by Jack Higgins
The girl didn't believe it, Genevieve could see, not that it mattered. She picked up her evening bag, smiled reassuringly and went out.
The ball was being held in the Long Gallery and they had really made an effort, there was no doubt about that. When Genevieve went in, everyone seemed to be there already. The chandeliers gleamed, there were flowers and a small orchestra played a Strauss waltz. There was no sign of Rommel, but General Ziemke was standing with Seilheimer and his wife. When he saw Genevieve, he excused himself and crossed the floor, the dancers moving out of his way.
'Your aunt?' he said anxiously. 'She is coming down? There is nothing wrong?'
'Not as far as I know. What about the Field Marshal?' 'He was here a moment ago, but was called away for a phone call from Berlin. The Fuhrer himself, apparently.' He wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. 'We have many people here that you know. The Comboults for instance.'
There they were on the opposite side of the room. Maurice Comboult, Papa Comboult to his workers, with his wife and daughter. Five vineyards, two canning factories and another manufacturing agricultural machinery. The richest man in the district, growing even richer out of collaborating with the Germans. Genevieve barely swallowed her anger.
Field Marshal Rommel appeared in the doorway, Priem beside him and Ziemke said, 'Excuse me for a moment.'
The young Lieutenant of the night before, the one who was such an excellent dancer, approached, and asked her for the next waltz. He was as good as ever and when the music stopped, offered to fetch her a glass of champagne.
She stood by a pillar, waiting for Hortense to appear and Priem said from behind, 'I would not have thought any improvement possible, but you look especially beautiful tonight.' 'That's nice,' she said and found that she meant it. The band began to play another waltz, he took her in his arms without a word and they started to dance. Behind him, she could see her Lieutenant watching reproachfully, a glass of champagne in each hand.
The music seemed to go on for ever and there was an air of total unreality to everything, sounds muted as if under water. There was just the two of them, the rest clockwork figures only. The waltz came to an end finally, there was some sporadic clapping. No sign of Rommel now, but Ziemke was there and beckoned to Priem who excused himself and left.
It was at that moment that Hortense chose to make her entrance. Her face was like sculptured marble, her beautiful red-gold hair piled high on her head. Her gown of midnight blue velvet swept the floor, a perfect contrast to that live hair and those liquid eyes.
Conversation died as people turned to look and Ziemke hurried along the length of the gallery to meet her, bowing over her hand. Then he gave her his arm and escorted her to the far end where a group of Louis Quatorze chairs had been strategically placed.
Genevieve glanced at her watch. It was exactly five minutes to eight and as the orchestra struck up again, she moved back through the crowd, opened the door to the music room, and slipped inside.
She had intended it as a short cut to the hall and instead, received the shock of her life for Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was seated in a chair by the piano smoking a cigar.
'Ah, it is you, Mademoiselle.' He stood up. 'Had enough already?'
'A headache only,' she said, her heart pounding and unthinkingly ran a hand across the piano keys.
'Ah, you play, how charming,' Rommel said.
'Only a little.'
She sat down, because it seemed the natural thing to do and started to play 'Claire de Lune'. It made her think of Craig, that evening at Cold Harbour. Rommel leaned back in the chair, a look of intense pleasure on his face.
It was fate that saved her, for suddenly the door opened and Max Priem appeared. 'Oh, there you are, sir. The telephone again, I'm afraid, Paris this time.'
'You see, Mamselle? They will not leave me in peace.' Rommel smiled charmingly. 'Later, perhaps, we may continue?'
'Of course,' Genevieve told him.
He went out. Priem smiled briefly at her and went after him. She hurried across to the other door, let herself out into the hall and went up the great stairway quickly.
****
Chantal was waiting when she entered the bedroom, black sweater and a pair of dark slacks laid out on the bed. 'You're late,' she scolded.
