‘How?’
‘What?’
‘How – from your friends’ cottage to St Valéry-sur-Vanne?’
He nodded. ‘Have to think that out. Easier if you went back with the courier, of course.’
* * *
She’d been dreaming that Marilyn Stuart was on the blower to Ben telling him that she, Rosie, would be back in London within two or three days, while she was screaming that it wasn’t true – and grabbing for the telephone, fighting, yelling – Marilyn cool as a cucumber, fending her off easily and laughingly, having of course the advantages of height and reach. Rosie bawling at her that she had no business raising his hopes when they both knew it wasn’t true, in fact that she might never be back – and Ben’s voice suddenly booming over the line, ‘What in hell are you drongoes at?’
Ben’s Aussie voice, all right, but not his face. Michel’s face. Marilyn taunting her, ‘Don’t know one from the other, do you!’
‘Bitch!’
‘Hey, hey…’
Léonie: with a hand grasping Rosie’s shoulder… ‘Rosie, hush. Dreary old nightmare… Over now, you’re awake, OK? Listen, I’m on my way up to take in this message…’
To the attic, to listen out for Baker Street’s midnight call. Murmuring in the semi-dark – the only light was coming through from the half-open bedroom door, Léonie a black cut-out against it – ‘Too much cheese for supper, probably. Like in that Will Hay film, feeding the old man cheese to make him dream… Will you be all right now?’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry…’
‘I’ll take the key, lock you in – then if you fall asleep—’
‘I won’t, I’ll wait and—’
‘Won’t be long – touch wood.’
Baker Street and Sevenoaks permitting, she wouldn’t be. But how, even in a dream, confuse Ben and Michel, Rosie wondered? Echoes of it still in her mind. Or how see Marilyn as such a bitch? Marilyn who, when she’d been seeing her off on the Lysander flight from Tangmere a few months ago, had actually wept! Wet-faced in the dark – having thought the darkness would hide it, no one would see her tears, so what the hell – forgetting the goodbye kiss, the contact of a damp cheek, and Rosie wondering then why, why this time? Thinking third time unlucky, maybe? One would never have expected tears – or any lack of emotional control – from Marilyn, of all people: she was a tall, cool blonde, had come to SOE from the Wrens, in which she’d been – still was – a Second Officer, and in ‘F’ Section she’d started as an agent but then been taken out of field work because her French was so appalling. Strictly English-schoolroom French, grammatically correct enough but the accent of a vache espagnolle – as someone had rather cruelly described it – cribbing that from the Rattigan play French Without Tears, of course.
Brainwave striking, then: they might send Marilyn as the ‘special courier’?
Might well. Short visit, minimal need of conversational French. She’d go for it, sure as eggs – not only because the two of them were as close as they were, but because behind that cool façade she’d loathed being confined to admin and training work, sending others into the field. Just as Rosie herself had felt at one time – between deployments, when Ben had been begging her never to go back. But Colonel Buck would approve, for sure: he thought highly of Marilyn, one knew, and he’d see the sense in sending someone with whom Rosie was in close rapport.
Bet on it, she thought.
And London – or rather Sevenoaks – would be on the air by now. Léonie up there crouched over her receiver, having paid out the thin, matt-black aerial wire from a window. Listening out on a frequency pre-set by her own personal quartz crystal – the night-time crystal, not the one she’d have had in her transmitter this afternoon – and only listening, doing nothing that might attract the Reichssicherheitshauptamt boffins’ attention. Crouched with the headphones flattening those small, neat ears and shiny dark hair against her head while she jotted down the message stuttering from the Sevenoaks operator’s transmitter key. Baker Street maybe saying they’d changed their minds, would be making other arrangements about the rocket-casings – for instance, having that village flattened, without any confirmatory check? It was – conceivable. The rockets would be what mattered now – mattered most. ‘Hector’ mattered quite a lot, but compared to the rockets he was very much an SOE domestic matter; the War Cabinet, for instance, or the Chiefs of Staff or the top brass of SIS wouldn’t have heard of him, wouldn’t give a damn about him one way or the other even if they had, but they’d know all about the threat from ‘Hitler’s Secret Weapons’, which the Boches were still claiming were going to win the war for them.
