They had waited in the rocks until five when a lookout had come to tell them that the Germans had gone. Then the Bretons had had a short conference to decide who was going to take charge of the airmen, and who Ashley and his crew. Ashley tried to understand what arrangements were being decided, but the men whispered in Breton or, once or twice, in heavily accented French, and he couldn’t catch it. Then he’d searched for the girl and asked her and she had told him that his men were to be hidden in a safe house – she wouldn’t tell him where – and he in another. He’d asked if he couldn’t be hidden in the same house, and she’d said no, there wasn’t room. She was quite abrupt.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘just tell me who to follow.’
‘Me. You’re to be hidden in my house.’
He tried to see her face in the darkness. ‘How very kind …’
‘Hardly! There’s nowhere else, that’s all.’
She was cross, he could tell, though he couldn’t guess why. Best not to say any more then. He’d followed her without a word, up a steep path to the top of the cliff and then across some heathland to a road. She’d started off at a cracking pace, up the cliff, but then slowed and at one point she staggered and almost fell. He’d reached for her arm, but, politely but firmly, she’d pulled away.
When they reached the back door of the house she’d told him to wait outside. Within a minute she was back, leading him into a warm room, very dark: a kitchen he guessed. Again he’d waited while she disappeared into a back room. This time it was several minutes before she returned. She guided him through a door and up some narrow steep stairs to an attic – this attic.
All she’d said before going was, ‘Don’t make a sound and don’t put your face to the window! Oh, and your clothes, they’re wet, I suppose? Leave them at the top of the stairs, just here!’ And then she was gone.
Two thoughts had entered his mind before he fell asleep: the first, that someone had just been asleep in this bed, it was so warm, and the second, that the cross English-speaking lady was not very pleased to have him here, not very pleased at all.
Now, in the morning light that filtered through the one small window, he took another look round the child’s room, pulled his feet in out of the cold and closed his eyes. He might as well go back to sleep again: he wasn’t going anywhere – and certainly not without any clothes on.
Suddenly he was wide awake again. A door had closed in the room immediately beneath. Someone was climbing the stairs. He reached down to the floor and, picking up his gun, pointed it towards the top of the stairwell.
A head appeared, with dark, longish hair. The girl.
He relaxed and put the gun back on the floor.
She was carrying some bread and a mug of hot liquid, her head bent down, intent on preventing the liquid from spilling. She came up to the bed and, crouching down, placed the mug on the floor. The bread was more difficult: she thought of balancing it on top of the mug, but put it on the bed instead. Then she looked up at him.
He stared at her in astonishment.
He realised with a shock that he knew her.
But where on earth from? He couldn’t think. He examined her face for clues: dark eyes – tired today, with grey shadows under them – neat features, a lovely mouth, and fabulous clear pale skin. Very attractive – lovely even. But where had he met her?
He realised he was staring: she had looked away, embarrassed, and had started to speak. ‘… we’ve found some clothes for you. I’ll bring them up directly. It’s best not to wear your other ones – they look far too Navy if you’re seen. And you must take care not to be seen – we have soldiers billeted here.’
Ashley blinked in amazement. ‘What?’
‘Yes, two of them. They sleep in the main part of the house, at the front. They’re up at six-thirty, out by seven and back at about eight in the evening. For a meal. Then they usually go out for a drink – until about ten.’
Ashley raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a bit close for comfort, I must say …’
‘On the other hand,’ the girl said, ‘they wouldn’t think of looking for anyone in the same house, would they? I mean, you’re probably safer here than somewhere more isolated.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’ He looked at her with new admiration.
‘Just as long as you’re not seen.’ She was looking at him sternly. ‘I’m afraid that means not going out. And no noise, either. It’s vital. You do understand that, don’t you?’
He sat up in bed and looked down at her. ‘I understand that very well – I understand the risk you’re running. And I’m very grateful, believe me.’
‘Fine, well as long as you obey the rules there’ll be no problems.’ She was so schoolmarmish that Ashley couldn’t help hiding a smile. She glanced up, saw his amusement, and flushed.
‘Right,’ she said tightly, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll get those clothes then.’ She brushed at her skirt with agitation.
He could see he had annoyed her. He said hurriedly, ‘Thank you. I’m really most grateful. And I’m really most sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.’
She hesitated, searching his face. Then she nodded slightly. ‘Don’t mind me. It’s just been a long night and – they arrested some people.’
Ashley said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
She went on, ‘Three people, two local and one from – elsewhere. It could have been worse, of course. We’re grateful there weren’t more.’
Ashley thought for a moment. He said, ‘Did these people know about the beach, about our visits …?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘So—’ He didn’t know how to put it ‘– so the Germans might extract the information from them.’
She hesitated. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Then … that beach might be risky. Well,’ he said brightly, ‘there must be other beaches near here! We’ll arrange a pick-up as soon as possible and get ourselves off your hands!’