'Never mind that now. Just get me out of this dress.' She got the zip down, that magnificent white creation slipped to the floor and Genevieve stepped into the slacks and pulled the sweater over her head. She slipped the silver and onyx cigarette case into one pocket with the key, a torch in the other, and turned. 'Into battle, then.'
Chantal kissed her roughly on the cheek. 'Go on, be off with you and get it done, Genevieve Trevaunce.'
Genevieve stared at her. 'How long have you known?' I'm a fool, is that what you and the Countess think? Silly, stupid old Chantal? I was changing your nappies before you were a year old, my girl. You think I can't tell the difference between you and her by now?'
But there was no time for this, of course. Genevieve smiled, slipped out through the curtains to the darkness of the balcony. It seemed very quiet standing there, the sound of the music far away. She was twelve years old again and sneaking out by night with Anne-Marie to go riding in the dark because she'd dared her to. She climbed over the balcony, got a firm hold on the brickwork and descended quickly.
When she peered round the corner, the terrace lay quiet and deserted. She moved silently along to the third french window, placed a hand on the centre where the doors met and pushed. There was a certain amount of resistance, there always had been, but it gave in the end and parted the curtains.
The library was quite dark, the sound of music a little louder here. She switched on her torch and found the portrait of Elizabeth, the eleventh Countess de Voincourt. She stared down at her coldly, remarkably like Hortense. Genevieve swung the portrait back on its hinges revealing the safe behind. The key turned smoothly in the lock, the door swung open.
It was stuffed with papers as she might have expected. Her heart sank as she gave way to genuine panic and then she saw the leather briefcase with the single inscription Rommel stamped on the flap in gold leaf.
She opened it quickly, hands shaking. It contained only a single folder and when she opened that, the photos of gun emplacements and beach defenses alone told her that she had found what she had come for.
She put the briefcase back in the safe for the moment, laid the folder on Priem's desk and switched on the desk lamp. Then she took out her cigarette case. In the same moment she heard Priem's voice quite distinctly outside the door.
She had never moved faster in her life. She got the safe door closed although there was no time to lock it, pushing the painting back into position. Then she switched off the desk lamp and picked up her torch and the folder.
As the key started to turn in the lock she was already on her way, slipping through the curtains and pulling the windows together as the door opened and the light was switched on. She peered in through a crack in the curtains and saw Priem enter the room. She stood there in the darkness of the terrace, thinking about it, but by then she simply didn't have any other choice. She slipped round the corner and climbed back up to her balcony.
Chantal drew the curtains together behind her. 'What's happened?' she demanded. 'Did something go wrong?'
'Priem turned up. Almost caught me in the act. It means I haven't had a chance to take my pictures. I'll see to that now.'
She laid the file down on her dressing table and brought the bedside lamp across for extra light.
'Then what will you do?'
'Go down again. Hope that he's gone back to the ball so I can return this before it's missed.'
'And Eric?'
'We'll just have to put all our faith in Maresa's powers of persuasion.'
She picked up the silver case, opened the flap and started to take pictures, exactly as Craig Osbourne had shown her, Chantal turning the pages. Twenty exposures, that's what he had told her and
there were more pages than that. Still, it would have to do.
As she finished, there was a knock at the door. They froze. Chantal whispered, 'I locked it.'
The knock came again, the door knob rattled. Genevieve knew she had to answer. 'Who is it?' she called.
There was no reply. She pushed Chantel towards the bathroom. 'Get in there and stay quiet.'
She did as she was told. Genevieve slipped the Rommel file into the nearest drawer and turned to reach for her dressing gown. A key rattled in the lock, pushing the one on the inside out, the door opened and Max Priem walked in.
He sat on the edge of the table swinging one leg, regarding her gravely, then held out his hand. 'Give it to me.'
'What on earth are you talking about?'
'The file you have just taken from Field Marshal Rommel's briefcase. I can have the room searched, but it has to be you. There is no one else. Add to that your interesting change in dress…'
'All right!' she cut in on him sharply, opened the drawer and took out the file.
