Witherspoon taught us to take great care about where we concealed messages on ourselves. Stitching them into the seams of clothing seemed an obvious idea. What I hadn’t considered, though, was the importance of using only clothing that can be readily discarded, like a scarf, rather than the hem of a dress or cuff of a shirt. ‘If you’re caught, you can hardly remove your shirt or trousers, can you?’ he pointed out. ‘It sounds obvious, but many agents have given themselves away by not taking such simple precautions.’
I made notes as Witherspoon proceeded to put all his jars and paraphernalia back into his bag. ‘Well, that’s all for now. I’ll be back in a few weeks, when I’ll explain how you can use a wonderful substance called carborundum to make a train or lorry quite literally grind to a halt. Simply splendid stuff, and very effective too. Cheerio, all!’
No sooner had Witherspoon departed than our next teacher arrived. Stanley Briggs was short, plump and completely bald. With a flourish he wrote the word Disguises on the blackboard. ‘Any suggestions?’
Loki called out, ‘Wig or false moustache.’
‘Like this perhaps?’ Briggs delved into his bag, produced a long blond hairpiece and placed it on his head. Flicking the fringe out of his eyes, he said, ‘Well?’
We all laughed. ‘You look ridiculous,’ said Freya.
‘Yes, I do, don’t I,’ he said. He tore off the wig. ‘And I’m a professional actor! You’re not. And yet’ – he paused, suddenly looking incredibly serious – ‘being able to quickly change the way you look might just save your lives. Suppose you are walking down a crowded street and you think you are being followed. What might you do? Certainly there’s no time to put on wigs and moustaches or apply make-up.’
‘Change our clothes in some way?’ Freya offered.
‘Yes!’ Briggs thrust up his hands in mock joy. ‘Well done, Miss Haukelid. Often the simplest things are the most effective. The tiniest changes to how you look may be enough to throw the enemy off your scent. Simply removing a raincoat or hat, taking or discarding an umbrella, combing one’s hair a different way – all have been known to work a treat.’ He stopped talking and surveyed the room. ‘Good, I think you are all keeping up with me. To summarize, be clever and quick thinking. Use your imagination. Use whatever is to hand.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
‘Well, maybe you could seize a bicycle and push it along the pavement, or ride off on it. If a dog is tied up outside a shop, perhaps you could take it for a walk. Offer to carry an old lady’s shopping for her. Talk to her like she’s your grandmother. Confuse the enemy. Such techniques might save your skin. Be confident. Be daring!’
I scribbled a few notes. Meanwhile, Briggs turned and scratched the words Body language onto the blackboard. I wrote them down as well.
‘We’re all creatures of habit,’ he continued. ‘And the enemy knows it. They are trained to spot things, little details. For example, think about how you carry a newspaper – folded under your arm, or in your hand? Which arm or hand? Left or right? Set out to confuse the enemy. Be prepared to change the way you do it at a moment’s notice.’
While Jacques got Briggs to repeat most of what he’d just said for Amélie’s benefit – she looked completely lost – I wrote down paper and then added slouching and hands in pockets. I had a habit of keeping my hands stuffed in my pockets. It might make a difference, I supposed.
Briggs continued, ‘Now let’s examine the way we walk. You might be surprised to learn that we all do it differently. It can give you away, so try changing the way you swing your arms, or the way you throw each foot forward.’ He demonstrated for us. ‘Maybe hunch your shoulders a little.’ He stopped, put down his chalk and rubbed his hands together. ‘A very convincing limp can be achieved by placing a small stone in one’s shoe. Try it out.’ He leaned on his desk and peered at us. ‘Practise, practise, practise, practise, practise,’ he said, to each of us in turn. ‘And when you’re tired of it, practise some more. Make such things second nature, natural looking. But be careful not to exaggerate. They must be convincing yet not draw attention to you.’
We spent half an hour practising our different walks and nervous tics, and trying to do everything with the wrong hand. Briggs’s enthusiasm proved infectious. He seemed to know an awful lot about his subject. By the time he called us to order and got us sat back down I was beginning to wonder whether there was rather more to Stanley Briggs than met the eye. Was he simply a professional actor, or was he an experienced member of the secret services as well?
