Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  The next morning, having tossed through restless sleep, Claire crept out of bed and readied herself for work. When she entered the kitchen, Jeremy was there, sitting at the table and staring out the window, a cold cup of untouched coffee on its surface. She went to him, laid her head on his back, and circled her arms around him. “Did you sleep?”

  Jeremy shook his head. He tried to speak but, overcome with emotion, found he could not. When he finally choked out, “Ferrand saved my life,” his voice trembled. “He and Amélie together. I’ve never known a more caring, gentle man, and yet he was so strong. Look what he was able to pull together for the French Resistance.”

  “I know,” Claire whispered, and then, with a sense of deceitfulness, she asked, “When did it happen?”

  “Six weeks ago.” Anger tinged his tone. “It took six weeks for the news to get to me.”

  “Why so long?” She let go of her embrace and sat in a chair facing him.

  “Operational priorities, I suppose. Ferrand was a ‘non-combatant,’ and we’re not related, so there was no formal method to let me know. I stopped in yesterday to see Major Crockatt on a social visit, and he informed me; or rather his secretary, Vivian, did.

  “With the rush of war, we rarely see each other, and they thought I knew, though how I would have gotten word is beyond me. I can’t imagine how Amélie and Chantal must feel.” His voice shook again. “I feel like I’m going to lose Amélie. What must she think of me, not having sent condolences or anything?” He sniffed. “Vivian promised to let Marseille know that I was just informed, and I wrote a letter while I was in the office. She’ll make sure to include it in the next equipment drop.”

  Claire reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice caught, sounding hollow. “I wish there was something I could say.”

  Jeremy shook his head and then leaned over to hug her. “There isn’t. Until this war is over, suffering and sorrow are the order of the day, and you do more than your fair share of trying to make people feel better through it all. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”

  With that, Claire broke down, her body shaking. When she had regained control sufficient to speak, she whispered, “Oh, little brother, thank you for that. I try, but the task is sometimes overwhelming.”

  Brother and sister held each other for a few minutes, and then Jeremy heaved a sigh and stood. “I should get ready. I have to get back to the squadron.”

  After he cleaned up, they spent time playing with Timmy until the nanny arrived. Then Jeremy drove Claire to Bletchley Park. She watched him drive away and then entered the facility and wound her way to the door of Hut 3, home of the analysis group. “Things will get better,” she told herself as she entered. “You’ll see.”

  43

  March 12, 1941

  Marseille, France

  Maurice drove into the courtyard of Fourcade’s villa and parked. Getting out, he hurried to the front door. His face was bright with an excited smile.

  From her window on the second floor, Fourcade had seen him enter through the gate and gone downstairs to greet him. Before she reached the entrance, he burst through the door.

  He stared at Fourcade with round, wide eyes and held up an envelope. “Where’s Amélie? I have something for her. It came in with the equipment drop last night.”

  “I’m here,” Amélie called from the top of the stairs. Her voice struck a fearful note. “What is it?”

  Chantal appeared behind her, peering excitedly over her shoulder. “A letter from Jeremy,” she teased. “That’s what it is.”

  Amélie shoved against her in irritation and started down the stairs. Chantal bounded past her, ran to Maurice, and grabbed for it. “Let me see it.”

  Maurice held it away from her. “No. It’s for Miss Amélie.”

  Fourcade watched from the side in amusement, and then the terrace door opened, and Jeannie joined them. “What’s all the excitement?”

  Amélie reached the bottom of the stairs, her face a mixture of elation, disbelief, and anxiety. She crossed the floor to Maurice and took the letter. Looking around as she started to open it and seeing everyone watching her, she headed for the terrace without a word.

  Chantal started to follow.

  “Give her some privacy,” Fourcade said. “She’s earned it.”

  Chantal stomped her foot, looking disgruntled. “That’s no fun. He might have said something to me in there.” But she let her sister be alone.

  Amélie walked across the terrace and into the garden, which had begun to fill out with the colors of spring. She sat on the bench where she and Jeremy had spent hours together on his last trip to France before he started flying and began reading. The letter was dated a week earlier.

  “My dearest Amélie, I just heard about the loss of your father. I cannot describe the anguish that causes me, and I cannot imagine the depth of your and Chantal’s pain. I loved your father. I will never forget that the two of you together saved my life. Please don’t think badly of me for not reaching out to you before. It was not for lack of caring, I promise you that. You are the dearest part of my life and but for the war, I would spend every possible minute with you.

  The secretary promised that she’d get this to you. I believe you met her. She spoke highly of you.

  Give my love and express my sorrow to your sister. I miss her too.

  I don’t know when this war will end, how often we’ll be able to be in touch, or when we’ll see each other again, but that’s the day I look for. Until then, never doubt that I love you with all my heart, Jeremy.”

  Amélie read and re-read the letter several times, wiping tears from her face with her sleeve. Then she sat looking across the low hills to the blue sea, enjoying the breeze through her hair. After a time, she read the letter once more, and then walked toward the terrace.

  Fourcade came out of the house before she reached the door. “Was it a good letter?”

