by Clare Harvey
‘Well, far be it from me to get between a Frenchwoman and her coiffeur,’ said Kieffer, standing up. His French was heavily accented, but passable. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, too, Madame Dericourt,’ he added, kissing her on both cheeks as she prepared to leave.
Henri also stood up, and Jeannot turned to him. She leant over to skim his cheek with her lips, but he pulled her closer, touched her earlobe with his tongue, whispered ‘Later, my little chicken’ in her ear. He needed to keep her thinking of him. Kieffer was a handsome man. It wasn’t that he mistrusted Jeannot, he just didn’t trust other men around his wife – after all, she’d been married to someone else when he first met her.
Jeannot fluttered her fingers at them and walked out of the restaurant. Henri watched Kieffer watching her. Both men sat down as the glass door swung shut behind her. Through the window Henri saw Jeannot disappear into the circling traffic, like a blown rose petal. Where is her coat, he thought distractedly. Why doesn’t she ever remember her coat? A black Citroën van screeched to a halt right in front of the windows, and he lost sight of his wife.
Waiters’ hands removed empty plates, refilled wine glasses and offered the cigar tin. Both men took one. Outside, a string of uniformed men oozed out of the van and disappeared up a side alley.
‘Thank you for your delivery,’ Kieffer said, once the cigars had both been guillotined and lit. ‘Can I rely on regular deliveries of that nature from you?’
‘It depends on what you’re prepared to pay,’ Henri replied.
‘Do you have a figure in mind?’
‘Boemelburg promised diamonds,’ Henri said, poker-faced.
‘As you know, Boemelburg has been reassigned, and I am the senior SD representative in the region now,’ Kieffer said, narrowing his eyes behind the cigar smoke.
‘Well, then you’ll be interested in seeing more letters to and from English agents working undercover here,’ Henri replied.
‘Naturally, that’s of interest to the SD. But as I’m sure you’re aware, we have an English agent working for us now, a wireless operator, as part of a Funkspiel.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ Henri lied, chewing on the tacky end of the cigar. When had that happened? Someone else was double-crossing London, and they had no idea. Damnation. He had so much less leverage if Kieffer already had a double agent. He’d need to be more persuasive. ‘But do you know how much information will be sent en clair – uncoded – now the Tommies are using me?’ he said, tapping cigar ash gently into the cut-glass ashtray and looking out of the window. He watched as two figures with bags over their heads were bundled into the back of the waiting van.
‘Boemelburg did mention that you were being used as a postman as well as a taxi driver for the British, yes,’ Kieffer said. ‘Personal letters can prove useful in turning an agent, it’s true, yet they hardly provide the same vital information that we get by direct contact with Baker Street.’ He too tipped his cigar ash into the crystal dish.
The van doors slammed shut and it shot away, lost amongst the circling traffic. ‘I may be able to get hold of other information,’ Henri said at last.
‘What kind of information?’
‘Well, what are you looking for?’ he replied with a question. He’d forgotten to arrange which café to meet Jeannot in. He’d have to check them all, and no doubt she’d be in the very last one he came to.
‘I need actual plans, detailed information, not just letters home to wives and children. And for that I will pay, but the rate will depend entirely on the quality of what I receive. I’m not interested in love letters or postcards from seaside resorts, is that clear?’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Henri said, sucking on his cigar. ‘And payment?’
‘Cash only. No diamonds or gold,’ Kieffer said, blowing smoke in Henri’s direction. ‘I’m afraid my predecessor was all too willing to make promises. I prefer to be a little more professional. It makes it easier all round. But do continue your little arrangement with the avenue Foch cook. We all appreciate that. Good food does raise morale, not just for the staff, but for any agents we pick up, too. The one we’ve just got was half-starved, and being offered a decent meal certainly helps do business, don’t you think?’
Henri nodded, and stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. No diamonds then. The Boche were even stingier than the Brits. Still, at least he’d got Jeannot a free lunch.
