She fingered it. “Bl—I mean, Jean Castel gave it to me.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Your husband.”
“Yes.” Wanting to get away from his curious look, she walked into the building and headed to the front desk.
After informing them the Vichy diplomat was out, the concierge leaned over the desk. “May I ask what your business is?”
Lucas’s voice dropped an octave. “I was sent by a man who resides at 6 Orchard Court.”
“That is what I suspected. Pardonnez-moi.” He left the desk and headed through a back door.
His behavior struck Mathilde as odd, and she felt a wave of panic that he was a German informer. She took a calming breath, reminding herself that her relationship with Bleicher meant this type of man was no longer a threat.
But the concierge returned with a large valise. He swung his head around the empty lobby before stating, “Tell Buck I said ‘Allo.” His French accent had been replaced by a posh English one.
“Will do,” Lucas said, giving him a wave as he and Mathilde walked out into the sunshine.
He turned down the first alleyway and checked to make sure no one else was around before bending down to examine the bag’s contents. “Just as they said, there appears to be 50,000 francs in here, courtesy of the SOE.”
He handed Mathilde a chunk of the money.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“I want you to take it. Even if I only have half of what they gave me on my person, it’s still a big enough sum to draw suspicion. Besides,” he shot her a lopsided grin, “Now I know for sure I can trust you.”
She opened her purse and slipped the money inside.
Lucas stood up. “I think this calls for a celebration. I’m supposed to be meeting one of my contacts for lunch. Why don’t you come along?”
“It’s a date,” Mathilde declared, slipping a gloved hand into the crook of his arm.
“I’m not sure I’d call it that,” he looked down at her. “Let’s not make your husband jealous.”
The Auberge d’Armaillé was a Russian restaurant near the Champs-Élysées. Mathilde noticed one of Bleicher’s goons sitting at the bar, but she brushed it off as they were led through a sea of plush red velvet booths. Lucas’s contact, an equally handsome young man, was waiting at a table placed directly underneath a stuffed boar’s head.
“This is Benny Cottin,” Lucas declared as they got settled. “He’s a former perfume executive.”
“Oh?” Mathilde asked, holding out her hand. “Do you get discounts?”
“Not anymore,” he replied.
“Benny’s also been trained by the SOE,” Lucas said, his voice much lower this time. “We arrived in France together.”
Mathilde smiled prettily. “And you said you were the first man to parachute in.”
“Well,” Lucas spread his napkin onto his lap. “I did land first.” He chuckled playfully, and Mathilde couldn’t help but return his grin.
“You both seem to be in a jovial mood. Are we celebrating, then?” Benny asked.
“Indeed,” Lucas nodded at Mathilde. “The Cat has come through.” He looked up as the waiter arrived. “A double vodka for all of us.”
“Now it really is a celebration,” Benny stated. He turned to Mathilde. “I heard tales of The Cat and Interallié when I was in England. You must have had quite the adventure, especially because it seems most of your colleagues are behind bars.”
“That’s certainly true.” Mathilde relayed her cultivated tale of how she had managed to escape the clutches of the Abwehr and taken over Interallié after Armand’s arrest. The waiter returned with their drinks and a platter filled with various cuts of grilled meat on skewers.
“Here’s to The Cat!” Lucas held up his nearly empty glass.
“Cheers!” Benny and Mathilde met his drink.
“I have even more news,” Lucas lurched forward, his eyes glassy. “There was a message in with the money—the RAF is going to send us arms and ammunition by parachute.”
“Where? When?” She took a sip of vodka in an effort to cover her overeager tone. The last thing she needed was for either Lucas or Benny to develop suspicions about her.
“Near Le Mans,” Lucas turned to Benny. “I want you to leave tomorrow and scope out the field. It’s in a little village called Vaas. The Cat and I will join you the night of the drop.”
Mathilde smiled to herself. There was something exciting about journeying out to unknown territory with Lucas.