She lit a cigarette – partly to stay awake, not slip back into that ridiculous dream. Hardly a nightmare, as Léonie had called it: nightmares had to do with torture and mutilation. They had since Rouen, last year. As Ben knew, having on occasion vicariously suffered with her… Picturing him in her mind, in the smoke curling up from her Gauloise and melting into darkness under the low ceiling where the light from Léonie’s bedroom door didn’t reach; seeing him, recognizing him as unquestionably the most important factor in her life.
To have and to hold. Cling to like a bloody limpet.
Scrape of a key in the door. Rosie holding her breath, watching as Léonie slipped in, closed the door softly and re-locked it.
Expelling a lungful of smoke… ‘All right?’
‘Far as I know.’ Flipping a sheet of paper out of the pocket of her gown. ‘Want to help?’
* * *
What Baker Street was telling them in this message was that subject to the contents of Léonie’s transmission on Thursday night – tonight, it was Thursday now, of course – the ‘special courier’ would be dropped by parachute on the Xanadu field on Saturday half an hour before midnight and collected by a Hudson at 0200 Sunday morning. Confirmation of both the paradrop and the pick-up two and a half hours later would come on Saturday afternoon/evening in a message personnel stating ‘Gaston has become the father of twins’. And – as one had more or less expected – the courier would have Baker Street’s authority to decide whether Zoé should remain in the field or return to London in the Hudson.
That was all, except for detail of recognition signals to be used between the aircraft and the reception team. The main change from their earlier, off-the-cuff response was that the courier would be on the ground for only a couple of hours instead of twenty-four.
Léonie was putting her bits and pieces together. Rosie asked her, ‘What time did Guillaume say he’d get here?’
‘Seven thirty, or thereabouts. Then he’ll be going out to inspect Xanadu, of course – so I can give them an OK on it tonight. The other thing I’ll need is your requisition list.’
‘I’ll get down to it first thing. Money’s one problem – how much to ask for… I’ve guessed who the courier’ll be, by the way. In Baker Street, ever meet Marilyn Stuart?’
‘Marilyn… Yes. But is she a parachutist?’
‘Yes. Was, and she’s kept it all up – she’s done refresher courses at Ringwood. I happen to know because I did one with her.’
* * *
Guillaume arrived on the dot of seven thirty, had a light breakfast with them and left soon after eight. He’d drop in again when he got back from his visit to the country, he said, but if he failed to show up – i.e. had run into trouble – Léonie was to make her transmission with Rosie’s shopping-list in it and the warning that no reconnaisance of Xanadu had been possible. If he still didn’t appear – by Saturday, in which case it would be obvious he was in real trouble – Léonie was to arrange for their courier to take Rosie out to the Déchambauds and supervise the reception of Baker Street’s parachutist.
‘Then the usual team – Déchambaud would get them together for him – for the reception of the Hudson.’
Muster them for him, Rosie had noted: so Guillaume’s courier was not the veterinary receptionist. She commented, ‘We’re looking on the black side rather, aren’t we?’
‘Wouldn’t you agree it’s wise?’
‘I suppose…’
‘Things can go awry. And in this situation you’d be stuck, wouldn’t you.’
‘Certainly would be if Baker Street cried off too.’
‘Well.’ A shrug. ‘In my hypothetical situation there’d be no reason they should. It also assumes that having collared me, the Boches weren’t immediately rounding up the rest of you as well. I admit that’s no better than a fifty-fifty chance. But – in this hypothesis you wouldn’t set out for Xanadu without hearing first about Gaston’s twins, would you? And if there was reason you knew of to call it off, Léonie’d talk to Baker Street.’ Looking at her. ‘Knows her onions, this kid. But I’m a wily bird myself, Rosie, don’t worry. Matter of thinking ahead a bit, that’s all, having some notion how one might react.’