‘Of course, there may be a few situations where more drastic measures are needed,’ Briggs added. ‘Maybe you’re on a mission and a proper disguise is essential.’ He reached into his bag and took out some small sponges. He placed them in his mouth, pushing them into his cheeks. ‘See the difference? So much the better if you can get hold of some iodine. It can be used to discolour your teeth. You can also try darkening your hair with charcoal or lightening it with talcum powder or hair bleach.’ He walked to where Loki was sitting. ‘You, Mr Larson, have a pronounced chin cleft. That could be disguised with melted wax.’ Loki pulled a face, and then ran a finger along his chin. Briggs returned to the front of the class. ‘If you have wrinkles, accentuate them using the lead from soft black pencils. In minutes you’ll look five, maybe ten years older.’
There was a snort of derision from the back of the room. I turned and saw Amélie shaking her head. ‘Something wrong, mademoiselle?’ Briggs enquired, tutting and looking to the heavens as if her request for clarification or repetition were a wearisome inevitability.
She spoke slowly, stumbling slightly, but managed to get her point across. ‘If you get stopped, you have to give your papers to soldiers – yes? Big problem. You don’t look like your photograph. They will arrest you. Then they will take you away. In truck. You’ll never be seen again.’ She drew a finger across her throat. ‘Mort et enterré!’
We looked at Jacques. ‘She means you’ll be dead and buried,’ he said. ‘Amélie, you must try and stick to English. I know it’s hard but you really must try.’
‘Yes, well …’ Briggs balked uncomfortably. It was the first time I’d seen him look anything other than supremely confident. ‘You must choose your disguises carefully. And if at all possible, have false papers made, including new photographs.’ He glanced sharply at Amélie. ‘The art of evading capture is like a game of cat-and-mouse. What I’m teaching you may just give you the edge. But to be blunt, you are the mouse and sometimes the mouse gets caught!’
A bewildered Amélie leaned across to her brother and muttered, ‘Chat et souris? Did he say cat and mouse? Is he crazy?’ Jacques explained in French what Briggs had just said. ‘Oh!’ She nodded and pulled a face. ‘You are right!’
It was Jacques’ turn to speak up. Rocking back in his chair, he observed, ‘You’re both right, surely. If you can, it’s better to lie low. Don’t take risks unless you have no choice. If you can’t hide, if you have to escape, or think you’re being followed, head for somewhere crowded. Try to lose yourself. Move back and forth. Go in one door and leave by another. Walk quickly but calmly. Don’t keep looking over your shoulder. It is a real giveaway. Use your eyes. Use the reflections in shop windows.’
Loki pulled a face. He was probably thinking the same as I was. Our French colleagues had clearly already gained practical experience.
‘Yes, yes, good advice,’ said Briggs. ‘Thank you, Mr Lefebvre.’
Loki twisted round and said to Jacques, ‘And what if there isn’t a crowd?’
‘Run like hell!’
Chapter Five
Night of Broken Glass
AFTER BRIGGS HAD packed up and left, Loki and I wandered out through the front door of Mulberry House for a little fresh air, and spotted Jacques, sleeves rolled up, peering under the opened bonnet of a car. The soldier who’d driven us from the station the previous night was standing next to him, hands on hips, looking rather impatient. Seeing him in the daylight, I realize
d just how short he was and, although not exactly skinny, he struck me as quite wiry in a tough sort of way. He was also as ugly as sin, his nose bent from a break at some time in the past. It gave him a curiously unbalanced, lopsided appearance.
‘Hand me a screwdriver, Smithy,’ said Jacques, holding out a hand while still leaning over the engine.
Smithy obliged and then, seeing Loki and me, called out, ‘All right, lads? Jacques here’s a bloody marvel. He can fix anything with a motor in it.’
Jacques emerged from beneath the bonnet. ‘There is damp in the distributor,’ he announced. He held up the distributor cap as proof. ‘See! That’s why she wasn’t running properly.’ Jacques took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the inside of the cap, then the small rotor under the bonnet. ‘There. Perfect. Now try her again.’
