Didi cleared her throat.
“Oh, sorry,” Marks said. He took out a pencil and a pad of paper. “During his training, Peter occasionally flip-flopped the order of the letters, which changed the numbers underneath.” He looked up at Didi. “This results in what I call ‘hatted’ columns, and sometimes takes a little coding surgery.” He worked for a few minutes before shouting, “Got you!” After a round of furious writing, he pushed the pad toward Didi.
It was a message mostly complaining about someone called Carte’s lack of competence and that he was sending an agent named Lise back to London.
“So, if you run across another of Peter’s indecipherables, watch out for hatted columns: that seems to be his Achilles heel.”
“Yes, sir.” Didi scooped up the poem code and put it back in her purse.
“Sometimes it’s the people who are the real puzzles, not the code itself,” Marks declared as she let herself out.
Chapter 29
Odette
Carte had taken it upon himself to make all the arrangements for his and Odette’s trip to London. Odette had been present when he proposed his plans for the Hudson’s arrival to Peter and couldn’t help finding the situation ironic since her SOE trainer had insisted that it was London who made all the preparations for bomber pick-ups. At any rate, Peter was not exactly impressed with the landing spot Carte had picked out.
“Peter, my dear boy, I don’t believe there is any reason for you to examine the field personally. My distinguished subordinates,” Carte spoke the words with uncontained pride, “are all aviators and have told me that the field is in every way suitable for the reception of a bomber. If you were to inspect it yourself, it would prove an insult to the integrity of my men.”
Peter glanced at Odette, who shrugged before she said, “If you did want to take a look at it, it’d be a hike—it’s a couple hundred miles away.”
Peter rubbed his forehead in thought. “How long did you say the field was?”
“Over sixteen hundred meters,” Carte replied.
“And the surface?”
“Flatter than my sister’s chest.”
Odette narrowed her eyes. “How broad? And by broad, I don’t mean in reference to a woman.”
Carte’s lips turned up in an oily grin as he stared at Odette’s own bosom. “Eight or nine hundred meters across, with no trees or any other obstructions.” He reluctantly directed his gaze back to Peter. “You should summon your bomber for the next full moon, and trust me to arrange the rest.”
As much as Peter and Odette had their doubts, everything seemed to fall into place. The BBC faithfully broadcasted the fictitious sweethearts’ message, “Joseph embrasse Nicole,” which was their signal to be ready and the five generals scheduled to go to London with her and Carte all arrived miraculously on time. Odette’s first major operation seemed to be going off without a hitch.
The night of the pick-up was freezing, but Odette had thought to pack a perfectly suitable French brandy to keep the reception party warm while they waited. As the generals toasted to the steak-and-kidney pudding they would soon be indulging in next to Big Ben, Carte congratulated himself on the careful preparations he’d made in order to carry off this coup.
Peter peered at his watch. “All right, men. The plane should be on its way. When it gets close, point your torches at it until it touches the ground. This is our agreed upon signal that it's safe to land.”
One of the generals piped up. “What torches?”
“Your flashlights.” Peter’s voice contained more than a hint of exasperation. “You were given flashlights, weren’t you?”
“No,” another general stated.
Carte’s gaze narrowed. “You didn’t expect me to bother with such trivial details, did you?”
Odette held up her bag, cutting off Peter’s sure-to-be-brusque reply. “I have some here,” she said.
Even through the enveloping darkness, she could see Peter send her a grateful smile. Carte pretended to take stock of the rising moon as they distributed the lights to the rest of the men.
Peter, torch in hand, started to walk the length of the field. Odette, for lack of anything else to do, followed him. He stopped short after about a hundred yards, and she hurried to his side. Both of them gazed silently into a deep gully.
“Only a lunatic would want to land a twin-engine Hudson here,” he stated dryly.
“What should we do?” Odette cried, raising her voice to be heard over the dull hum of an approaching plane.
Peter’s reply was drowned out by Carte, who shouted, “Torches at the ready, men!” at the top of his lungs.
The generals looked toward Peter, who crossed his arms in an X-shape and shook his head vehemently. “It’d be suicide to bring that plane down.”
She passed him the bottle of brandy. He took a swig before giving it back to Odette, who took a small sip. No man besides Carte made a move as the plane dipped low. Carte ran toward Peter, beseeching him to flash the torch signal to guide the bomber in. Peter repeated his negative gestures, clearly refusing Carte’s commands.
The Hudson circled one more time, the pilot noticeably confused at the lack of welcome on the ground, before rising back up and flying off.
Odette, while disappointed that the mission was not a success, was pleased that she had at least a few more days in France. She handed the bottle of brandy back to Peter. “I’ll confer with the generals while you deal with Carte.”
Chapter 30
Mathilde
Though Bleicher no longer made Mathilde accompany him on arrests, he delighted in telling her about the demise of Interallié’s remaining fragments. Uncle Marco had been imprisoned, along with Noeud and Lipsky and his daughter Cipinka. Each time the German Police made an arrest, they would confiscate everything in the apartment; the important papers would be added to the growing stacks on the dining room table, and the clothing would be distributed amongst the Huns and their mistresses. Mathilde was aware that some of the ties in Bleicher’s wardrobe had once belonged to Armand and René, though the fat German couldn’t put a leg into one of Armand’s trousers.
