Cold Harbour

by Jack Higgins

  'The fourth card will tell. The card you did not know you must draw.'

  Genevieve hesitated, finger poised, then pulled out the card. Julie nipped it over. Death stared up at them, a skeleton with a scythe mowing not corn, but corpses.

  Genevieve tried to laugh, but her throat was dry. 'Not too good, I presume?'

  Before Julie could reply, the door opened and Craig came in. 'Munro wants us in the library now. It's decision time.' He paused, smiling. 'God, have you been messing around with those things again, Julie? You'll be getting yourself a tent next at the spring fair at Falmouth.'

  Julie smiled and scooped the cards together. 'An interesting idea.'

  She got up as Genevieve did, came round the table and squeezed her hand as they followed him.

  Munro and Hare were in the library bending over the table examining a large-scale Admiralty chart of the Channel between Lizard Point and Finisterre in Brittany. Rene sat by the fire smoking one of his little cigars, simply awaiting orders.

  Munro looked up. 'Ah, there you are. The weather as you can see hasn't improved and the weather boys still can't actually guarantee that it will if we follow your original schedule which you'll recall was take-off at eleven.'

  The door opened and Joe Edge came in. Munro said, 'Any further word?'

  'I'm afraid not, Brigadier,' Edge told him. 'I've just spoken to Group Captain Smith in London who's running the weather department for SHAEF at the moment. He confirms what we already know. Things could get better, but there's a better than fifty per cent chance that they won't.'

  Genevieve glanced at him curiously. He'd been keeping out of the way since the incident in the woods, had even kept out of The Hanged Man. His face was blank, no expression at all, but the eyes said it all, only hatred there.

  Munro said, 'That does it. Can't leave it any longer because you'll need to leave earlier if it's to be a sea passage.' He turned to Hare. 'You're sailing now, Commander.'

  'Fine, sir.' Hare nodded. 'We leave at eight. I know that won't give you much time, Genevieve, but there it is. The fog is rather lighter at sea level, variable in patches. The forecast after three to four miles was with rain squalls. Should be perfect for a nice invisible run.'

  'To where?' Genevieve asked.

  Hare turned to Osbourne. 'Craig?'

  The American said, 'We've already spoken to Grand Pierre on the radio just in case.' He traced a pencil along the chart. 'Here's Leon and Grosnez light, the bay where the Lili Marlene picked me up. Grand Pierre tells us that the Germans closed the light down two days ago.'

  'Why?' Genevieve asked.

  'They've been closing lights down progressively for some time now,' Hare put in. 'Invasion fever.'

  'The point is,' Craig told her, 'that directly below the Grosnez light there's a quarry in the cliffs. Hasn't been worked since the 1920s, but there's a deep water pier there that the boats used in the old days when they went in for the granite.'

  'Perfect for our purposes,' Hare said.

  Craig carried on. 'We'll call Grand Pierre to confirm the new arrangement. He'll be waiting with suitable transport. You'll still be at St Maurice on schedule.'

  'Using that pier at Grosnez we can go straight in and straight out,' Hare told her. 'No problem.'

  'And if anyone did happen to be in the vicinity, what would they see?' Munro demanded. 'The pride of the Kriegsmarine going about its business.'

  Genevieve looked down at the chart, feeling strangely calm. 'That's it, then,' she said softly.

  TEN

  GENEVIEVE AND CRAIG and Rene stayed below at Hare's request as the Lili Marlen left harbour. Sitting at the table in the tiny ward room Genevieve found herself reaching for a Gitane almost as a reflex action. Craig gave her a light.

  'You're really enjoying those things now, aren't you?'

  'A bad habit.' She nodded. 'I've had the horrible idea that it might haunt me for the rest of my life.'

  She leaned back and thought of the leave-taking in the rain on the quay. Munro, strangely serious in his old cavalry coat as he shook hands, Edge in the background, watching her malevolently all the time. And then Julie's quick, affectionate embrace, the final whisper.

  'Remember what I told you.'

  The movement of the E-boat was quite pronounced and a door opened as Schmidt came in from the galley balancing himself, three mugs on a tray. 'Tea,' he said. 'Hot and sweet. Lots of lovely condensed milk.' Genevieve made a face. 'No, you drink it down, sweetheart. Good for the stomach on this kind of trip. Stops you being sick.'