Benny lifted his drink, and said in a jubilant whisper, “To the Royal Air Force!”
Once again the trio clinked their glasses together. Mathilde tried to catch Lucas’s eye, but he was staring off into space, his head probably filled with plans for the Resistance.
Mathilde went straight into the bedroom when she returned to the apartment. She didn’t want Bleicher to smell the vodka on her.
He came in a few minutes after she’d finished changing into her pajamas. “What news do you have for me today?”
She didn’t want to tell Bleicher about the arms drop but the alcohol had muddled her mind and she couldn’t think of another excuse for needing to go to Vaas.
He nodded enthusiastically after Mathilde filled him in. “You can tell Lucas that your husband will arrange for a driver.”
Mathilde straightened the hem of her shirt. “You don’t need to come.”
“Oh yes I do. I’d love to see firsthand how Churchill’s Secret Army communicates.”
She put up her hands, knowing there was no use arguing with him. “If you so desire, I’ll let Lucas know.”
He sat on the corner of the bed. “Do you trust this Lucas?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter? The most important thing is that he trusts me.”
“I take it the money came through.”
She refrained from glancing at her purse. “Yes, Lucas gave some of it to that Cottin fellow for his travels to Vaas.”
“Good.” He stood up and began to unzip his trousers.
She couldn’t stand the sight of his fat belly protruding from his undershorts and shut her eyes. “I have a headache.”
“Now?” She heard his pants drop to the floor as he said, “It seems like you always have a headache lately.”
Her eyes flew open. “I have a cold and it is creating pressure in my head.”
He gave her a searching gaze as he redressed. “I hope that’s true, though I don’t imagine vodka helped the situation.”
Chapter 37
Odette
Peter and Odette disembarked at Annecy, an ancient Alpine town at the northwestern end of a large, sparkling lake. It was less than 40 kilometers from the Swiss border, and with its wooden chalets lining cobbled streets, definitely looked the part. Odette took a deep breath of refreshing mountain air. In her purse was a doctor’s order claiming that it was necessary for her health to stay five hundred meters above sea-level. Though the note was fake, she could see why a place like this would be good for both the body and soul.
André Marsac had suggested reestablishing the network in the nearby community of Saint-Jorioz, just south of Annecy. Once again, Peter and Odette took up the guise of being a married couple.
They were both quiet during the 10-kilometer bus ride to Saint-Jorioz. Ever since that night at the airfield, when Peter had, possibly, tried to kiss her and she’d hugged him instead, their relationship had taken on a slightly detached air. Odette longed to tell him how much she’d grown to depend on him, but she didn’t want to overstep her bounds as a woman married to someone else, no matter how insignificant that someone else was in her new life. And so she said nothing.
Marsac’s wife met them at the bus stop, which was at the crossroads of the town’s two main streets. Odette took a look around as she got off. There was a hotel on either side of the street; a telegraph office and an adjacent post office completed the four corners.
“We’ve taken rooms at the Hôtel des Terraces,” Madame Marsac told them. “And so
has Paul Frager, but we booked you two a room at the Hôtel de la Poste.”
“Good.” Peter shielded his eyes against the bright sun as he took stock of his new surroundings. “We don’t want to have too many people bombard them at once. I have a feeling Saint-Jorioz doesn’t normally see much action.”
Odette noted that their hotel had a terrace encircling the entire first floor: an easy escape route should they need it.
Marsac was in the café and rose when they entered. “Peter and Lise, I’d like to introduce you to Jean Cottet, the proprietor of the Hôtel de la Poste.”
“Nice to meet you,” Peter said as they shook hands.
“These are the friends I’ve told you about,” Marsac stated.
Odette felt indignation at his careless comment. They’d been in town for less than half an hour. Had their cover already been blown?
Cottet looked to only be in his early thirties at most, quite young to be the owner of a hotel. “I will do my best to see they are comfortable,” he stated.
