The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  Her mind worked quickly. How could they know that other agents had been using a pilot to deliver mail, unless— ‘The pilot is a double agent,’ she said under her breath as the realisation hit. Gerhardt walked towards where she sat on the bed. She felt the bedsprings give, and the warmth as he sat down next to her in his usual spot.

  ‘And if I won’t write it?’ she said, looking out through the barred window to the bluest of skies, empty and endless above the Paris streets.

  ‘If London becomes suspicious about you, then it could jeopardise the Funkspiel,’ he replied.

  Below the window, five floors down, was the patch of garden where they’d brought Felix and Justine, blindfolded, at gunpoint. ‘If I won’t write, will Kieffer have my colleagues rounded up and brought in again?’ she said.

  He didn’t answer. But he didn’t need to. She knew there really was no choice any more. She pulled her gaze away from the brittle blue winter sky. ‘I’ve brought a pen, and Kieffer says he’ll reward you for your continued compliance – if you have any small requests?’

  Edie didn’t answer immediately, noticing how the sunshine slanted through the barred windows, making criss-cross patterns on the bare floorboards. She thought of the sheer drop below those bars. ‘Very well,’ she said at last, taking the postcard from him. On the front of the card was a picture of a little girl in a knitted pixie hat, pushing a basketwork doll’s pram. She was reminded of Justine, and the little girl hidden away in the grandparents’ farmhouse. Had Justine managed to go and see her? Edie wondered. After Kieffer released her, had she gone straight to the station and taken a train to the countryside to visit her little girl? Edie imagined Justine enveloping the child in a huge embrace on the station platform, burying her nose in the girl’s soft brown hair. If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve saved that girl’s mother, Edie thought.

  She took the pen from Gerhardt. It was black, with a gold nib. ‘I brought you my own,’ he said.

  ‘But I’ll ruin the nib,’ she replied. ‘I’m left-handed, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘So am I.’ And his fingertips touched hers as the pen passed between them. He was so close to her on the bed. So very close. ‘Kieffer told me to check what you write,’ he said apologetically. But she didn’t mind. It was almost a comfort, having him there.

  Dear Miss Atkins, she began. The nib didn’t scratch at all, used to the backwards slant of a left-hander. She’d written nothing personal since those hastily scrawled postcards Miss Atkins had asked her to write just before her departure: postcards that would still be sent out to Mummy and Pop at regular intervals. She wondered what Miss Atkins would do when the postcards ran out, Edie thought, recalling that day.

  It had been one of those thick winter afternoons when a peasouper had enveloped the capital, and she could still taste the sooty air in her mouth as she climbed the stairs to Room 43, Orchard Court – the grey block that looked out over Portman Square where Miss Atkins met up with her agents in London (not that you could see anything of the genteel square through the windows of Room 43: it was like looking out into a bowl of porridge).

  Miss Atkins was alone in the room, sitting next to a green-shaded lamp, which cast a yellow light over a piece of clothing she was stitching. ‘Pull up a pew,’ she said, barely looking up from her sewing. ‘I’m nearly finished here.’ Edie knew what she was being asked to do. They’d talked about it in training: the need to reassure family, to preserve secrecy. There was a pile of unwritten postcards on the table next to her.

  How are you? As you know, things are rather busy here, she wrote on the back of the card, leaning on her knee. How to carry on? If she intimated anything about her current situation, Gerhardt would see, and tell Kieffer. He was watching every word she wrote. That day in London, she’d asked Miss Atkins for advice.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss. Could you help?’ Edie had said. Miss Atkins looked up from her sewing. In the light from the table lamp her eyes were in shadow, but the beam caught her lipsticked lips: vivid claret.

  ‘Keep it vague and general. If you give the impression that you’re madly busy, that should help. And ask questions. You can fill them with questions and betray barely a thing about yourself,’ she said, snipping off a thread with a minute pair of silver scissors. So Edie wrote, postcards and postcards, undated, with variations on the same theme: questions about Mummy’s WRVS commitments, about Mrs Carson, Mrs Cowie, about her schoolfriend Marjorie, about Pop’s job. She even asked about the weather, and signed each one with a breezy Tallyho! as if the war were such tremendous fun there was barely time to even think about home.