Léonie went to work at eight thirty, came up for an early snack soon after noon, and told Rosie she’d be out for a while.
‘Moving your transceiver to wherever you’ll be using it tonight?’
‘Hah. Aren’t you the wily bird!’
‘Not really. Being oneself a pianist, and damn-all to do all day except put two and two together.’ She paused, then asked her, ‘Guillaume’s a good one, isn’t he?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well –’ dissimulating, somewhat – ‘a good man to work with?’
‘I enjoy working with him, certainly. He’s – considerate, usually a step or two ahead, and one does feel – well, if things did go wrong, (a) he’d cope and (b) his priority would be to look after us.’
She nodded, thinking about it. You could tell, she thought – the ones you’d trust and the ones you might have when you were green but with experience wouldn’t.
Léonie was getting ready to depart. She added – as if she’d been pondering whether or not to say this – ‘But answering your question about Guillaume – that’s as far as it goes. I mean, professional relationship, mutual liking and respect – that’s it. What you were really asking, wasn’t it?’
‘Well—’
‘I’ll tell you anyway – strictly entre nous. He’s in love with Pauline. She is with him, too. It’s the real McCoy, they’re crazy about each other. Look, I must run…’
* * *
Guillaume came by in the early evening bringing them a fowl for boiling, half a dozen eggs and some potatoes. Booty from the countryside – enough to have got him arrested if he’d been caught bringing it into town. The Xanadu field was clear, he said, and the Déchambauds would gladly lend Rosie and her visitor their sitting-room on Saturday night: unless, he added, she and the courier might prefer to save time, conduct their interview right there on the field. Because allowing for the arrival and for the departure preparations they’d be unlikely to have more than an hour, hour and a half for actually conferring. Rosie suggested, ‘Best just to see how it goes.’ By ‘it’, meaning Marilyn’s parachute landing – might be quick and neat, on-target, might not. People out of practice broke legs sometimes, for instance. Guillaume agreed, said he’d provide a Thermos and sandwiches just in case they decided against trekking back to the cottage.
‘All on foot, will it be?’
‘Use a cart probably, coming away with the gear. We’ve used Xanadu several times like that – softly, softly. It’s a good field, I wouldn’t want to compromize it.’
‘So if it was a large-scale parachutage—’
‘We’ve had a couple. Used farm-carts, trans-shipped the stuff to lorries elsewhere. But listen – if it’s decided you’re staying on, I’ll take you as far as Troyes in the office gazo. Leave the Déchambaud place at six, be there – well, middle of the day, roughly. But using minor roads or even routes blanches where possible. I’ll check the map, see how best to plan it.’
‘But that’s marvellous!’
Routes blanches meant unpaved roads. Not only to avoid checkpoints, he explained, but for his own cover, ostensibly visiting some farms. He asked her, ‘You do know where to find this man in Troyes, do you?’
‘Yes. Michel gave me all that. Guillaume, this is very nice of you.’
‘Frankly, the sooner you’re out of Nancy, the better. Not that we aren’t enjoying your company—’
‘Oh, goes without saying…’
‘From Troyes onwards, you’ll be on your own. I can find spurious reason to be there, but not any further west.’
He’d been taking Léonie away with him then, dropping her off at whatever address she’d moved her transceiver to. Wherever it was, she’d need to be installed there before curfew cleared the streets, and he’d pick her up and bring her in with him in the morning.
‘So I’m afraid you have a lonely evening ahead of you, Rosie.’
‘Dare say I’ll survive it.’
‘And a fairly boring Friday and Saturday too. But it really is much safer for you not to go out at all – agreed?’
‘Being so famous.’
‘Seriously, don’t be tempted. No runs round the block, or—’
‘I’ll do my exercises. Press-ups, sit-ups—’
‘You might give some thought to a cover-story for use if we get stopped on the way out of town on Saturday. Could be chancy – they’re going to look twice at young females leaving town. Meanwhile, stay away from windows, and if anyone comes to the door don’t go near it, don’t make a sound. OK?’
