‘And what about us?’
‘From Lezèle, where you’ll spend the rest of the night, the father and daughter will be collected early Sunday morning by one of Jaillon’s lorry drivers. He’ll take them to Scrignac, where I understand arrangements have been made – by you, uh?’
‘Yes. The gamekeeper, Vannier.’
‘Exactly.’
She nodded. ‘It’s good, I think. One thing – when you join me at Lestonan – the truck gets left there?’
‘It goes into Perrot’s barn, and the other three push off on foot. The truck will either be repainted – demilitarized – there in that barn, or Jaillon will arrange to fetch it. He has one transporter that’s really huge, you know. Any case – won’t be your problem, eh?’
* * *
He’d left her no problems, she thought, as far as her own part in it was concerned. On the Sunday morning, for instance, after Jaillon’s man picked up the le Guens she’d have only about twelve kilometres to cycle back to St Michel. Very much as she’d done this morning; might have been visiting in Huelgoat, where Peucat had a number of patients… Peucat at this moment in profile to her, at the gazo’s juddering wheel, while she alternately dozed and woke again, brain still tensed up anyway, refusing to let go. The state of the roads didn’t help much either. It was great to be driven, all the same; great of old Henri beside her here with his yellowish, broken-nosed profile, patchy grey hair, soft old-dog’s eyes sliding her way now and then, presumably to check whether she was asleep or not.
Lannuzel’s plan did look good, she thought. Even the Kerongués part: the way Guy had described it, you could forget Count Jules’ doubts.
See him again this week, maybe, explain it, reassure him.
She’d been dropping off, thoughts merging into a dream in which she was explaining it to him, up at Scrignac: half waking then, meeting Peucat’s glance, murmuring to him, ‘It’s a good plan.’
‘Uh?’
‘Oh.’ A hand to her eyes. ‘Talking in my sleep…’
‘I’m glad it’s good, anyway.’
It truly was, she thought. Simple – as Guy had said it would be, at some stage – intentionally so, and on the face of it easily achievable. More than adequate time-margins, for instance, and their route in the stolen gazo taking them well clear of the immediate Trevarez area. And the disappearing transport: that was first class, and – again – dead simple.
Barring accidents. Chance encounters, Acts of God…
Peucat glanced her way again. ‘Hardly conducive to repose, I’m afraid.’
The jolting, he meant. You couldn’t avoid all the potholes. She shrugged. ‘You won’t forget the turn at Moncouar, if I happen to have dropped off then?’
‘I won’t. And I’ll wake you before we cross the river, if necessary. That’s where the Veldpolitzei have hostages imprisoned, you know – close to Kerongués, just south of the bridge?’
‘I did hear of it. But it’s Lestonan—’
‘Yes. Understood.’
‘One thing, doctor – Henri, I should say—’
‘Much better…’
‘Might you have a patient at or near Huelgoat who’d back us up if I needed to have spent a night there – as Mme Sanson was prepared to?’
‘Oh, I’m sure.’ Empty pipe between his teeth – between the upper and lower set, that was. Sucking noises, at times, and dribble on his chin. No Prince Charming, that was for sure. He nodded, having made his mind up: ‘One couple I’d be quite sure of. We could visit them some time, if you like.’
‘En route to Scrignac? I ought to see Count Jules again fairly soon.’
‘All right. I’ll try for Tuesday. Suzanne – no, you want to sleep—’
‘It’s OK. Go on?’
‘Well. When you asked me what I might do if you fell foul of our revolting lords and masters – does the question indicate that you feel yourself to be in such danger?’
Looking at him: frowning…
‘Always is – danger, naturally.’
‘But especially so? Whatever it is you’re plotting for next Saturday, for instance?’
‘I wouldn’t say especially so. No.’
‘I suppose it’s really only a matter of degree.’
‘There’s also a difference – probably – between how one feels and how it really is. One can’t know what’s happening off-stage, as it were. But my only reason for mentioning it was the worry you could be drawn into it too, through association with me… D’you want to stop for a minute, to fill that pipe?’
‘No. Good for me not to, for a while. Good for you too – stinks, doesn’t it?’