She nodded briefly, then frowned. ‘There’s only one problem. One of the men arrested was the leader – he was the one with access to the wireless operator, somewhere near Paris. It’ll take time to set up another link, particularly if the wireless operator has to go into hiding, or gets caught …’
Ashley sighed heavily. He didn’t like the idea of being cooped up here for any length of time. All he wanted was to get back to his boat; he hated to think of the old tub being commanded by anyone else, even if it was Jimmy Macleod. He hated, too, the prospect of not being able to move around, of being a virtual prisoner. He looked around the room with dismay: it was tiny. What the hell was he going to do all day?
The girl had come closer. She said softly, ‘I’m sorry. It’s going to be rotten for you, stuck up here all day long. But I’ll bring you some books – some English books. And I’ve got a cribbage board—’ She shrugged. ‘If you play, of course.’
He looked at her and grinned. ‘Under the circumstances, I’ll be glad of anything, anything at all!’
She smiled back and he thought how lovely she looked when she was happy.
Then, suddenly, he had it. Where he’d seen her before. Plymouth! He’d met her in Plymouth – the girl who’d come sailing with him that day! How extraordinary!
His stare had flustered her; she was turning to walk away.
‘Wait a minute!’ he exclaimed. ‘D’you realise we’ve met before?’
Julie’s heart sank. She’d known, from the moment she’d looked into his eyes, that she had met him before. It had taken her some minutes to fix the exact time and place. But then she’d remembered it all: the sunny afternoon, the boat, the sail round the harbour.
And now her heart sank because she wanted it forgotten and he had remembered.
She turned and said lightly, ‘Oh yes?’
He smiled. ‘Absolutely! You came sailing with me. Around Plymouth Sound.’
She inclined her head. ‘Oh really?’
‘Yes.’ He looked rather surprised that she hadn’t remembered. ‘In
Dancer – my 25-footer … Don’t you remember?’ He put on a half-hurt half-amused expression.
She nodded, as if it had just come back to her. ‘Oh yes. I think I remember now. It was such a long time ago …’
‘Yes, I suppose it was,’ he laughed. His expression changed and he said, ‘But what are you doing, living here?’
‘My family – they live here. My uncle and aunt.’
‘And the child, is that yours?’
Julie hesitated. She didn’t want him to know anything about Peter, nothing at all. She said abruptly, ‘Yes.’
‘How old is he – or is it a she?’
Julie went cold. Now the questions – next the mathematics. It wouldn’t take him long to work it out. She thought quickly and decided it might be all right if she took a few months off. ‘Five. His name is Pierre. He’s at school.’ She wasn’t lying about his name: ever since the Occupation she’d made sure he was known by the French version of his name.
‘Well, I look forward to meeting him, if only to tell him I’m very sorry for pinching his bed. He wasn’t too put out, I hope?’
‘No.’
‘Still, it must have been rotten going into a cold bed.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’ She saw that he was about to ask another question and, indicating the mug on the floor, she said quickly, ‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’
He exclaimed, ‘Oh!’ And beat his hand against his head in an exaggerated gesture of stupidity. He looked at her, his eyes twinkling, and said, ‘I promise to be a better guest in future!’
She smiled faintly and turned to go down the stairs.
He called softly, ‘And your husband? Is he here?’
She paused at the first stair and, not looking at him, said, ‘No, there’s no husband.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry. I—’
Julie immediately wished she hadn’t said it. He would think she had a husband who was killed in the fighting. But it would be a mistake to explain further; it would mean telling less than the truth, and she hated lying. Instead she murmured, ‘I’ll go and get those clothes then.’
‘Thanks. And one more thing!’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Julie.’ Immediately she realised that this too had been a mistake. The less he knew about her the better, in case he was caught. She decided she was hopeless at all this intrigue.
He was smiling. ‘Of course. Julie. What a lovely name. I remember it now. You’ve probably forgotten my name too. After all, why should you remember it! Anyway it’s Richard. Richard Ashley.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I remember now.’ She started down the stairs.
‘Oh, and Julie.’ His voice was very soft now.
She stopped, a strange feeling in her throat. It was the way he had spoken her name: so familiar, even intimate. She swallowed, ‘Yes?’
‘I will try to be good.’ He sighed. ‘But I’m not used to being cooped up. It’s going to drive me quietly bonkers, I’m afraid. And not knowing what’s happened to my ship doesn’t help, either. For all I know they might have met an E-boat on the way out … Look – if I get bloody impossible or moan and gripe too much, just tell me I’m being tiresome, will you? Just be firm with me, and I’ll behave. Honestly!’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll tell you.’
‘Thanks! And,’ he added solemnly, ‘for my part, I promise to obey the rules. To the letter, ma’am!’ He touched his forehead in a mock salute and then smiled, just a little sheepishly, an apologetic expression on his face.
He was making fun of her, she knew. But it was impossible to take offence: he had done it so amiably. And his eyes – they were so nice and friendly. She couldn’t be angry with him.
Instead she smiled at him and, blushing slightly, went quickly down the stairs.