  She doubted that, but took him at his word and somehow managed to get some of the sickly brew down. After a while, he glanced in again. 'The guvnor says you can come up top if you want to.'

  'Fine,' Genevieve turned to Craig. 'Coming?'

  He looked up from the newspaper he was reading. 'Later. You go.'

  Which she did, leaving him with Rene, going up the companionway. When she opened the door the wind dashed rain into her face. The Lili seemed vibrant, full of life, the deck heaving beneath her feet as she held on to the lifeline and struggled towards the ladder going up to the bridge. She felt totally exhilarated, rain on her face, pulled herself up and got the wheelhouse door open.

  Langsdorff was at the helm, Hare at the chart table. He swung to face her in the swivel chair and stood up. 'Sit here. You'll be more comfortable.'

  She did as she was told and looked around her. 'This is nice, Exciting.'

  'It has its points.' He said to Langsdorff in German, 'I'll take over for a while. Take a coffee break.'

  'Zu befehl, Herr Kapitan,' the Obersteuermann said formally and went out.

  Hare increased speed, racing the heavy weather which threatened from the east. The fog was patchy so that at times they travelled in a private, dark world and at others, burst out into open water, for the moon was clear on occasion in spite of rain squalls.

  'The weather doesn't seem to know what to do,' she said.

  'It never does in this part of the world. That's what makes it so exciting.'

  'Different from the Solomon Islands.' It was a statement, not a question.

  'You can say that again.'

  It was rougher now, the Lili Marlene rolling occasionally, barreling forward, the floor of the wheelhouse tilting so that Genevieve had to brace her feet firmly to stay in the chair. Visibility was poor again and as the waves broke, there was a touch of phosphorescence on the water.

  The door opened and Schmidt lurched in, the oilskin over his pea jacket streaming. He had a Thermos jug in one hand, a tin biscuit box in the other. 'Coffee in the jug, love, and sandwiches in the box,' he told her cheerfully. 'You'll find mugs in the cupboard under the chart table. Enjoy.'

  He retreated, banging the door and Genevieve got the mugs out. 'He's quite a character, that one. Always a quip for every situation, just like a comedian.'

  'True,' Hare agreed as she handed him a mug, 'But have you ever noticed that he doesn't smile all that much? Sometimes humour is simply a cover for pain. Jews know more about that syndrome than any other race on earth.'

  'I see,' she said.

  'Schmidt, for example, had a cousin he adored. A nice Jewish girl from Hamburg who lived with his family in London for a few years. She went back on a visit just before the war because her widowed mother had died unexpectedly. They tried to persuade her not to go. She was still a German citizen, you see. She was too late for the funeral anyway, but there were family affairs to see to and then nobody in England really believed the stories they were hearing.'

  'What happened?'

  'Schmidt insisted on going with her. They were both picked up by the Gestapo. The British Consul in Hamburg saved him, of course, as a British citizen. He was given a two-day deportation order.'

  'And his cousin?'

  'He made inquiries. She was a pretty blonde girl. Seems she was allocated to the programme servicing troops' brothels in spite of the fact that sexual relations with Jews are illegal. The last word he got, she'd b
een put on a train going east to the border just before the Polish invasion.'

  'How horrible,' she said, deeply shocked.

  'That's what it's like over there, Genevieve. Let me tell you how the Gestapo operate.'

  'I know,' she told him. 'I've seen Craig's fingernails.'

  'You know how they break women agents down? No hot irons, no whips, no pincers. Multiple rape. They take turns, one after another, then they take turns again. Revolting, yes, but appallingly effective.'

  Remembering Anne-Marie, Genevieve said, 'Oh, yes, I can imagine only too well.'

  'Damn my big mouth!' Hare glanced at her, genuine concern on his face. 'I was forgetting your sister.'

  'You know about that?'

  'Oh, yes, Munro explained. He felt it best I should know the full background.'

  She found a Gitane. 'I'll just have to soldier on, I suppose.'

  'Not quite the right phrase for a flight officer.'