  How is the weather in London? she continued. It’s glorious here – we’ve had blue skies for ages – not that I’ve had much chance to get outside, as you can imagine! Could she, Edie thought. Could Miss Atkins really imagine the reason that she wasn’t able to go outside? ‘Do you think that’s enough? I’m just not sure what to write,’ she said to Gerhardt.

  She’d said the same to Miss Atkins, that day, she remembered.

  ‘Give your hand a rest for a moment, my dear girl, and try this for me,’ Miss Atkins had said, motioning for her to stand. Miss Atkins came round the desk. She’d been sewing the cuffs of a woollen jacket, which she now slipped over Edie’s shoulders. It was beautifully tailored, French-style, and fitted Edie perfectly.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ Miss Atkins said. Close up, Edie could see the fine lines round her eyes where her face powder settled. There was a faint waft of scent: Chanel? ‘Here, on the right cuff. Can you feel it?’ Edie’s finger found the spot where Miss Atkins pointed, where she’d just been stitching so carefully. There was a bump in the cloth, as if a button had been sewn inside. ‘Your suicide tablet – cyanide – should you need it.’ Miss Atkins’ voice had the same brisk tone she’d used to describe the postcard messages.

  Edie had worn the jacket back to her training centre that evening. She’d worn it on her flight out to France. And she still wore it, now.

  Edie glanced down. Her right hand held the postcard. And her right cuff? Empty now – the suicide tablet had been removed when her clothes were laundered, the day they brought her in. Someone must have told them about what went on in London, in Orchard Court – maybe it wasn’t just the Lysander pilot who was passing information.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to hurry you,’ Gerhardt said. ‘The pilot is waiting downstairs.’ It was time to end it: Adieu, Yvette x

  She handed the postcard to Gerhardt and clicked the lid back on his pen. When he got up to leave there was a space next to her where he’d been, suddenly chill without him there. She looked up at him as she passed him his pen. And he looked down at her as he took it. The sun had shifted now, and his clothes no longer looked the wood-smoke-blue of an airman’s uniform. But his face – those eyes, that mouth – his face still looked like the face of someone from home. He opened his mouth to speak and she wondered for a moment how it would feel to kiss those lips. ‘Kieffer asked me to ask you if there was anything you’d like,’ he repeated, ‘– a little token of thanks for everything you’re doing here. He’s very grateful. He says maybe lipstick or perfume? We can have someone sent to the shops.’

  Edie looked over at the barred windows and as she did so shifted on the bed so that her fingers with their bitten-down nails were hidden between her thighs and the mattress. ‘Oh yes, what a nice idea,’ she said, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. ‘Some cold cream and a manicure set, if you would.’

  Chapter 15

  Gerhardt

  ‘Just take this up to the girl, would you? The black market guy left it earlier,’ Josef said, and Gerhardt saw Frau Bertelsmann frown as he handed her the package. She’d only just come back from supervising the girl’s bathroom trip and bringing down her supper tray.

  ‘Let me,’ Gerhardt said, reaching out a hand. ‘I don’t mind. It’ll save your legs.’ Frau Bertelsmann’s frown morphed into a tight smile, but he barely heard her than
ks as he bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

  It was already dark, but he didn’t bother switching on the lights, hurtling up the narrowing tunnels of steps until he reached her door, right at the top of 84 avenue Foch.

  He was breathing hard from running up the five flights of stairs. Leaning against the wood, he could hear her pacing, as always. He knocked, before putting the key in the lock. The footsteps stopped, and he pushed open the door.

  She was standing in the centre of the little room, ready for bed, in those funny striped army-issue pyjamas they made her wear. The light was switched off. She had the window open, and the chill night air washed in with the moonlight. As he crossed the threshold, Gerhardt felt as if he were stepping into an ice-cold ocean. She looked at him, but said nothing.

