The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  It was only as he turned into the boulevard Haussmann that he heard the sirens start, and looked up into the wailing skies. There was a procedure – they’d get her from her room and take her down into the cellar for the air raid, with the others. He wouldn’t be able to be alone with her, but at least he’d see her, one last time. He pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator.

  There was a crash overhead, the sky orange-white and the car slewing sideways, and he sheared up the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe seeming to slam from side to side of the windscreen as he struggled, turning into the skid. The air was thick with smoke and noise. As he wrested control of the car and pulled away again he saw a redhead in a black evening gown, skittering suddenly out from a side street.

  Edie

  Edie let go, pushing herself off the low wall and into the darkness. The skirt of the stupid dress flew up like a duff ’chute, and for a moment her face was encased in rustling black fabric like raven’s wings. She hit the ground and the dress flapped down. There was no time to pause. Three rooftops she’d clambered over: twisting, slipping, leaping. She’d made it further down avenue Foch, but the palatial terrace ended here. She ran the length of the long garden, grabbing handfuls of the slippery skirt to stop herself from tripping up. The air was razor-cold, her breath steaming as she went.

  The sirens were still shrieking, and in the background the drones of the bombers, getting louder, buzzing in. The moon was up, lighting the path to the gate. Stars swung like blown kisses as she stumbled onwards. There was the sound of a dog barking somewhere near by. She just needed to get through the gate. The wrought iron curled upwards, tangled loops of metal. She looked for the latch, but it was locked, the padlock cool as an ice cube beneath her fretting fingers. So she started to climb, toes scrabbling against the slippery curlicues. Momentarily she was astride the gate. She glanced back at the building. The windows were shuttered, but the dog was barking frantically. Searchlights played against the navy sky. She let herself down by her hands, landing awkwardly. She broke into a run, stumbling along the kerbs.

  The back street careered behind the big houses: dustbins, high walls, potholes, broken paving stones. Her mind raced faster than her feet: it wouldn’t be safe to try to find anyone from the network. No, she’d have to keep moving, right across the city, find her way to the catacombs where the Resistance had their headquarters.

  The sirens abruptly stopped, but the sound of the planes was vast, inside her very bones. Flak from anti-aircraft guns splashed orange against the sky, but the planes roared on. The streets were a grey-black bruise of abstract shapes jarring against each other in the night. She had to stop for a moment under a lamp-post, coughing, gulping for breath, eyes watering, nose running, the cold air piercing her lungs. She needed to cross a main road soon. She’d be exposed, but there was nothing else for it.

  As she began to run, there was an enormous thudding crash as the first bomb dropped, knocking her off the kerb. She landed, winded, in the gutter, the skin scraped from her palms.

  Edie gasped for breath, pushed herself upwards, head spinning, ears stuffed full of sound. The air was thick with explosions now, an almost constant thudding roar, and the sky lit up like dawn. She staggered on. The raid was a chance. Nobody would notice the girl in the black dress, running through the night. All the way to Grandmother’s house . . .

  Through the maelstrom of furious sound she didn’t hear the car approach from behind until it skidded to a halt beside her, a shiny black door opening right in front of her face.

  They weren’t going to catch her that easily. She sprinted towards an alley.

  Gerhardt

  In an instant she was gone, running along the kerb, past the blackened windows, red hair flying like a hunted fox’s tail. He threw himself out of the car, gave chase, boots pounding the paving stones. She went to ground down a side alley, where he managed to grab the slippery fronds of her dress. It ripped as he caught her, but it was enough to slow her, and he got hold of her arm, pushing her up against the damp bricks of a wall, catching her there. ‘Edie, stop – it’s me,’ he said, his chest heaving with the effort of the chase. He loosened his grip.

  ‘They told me you’d gone,’ she said. He could barely hear her voice over the cacophony of the air raid.

  He let go of her and they looked at each other. Close enough to touch, but not touching. He’d only wanted to see her, one last time. He hadn’t thought—

  ‘So you’ve got me. Now hand me in. You’ll probably get some kind of medal from your blessed Führer for this,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts, breathing fast, warm air like mist from her parted lips. He wanted to kiss her.