On the Friday, Léonie came and went, from time to time. So did Guillaume. Léonie’s transmission had gone out all right. Baker Street would have all Friday and most of Saturday in which to organize the shopping-list. Guillaume was asking for the container which they’d be dropping to have its otherwise empty compartments filled with mainly sabotage materials that he wanted for his own réseau: and one rather fiddly part of Rosie’s list, which Marilyn would probably attend to even if she wasn’t to be the parachutist, was to collect a few items of clothing from the flat in North London which Rosie shared with another girl, and have any English labels removed, if possible French ones substituted. Marilyn knew the flat and had a key to it; she’d also have a good idea of the sort of things Rosie would want.
Get rid of some of this awful gear, then.
Saturday, at last. The hat-shop was open in the morning, but shut at midday. Rosie and Léonie lunched on what was left of the boiled chicken, and Guillaume joined them just after seven in the evening, in good time for the BBC’s French-language ‘personal messages’ programme. Léonie’s illegal domestic wireless was plugged in in the kitchen – the most sound-proof corner of the apartment – with the volume turned low, and eventually they heard amongst a confusion of assorted gibberish as well as bursts of jamming and static that Gaston had fathered twins.
‘Good for him.’ Guillaume stubbed out a cigarette, and kissed Léonie’s cheek. ‘Bless you. Come on, Rosie.’
Chapter 9
They’d driven north out of Nancy on the Metz road, then crossed the Meuse, heading west towards St Mihiel. Rosie thinking of Lise having come out over this same route, in this gazo and with the same driver hunched over its wheel, only a few weeks ago, and wondering whether it might conceivably be her they’d send tonight.
Possible, she thought, but not likely. Although a reunion here, in the light of all that had happened, would have been – sensational, in a way. Both of them ‘Wanted’… Something to remember in one’s old age – if one had any such thing. But Baker Street wouldn’t send Lise – especially not if they knew about the posters – which Guillaume would have reported, she guessed. Lise might not have wanted to come, anyway. Would anyone, in their senses? Thinking of herself then, with the easy option of going home but choosing – if she was to be allowed a choice – to stay on… Glancing at Guillaume’s profile – prominent cheekbones, deep-sunk pale-brown eyes, light-brown hair starting well back on the narrow forehead, as he swung out to pass a farm-cart, raising a hand in greeting to the old man plodding at the horse’s head. Could have been some English pastoral scene: could easily. Buckin
ghamshire, where her mother lived, in deeply rural surroundings… On the point of asking Guillaume whether London knew about the ‘Wanted’ business, the rewards on offer, she decided to leave it, to prolong the silence. Leaving town and for the first half-hour or so they’d talked a lot: about Léonie for instance, whose mother had a dress business in London, somewhere north of Oxford Street, and Guillaume’s own post-war hopes of a veterinary partnership in Wiltshire, where he had an ancient father still alive. Chat-time over, though, for the moment; time for private thoughts and enjoyment of a lovely evening, near-empty roads… They would not send Lise, she decided. If only because she wouldn’t have the degree of authority that Marilyn had – or, frankly, the necessary detachment. Lise, who believed in Fate, would tend to be guided more by her emotions than by her head.
There’d been a lot of people about, when they’d been leaving town. Guillaume had counted on it, on crowded streets and pavements making them less conspicuous. In the event – leaving Rue St Jacques – there’d been one short period of anxiety, and before that the surprise of Guillaume having an off-duty Boche soldier apologize to him. He’d just dumped Rosie’s suitcase in the gazo’s boot, and the boy had come dashing across the road to join friends he must just then have spotted and was looking at – calling to them – instead of where he was going; and he’d collided with Guillaume. In dull-green uniform, heavy clumping boots, forage-cap with a coloured patch on it: and wide-eyed, flushed with embarrassment – could have been an English face, English country-lad type… Guillaume had muttered something to him, and she asked him as he slid in and jerked the door shut, ‘Ticked him off, did you?’
In at the Kill Page 18