  ‘I brought you these,’ Gerhardt said, feeling suddenly foolish and awkward as he held out the tissue-wrapped package. ‘It’s those things you asked for, from Kieffer.’ Her expression was blank, trance-like. But she blinked as she saw the parcel, and suddenly her features came to life again.

  ‘Thank you. How kind,’ she said. Their fingers touched as he passed the package, and he felt it again: just as he had when she’d written the postcard. He thought of that teacher in school who’d let them experiment with electricity: the moment when the copper wires connected, and the little light bulb buzzed to life. He felt that pulse of energy between them. She didn’t pull her hand away, and they stood in the centre of the room, with the parcel connecting them.

  ‘Kieffer says he wants you to feel comfortable, now you’re one of us,’ Gerhardt said. Why was he saying those stupid, formal words? Why couldn’t he articulate what he felt?

  ‘Kieffer is merely trying to salve his conscience,’ she replied.

  They weren’t looking at each other but down at the parcel: a lumpen rectangle of paper, tied up with a bow. In the twilight, the paper was dun-coloured, the ribbon a dull garrotte. She hadn’t moved her hands away; the package connected them. He gently began to move his thumb along the edge of her palm, the smallest of stroking movements. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t speak. What he felt was too impossible to say.

  They looked up at the same time. Her eyes, in the half-light, weren’t blue at all, they were silver-grey, like twin moons. She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, and he heard the intake of breath. And he wanted her to say it – to find the words he couldn’t. But as she opened her mouth, there was a shout from the stairwell and a thump of approaching footsteps. ‘Vogt, what the hell’s taking you so long?’

  Edie

  He’d gone. He’d gone and she hadn’t been able to say it: to say thank you to Gerhardt for being the only one here who treated her as a person – despite it all. It made no sense, Edie thought, as the lock clicked shut and the sound of his footsteps died away. It made no sense at all that the American GI last summer, who should have been on her side, could have been so cruel, and yet Gerhardt – her enemy – could be so kind. More than kind: she thought about their secret conversations, and the way he looked at her when she spoke to him. She thought about the moment that had just passed between them.

  She slumped down on the hard mattress and undid the parcel. Her fingers worried the cords free and she pulled off the thin paper. There: a manicure set and a small pot of cold cream, just as she’d asked for. At last she had everything she needed.

  The manicure set had a pale beige leather case that snapped open with a metal clasp like a coin purse. Inside were all the things an elegant Frenchwoman might need to do her nails: a stick with a rubber hoof to push back cuticles, a buffer covered with a soft patch of chamois, and a metal nail file with an ivory handle. She thought of Gerhardt’s expression when she requested a manicure set – like a cloud scudding over the face of the moon. He knew she bit her nails. He knew, and yet he said nothing, still passed on her request, and delivered the package himself. Keep your best friends close, but your enemies closer – was that what Miss Atkins meant?

  Edie stood up and took the manicure set over to the window. She knelt down. It was cold: the chill air seeped through the fabric of her pyjamas. From downstairs she heard a door bang, and men’s voices, carried up towards her in the icy darkness. Three figures walked away from the front door and along the driveway: a skinny one, a burly one and – following behind – Gerhardt: she recognised him even from up here. She recognised his slight frame, and the taut way he carried himself. Their German voices drifted upwards to her open window. How different he sounded, speaking German: harsher, not like the Gerhardt she’d come to know. When he’d told her about his mother, he’d been speaking in English. And his voice had broken, words tearing softly apart, when he’d told her about his little brother and how he’d died.

  The three men were at the gate now, but Gerhardt turned back and looked up at her window. He was so far away that his upturned face was just a tiny smudge of grey in the blue-black shadows. She raised a hand: quickly, furtively. ‘Goodbye, Gerhardt,’ she whispered out into the night, knowing nobody would hear her.