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘My dear child…’
She lit a Gaullois. Thinking about that question – consciousness of danger. An honest answer might have been: Yes, I’m conscious of it all the time. Quite apart from anything that might develop during or after the Trevarez business.
But once that was out of the way: and if one was still at large…
She’d dropped off, and had then been jerked awake again. Cigarette still alight between the fingers of a slightly raised right hand, the side away from Peucat. He’d shot a glance at her as she’d woken, startled, then away again at the curve of road ahead, and into his rear mirror; there was a gazo van close on his tail, waiting to get by. Rosie leant back with her eyes shut, breathing the pungent smoke. Telling Ben in her rather jumpy mind: It’ll be all plain sailing after that, my darling, don’t you worry…
* * *
They turned off to the left at Moncouar, drove down to the bridge and over it into and through Kerongués; then another kilometre south to Lestonan. Just outside Kerongués she saw a signpost in French and German for the internment camp, but the camp itself wasn’t in sight from the road and she had no reason to take any close interest in it. In fact one didn’t want to be seen even glancing at it. At Lestonan, though, the Perrot farm was easy to recognize from Lannuzel’s description, and when they were out on the main Coray-Quimper road Peucat pulled off into another farm entrance so Rosie could make a sketch-map for le Guen while he – Peucat – stuffed and lit his pipe.
On to Quimper, then. Entering from the east, over the river again and on westward, skirting the wooded Mount Frugy, then to the right towards the centre and Place Saint-Matthieu. Sunday traffic – in other words, not much of it. He parked on the other side of the square from the Berthomets’ house.
‘All right for you from here?’
Sound of a brass band and the tramp of marching feet: a kilometre away, maybe. She’d caught a snatch of it before, when they’d been passing to the south of the station. Boche feet, those would be, Boche boots slamming the roadway to the thudding of drums and some Teutonic dirge. This was a Sunday feature too: weekly parade of the bastards through the towns they fouled… She told Peucat, ‘It’s fine. Even a band to swing along with.’
‘Ugh – that…’
‘After I’ve seen this character I’ll come back and wait in the car.’
‘Won’t come in? I’m sure they’d like it…’
‘Better not. They’ve taken a risk already – thank them for me, please, but—’
He’d shrugged. ‘Something like two o’clock, then?’
‘Sooner – I hope. I’d guess one-thirty or sooner. But I’ll eat my sandwich then – and if you’re long I dare say I’ll snooze. ‘Bye…’
Through Place de Locronan, then the road of the same name, into Rue de la Providence. The band’s strains and the crash of boots and drums were somewhere off to her right and behind her, but getting closer, louder. Her skin crawled: as it tended to even when she heard their ugly language: this had a similar effect. Five minutes to one now: timing couldn’t have been bettered. She had no doubt, on this occasion, that le Guen would show up: after all it was only yesterday he’d delivered his message chez Berthomet. And if he did turn up today, you could be fairly certain he’d go through with it on Saturday too.
Well – for his own sa
ke, and his daughter’s. As far as ‘Mincemeat’ was concerned he could disappear in a puff of smoke now and the attack would still go in. Beyond that, though, he’d still be out there, liable to be arrested and tortured – and to shop her, in the process. Highly desirable therefore to take him out of circulation.
Ghastly racket getting louder by the second. They’d have come west across the town centre and then turned north, coming this way up behind her now. Music definitely not the food of love: music as a blaring celebration of barbarism and brutality. She’d last had that thought in Rouen, she remembered. Music and stamping that shook the road, the buildings: and they’d like that, the bastards – like to see it, feel it, see the fear on people’s faces.
What le Guen had described as lack of courage? Or simply nerves stretched permanently taut so that certain sounds or sights had virtually instant effect, brought the sweat out, shortened the breath? Remembering – seeing, virtually feeling – a pair of pliers, shiny-steel jaws, handles encased in rubber – in close-up, in the sweaty hand of a pig-faced officer of the Geheime Staatspolitzei.
She’d never told Ben about the pliers.