  ‘I can help you!’ He had to shout above the noise. The air smelled burnt.

  ‘Don’t bother. You’ll get us both shot, and what’s the point of that? Hand me in or let me go, Gerhardt.’

  Hadn’t the other night meant anything to her? It had meant everything to him. ‘But we’ve got a chance, don’t you see?’ In the chaos of the air raid, it would be an age before anyone noticed they’d gone. There was hope, wasn’t there?

  Edie

  ‘Why couldn’t you have just left things as they were, stayed on your own side?’ she yelled, wanting to reach out, to fall into his arms. But he’d let go of her now, and the bomb-blasted air was a wedge between them.

  ‘I couldn’t do that. Could you?’ He shifted towards her. ‘It was you who—’

  ‘I know.’ She shook her head, remembering how that night she’d pulled him to her, how it had felt. ‘I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘But you did.’ He was closer still now. She felt the rough brick against her bare shoulders. She saw his hand reach out towards her. Why was he doing this? It was madness. She shook her head again. If she could convince him she didn’t care, she could at least stop him from being implicated in her escape. She could save him from what they’d do to him if they knew.

  ‘I only seduced you so that I could send a secret message to London,’ she said. She saw his eyes widen in surprise. ‘You left the door unlocked, remember? And when you slept I went to Dr Goetz’s room and transmitted to Baker Street, to Miss Atkins at Norgeby House. How else do you think they knew to call this air raid in? Miss Atkins would have gone straight to the War Box once she knew the truth about the Funkspiel.’

  He took a step back then. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that’s not true.’

  ‘Yes, Gerhardt, it is. What, did you think I’d fallen in love with you? You, a Nazi, for God’s sake? Don’t be naïve.’ She began to walk away.

  He reached out and caught the top of her bare arm, fingers circling, and she was reminded of the mob of wireless-detector boys, how they’d held her tight, the day they captured her set. ‘Prove it,’ he said. ‘Kiss me one last time and prove that you don’t care, and then I’ll let you go.’

  She yanked her arm free. ‘Very well.’ She leant in and tipped her face up to his, meeting his lips, intending to prove to them both how very wrong he was, so that at least he could save himself. But it was impossible to pretend, even now – especially now.

  Chapter 21

  Gerhardt

  ‘I can’t take you to the catacombs – the Resistance will shoot you on sight. We’ll have to get out of the city and head north. Maybe we can make it to the coast,’ she said, as the Tuileries sped past to their left. To his right the lamp-posts and trees that bordered the Seine were a parade marking time. It was impossible that she was here in the car with him. It was impossible that he’d swapped sides to be with her. But when he’d kissed her in the alley off the Champs-Élysées, she’d kissed him back. And there was no hiding how they both felt. ‘Turn left here!’

  ‘There is no left turn,’ he shouted as another crack split the sky orange-white.

  ‘Here!’ She leant over and shunted the steering wheel so the car skidded left across the carriageway and through an archway in the walls. Without the sudden flare of the explosion they would have missed it. The faça
de of the Louvre flicked past his periphery and they were through another archway and out the other side. The brakes shrieked as he spun the wheel. The sky crackled with flak. There was a rhythmic roar as more bombers surged in over the city. ‘Head towards Sacré-Cœur,’ she yelled.

  Had she really called in the air raid? A memory flashed through his mind: Boemelburg taking all those photos from the top of the Eiffel Tower . . . It’s almost like being in an aeroplane . . . photographs to send to his father. But Count Friedrich Werner von der Schulenburg was a committed Nazi, wasn’t he? Those rumours about what had happened with that spy in Romania had never been proven. Christ, there was no time to think about that now.

  Gerhardt’s knuckles were tight as a vice on the wheel, jerking and grabbing for control as the car powered on: fast, faster, between the high ranks of buildings towards place de l’Opéra. The planes were roaring in from the north, right overhead, over the golden avenging angels that stood astride the opera-house roof. Pigeons rose in an incandescent flurry, their wings strafing the windscreen as they fled. And his hands jarred, turning the car away from the flock, away from rue la Fayette, and onto boulevard des Capucines.