He placed it on the table beside him. 'I'm sorry it worked out this way.'
'Then you really are in the wrong business.' She picked up her cigarette case and selected a Gitane.
'I didn't choose it, but one thing we'd better get straight from now on, Miss Trevaunce. I know who you are.'
She took a deep lungful of smoke to steady herself. 'I don't follow you.'
'It's in the eyes, Genevieve,' he said softly. 'You can never get away from that. Exactly the same colour as hers and yet the light inside, totally different. Like everything else about you two, the same and yet not the same at all.'
She could not think of a single thing worth saying, stood there waiting for the axe to fall.
'They taught you everything about her,' he said. 'Is this not so? Provided our friend Dissard as guide and mentor and in the end, left out one essential fact - the most important of all. The one that told me from the first that you could not be Anne-Marie Trevaunce.'
In spite of herself, caught now, Genevieve asked entirely the wrong question. 'And what would that be?'
'Why, that she was working for me,' he said simply.
She sat down, curiously calm considering the circumstances, perfectly in control, or so she told herself. He parted the curtains and rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers as if Anne-Marie was out there trying to get in. He continued to speak without turning around.
'Another thing which hardly helped your case was that I was tipped off about your true identity even before you got here by one of our agents in London, a mole we've had working for SOE for some considerable time.'
She was truly shocked. 'I don't believe you.'
'True, I assure you, but we'll come to that later. Let's talk about your sister.' He turned. 'When we first set up house here, we knew we would attract more than a little attention, so I decided to provide London with an agent and who more suitable than Anne-Marie Trevaunce?'
'Who in exchange could continue to live in the manner to which she was accustomed, is that what you're trying to say?'
He closed the curtains and turned. 'Not quite. She was never cheap, whatever else she was.'
'What then?'
He didn't answer, simply carried on in that calm voice. 'She gave the people at SOE enough information to keep everyone happy, most of it relatively unimportant, of course. She used a man we knew perfectly well was Resistance and we let him alone. I even allowed her to draw in Dissard to complete the picture. Then London found out about a rather important conference and took an unprecedented step. They sent for her and I said she must go.'
'And she always did what you told her?'
'But of course. We had Hortense, you see. Anne-Marie's one weakness, her only link with you, I think, is this love for her aunt.' Genevieve stared at him blankly. 'Her only reason from the beginning, don't you see that?' He shook his head. 'I don't think you ever knew her at all, this sister of yours.'
The rain tapped more insistently than ever. Genevieve sat there, unable to speak, so great was her emotion.
'Knowing you were playing games with me, it seemed prudent to have words with Dissard.'
'Rene'?' she whispered.
'Yes, the message that took him away so urgently. I arranged that. When he reached his destination, Reichslinger and his men were waiting.'
'Where is he now? What have you done with him?'
'He shot himself,' Priem said, 'very quickly, in the head before they could disarm him. To protect you, I should imagine. He must have known he wouldn't last long in Reichslinger's hands. Every man has his breaking point, sooner or later. Not that it mattered. Our man in London had provided all the necessary information. Our mole at SOE. A certain Dr Baum who I think you know. The only problem with that was that I've known for some time he was working for the other side. I have a more reliable source in London, you see.'
'You're lying,' Genevieve said.
'Your sister is at this very moment in the cellar of a house at 101 Raglan Lane
in Hampstead. She is, I am given to understand, quite mad, but then, you are aware of this?'
Her reply came boiling out of her, instinctive, hot with rage. 'And you swine made her like that. Your own agent and yet it was an SS patrol that picked her up. They ruined her, those animals. Did you know that?'
'Not true,' he said and there was something close to pity in his eyes now. 'It was your own people - no one else.'
The room was very quiet and she was horribly frightened. 'What do you mean?' she whispered. 'What are you trying to say?'