The café was open, she noticed – customers filtering in and out – those emerging gathering on the pavement and looking south – expectantly, doubtless to see the guard and band swagger past. Rosie pausing on the kerb, waiting for a gap in the stream of cyclists… Remembering as she crossed over and turned to her left on the park side of the road that she’d asked le Guen to make this a very brief meeting: meet, talk, separate…
With good reason, too. Third public exposure. And the park was full of people: some of them drawn to the roadside by the rising noise of the parade approaching, others drifting away from it. More of those, she was glad to see. She wished she had the courage to put her palms over her ears, make a show of shutting it out, shutting them out. In her own situation it would have been less courage than stupidity, but the urge was there and must have been legible in her expression: a tall, fierce-looking woman with a little girl in tow nodded to her, muttered, ‘Salauds…’
‘Hideous, isn’t it?’
The woman tapped her long nose, murmured: ‘Soon we’ll hear them squeal – like the animals they are!’
‘Please God.’
‘Yes. High time He took a hand in things.’ She was trudging on – with the child at arms’ lengths behind her and walking backward, gazing at Rosie as at a friend she didn’t want to leave.
‘Zoé?’
Le Guen – suddenly there, face to face.
She put her arms up to embrace him.
‘François! Oh, François!’ Glancing back over her shoulder, though – as the noise suddenly swelled – she saw the head of the column emerging from Rue Locronan and wheeling half-left, expanding into the road there where it widened: a huge red, white and black swastika, gleam of bayonets, drums, brass and boots louder every second. She turned back to le Guen, her hands on his shoulders and giving him her other cheek to kiss: then pointing with her head across the park: ‘That way, shall we?’
‘Yes – yes, very well…’
‘All well with you, François?’
‘You had the message, obviously.’
‘Yes. And well done… Look, take this.’ Impulsive again, seizing one of his hands in both of hers: ‘Oh, François, it’s so lovely, running into you like this!’
‘But what—’
‘We should look like lovers, François, not conspirators. Try to look less tense – put your arm round me—’ she laughed – ‘if you could bear to?’
‘What is it?’
‘Little map I just roughed out. In case my description’s not good enough. Better burn it when you’ve got it in your head. It’s where you should come on Saturday. D’you know where Lestonan is? All right, take my arm now, loosely – relax, look happy… Do you know it?’
‘Lestonan…’
‘Very close to Kerongués. You leave town on the route de Coray: about four kilometres, turn left into a small lane, and after about half a kilometre you’d come to a fork. Before you get that far, though, there’s a farm on your right. I’ve sketched it: a line of poplars ends at the gate where you turn in, and there’s a stone barn with a damaged roof. The house is beyond it. You’ll see a gazo parked in the yard – I’ll be there, and we’ll have the place to ourselves. Be sure to get there before ten o’clock, curfew hour; it’ll be a bit dark by then. I’ll be there by about a quarter to the hour, in case you’re early. If by any chance the gazo’s not there it’ll only mean I’ve been delayed – don’t panic, just wait. The kitchen door of the house will be open, by the way… All right?’
‘Your map makes it plain, eh?’
‘Wasn’t what I’ve just told you plain?’
‘I – suppose…’
‘With the map as well, you can’t go wrong… Isn’t that a horrible noise?’
‘Yes. It is.’
The band was about level with them now. Gleaming instruments, crashing boots and drums, that disgusting emblem in the lead and a column of marching, helmeted troops behind. She clung to his arm: he looked ill, she thought. ‘Not much longer now, François. Saturday before ten, remember – Lestonan. I’ll have your money there, of course.’
‘What about Marie-Claude, and—’
‘We’ll have about two hours to wait, in the farm kitchen. Soon after midnight the friend I’ve mentioned will arrive with Marie-Claude, we all get in the gazo, and – well, never mind where, don’t worry about any of it, it’s all arranged. All you have to do is be there, before ten… Have you seen your SD friend recently – and Prigent?’
‘Both. Not much to choose—’
‘But nothing special?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘Well – a few more days, and you’ll be clear of all of them. You’ve done very well – Marie-Claude’ll be so proud of you, so happy!’
‘It’s going to be a long six days.’