  'A what?' Genevieve asked, the lighter flaring in her hand.

  'All women agents going into the field are sent as officers of one sort or another. Frenchwomen are usually commissioned into the Corps Auxiliaire Feminin. A lot of the English girls officially join the Nursing Yeomanry.'

  'The FANY?'

  'That's right, but Munro likes to keep a tighter hold than that. As I understand it, you were commissioned as a flight officer in the WAAF yesterday. Actually, RAF blue will suit your coloring if you ever get a chance to put the uniform on.'

  'He didn't say a word to me about this.'

  'Munro?' Hare shrugged. 'A devious old dog, but there's method in his madness. In the first place, being a commissioned officer is supposed to help you if you fall into enemy hands.'

  'And in the second?'

  'It gives him personal control over you. Disobey an order in wartime and you could be shot.'

  'I sometimes think there was never any other time,' she said.

  'I know the feeling well.' The door opened and Craig came in. 'How's it going?'

  'Fine,' Hare said. 'We're on time.' He turned to Genevieve. 'I'd go below if I were you. Try and catch a little sleep. Use my cabin.'

  'All right, I think I will.'

  She left them there, negotiated the heaving deck and went down to his tiny cabin. The bunk was so small that she could hardly stretch out on it and she lay there, knees up, staring at the ceiling. So much had happened and it was all whirling around in her head and yet, in spite of that, she drifted into sleep after a few minutes.

  ****

  Off the coast of Finisterre it was still foggy in patches, the moon breaking out from behind a cloud occasionally. The Lili Marlene eased in towards the shore, her silencers on. The crew were at battle stations, manning the guns fore and aft and Hare had a pistol in its holster ready on his hip.

  Langsdorff had the helm and Hare and Craig surveyed the shore with nightglasses. Genevieve waited behind, Rene at her shoulder. There was a sudden pinpoint of light dead ahead.

  'There they are,' Hare said. 'Perfect.' He put a hand on Langsdorff's shoulder. 'Nice and easy now. Dead slow.'

  The pier at Grosnez loomed out of the darkness about them, a tall, skeletal structure, waves booming hollowly underneath, splashing around the great rusting iron pilings. They bumped against the lower jetty and some of the crew were instantly over the side with lines. She noticed Schmidt down there on the deck, a Schmeisser machine pistol at the ready.

  There was a light at the top of the pier and a voice called in French, 'Is that you?'

  'Grand Pierre,' Craig said. 'Let's move it.'

  She and Rene went ahead, Craig followed with Hare. On the jetty, she turned to look back to the deck. Schmidt smiled up at her. 'Don't let the bastards grind you down, lovely one.'

  Craig moved close. 'Present for you.' He gave her a Walther and a spare clip. 'Stick those in your pocket. No girl should be without one.'

  'Not in these parts,' Hare said and put an arm about her. 'You take care now.'

  Craig turned to Rene. 'Bring her back in one piece or I'll have your balls.'

  Rene shrugged. 'If anything happens to Marmselle Genevieve, it happens to me also, Major.'

  Craig said calmly. 'Okay, angel, up you go. The greatest performance of your career. As they say in show business, break a leg.'

  She turned quickly, almost in tears, and went up the steps to the upper level, Rene following. There was a truck at the end of the pier, shapes moving in the darkness and then a man stepped out to confront them. She had never seen a more villainous looking individual in her life. He wore a cloth cap, dirty old moleskin jacket and leggings and a collarless shirt. The three-day stubble on his chin didn't help, nor the scar on his right cheek.

  'Grand Pierre?' Rene called.

  Genevieve put a hand in her right-hand pocket to find the Walther. 'This can't be our man,' she whispered urgently to Rene, so thrown that she spoke in English.

  Scarface paused a yard or so away and smiled. 'Terribly sorry to disappoint you, old girl,' he said in the most stunningly beautiful Oxford accent, 'but if it's Grand Pierre you're looking for, then I'm your man.'

  Behind him, a dozen or so more moved out of the darkness carrying rifles and Sten guns. They stood there, staring at her, not saying a word.

  She whispered to Grand Pierre, 'I don't know what they do to the Germans, but they certainly frighten me.'