One afternoon, Bleicher interrupted Mathilde’s nap to hand her a small flat box. “I thought of you when I saw this.”
She opened it to find a sparkling necklace.
“Before you get too excited, you should know it’s costume jewelry,” Bleicher told her. “But it’s still nice all the same.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Do you remember when we arrested Stanislaus Lach and his wife?”
Rapidé. “Yes,” Mathilde answered hesitantly. “Was this hers?”
“It was, but she won’t be needing it anymore.”
Mathilde shut the box. “Because she’s in jail?”
“No. Because she hanged herself the first night she was in La Santé. It was reported that she was hysterical about having to leave her baby. Guess now she won’t be seeing either of her daughters again.”
Mathilde threw the box on the bed and put both hands over her mouth. “I never…”
“Of course you didn’t,” Bleicher tried to envelop her in his arms, but she backed away.
She took her hands away from her face. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a little while.”
He nodded and then left, shutting the door behind him.
She laid on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Rapidé,” she whispered aloud. “And I’m sorry René.” Tears formed and this time she let them fall. “I’m sorry too, Uncle Marco, and Mireille and Boby Roland…” One by one she named all the former Interallié members who were now behind bars, shedding tears for all of the friends she had lost.
When she’d finished, she went to her makeup mirror and dried her eyes before reapplying powder. She couldn’t stand to be in that house anymore and needed to talk to someone who had known her before. Of course most of them were not available, so she settled on the bacteriologist Claude, with whom she h
ad become acquainted through Uncle Marco and had always regarded highly. Claude would understand.
She met him in his laboratory after hours. He wore a long white lab coat, his face remaining impassive as she told him everything.
“Well?” Mathilde asked when she’d finished. “Are you surprised?”
“No. The men at Vichy became suspicious when Uncle Marco failed to turn up after an appointment with you, not to mention regarding the arrest of Duvernoy. I’d heard rumors the finger was pointed at you.”
Mathilde hung her head. “I’m sorry, Claude.” She felt like she’d never be able to stop apologizing.
He reached out to lay a hand over hers. “Don’t be, my dear Lily. You’ve done your duty for the Resistance better than anyone for months now, and you’ve had the good fortune to come out of it alive, a fate most of our colleagues probably won’t share. If the Germans are being as tolerant toward you as you say, then just keep quiet and don’t do anything silly. That’s what I plan to do.”
Mathilde dropped her hand in shock at his easy willingness to forfeit everything they’d worked for.
Claude continued, “Think of your health, your life. What would happen to you if you suddenly refused to cooperate?”
“The same thing that has happened to many of our friends. Arrest, torture, and then off to an internment camp.”
Claude shuddered. “I’ve heard rumors about what happens at those camps. You must take my advice and keep quiet.”
Mathilde realized he was right—there was nothing she could do at this point except go along with whatever Bleicher demanded. “Thank you, Claude. I knew you’d understand.”
The necklace box was still on the bed when Mathilde returned to The Cattery. She opened it and ran her fingers across the fake diamonds, wondering if she’d ever have the audacity to put it on.
“That’s pretty,” a meek voice said from the doorway.
She swung her head toward the sound. As she’d thought, Viola was standing there. “Hugo gave it to me,” Mathilde said as she placed the box on the dresser.
“May I come in?” Viola asked tentatively.
“What for?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“What about?”
“Just,” she seemed to be searching for the words, “things.” She stepped closer to Mathilde. “They let me visit Armand in prison, and he wanted me to tell you something.”
Maybe he was finally ready to apologize. “All right,” Mathilde snapped. “But not here. I’ll tell Hugo to get us some rationing coupons and we’ll go to a restaurant.”
Viola nodded before Mathilde shut the door in her face.
Viola must have had a few sherrys before she arrived at La Tour d’Argent because she was already stumbling as the waiter led her to Mathilde’s table.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Viola told Mathilde as she sat. Her words were slightly slurred. “I wasn’t sure you were going to.”
“I wasn’t sure either.” Mathilde looked up as the waiter handed them tonight’s fixed menu and barked, “We’re only having drinks.”
“Oh.” Viola’s face fell. “I thought you had coupons.”
“No,” she replied, though Bleicher had given her some. The waiter left the menu anyway and Mathilde pushed it to the middle of the table. “What did Armand want to say to me?”
Viola raised her chin. “Did you know we were engaged?”
“I did not.”
“He proposed to me right before the night of the anniversary party.”
“The night you were arrested,” Mathilde corrected. “I heard you were in bed together.”
“I’d been so lonely after the death of my husband. I didn’t know you and he, that is, had um… a fling… until Bleicher mentioned it.”
Mathilde suppressed a visible flinch at the word, ‘fling,’ wondering if Viola was truly that clueless about their relationship. If so, then Armand’s duplicity went even deeper than she had imagined. But then again, she eyed her companion’s plain dress and make-up, that girl lies with the same ease as she breathes. “What did Armand want to say to me?”