‘Then you’ll have her safe and sound – and she’ll have you.’
‘God willing…’
‘Just keep your nerve. We’re so nearly there.’ Her hands grasped his again. ‘Au revoir, François.’ Looking urgently into his white face, worried eyes with dark pouches under them: ‘Remember this is to save your life – save both your lives!’ She saw that go in like a bullet: he nodded, moistened his thin lips. ‘Au revoir, Zoé…’
The band’s noise had peaked, receding northward; there was a drift of people back towards the road. She’d be going back that way herself in a minute; but le Guen was heading straight across to where she supposed there’d be a foot-bridge over the river, and she waited – anxious lover looking after him with a hand half-up in readiness to respond quickly if he turned back to wave. He didn’t, as it happened: but no one was following him, or as far as she could see taking any interest in either of them.
Chapter 14
She went to bed as soon as they got back, that Sunday, had a bath before supper (horse-meat, cold) and set listening-watch in the attic at midnight. Nothing came in, and she was more than ready for bed again after an hour of it.
Bomber Command, she supposed, hadn’t been able to confirm the Trevarez attack yet. Tomorrow, perhaps, or Tuesday. They’d hardly back out, she thought, when they’d agreed it three weeks ago. Availability of aircraft might be the problem; they were over Germany in strength practically every night now, hitting targets of greater strategic importance than Kraut submariners’ rest-homes.
Grand Admiral Doenitz had to be a strategic target though, surely.
Tomorrow, Monday, she’d spend playing nurse. Building cover was important, and there was nothing else for her to be doing at this stage. It was all in Lannuzel’s court. His priorities as far as she knew them were to have the truck brought down from Guerlesquin, to confer with his Maquis friends – finalize plans, now they had a date – and arrange for a round-the-clock watch to be kept on comings and goings at Trevarez, the object being to know the size of the garrison and reinf
orcements and whether there’d be U-boat sailors in residence, and later if possible the ranks and identities of individuals attending the weekend conference.
If for instance next Sunday the BBC could announce the deaths of Doenitz, Bachmann and Godt… Imagining Ben hearing it, not guessing for a moment it was something she’d brought about. Smiling in the dark: happy with the prospect of several hours’ sleep ahead of her, asking him in her imagination how many nicely brought-up girls ever had a chance of doing that – killing Nazi admirals?
Anyway – Monday, work with Peucat: Tuesday, to Scrignac, lunch with Count Jules – whom Peucat had telephoned and who’d invited them – and on Wednesday to Lannuzel again. Thursday might be another working day in the practice, and Friday as the last full day before action had better be kept free, in case of last-minute crises.
Tell Ben one day – deadpan, over a drink, or in a lull in conversation – I once knocked off three admirals…
She slept soundly and woke early, thinking of him and of the future. Foot of the rainbow: she wasn’t even close to it yet but she could see it up there, would get to it eventually, climb it with him. Here and now, pray God his wonky knee kept him in that nice, safe job in Portsmouth until the whole damn thing was over. After all, he’d had his own command and won a medal – what else could an aspiring painter want?
Although there were no certainties. As well as anyone, she knew there weren’t. They both knew it. As Lise had too – Lise’s voice and question suddenly in memory: Could be I can’t see us in another kind of life because we won’t be?
It was a question she’d shied away from herself, once or twice. Lise really shouldn’t have come out with it: one’s private fears were best kept private… She was fully awake now: that was daylight outside the window. Time for practicalities – such as getting up, for instance… But also – delaying that a few more seconds – for having one’s perspectives right: like envisaging the bombing of Château Trevarez as the next step towards getting home. Effectively, it would be. By Sunday morning, when she’d be pedalling back here from Lezèle, the whole of her initial brief would have been accomplished. She’d be able to settle down a bit then – concentrate on the nursing business for a while. At any rate until the expected furore over ‘Mincemeat’ had died down. Then resume the paradrops, perhaps of personnel as well as weaponry. And training, and organization – for instance expanding the present scope for joint action by Lannuzel’s and Jaillon’s forces by bringing in groups from adjacent areas too.
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