  ‘It’s the wrong way,’ she yelled. ‘You’re going the wrong way. Turn round!’ There was another crash. He glimpsed flames and falling masonry in the rear-view mirror. He accelerated forward until the road opened out. And there in front of them was the familiar slab of marble, rising up in front of the windscreen: L’Église de la Madeleine. The car swerved and spun as his foot hit the brakes and they skidded to a halt, just missing the beggar woman who’d staggered out into the road. Gerhardt saw her sway off in the direction of the church. But as he pushed back into gear, he saw people spilling out of the Lucas Carton restaurant, pointing at the car, shouting, breaking into a run.

  ‘They’ve seen us,’ he said as he lifted his foot off the clutch. ‘They must have checked your room when the air raid started, and phoned the restaurant to tell Kieffer you’d gone.’

  ‘Stop the car and tell them you captured me when I was trying to escape. It’s not too late to save yourself.’

  ‘No.’ He pushed his foot hard down on the accelerator and headed away from the scurrying figures. As he forced the car up through the gears, he looked into his rear-view mirror and glimpsed car headlights flickering on. And through the fog of noise from overhead there was another sound – of a car engine revving up, wheels skidding, as Kieffer began his pursuit.

  Edie

  Edie saw the flash of headlights behind them, heard the screech of tyres, felt the surge as Gerhardt accelerated and the roads untangled in front of them as they fled. She was thrown from side to side as he turned, and turned again, trying to lose Kieffer’s car.

  ‘This way,’ she said, recognising a route through the maze of streets. Kieffer’s car was fast, but she knew Paris better. ‘No, up there, to the left!’ and the car wheeled down a side street narrowing like a tunnel in front of them. Had they lost Kieffer? She turned and saw twin beams slip down the high walls as a car cornered into the street behind them.

  ‘He’s coming,’ she yelled above the stuttering rumble of another wave of planes. They shot over a crossroads and began to climb a hill, the streets pulling beneath the wheels, a line of bare trees to one side. The road was steep; the car seemed to slow. She looked behind again: Kieffer was gaining on them. At the brow Gerhardt had to swerve to avoid a parked car, jolting off the opposite kerb. Blistering thuds from overhead as more bombs dropped: dust in her nostrils, ringing in her ears. A barefoot woman in a ripped cocktail dress staggered out from a burning building, and Gerhardt jerked the car away.

  Edie turned back to look behind them: dust and smoke like fog, but the car headlights were still there, following closer now. How to lose Kieffer?

  ‘Faster!’ she yelled. The Moulin Rouge was a dull red blur as they flashed past at dizzying speed, so fast it felt like falling, and swerved to another small side street, up a dark avenue piled with trees and buildings, the road narrowing, suffocatingly tight. She looked back. The headlights were closer. Kieffer was gaining on them. They juddered over cobbles.

  Through the haze of smoke and dust she glimpsed the white dome of Sacré-Cœur. The road split, and the car wheeled right. Her torso hurled against the car door.

  Gerhardt

  ‘Not this way, we’ll end up at the church,’ she shouted, but it was too late. Gerhardt’s mind scrabbled. Could they run into the Sacré-Cœur, claim sanctuary? Above them there was the sudden scream of a British bomber being hit by German flak, the roar of it spilling, spiralling, breaking apart: flames and shrapnel hurling downwards – an orange flare bursting across his rear-view mirror. There was a crack-crash, a different sound from a bomb dropping: sharper, closer.

  ‘He’s been hit,’ she said. ‘Kieffer’s car’s been caught by shrapnel.’

  The little mirror showed the red-and-white curl of flames and grey wash of smoke in the street behind them. He chicaned round the side of the Sacré-Cœur and through the skinny alleyways behind, doors scraping against the high whitewashed walls. They screeched round corners and bumped over cobblestones, away from the bombs and the falling buildings, away from Kieffer’s burning car: escaping.