  Finding herself tearing up again, Amélie nodded. She breathed in deeply and then managed to say, “He just learned last week about our father.”

  “So, our messages didn’t get through. That’s regrettable, but understandable. During a war, personal notes get short shrift.” She smiled. “But he still loves you?”

  Amélie’s face tightened, and she could only nod.

  Fourcade embraced her. “He’s alive, you’re alive, and both safe for the moment.” She looked back toward the door and nodded.

  The door burst open, and Chantal charged through. “Did he say anything about me?” she blurted, running up to her sister.

  Amélie laughed. “He did. He said he misses you.” She laughed again. “The rest is mushy stuff.”

  Chantal’s eyes filled with mischief. “Ooh. Mushy stuff. I want to see.”

  “Forget that.” Then Amélie’s face became serious again. “He had just heard about Father last week. He expressed his sorrow and sent his condolences.”

  Chantal’s antics came to a halt. “Oh.” She turned away and stood quietly for a moment. “I’m glad Jeremy’s all right.”

  The door opened and closed again, and Jeannie joined them with Maurice. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Amélie said. She held up the envelope. “It was a good letter.”

  “That gives us something to celebrate.”

  While Jeannie and the Boulier sisters conversed at the table, Maurice asked to speak privately with Fourcade. They went to a secluded bench in the garden.

  “Henri’s two teams that were active last night had successful missions. Kenyon was with one, and Horton with the other. These were new teams that they trained in demolitions. One blew up a railroad bridge along the Atlantic coast. The other exploded a fuel-oil storage-tank field in the same vicinity. Between our former French navy officers and these British veterans, we’re training some capable fighters. I’m worried, though. There’s word out that the Prosper Network has been infiltrated. Sooner or later, ours will be too.”

  �
��Is our early warning system working as we’d hoped?”

  Maurice nodded. “It relies on the local population, but Pétain is becoming angrier at anti-German activity and is trying to tighten his grip. Keep a bag packed and your car’s tank full.” He sighed with a slight grin. “I must go. I have vegetables to deliver.”

  Fourcade watched the big man lumber across the terrace with affection. She was about to join the trio at the table when Jeannie left it and approached her.

  “Do you have time to speak with me?”

  “Of course,” Fourcade replied. “What’s on your mind?”

  “You’ve been good to me, letting me stay here all these weeks, but I’m fully rested now. I can’t stay. I need to get back to doing something to help win this war.”

  “Are you still thinking Paris?”

  Jeannie nodded. “That makes the most sense. That’s where the greatest concentration of useful intelligence will be.”

  Fourcade sighed. “That’s so dangerous.”

  “But getting it is so necessary. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Then let’s plan when and how we do this. We don’t want you left alone with no support again.”

  Jeannie smiled. “Thank you. I’m stronger now, and experienced, but knowing someone is at my back will be much appreciated.”

  “We’ll do it. And right now, let’s celebrate Amélie’s good news.”

  44

  Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York

  Paul went down to the newsstand in the foyer of Rockefeller Center as he normally did. He had picked up the habit of purchasing a cup of coffee on his way into the office, and he was fixing it with cream and sugar when his eyes fell on the headlines of The New York Times:

  “Roosevelt Transfers Ships and Planes to Britain After Signing Aid Bill;

  Greece Gets a Share, Too;

  $7 Billion To Be Asked for Lend-Lease Program”

  Paul grabbed a copy and bolted for the elevator. Emerging on his office floor, he was surprised to see Cynthia at the entrance of the suite and turning his way as she bade farewell to Stephenson. Her eyes sparkled when she saw Paul, and she smiled mischievously. Once again, Paul sensed a schoolboy’s wonder at something grand before him.

  “Good morning, Captain,” she said as she made her way toward the elevator lobby. “How wonderful to see you again.”

  Before he could return the greeting, a bell at the elevator bank announced the arrival of a car going down. Then, just before passing him, Cynthia approached and kissed his cheek. Lightning and thunderbolts seemed to have struck Paul’s senses. He gazed after her as she entered the elevator and the door closed. When Paul turned back around to the office, Stephenson stood in the hall watching with an amused twinkle in his eye and his all but hidden smile.

  “Is Miss Ryan out of sight, out of mind then,” he called, and chuckled.

  “Of course not,” Paul groused, glancing again at the elevator lobby. “It’s just that, she’s, well—”

  “Magic,” Stephenson interjected. “Don’t worry too much. Cynthia cranks my engine too. I just do a better job of hiding it. She won’t be back today, and I don’t know when we’ll see her again, but you might have heard that the good Senator Vandenberg supported the president’s bill the way we hoped he would.”

  As if checking to ensure that the vision that had just graced his presence had indeed taken the elevator down, Paul shot one more glance toward the foyer. Then, as he walked into the office suite’s entrance, he held up the newspaper with the earth-shattering headlines for Stephenson to see.

  “Yes, yes,” Stephenson said. “Things worked out the way we hoped, but we must hurry. Wild Bill is waiting in my office. We’re taking a plane ride with him today to Canada. We’re starting up a new project, Camp X, and I want to see the selected site.”