The engine started first time.
‘What did I tell you? He’s a bloody marvel,’ Smithy said, beaming.
‘Where did you learn about engines, Jacques?’ I asked.
‘I’ve always been interested in them,’ he replied, cleaning his hands with his hanky. ‘And I’d just started studying engineering at university when France was invaded.’
‘Corporal Smith! You still here?’ We turned and saw Sergeant Walker leaning out of a window. ‘Stop yakking and go and fetch those supplies. This isn’t a ruddy holiday camp!’
Smithy lazily stiffened to attention and saluted, though it was more of a wave than a salute. ‘Yes, Sarge. Right away, Sarge. I’ll be there and back in a jiffy. Have those detonators for you by tea time.’
‘And tidy yourself up, man. I thought I told you to get your hair cut. You look a ruddy disgrace.’
Smithy waited until Walker disappeared back inside before muttering, ‘Flipping slave-driver. “Do this! Do that!” Walker loves barking orders. No peace for the wicked, that’s what my old man says. Still, better be off. Like I said to Jacques here when he arrived, if you need anything, just shout. I have contacts.’ He tapped the side of his crooked nose and winked. ‘There’s nothing I can’t lay my hands on for a favour or two. See you lads later.’ He slammed down the bonnet, jumped into the car and sped off.
Jacques sparked up a match and lit a cigarette while watching Smithy disappear at speed down the long gravel drive amid clouds of black exhaust fumes. ‘That engine needs a lot of work.’
‘So, how long have you and Amélie been here?’ Loki asked.
‘Too long.’
‘From what you said earlier about avoiding capture, it sounds like you were involved with the Resistance back home,’ I said.
Jacques ignored me.
Loki continued, ‘We were too. In Norway. We escaped—’
‘Enough!’ Jacques interrupted sharply. ‘You shouldn’t talk about such things.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘What I don’t know, I can’t tell. Loose tongues cost lives. Remember that, and remember it well!’
‘Sorry,’ I said, a bit taken aback at Jacques’ abruptness. Feeling embarrassed, I peered at the trees surrounding Mulberry. ‘This place is in the middle of nowhere.’
Jacques puffed hard on his cigarette. ‘Yes, Finn. Take a good look around.’ He pointed to where the driveway disappeared into the trees. ‘Even the guards at the gate don’t know what we’re doing here. Apart from X, only Sergeant Walker, the brigadier, and Corporal Smith know everything.’
‘What about Mrs Saunders?’ Loki pointed out.
Jacques snorted, ‘Oh, yes, how could I forget her? And she dares to call herself a cook. Preposterous!’ He snorted again.
‘So we’re going to be training together,’ Loki said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Any idea where we’ll end up?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. Was Jacques pretending to know something we didn’t, or did he know for real?
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Your English is very good. How good is your French?’
I shrugged. ‘Not bad. Studied it at school like everyone else.’
‘Were you top of your class?’
Loki laughed. ‘God, no!’
Jacques looked unimpressed. ‘What about Freya?’
‘Her French is good. Better than ours,’ Loki replied. ‘She was nearly top of her class … once or twice. We can all speak pretty good German though. That was the one upside of living in a country occupied by the Nazis!’
‘You and Freya seem pretty close,’ Jacques said to my best friend.
Loki’s cheeks reddened. Jacques was right, of course. Loki was smitten with Freya. It had started back in Norway, and blossomed since we’d arrived in Britain. Jacques was clearly quick to pick up on such things. ‘Yes, we are,’ Loki replied defensively.
‘Interesting,’ Jacques said, thoughtfully. He took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ash away.
‘How did you and Amélie get recruited into Special Ops?’ I asked.
He stared straight ahead. ‘You ask too many questions, Finn. Let’s get things straight. I don’t ask you about your past, and you don’t ask me. That’s it. Compris? All that matters is the here and now. Stick to that and we’ll get along just fine.’