Vera
‘Miss Atkins, do come in.’ The man stood up and came out from behind his desk to shake her hand. ‘Donald Brown,’ he said. His handshake was rather weak, Vera decided. He had thinning hair slicked across his scalp, florid jowls, and a salt-and-pepper moustache. Brown suited him: brown, like his suit jacket and what was left of his hair. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, and they both sat down.
There was a picture of the King and Queen above the desk, and a sheaf of papers on the blotter. To her right, the sun shafted through the sash windows, and dust motes danced. It was a little on the warm side. A secretary bustled in with tea things. Vera waved her away. Even after all these years in England, she still couldn’t bear the cloying way they took their tea. Vera took out her cigarette case.
‘I do beg your pardon – I am remiss.’ The man took the lid off a wooden box on the desk. It was filled with cigarettes, like tiny slaughtered bodies in a giant coffin, Vera thought, taking one out. ‘I sometimes forget. I’m a cigar man, myself. Devil to get, these days,’ he said.
‘Have you tried Fox’s in St James?’ Vera said, lighting her cigarette with her own lighter. ‘A friend of mine put me on to them,’ she added, inhaling, thinking of Dick. ‘If they try to fob you off, say you’re a chum of Ketton-Cremer’s, and they should see you right.’ In her periphery she could just glimpse the traffic passing the window below: red streaks of buses. The sound of footsteps and engines filtered up to the first-floor room.
‘I’ve had a look through your naturalisation papers, Miss Atkins,’ said Mr Brown, glancing down and smoothing the paperwork in front of him on the desk. ‘So we’ll just go through it, shall we?’ He looked up and Vera nodded. ‘It says here that you were born in Romania, but your mother is South African?’ he continued.
‘She’s British,’ Vera said.
‘She’s from South Africa, it says here,’ Mr Brown said, making a show of looking down at the papers.
‘Yes, my dear boy, and South Africa is one of our colonies, which makes her British.’
‘It does indeed,’ Mr Brown agreed, ticking something off with his fountain pen. ‘But why were you born in Romania?’
Vera exhaled and smiled before answering. ‘Well, chiefly because my mother happened to be there when I came along.’
‘She was holidaying there?’
‘The family were staying in Romania, yes.’ It was a holiday of sorts, Vera thought, watching Mr Brown’s index finger following a line on the form. Crasna had been one long holiday, for all the years they’d lived there: the hunting and shooting expeditions; the dinners; the parties, especially when Friedrich . . . no, not here. Stop it, you silly woman. She lifted the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. ‘We had many friends in Romania. My father advised the Danube Commission for a while.’
‘And the family were resident there at the time of your birth?’
‘My dear boy! My family were never resident anywhere. My elder brother Ralph was born in South Africa, and goodness knows where Guy was born. We have relatives all over the world, and I did seem to spend an awful lot of my childhood on ships and trains.’ She blew smoke out over Mr Brown’s shiny pate. It wasn’t a lie, not really. She was just doing what the training chaps always advised agents to do: start from the truth and work sideways. Cat must have taken that training, she thought, down in Beaulieu with the others. In Vera’s opinion a few hours being grilled by retired British Army officers in a hut in the New Forest barely seemed enough to prepare agents for encountering German Intelligence in Occupied Europe. One rather hoped Yvette hadn’t needed to put h
er training into practice, Vera thought, remembering the strange message Jenkins had shown her.
Mr Brown turned a page on the form and made a note in the margin. ‘And your father? He was from South Africa, too?’ he said.
‘He used to live in South Africa, yes. That’s where he met my mother.’ Again, it wasn’t an outright lie. Father had lived in South Africa for all those years when he ran the mines.
‘And he’s living here in London with your mother, now?’
‘My father died in 1933, as you’d know if you’ve read through the documents, Mr Brown.’
‘Indeed. So it says. I’m so sorry.’ He made another note in the margin.
Vera told herself not to be impatient. She couldn’t afford to upset this Mr Brown. She smiled. ‘But do carry on.’ She needed this interview to run smoothly.