Odette wondered what he would think if he knew they were really in town to rebuild their Resistance network. Was he aware of the punishment he might suffer if the Gestapo caught wind that he’d knowingly harbored an enemy of the Germans?
Maybe it’s best he’s left in the dark, she decided.
Peter found Alec a small house outside Saint Jorioz, strategically located in a gap between two mountains and faced in the direction of England. As Peter continuously stressed to Odette, it was imperative that Alec was content. Without a radio operator, their network, no matter how extensive, would be completely cut off from the rest of the world.
After Peter and Odette had settled into their new room, they paid a visit to Alec’s new hideout. The big Russian said the set-up was perfectly adequate. “London, however, is another issue.”
“Is something wrong at the SOE?” Odette asked.
“Yes,” Alec grumbled. “The other night they had a new operator, obviously straight out of training. She couldn’t get out more than…” his voice slowed. “Twelve… words… a… minute. Can you imagine? Next time, I may still be sitting there, waiting for her to finish while the Gestapo closes in on my signal.”
Peter indicated the snowy Alps outside Alec’s window. “Not here. I think we’re safe.”
“For a while, perhaps,” Alec agreed. “But not forever, and I’ll be damned if I am strung up by my ankles because Buckmaster is training some rookie…” he muttered something—probably a foul word—in his native language, “who can’t keep up.”
“What are you going to do?” Odette inquired.
“Here.” He thrust a piece of paper at her. Peter peered over her shoulder as she read it aloud. “If you put that dolt on again, I quit.”
Alec folded his arms over his chest. “With your permission, I’m going to send it on to the SOE tonight.”
Peter’s amused gaze met Odette’s. “Go ahead,” he said as she handed the message back to Alec.
When they returned to the hotel that night, the owner, Jean Cottet, asked Peter and Odette to join him for an aperitif in his study.
Peter agreed, and, after a few minutes of exchanging gossip about the goings-on in Saint Jorioz, Cottet got down to business. “I remain deliberately detached as to your politics.”
Odette, thinking that an odd statement to make, studied his boyish face for a hint of his real intentions, but his expression remained inscrutable. She could feel her muscles tighten in trepidation that he was about to blackmail them.
“I thank you for not inquiring too deeply,” Peter replied.
“But,” Cottet went on to say, “it might interest you to know that there are a number of men in this town who have vowed to resist being drafted into German forced labor camps, no matter what the cost.”
Peter nodded.
“These men have decided to band together in an organization called a Maquis,” Cottet continued.
Again Peter nodded. “I’ve heard of such organizations before.”
Cottet pulled out a map. “I know you are tourists, here for her health,” he gestured toward Odette. “But perhaps on your walks in the fresh air, you might run across the spot where these underground men have congregated.” He drew a small circle on the map. “Suppose a person wished to assist these intransient Maquisards, I could indicate to that person what their needs are.”
Odette understood that he was offering the location of these rebels to her and Peter, who might want to recruit them for their own purposes. Cottet’s roundabout way of speaking of the Resistance reminded her a bit of her interview with Captain Jepson so long ago.
“I think,” Peter’s voice came out quietly. He cleared his throat and restarted in a more confident tone, “I think I know a man who could assist these Maquisards in the way you are proposing.”
Cottet sat back. “I thought you might.” He handed Peter the map.
Chapter 38
Mathilde
The hour-long car ride to Vaas for the air drop was nearly silent. Mathilde spent most of the time staring out the window at the cold, bleak landscape. She guessed that Bleicher didn’t want to carry on conversation for fear his German accent might give him away. At first, Lucas had taken the announcement that Bleicher/Castel was joining them in stride, but now he seemed nervous—his restless leg never quit moving.