  Edie

  Eventually the corridors of stone and concrete opened out. Edie began to notice railway sidings, a field. Buildings became separate shadowy blocks, rather than a jumble of piled masonry. She glimpsed the bruised line of the horizon; Paris was almost behind them. The sky was still roaring fury as Gerhardt twisted the wheel, taking them out of the junction and on towards St-Denis, but the road was empty, and wide and straight ahead. ‘We’re free,’ she whispered, daring to believe it to be true as they drove away from the exploding light and into the safety of the night.

  The thundering buzz of bombers was quieter now. She could hear the sound of their car’s straining engine. And another sound? She glanced behind, but all she could see was the blackened scar of road leading back to the wounded city. There were no other headlights worming behind them – there were no other vehicles at all. She must have been imagining it.

  Gerhardt

  ‘Halt!’ he saw the soldier mouth, the headlights turning his face limelight-white in the dark. One arm was outstretched, the other cradled his weapon. There was no way round: buildings either side, concrete pillars and a white-painted wooden barrier blocking the way ahead. There was no time to hide her. There was no time for anything. The soldier began to walk towards them.

  There was no point trying to burst through the barrier. It would only prove their guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he slowed the car to a standstill in front of the wooden palings. He wound down the window and held out his pass. A bored-looking corporal took it. ‘You know it’s after curfew,’ he said, torch beam flicking over the ID card and into the car.

  ‘Who’s the girl?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who the girl is.’

  ‘I need to see her identity papers.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘I can’t let you through.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘I’m under orders.’

  ‘So am I.’

  Gerhardt felt as if he couldn’t breathe. This was it then, after all they’d gone through, caught by a jobsworth soldier stagging-on at a minor roadblock. The torchlight wavered in front of him as the man shone it in her face. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are. My orders—’

  Gerhardt turned towards her and pointed at the glove compartment. He couldn’t risk talking to her in English. She reached forward. He heard a click and the rustle of paper, saw her hand reach into the beam of light, holding something out. The torchlight dropped away as the soldier took it.

  Gerhardt watched the soldier’s torch flicker over the paper, saw his square face frown as he read and reread the words. Then he handed the sheets back to Gerhardt in the car.

  ‘Alles in Ordnung,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Untersturmführer von der Schulenbur
g, you’re free to go.’

  Edie

  Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. She watched Gerhardt jerk the car into gear and they rolled through the lifted barrier, accelerating away from the roadblock. She looked down again at the papers she’d passed over, but the German writing made no sense. What was written there? she wondered. Why had their passage through gone so smoothly, even though she had no papers herself?

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Why was that so easy, back there?’ She remembered what he’d said that night in her room. ‘If this is a way of getting me to Berlin to do propaganda work for your uncle, you need to know that I won’t—’ she began.

  ‘He’s not my uncle,’ he interrupted.

  They were approaching a crossroads .

  ‘Whoever he is. I’m not going to—’

  ‘He’s my father,’ Gerhardt cut her off again. ‘Count Friedrich Werner von der Schulenburg is my father. He never married my mother, never openly acknowledged me as his child. Nobody knows.’

  ‘That soldier knew. He called you von der Schulenburg when he waved us through. Gerhardt, if you’re trying to save me, don’t. I don’t want to be saved. I don’t want to carry on playing games, switching sides, pretending. Let me go.’ She pulled the door catch.

  He put a hand out to stop her. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  No. She wasn’t going to Berlin to work for his father and become part of the Nazi machine. She wrenched herself free and reached again for the door. ‘You’ll have to shoot me to stop me.’ She saw him make a grab for his holster. ‘My God. You really will,’ she said, pausing with the door just ajar, cold air streaming past. She’d thought he’d rescued her because he cared about her, but could it be that she was just a trophy to impress his estranged father with? She felt strangely unafraid as she waited and he held the pistol in one hand, the steering wheel in the other. She wasn’t going to run. She’d been a dead woman walking since the moment she landed in France. Why postpone it any longer?