  As the military plane droned through turbulent air, Stephenson noticed Paul scrutinizing General Donovan, who had dozed off. “Did you enjoy your forays with Wild Bill in the Balkans?”

  “I did, sir. He’s an amazing man. He reminds me of those lines in Rudyard Kipling’s poem, ‘If you can walk with kings, nor lose the common touch.’ I saw him do exactly that. You told me before I met him that he’s the only man in history to have been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, two Distinguished Service Medals, a Silver Star for courage under fire, three Purple Hearts, and to have attained the rank of a general officer.”

  Stephenson nodded and regarded the general with an appreciative look. “He would be a legend if more people knew about him. But he doesn’t seek press coverage without purpose, so most Americans have never heard of him. We’ll be seeing more of him as the war wears on and if the Americans come in with us. You’re familiar with the British Special Operations Executive?”

  Paul nodded. “The group charged with ‘setting Europe ablaze,’ to quote the prime minister. The SOE. Jeremy worked with them briefly inside France, but I think they’re still setting up.”

  Stephenson looked impressed, a rare event for him. “I did not know that about your brother. Kudos to him.”

  Paul sighed and looked out the window at the passing cloudy sky. “Yes, sir. Both of my brothers are quite remarkable in their exploits. My sister, Claire, too.”

  Stephenson studied him. “Feeling immaterial, are you? Like you don’t count?”

  Paul hesitated. “A bit, sir. I’m not complaining, and so much of what I witness seems surreal—like it couldn’t be happening. Miss Cynthia is a perfect example. I don’t know what she did or how she did it, or even if anything she did affected anything anywhere, but the fact is, she accepted an assignment, the senator voted the way we wanted, and the implications are enormous. War materiel is already on its way to Britain. But…” He struggled for words. “I observed that situation first-hand, and I affected nothing. My whole family confronts the German threat daily, and I live in luxurious comfort in downtown Manhattan, safe from the ravages of combat and nighttime bombings.”

  Stephenson sat back and rested his head against the wall of the cabin in contemplation. Then he leaned toward Paul again. “Let’s put things in perspective a bit.” He picked his words carefully. “You’re here because His Majesty personally approved our mission, and you were carefully selected.”

  Paul shrugged. “So I’m told.”

  “By the prime minister,” Stephenson retorted with a stern note. “Take his word for it, if you won’t take mine.”

  “Sorry.”

  Stephenson waved off the apology and gestured toward Donovan. “When the history of this war is told, most people will never hear of Wild Bill, me, or you. Forget what I do, but what the general has already done and will do in this war, his shaping of it, will be immense. But let’s review the impact that you’ve had so far.”

  “I’m not looking for a pat on the back, sir.”

  “And that’s not what I’m about. But seeing your effect might lift your spirits.” He leaned against his seat again and gazed into space as though contemplating where to start. “If you haven’t been told, then you deserve to know that when you ran the issue of the Boulier network up to Director Menzies and endured his wrath last year, your action saved the network. Doing so set in motion a series of events that resulted in our having an operator inside the German invasion-planning headquarters in Dinard who supplied target data and schedules for the invasion.

  “Other information coming through that network gave warning that the spy was about to be exposed and that there was a German senior officer who might be receptive to helping the Resistance. Indications are that he helped save the life of our spy, who is now in Paris infiltrating the German high command.” He chuckled. “The Gestapo in Dinard failed to inform its counterpart in the capital of this person’s identity.”

  “You’re giving me more credit than I deserve—”

  “Oh, stuff the modesty. You deserve to have your work validated. We all do. My effect is easy to see. Yours is not. Let’s talk abou
t that report you wrote for Director Menzies before you left London.”

  “You mean that exercise in busy work?”

  “It was never that. We had several objectives in assigning that task to you. Granted, it was not perceived at the outset as a necessary report. We wanted to see how diligent you were in producing it and how well you interacted with senior people under pressure over an extended period. You did well enough to have been chosen over the other candidates, and the competition was tough.”

  “None of us knew we were in a contest.”

  “Precisely. You did your assigned job thoroughly.”

  “It was an academic exercise.”

  “It might have started out that way, but your report unearthed several key elements. One was the observation that pilots complained about the unreliability of their radios. As a result, work is underway to improve them. After all, that is a chief component of our ability for our fighters to meet the enemy at a time and place of our own choosing without wasting precious fuel. That’s huge all by itself, but your biggest contribution was giving the analytical basis for formalizing a change in fighter tactics.”

  “Sir? The issue with British fighter formations was already known. The pilots complained up through their chains of command, and some squadrons were adopting the new formation irrespective of doctrine.”

  “True, but your study not only highlighted the issue, it also quantified the size of pilot dissatisfaction and the casualties resulting from the old formation. It gave a data-driven basis for formalizing new air tactics patterned after German fighter formations.”

  Paul stretched, arched his eyebrows, and puffed his cheeks as he blew air out through them. “That’s all nice to hear, but you give me too much credit. I’ve really done nothing more than be an observer.”