Mathilde longed to put a calming hand on Lucas’s leg to let him know they were safe. They were out past curfew and German patrols were sure to be out in droves, but Bleicher had a plan if they were stopped: he would get out of the car and speak to the patrols himself. For Lucas’s benefit, it would look like Bleicher was attempting to persuade the patrols they were only out for a leisurely drive, though Mathilde knew Bleicher would reveal his real identity to his comrades if need be.
They arrived at the field around midnight and found Benny. He’d brought a Resistance contact, a schoolteacher who had volunteered to hide the dropped containers in his attic.
The temperature had plunged severely that January and it was now bitterly cold. There was nothing to do but wait so she pulled her new fur—purchased with some of the SOE cash that Lucas had given her—closer and stamped her feet to keep warm.
The schoolteacher bragged to Bleicher about how he scattered pro-Allied propaganda throughout his village. It was too dark to judge Bleicher’s reaction to this revelation, but Mathilde was sure he could not have been pleased.
Lucas stood apart from the others, the whites of his eyes visible as he kept his gaze on the sky above. Mathilde would have given anything to move closer to him, but that was impossible with Bleicher there.
But what if he wasn’t here? Counting Bleicher and the driver waiting in the car, there were only two Abwehr men. If Mathilde secretly revealed the Germans’ identities to the others, the three Resistance men could easily overtake them and steal their car. But where would we go? If they were stopped on the way back to Paris, they would need Bleicher for cover.
The time is not ripe yet, Mathilde convinced herself. But someday it will be.
She passed around sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, which quickly ran dry. There was no sign of any aircraft.
At dawn, the half-frozen, defeated team trudged to the schoolteacher’s farmhouse to get warm. When curfew ended at 5 am, they piled back into Castel’s car and made their way back to Paris.
Now Mathilde was genuinely worried. What if London had become suspicious?
The next morning she went to Maître Brault’s office to sign her divorce papers. “It’s finally over,” she declared as she set her pen down.
“Indeed.” He picked up the pile of papers and stuffed them into an envelope. “I suppose now you can move on.”
“Yes,” she replied quickly, wondering how much Brault had known about her and Armand’s relationship. “I am determined to do the best I can with my little life. After all, you only get one.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “That sounds odd, coming from someone like you, who risks thei
r life daily for the Resistance.”
She retrieved her purse. Brault’s attitude had grown cold, as if she’d made some sort of social blunder. What it was she had no idea, but she couldn’t help feeling a trace of guilt as she left his office.
Kiki was at the apartment when she returned. He was sporting a new overcoat and felt hat.
“Black market?” Mathilde asked by way of greeting, nodding at his smart-looking garb.
“Yes.” He seemed a bit embarrassed. “Thanks to Hugo, I’ve been doing some trading on the side. It’s just little things: clothing, alcohol, cigarettes, that sort of thing.” He sat down on the couch. “In fact, I am here to speak to Hugo. Do you know where he is?”
“I’m not Bleicher’s keeper,” she snapped back.
“Mathilde.” He gave her a helpless look, as if unsure how to finish his sentence. “I’ve been tasked to go to Cannes, in the Unoccupied Zone. Apparently there are more Resistance cells down there. Some idiot boarded a train with all kinds of identifying papers—names of networks and their members—in his briefcase, and the Abwehr were able to grab it when he fell asleep. Now Hugo wants me to offer them my services.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of betraying the Resistance?”
“Don’t you?” he returned angrily. After a moment he started again, his voice softer. “Listen, you and I are both doing what we can to survive. I’ve told Hugo I would never give up any airmen—those men are sacred to me. But everyone else…” he looked down at his hands. “It’s war, and people must decide what they think is right, how far they will go to protect their own skin. You shouldn’t judge them for that.”
Mathilde sunk into the armchair across from him. “You’re right, Kiki. In a rather precarious situation myself, I have no right to judge anyone.”
They both looked up as Bleicher entered the apartment. “Ah Keiffer, just the man I was looking for. Mathilde, do you mind fixing us a drink? We’ve got business to discuss.”
The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII Page 20