  Only once they’d gone, voices and footsteps disappearing up avenue Foch, did she begin. She placed the edge of the nail file against the flaking paintwork of the bar nearest to the side of the window, and began to saw. Forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards: the paint chipped off and a small furrow began to appear in the hard iron bar. Forwards and backwards: she carried on as clouds skittered past the waning moon. A stray dog howled. Stars began to appear, one by one in the indigo sky. Forwards and backwards, metal on metal, until the nail file was hot and her finger had begun to blister. She swapped hands. She mustn’t give up. There wasn’t time. The air was colder now and the wind had started to rise. Through the open window she heard treetops clacking against each other and the breeze was sharp as lemon juice in her throat. She mustn’t stop. There had to be time. She’d do what she should have done before, climb up, over the rooftops, get away, find Felix and Justine and tell them. Tell them what?

  Tell them there was a double agent flying from London.

  Tell them of her own treachery in 84 avenue Foch.

  Tell them it was all for nothing.

  Tell them to run, run before it was too late.

  Tell them to run all the way to Grandmother’s house.

  The nail file felt awkward in her right hand. It was hard to find purchase against the slippery iron bar. She pushed harder. Then suddenly it gave, snapping under the pressure, and the end fell away out of the window, lost to the night. She was left with just a stump, a quarter-inch of metal attached to the ivory handle. She dug it down into the base of the bar where it met the windowsill. If she couldn’t saw through, she’d dig out. I am not giving up; it doesn’t end here, she thought, jabbing and gouging down. There had to be a way. There had to be. The stars began to blink out, and the moon hid behind a veil of cloud. Edie worked on in the darkness, knowing nothing except the jab-grind of metal against cement.

  In the end the remaining piece of nail file snapped off. So she grabbed the bar, wrenching and heaving. But no matter how hard she twisted and pulled, it wouldn’t budge. She was trapped. She was trapped and they’d see, in the morning, what she’d tried to do. And wouldn’t Gerhardt be punished for letting her have the nail file? She remembered what he’d said when he’d pulled her in from the ledge: They’d kill me if I let you die.

  She hung on to the bar a moment, feeling it cool under her palm, gazing out into the Paris night. Then she knew what to do. She turned on her light and went back over to her bed. There was the pot of cold cream. She still had the powder compact that Miss Atkins had given her. She found it now and clicked open the lid. She used the remnants of the nail file to dig a hole in the ivory-peach powder, then scooped it out and mixed it with a dab of cold cream. It was almost the same colour as the cement on the windowsill, once mixed with some of the gouged-out dust. She pushed the mixture carefully round the base of the bar, patting and pressing it down, and smoothing some onto the place where she�
�d sawed a hole in the metal. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough, for now. Once the window was shut, it would barely show. She closed the window now, keeping out the biting night air. Behind the glass, the night was empty and black. She clicked off the light and fell onto the small bed, feeling the darkness push in on her wide-open eyes, lacking the will to even cry.

  Gerhardt

  He couldn’t do it in the end. He’d made sure he hadn’t had too much to drink this time, and they’d gone to a different brothel, to save embarrassment. And he had wanted to, but – Gerhardt berated himself as he walked along avenue Foch towards number 84. The wind had picked up now, whipping up icy dust and rattling the tree branches. He thought of her and how she’d waved at him, looking out of her window as he’d left with Josef and Norbert. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it, he thought, as the sleepy gate guard nodded him through:

  The woman they brought him was brunette this time. Quite young, too: generous lips, melting brown eyes, and hips that swayed pleasantly as she led him along the corridor to her little room. Josef and Norbert had disappeared already. This is it, he’d thought, sitting on the shiny satin counterpane as she slipped out of the red dress and stood before him in just her stockings and heels. Then she’d sat on his knees and her buttocks pushed the key to the English girl’s room against his thigh through the fabric of his trousers: he still had it in his pocket – they’d been in such a rush to get out that he’d forgotten to give it back to Frau Bertelsmann. The Frenchwoman began to undo the buttons of his uniform, slowly, one by one. When she got as far as the third button he tried to kiss her, but she put a finger on his mouth. The red-painted nail was very long, scratching his lip. No kissing: it was one of the house rules. In frustration he buried his face in her hair, but it smelled wrong, somehow: peppery and dank. She didn’t smell right. She didn’t smell like – like the English girl. And that’s when he knew. He knew he couldn’t go through with it, couldn’t lose his virginity to a French prostitute. It wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was – was something that he couldn’t have.