I didn’t like Jacques’ manner – he was too dismissive of my attempts to get acquainted. ‘The way I see it,’ I said, wanting to make a point, ‘one day we will have to rely on each other, to trust each other with our lives. That might be hard if we don’t know one another very well.’
Jacques shook his head at me as if I were really annoying and stupid. I couldn’t make up my mind whether he was simply being unfriendly, whether he just had a lot on his mind, or whether he thought us ‘new recruits’ inexperienced amateurs unworthy of his attention. There was a pompous, arrogant air about him. Then again, I thought, maybe all Frenchmen were like that! Just as I was about to give up on him, he finally said something interesting.
‘I hear Freya has excellent radio skills. Is that right?’
‘Where did you hear that?’ said Loki.
‘Oh, a little bird told me.’
A little bird? What did he mean? Loki gave Jacques a long hard stare.
Max wandered out to join us. He nodded hello to me and smiled. Jacques flashed him a cold glance, tossed away his cigarette and briskly walked off back into Mulberry House, deliberately knocking shoulders with Max as he went, muttering something under his breath.
Max stared after him. ‘He’s hardly spoken to me since I arrived. He has a thing against Germans. All Germans! We’re not all the same, you know.’ His tone was bitter.
‘I don’t think he’s particularly fond of Norwegians either,’ Loki replied light-heartedly.
I guessed life had to be especially hard for Max. Anyone learning he was German would immediately feel deep distrust and dislike, possibly even hatred. On meeting Max that morning I’d felt all those things, albeit momentarily, but I’d quickly realized that if he was in Special Ops then he was on our side, and that had to make him all right. Didn’t it? Well, that’s what I’d told myself. ‘How come you’re part of all this?’ I asked, hoping my question didn’t get the same brush-off that Jacques had given me. ‘It is rather surprising – a German in Special Ops.’
‘I’m not the only one, Finn,’ Max revealed. ‘My family left Germany at the end of nineteen thirty-eight. Along with many others. Things got rather difficult for people like us. You ever heard of Kristallnacht?’
I shook my head.
‘In English it means Night of Broken Glass. That was the night our world changed, when we saw Herr Hitler’s true feelings about us Jews,’ Max said hatefully. ‘My family owned a bookshop in the old part of Düsseldorf. It was the ninth of November: after dark members of the Nazi Sturmabteilung – that’s Herr Hitler’s Storm Troopers – tried to destroy anything belonging to Jews. My parents’ shop had its windows smashed, and all their books were flung into the street and burned. But they counted themselves lucky. I think had they been there at the time, they would have been d
ealt with in the same way.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t be telling us all this?’ I said, recalling Jacques’ warning. ‘What we don’t know we can’t tell.’
He appeared unconcerned. In fact I got the impression he actually wanted to talk, as if it helped him in some way.
‘Why did it happen?’ Loki asked.
‘A German official in Paris was murdered by a Polish man, who just happened to be a Jew. It gave Herr Hitler the perfect excuse to seek revenge. But it was only the beginning.’
We strolled along the paths that wound around the house. At the back lay a small area of lawn, empty flower beds, some wooden sheds, one distinctly rotten looking, the others more or less brand new, and a brick stable block. ‘They keep the weapons and ammunition under lock and key in there,’ Max said, nodding towards the stables. The door bore an impressive padlock. ‘The practice range is that way,’ he added, pointing towards the woods. Then he laughed. ‘Jacques couldn’t hit a bus at more than ten yards. His eyesight’s terrible. Seen those thick glasses of his?’
‘What about you, Max?’ asked Loki.
‘I’m not bad. I can hit a target at fifty yards,’ he replied, suddenly adopting a slight swagger.
I said nothing but I felt a surge of confidence. Loki, Freya and I had grown up in a nation of hunters, where most kids belonged to one of the many rifle clubs. Having been taught by her father, Heimar, Freya was a crack shot and had won trophies back home to prove it. She could hit a target at four, maybe five hundred yards. Loki and I weren’t far behind her – a hundred or so yards less proficient, perhaps, but still clearly way ahead of Max and Jacques. ‘What about Amélie?’ I asked.
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