‘There’s a note here that says your father was German,’ Mr Brown added, staring down at the form. ‘He was born in Germany.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
The air was thick with the heavy sunshine and her cigarette smoke. ‘Mother never mentioned it. All I knew was that they met and married in South Africa.’
‘You never thought to ask?’
‘Is your father British, Mr Brown?’
He looked up at her, eyebrows lifting his broad forehead. ‘My father? I don’t understand what he’s got to do with this.’
‘You’re saying that where you’re born defines your nationality, aren’t you? But, you know, birth is such an arbitrary thing, don’t you think? Where was your father born, Mr Brown?’ She leant forward, knowing the answer before he gave it – if they were going to delve into her background, she was going to make damned sure she’d done some research herself. Mr Brown hesitated before answering, but she gave him a smile and a nod, as if they were just exchanging pleasantries at a soirée.
‘India, actually. Grandfather was in the Colonial Service,’ he replied.
‘Ah, India. I have always wanted to visit the Taj Mahal,’ Vera said. ‘However, one wouldn’t call your father Indian, would one, Mr Brown?’ Mr Brown shook his head, and opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but Vera continued. ‘As I mentioned, Father was on the advisory board of the Danube Commission before he passed away,’ she said. ‘It’s through his colleagues there that we got to know Hump so well. You do know Hump, don’t you? Leslie Humphries?’ Mr Brown nodded again. Of course he knew Hump. Vera knew he’d know Hump – know him and know what influence he held in Whitehall these days. ‘Hump was one of Father’s good friends – a close friend of the whole family. In fact, it was he who suggested I apply for naturalisation. He said it was madness for me not to be British, as Mother, Ralph, and Guy already were. And, you know, Mr Brown,’ she touched the sleeve of his jacket, ‘Hump feels I’ll be vital to work across the Channel, with the SOE, when the time comes. But the annoying thing is they won’t be able to deploy me unless I’m in uniform, with one of the services or other. And to be in uniform, I need to get citizenship, it seems. It’s a terrible bore, but that’s the way the system works.’
She pulled back, flicking ash into the metal ashtray. Mr Brown took a gulp of tea, and shuffled the papers. He’s not really looking at them, Vera thought. He’s thinking about impressing Hump, and he’s unnerved by being alone in his office with an attractive woman. He’s just another man, after all.
Mr Brown gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Miss Atkins, you registered as an alien when you arrived in this country, and yet you were never sent to an internment camp. Why was that?’
‘I really have no idea,’ said Vera, stubbing out the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I can only think they didn’t want me.’ She sighed, remembering Mr and Mrs Carluccio being taken away, that bridge afternoon. The very next morning she’d gone to see Hump, in his large office with its view across the Thames.
Hump’s secretary hadn’t even wanted to let her through the door, but when she’d said to tell him it was Vera, she was ushered immediately inside.
‘Marvellous to see you, Vee. How the devil are you?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid, Hump.’
‘How so? Not your mother, I hope?’
‘No, Mother is very well. It’s this beastly situation – my status, don’t you see?’ Hump held out a box of cheroots, and she took one. She wouldn’t normally smoke cheroots, but still.
‘Ah, the Romania connection. Shall I ask Pamela to bring some tea?’ Hump said. But Vera declined with a wave of her hand. She was after something more than tea and sympathy.
‘I had to register as an alien when I arrived in 1937. I haven’t been allowed to work, except as an ARP warden – apparently it doesn’t matter what nationality you are when you’re pulling people out of burning buildings – and now it looks like Romania’s going to end up on the wrong side, in which case I’ll be classed as an “enemy alien” and they’ll ship me off, Hump. I’ll get carted off to Holloway with the rest of them.’ She winced, thinking of it.
‘What a pickle,’ Hump said, patting her hand with his soft paw. ‘I wish I could do something, Vee . . .’ He trailed off, engrossed suddenly in lighting his own cheroot before turning to stare out at the barges and skiffs on the river below.