“He said I shouldn’t provide the Germans with any information about the network, no matter what they promised me. He wanted me to instruct that you shouldn’t either.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” She meant it was too late for Armand to tell her to do anything, but Viola took it the wrong way.
“Oh, he isn’t aware of anything that has happened these past weeks.” She refused to meet Mathilde’s glare. “He’d heard rumors, of course, that many members of Interallié had been arrested, but not that you or I had anything to do with it.”
“So you lied to him.”
“I didn’t lie,” Viola insisted. “And I suggested that he consider working with the Germans—giving them some information they already knew in exchange for his release. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal if he gave them names of some of our collaborators, especially those that had probably been previously implicated.”
“And what was Armand’s response?” Mathilde demanded.
Viola blinked back tears. “He said… he said he wasn’t prepared to betray any of his comrades.”
Mathilde stood and tossed the drink coupons on the table. “I could kill you for being so false to Armand.”
“I’m sorry, Mathilde. I never meant to…” she obviously couldn’t bear to finish the sentence. “And I’m sure you didn’t either.”
Mathilde repeated something Armand had told her a long time ago. “I suppose you never know what you would do in a situation like this until it actually happens.”
When she returned to The Cattery, she found Bleicher in an even fouler mood than her own. “One of our detectives just informed me you are still married.”
Mathilde touched her hand to her forehead. “After all that has happened, I’ve forgotten to follow up with my divorce lawyer.”
“And your lawyer is…?”
Still reeling from her talk with Viola, Mathilde spoke the first name that popped into her head. “Maître Brault.”
Bleicher picked up the telephone and held it out to her. “Call him now.”
“It’s late.”
“You know lawyers work long hours. Call him.”
She went to take the phone from him, but he twisted it in his hand so she could speak into the receiver while he listened in to everything that was said.
“Madame la Chatte,” Maître Brault said breathlessly after they’d exchanged hellos. “I’d heard you were arrested.”
She gave him the same old story. “Armand was picked up, but Viola and I are safe.” She decided to bring up the divorce before he asked any more questions about Interallié.
They discussed it quite thoroughly and Bleicher was clearly growing bored with the conversation. He visibly perked up, however, when Brault stated, “I’m glad you called me, for I’ve met a very important young man. He has just returned from Great Britain and is tasked with uniting all of the resistance organizations in Paris.”
“Is that so?” Mathilde asked, carefully avoiding looking at Bleicher’s meddling expression. “What is his name?”
“Lucas,” Brault replied quickly. “I shall introduce you to him. Let’s meet at my office tomorrow morning.”
After a few more details, Mathilde hung up the phone.
“What do you know of this Lucas?” Bleicher demanded.
“Nothing more than what you heard Maître Brault tell me,” she insisted.
Bleicher marched into the parlor, which doubled as an office, and began rifling through files. “Do you know anything about a Resistance insurgent named Lucas?” he asked Kayser when the lieutenant entered.
“Lucas?” He smoothed down his mustache. “Yes, I think so.” He selected a thin file out from under a nearby pile. “A political agitator, though mostly harmless thus far.” He handed Bleicher a piece of paper.
Bleicher glanced at it before letting it fall t
o the table. “Mathilde, when you meet Lucas, ask as many questions as you can and make sure you remember everything he says so you can repeat it back to me. Also be sure to play up your role in Interallié and offer him anything he might need: fake papers, contacts, especially relaying messages to London. He might just be our enemies’ replacement for your dear Armand.”
Mathilde stifled a sigh. She had no idea who this Lucas was, but she was sorry she was about to bring him into her trap.
Chapter 31
Odette
When Peter sent a message to the SOE complaining about the escalating problems with Carte, Buckmaster decided to summon both him and Carte’s lieutenant, Paul Frager, back for a conference. Buck suggested a convening at a small aerodrome that had fallen into disuse outside Périgueux but he wasn’t sure about the feasibility of landing a Lysander—which the RAF had declared to be a better choice in lieu of the debacle with Carte and the Hudson.
In order to investigate the aerodrome, Odette and Peter immediately set off for Périgueux, a distance of nearly 500 kilometers. They met a contact at Marseille, who passed Odette a radio hidden in a battered suitcase before she boarded the next train. As she struggled to place it on the luggage rack, a German officer lifted it for her.
“How kind of you,” Odette stated, her heart hammering away in her chest. There was no way they could hide what was inside if he demanded to inspect the case.
“It’s my pleasure, madam.” He made a huffing noise as he heaved it onto the shelf. “Your suitcase is heavy enough to be a radio set.” Odette acknowledged his casual remark with a wan smile.
They met up with Paul Frager and André Marsac, one of Spindle’s couriers, in the dining car. Frager and Marsac, though weary from their own trip, provided good company. Dinner, made even more merry by a few glasses of wine, turned out to be a pleasant affair.
When the waiter presented Peter with the check, he also delivered two little brown tickets. Peter put down enough money to cover the bill and then two coins on each ticket.
The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII Page 17