  'Yes, they are rather splendid, aren't they?' He clapped his hands. 'Come on, you rat-pack,' he called in very fluent French. 'Let's get moving and watch your language. We have a lady with us remember.'

  The truck was what was known as a gazogene, operated by gas generated by a charcoal-burning stove in the rear. Grand Pierre's men had left a mile back along the road and he was driving quite fast, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

  She said, 'What if we run into a German patrol?'

  'A German what?' He really did smell awful at such close quarters.

  'Patrol,' she said.

  'Not round here. They only move about when they have to. That means during the day and in strength. Anyone out tonight within fifteen miles of here and I'd know it, believe me.'

  She could have laughed out loud because the whole thing was so beautifully macabre. 'You've really got it organised then?'

  'You always sounded rather delectable on the phone. Nice to be able to put a face to you,' he said. 'Ever get up to Oxford at all?'

  'No.'

  'Norfolk?'

  'I'm afraid not.'

  They came over the brow of a hill and at the same moment, the clouds parted to reveal the moon again. In its light she could see the line of the railway track in the valley below, the cluster of houses that was St Maurice.

  'Pity,' he said. 'I used to shoot a lot up there. Near San-dringham where the King has his country estate. Lovely place.'

  'Do you miss it?'

  'Not really. Pretend I do, just to keep me going. I mean, what would I do without all this lot? Smell me. Beautiful, isn't it? Talk about back to nature.'

  'What did you do before?'

  'The war, you mean? Taught English Literature at a rather second-rate public school.'

  'You enjoy doing this sort of thing?'

  'Oh, yes, scouting for boys and all that. The worst sores in life are caused by crumpled rose leaves, not thorns, Miss Trevaunce, wouldn't you agree?'

  'I'm not even sure I understand.'

  'That's exactly what my pupils used to say.' They were entering the village now and he started to slow. 'Goods yard coming up.'

  They turned in between massive gate posts, rattled across a cobbled yard to the house in the corner. The truck braked to a halt. A door opened, someone peered out. Rene scrambled down. Genevieve followed.

  'Thanks very much,' she said.

  'We aim to please.' Grand Pierre smiled down at her. 'Crumpled rose leaves. You think about it.'

  He drove away and she turned and followed Rene inside.

  She sat in front of the mirror in the small bedr
oom, Anne-Marie's suitcases on the bed, handbag open, her papers on the bed beside it. There was her French identity card, the German Atisweis, ration cards, a driving licence. She carefully applied mascara and the door opened as Madame Dubois entered. She was a small, dark-complexioned woman with a careworn face and wore a shabby grey dress. There were holes in her stockings and her shoes looked ready to fall to pieces.

  She didn't approve, Genevieve could see that, and her lips set in a thin line as she took in the finery displayed on the bed. The navy blue suit from Paris with the pleated skirt, the silk stockings, the oyster satin blouse.

  Remembering who she was supposed to be, Genevieve said sharply, 'Another time, knock first. What do you want?'

  Madame Dubois shrugged defensively. 'The train, Mamselle. It has just come in. My husband sent me to tell you.'

  'Good. Tell Rene to fetch the car. I'll be down soon.'

  She withdrew. Genevieve applied a little lipstick, hesitated, then put on some more, remembering what Michael, the hairdresser, had said at Cold Harbour. She dressed quickly -underwear, stockings, slip, blouse, skirt - all Anne-Marie's. As she put on each item, it was as if she removed another layer of herself.

  She wasn't afraid as she pulled on her jacket and checked herself in the mirror, simply coldly excited. The truth was that she really did look rather good and she knew it. She snapped the suitcase shut, draped the caped greatcoat of blue worsted over her shoulders and went out.

  She found Henri Dubois in the kitchen with his wife. He was a small, sallow-faced man, very ordinary looking, the last person one would have imagined to want to involve himseif in such a business.

  'Rene is bringing the car now, Mamselle.'

  She took the silver and onyx lighter from her handbag and selected a Gitane. 'Bring down my bags.'

  'Oui, Mamselle.'

  He went out. She lit the cigarette and walked to the window, aware of the woman's eyes on her, hostile, disapproving, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered now except the job in hand.