Chapter 18
YOU COULD TELL Americans anywhere, Vasson decided. They looked different in every way. There was the colouring – often blue-eyed and fair-haired, rather like the Germans themselves; the height – many of them were well over six feet tall; and, most telling of all, the well-fed look. Somehow people who ate lots of meat looked different from those who ate bread and starch: in fact, they looked rather like the fat cattle they ate. They sat differently, too, lounging on the train seats instead of sitting upright as the Europeans did. Some even had bright yellow nicotine stains on their fingers: something you never got from French and Belgian cigarettes. It was only because the Germans were so blind to anything but pieces of paper that these obviously alien creatures could travel on trains at all.
There were six of them, sitting in different places around the open carriage. All were airmen who’d ditched over Belgium and been found by ‘friends’.
They were travelling to Paris, where they would be transferred to a south-bound train. Vasson was their courier. Eventually they would be led over the Pyrénées into Spain.
Or so they thought. Vasson viewed them with contempt: they were so naive, these people. They had no idea at all.
There was also a seventh man. The Americans thought he was Czech and a pilot in the RAF. They were almost right about the first bit – in fact, he came from the Czech– German border. But they were quite wrong about the second bit. The man did not work for the RAF, he worked for Vasson. And he was going to tell Vasson every detail about the escape line, every courier and safe house all the way down to Spain.
It was a lot to ask of one man, but Vasson had spent four weeks briefing him. He had also arranged for his wife and child to be placed under arrest, just in case.
Vasson glanced round the carriage again. One of the flyers – a young, fresh-faced boy with an awful American haircut – winked at Vasson. Vasson stared back coldly. The boy had been a problem ever since Brussels, when Vasson had taken the group over. The boy had started chewing gum, quite oblivious to the stares of the other passengers. Then he’d started to whisper in English to his friend. Vasson had had to separate them.
Now, under Vasson’s cold stare, the boy dropped his eyes and looked out of the window. There were no more winks.
They were approaching the Gare du Nord. Almost home. Vasson missed Paris very much; Brussels was dull by comparison. This was his fifth run to Paris, but he never got to stay for any length of time, and this visit would be the shortest yet. After seeing Kloffer he would catch the next train back. But for once he didn’t mind too much: Brussels promised a great deal of excitement over the next two days.
The train ground to a halt. Vasson stood up. The airmen got to their feet, their eyes on Vasson.
Vasson joined the throng of people leaving the train and strolled down the platform towards the barrier. He could feel the others following him. At the barrier there were two French policemen checking papers and two Feldgendarmen examining people’s faces. Vasson knew they would get through all right: he’d arranged it with Kloffer.
The gendarme looked at Vasson’s papers and pushed them quickly back into his hand. Yes: he’d been briefed all right.
Vasson wandered slowly into the main concourse and glanced around, as if looking for someone. He glanced casually behind him and saw that all the airmen were through the barrier.
He waited until they had all found him again, then walked out of the station into the Rue de Dunkerque.
There were only two people at the bus stop. Vasson strolled up and stood behind them. The airmen followed suit. Vasson moved closer to the Americans’ leader and muttered, ‘I’m off now. Wait for a girl wearing a purple hat. Bye.’
Vasson went through his pantomime of looking at his watch, glancing up the street for a bus and then, after shaking his head, moving away. The other Americans looked around uncertainly, wondering whether they should follow Vasson, but, seeing that their leader did not, settled down to wait.
Vasson walked back to the station, went into the booking hall and, very casually, turned back until he could wat
ch the bus stop from the darkness of the doorway.
The next courier was meant to pick up the passengers – or parcels, as they insisted on calling them – in five minutes. In fact she arrived in eight.
It was the same girl as before: a dark, rather plain girl with a permanent frown. She was wearing the purple hat. She stood patiently behind the group until a bus destination ‘République–Bastille’ came along. Then she moved forward to the front of the line and got into the bus. The airmen got in behind her.
It was the classic cut-out rendezvous. The two couriers never met, never saw each other and were incapable of identifying each other. Vasson smiled: doubtless the organisers were very proud of the method. After all, it worked very well – so long as everyone was on the same side.
As the bus drew away Vasson saw the Czech sitting in the back of the bus, staring calmly out of the window. He was going to be all right, that man. He’d deliver the goods.
But there was a back-up, just in case. It was only good for the first part of the journey, but if the Czech failed it would be better than nothing. He’d asked Kloffer to provide a tail.
He looked around for signs of one. There hadn’t been anyone in the bus queue, he was sure of that. A car then. But there were no black Citroëns in sight. The only possibility was a battered old Peugeot which pulled out from the kerb and went off in the same direction as the bus. Yes, perhaps that was it. If so, Kloffer was definitely improving.
The concourse was crowded when Vasson got back into the station and it took him some time to get across to the other side. The plain unmarked door was behind the men’s lavatories, next to the railway security office. But he didn’t go straight there. Instead he went into the lavatories, glancing behind him as he went. No-one. He used the urinal and went out into the concourse again. This time he paused and took a good look round. Still no-one. He’d known there wouldn’t be, but it was always best to make sure.
He strolled towards the unmarked door, took one last look, and slipped inside.
Kloffer was there, waiting.
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