‘Oh Hump, remember Bucharest?’ Vera said, blowing an experimental smoke ring. Hump was still turned away from her, looking outside, so she could only see the flaccid edge of his jaw and couldn’t make out his expression at all.
‘Good times, eh, Vee?’
‘No regrets, Hump?’
‘No, Vee, no regrets. Although I have to say it’s all a bit hazy at the edges – years ago, now.’
‘I have an extraordinarily good memory,’ Vera said, tapping the ash from the tip of her cheroot into the malachite ashtray on the desk. She didn’t really like the taste of cheroots, she decided, there was something a bit mean and bitter about them. ‘I can remember everything about those years.’ She thought she saw him stiffen, tilt his head a little, as if sniffing the air. But he didn’t turn back to look at her.
‘Everything?’ he said.
‘Every tiny little detail. I kept a diary, naturally, as all young women do. I wrote religiously, every night, even if the end of the evening was sometimes breakfast time the next day.’
‘A writer, eh? I never had you down as that type.’
‘No, Hump, not a writer. Not in any professional sense. I just like to remember things. In fact I was looking at some of my old diary entries only last night, and it did make for interesting reading. Some of the people we used to mix with in Bucharest, some of the things we got up to – as you say, good times, dear boy.’
‘But that book is closed now,’ said Hump, still not looking at her, holding the burning cheroot up to his lips.
‘Closed books can be opened,’ Vera said, grinding the stub of her own into the ashtray. She’d had enough of it.
The next week she’d had the letter from that Naps woman, calling her in for an interview with the newly formed Special Operations Executive. And the van that had taken the Carluccios away never came back to Nell Gwyn Court.
A frown passed over Mr Brown’s shiny brow, and he looked up. ‘It says here that Atkins is your mother’s surname. What was your father’s surname?’
‘When my father died, I took my mother’s name, as did both my brothers.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Mother was . . .’ Vera let her voice trail off, and tapped ash into the ashtray. ‘It was something Mother asked us all to do, that’s all. Grief does strange things to people, doesn’t it?’
Mr Brown nodded, turning another page of the documents. ‘Your father’s surname was Rosenberg, was it not?’ Vera couldn’t bring herself to respond. ‘Miss Atkins, I’m afraid I need you to answer.’ Mr Brown’s mouth worked, twitching his grizzled moustache.
‘I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that, dear boy.’
‘Your father’s surname was Rosenberg. That’s a Jewish surn
ame, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Vera said. ‘I wouldn’t know. My mother is a Catholic, but personally I feel more at home with an Anglican service. What about you, Mr Brown?’ Mr Brown replied that he was, in fact, Methodist, but that was beside the point. ‘Quite so, Mr Brown, it is beside the point. Shall we move on? I expect you’ll want to check when I arrived in England, and so forth?’ Mr Brown shuffled the paperwork, moving his forefinger down the page. ‘I arrived in 1937. We stayed in Winchelsea for a while, Mother and I, but then we moved to London. I worked as an ARP warden until the job came up in F-Section,’ Vera said.
‘And how did you hear about the SOE?’
‘A letter came, out of the blue, inviting me to an interview. I said I’d give it a try, and it turned out to be quite an interesting position, so I stayed. I’ve no idea how they knew who I was. I can only suppose that someone mentioned me as being a good linguist. I was finished in Paris and Lausanne, as well as attending secretarial college here in London, you see. I speak four languages fluently, Mr Brown. Someone must have thought they could make some use of me, for the war effort.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Brown.
There, I have intimidated him, Vera thought. Mother always said I should try hard not to intimidate men, but in certain circumstances it is no bad thing. Mr Brown turned a sheaf of paper over. ‘You’ll want to know if I’ve been out of the country since I arrived, I suppose?’ Mr Brown nodded. ‘I went on a skiing holiday in early 1939, with my fiancé, Flying Officer Richard Ketton-Cremer.’ She caught Mr Brown glancing down at her left hand. ‘The ring is an heirloom; it is in the family safe at Felbrigg Hall in Norfolk,’ she added.