'My poor Genevieve,' he said. 'I think you'd better listen to me.'
What he told her, although she did not know it, was substantially what Baum had told Craig Osbourne. The truth, the real truth about her sister, the good doctor, Rosedene Nursing Home and Munro.
When he was finished, she sat there gripping the arms of her chair for a while then she reached for the cigarette case and got a Gitane. Surprising how much the damn things helped. She went to the french windows, opened them and looked out at the rain. Priem followed her.
She turned to face him. 'Why should I believe you? How could you know all this?'
'The British operate double agents and so do we. A game we play. As I've said, when the Jewish underground told Baum his daughter was dead, he went to Munro. To make his dealings normal with us meant they couldn't afford to pull in Mrs Fitzgerald, his contact. She also was given a choice. To work as a double or face execution in your Tower of London. Naturally she chose the sensible course or appeared to.'
'Appeared to?'
'Mrs Fitzgerald is Dutch South African and does not like the English. Her dead husband was an Irishman who disliked them even more and served with the IRA under Michael Collins in 1921. She had done what Munro wanted, yes, but what the good Brigadier did not realise was that she has contacts with the IRA in London and they are more than sympathetic to us. She warned us, through them, of Baum's defection months ago which means we've been very well aware that he works totally for the other side now. He tells us only what they want us to know, which means, in this case, that they wanted us to know about you. Any information he didn't tell us, Mrs Fitzgerald passed on to our IRA friends.'
'What nonsense,' Genevieve said and yet, with some horror, saw the terrible truth.
'What was the purpose of your mission? Field Marshal Rommel's conference? Plans for the Atlantic Wall?' He shook his head. 'It couldn't have been. They sent you here to be betrayed by Baum whose word they still think we believe.'
'But why would they do that?'
'The Reichslingers of this world can be very persuasive. They expected you to break, your people. Wanted you to. They've told you something, let something slip, something you can't even remember yourself for the moment. Something that would apparently be of supreme importance.'
She remembered Craig Osbourne on the Lili Marlene, felt again the grip of his hand on hers and struggled wildly not to believe and then sh
e recalled Munro in his study at Cold Harbour, the map on the desk that he had so quickly put away after allowing her to glimpse the D-Day landing areas.
Priem had been watching her intently. Now, he smiled. 'You've got it, I see?'
She nodded, suddenly very tired. 'Yes, would you like to know?'
'Would you tell me?'
'I'd try not to, just in case I'm wrong. You've proved very effectively that there are people on my side as rotten and unscrupulous as you are, but I'd still rather see my side win. There are some very nice people where I come from and I'd hate to see the SS in St Martin.'
'Good,' he said. 'Exactly what I would have expected of you.'
She took a deep breath. 'What happens now?'
'You will change back into your gown and return to the ball.'
She was beginning to feel just a little light-headed by then. 'You can't be serious?'
'Oh, but I am. Field Marshal Rommel will leave with his escort in one hour. He drives to Paris overnight. You will be among those who will smile and wish him well. You will exchange a few words. All good stuff for the photographers. He will drive safely away into the night and you, my dear Genevieve, will continue dancing.'
'The life and soul of the party?'
'But of course. It could be argued that you might seize some chance, however slight, to slip away, but that would mean leaving the Countess in our hands, which would be unfortunate. You follow my thinking?'
'Completely.'
'Perfect trust between us then.' He kissed her hand. I've fallen in love with you a little I think. Just a little. You were never her, Genevieve. Always yourself alone.'
'You'll get over it.'
'Of course.' He paused, a hand on the ornate handle of the door. 'One gets over everything in time. But this, you will discover for yourself.'
He started to open the door. Genevieve said, 'You really thought you knew her, didn't you?'
He turned, slightly surprised. 'Anne-Marie? As well as anyone, I think.'
Her anger was so great now that she could not contain herself. 'Does the name Grand Pierre mean anything to you?'