’s with the Boulier network was put together by SOE and MI-9 on the fly, so to speak, because both organizations were fledgling. The operation inside the headquarters at Dinard involving her was a target of opportunity that fell into our laps, but it’s not been run the way MI-6 usually does business.”

  Crockatt sat up in his chair. “I’m not sure I understand. We’ve had a very effective operation going on in Dinard for months. What’s the problem?”

  “I’ll spell it out for you, old chap. I’m not saying I agree with what I’m about to tell you, I’m just letting you know the way things are. Although Director Menzies is fine with the setup, some in his MI-6 are not. They feel they should have been running that show. I’m not sure we could do anything to save her now, but if there was a way, we could not count on MI-6 for help.”

  Stunned, Crockatt stared at the receiver. “So, we have a young woman in harm’s way who’s given incredible service to our country and her own, and we can’t help her because of turf jealousies?”

  “I’m afraid that sizes things up. Now look, don’t take the pessimistic view on this. As you’ve described it, the young lady is well thought of by German leadership in the headquarters, and if, as reported, the matter has been escalated to the field marshal, he wouldn’t get involved unless there were mitigating issues.

  “Besides that, you have a proven, motivated team in place. You didn’t ask for my advice, but I’ll give you one piece, free of charge: maintain contact with the relevant players as best you can, but otherwise, keep out of their way. And don’t underestimate Miss Rousseau’s ability. She’s proven quite adept at taking care of herself, and she might surprise us again.”

  Dinard, France

  Reichenau glared at Bauer. “I need to confer with my staff. You and Major Bergmann can wait in the foyer.” He saw Bauer glance toward the field marshal’s conference room. “Don’t worry, Fräulein Rousseau will be safe with us, and she won’t go anywhere.”

  After Bauer and Bergmann had left, Reichenau joined Meier and the chief of staff in his seating area. “You were right to bring this to my attention,” he told Meier.

  The chief of staff stirred. “I’m worried that we might have kicked a hornet’s nest,” he said. “The last thing we want to do is rile up the SS and the Gestapo against us.”

  “Agreed,” Reichenau said, “but if the Wehrmacht is to win Germany’s wars, it needs a free hand in battle without looking over its shoulder for internal police surveillance. If it starts with this translator, where will it end. We employ local people everywhere we occupy. And if the SS and Gestapo can construe threats based on their ‘instinct’ concerning any employee we hire, and further question the judgment or loyalty of Wehrmacht members all the way to senior leadership, then no one is safe from capricious findings. We must stop this type of activity, and we must do it now. We can’t give in to them.”

  “Beyond that, Bergmann is a malicious person,” Meier interjected. “At Dunkirk, he pursued Ferrand Boulier and his family relentlessly, executed locals at his whim, and grossly violated the limits of his authority. I ordered him out of my command. If I could have, I would have court-martialed him.”

  Reichenau turned to the chief of staff. “Do you have further comment?”

  “Only that if you let her go, this might still not be the last you hear from the Gestapo and the SS. Your stance will certainly be reported higher.”

  The field marshal nodded. “So be it. They’re not going to find evidence against Fräulein Rousseau, I’m sure of that, so after I hear that finding, I’ll release her as I said I would. But Bergmann will want to keep pursuing her. We need to placate the Gestapo on this situation without giving in to them. Here is what we are going to do.”

  31

  Amid blank stares and people moving out of her way, Jeannie made her way on wobbly legs and uneasy feet through the corridors of the headquarters. At the security checkpoint, she smiled weakly at the manager whose coffee she had purchased a few hours ago. He did not make eye contact, but as she passed, he cast her a surreptitious, sympathetic glance. She stopped at the door only long enough to pull her heavy coat around her and place the scarlet beret on her head. Then she walked out into the cold.

  Crossing the street, she once more made her way into the café. The waiter greeted her warmly but nervously and inquired about which table she wished to occupy. She indicated one different from her regular favorite.

  The calamity she had just experienced seemed surreal, something from a nightmare spanning centuries, but when she looked at her watch, she saw that only a few hours had passed. As would be the case on any midafternoon, the café currently served only a few c
ustomers, joined at one point by another lone woman and a few minutes later by two young men. No one took notice of her.

  Feeling forlorn and vulnerable, senses that had usually been alien to her and never to the degree she felt them now, Jeannie sipped her coffee slowly, savoring its flavor as a small relief from her ordeal. She shifted her eyes to view the street, hoping to see Phillippe, but saw only normal vehicular and street traffic. Across the street, uniformed personnel and civilians entered and exited the checkpoint in an irregular flow.

  “I won’t have to go there again,” she muttered in an undertone to no one. Despite the situation, the thought provided a sense of relief.

  She prepared to leave. The waiter brought the check. As she glanced at it, she gulped on seeing a note scrawled on it. “Follow me. Amélie.”

  Stemming a rush of emotion, she glanced about. The young woman who had entered alone sipped coffee and watched traffic go by. She was petite and still wore her winter coat with a dark scarf tied over her head and brown hair protruding at the side. The face belonged to Amélie, complete with honey-colored eyes, and the scarf was the one she had given to Phillippe.

  Jeannie sucked in her breath involuntarily. Her heart leaped.

  Moments passed, and then Amélie stood and pulled the long strap of her bag over her shoulder. Then, instead of heading toward the front door, she disappeared into the hall leading to the restrooms.

  Uncertain at first of whether to follow or wait for Amélie to return and leave through the front door, Jeannie decided that being out of sight was the better option. She rose to her feet and walked into the hall. In her peripheral vision, she saw the two young men fall in behind her just as had happened that morning.