by Conor Bender
A German corporal motioned for them to stop.
“Dammit, Oberleutnant Amsel is with them.”
“Who?”
“He’s in charge of the detachment that patrols this region. He’s a pig.”
Cutter looked around the squad of Germans and spotted Amsel. He stood out easily, not only with his Oberleutnant boards on his collar, but also because he was tall, blond, and blue-eyed; the perfect Aryan. Cutter could tell he had seen Talia as he strode over to the passenger window and motioned for Talia to role the window down.
“Mademoiselle Crevier, how nice to see you.” Amsel leaned into the window aperture. He smelled nauseatingly of cologne, and wasn’t afraid to invade Talia’s personal space.
“Oberleutnant, it’s been too long. How are you?” Talia broke into a friendly smile. Her eyes shined amicably and her voice rose an octave, Cutter noticed.
“I am well, thank you, and who is this?” Amsel leered at Cutter. His lupine smile reminding Cutter of a Gestapo agent he once encountered.
Talia reached for Cutter’s hand and gripped it warmly and leaned closer to him. “This is my dear friend Olivier Deschamps. He’s come from Cherbourg to pay his respects to my uncle.”
Amsel frowned at Talia’s affectionate display. “Yes, I heard about his untimely death. I am so sorry for your loss.”
Cutter frowned. Talia had told him he had been shot by the Germans. This conversation was not how he expected a German officer to interact with the niece of a saboteur.
“Yes, a horrible way to die, burning in an automobile accident. But Francois loved to drive as much as he loved to drink. I warned him countless times of the dangers,” Talia said, for Cutter’s benefit.
“Indeed,” Amsel agreed. “Mr. Deschamps, how do you know the Creviers?” His eyes looked sharply at Cutter. The question was innocent enough, but Cutter saw it for what it was, an interrogation.
“My parents were close with Talia’s back in Paris. Unfortunately they were taken from me at an early age.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Oberleutnant said sympathetically. “Where are you staying?”
“With me. It has been too long since I have seen him; it didn’t seem right having him stay at an inn,” Talia answered, the tone of her voice further cementing the romantic nature of her relationship with Cutter. This received the desired effect from Amsel, who was visibly annoyed, much to Talia’s pleasure.
“Well, that is gracious of you. If you will please show me your papers, we can let you go.”
Cutter rummaged through his pockets as Talia searched her purse for her documentation. They both handed their papers over to Amsel. He inspected the documents and handed back Talia’s to her but lingered on Cutter’s. “Monsieur Deschamps, I do not see your pass to travel here from Cherbourg.” He motioned to one of his soldiers who marched over to open Cutter’s door.
“Oh! I have it right here. Sorry, I forgot I had it.” Cutter rummaged back through his pocket and quickly produced it.
Amsel took it with a disappointed look. The soldier stopped in his tracks and waited for an order from his commander. Amsel inspected Cutter’s documents closely, but couldn’t find an issue with it and returned it to him. Cutter took it and said a silent prayer promising to buy the forgers back at SOE a case of whiskey when he returned.
“Everything is in order.” Amsel motioned to his troops to move out of the way and waved them through. Cutter pushed lightly on the gas and the car rolled forward. When they were clear of the checkpoint, he pushed down on the gas and accelerated to a moderate speed.
“Well, he’s delightful,” Cutter said dryly as they drove, “and infatuated with you.”
“He’s incorrigible,” Talia said as she removed her hand from Cutter’s, her warmth and effervescence evaporating.
“He could be a problem.”
“I can handle him.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s from Bremmen. A bit of a narcissist.”
“I haven’t met a German who wasn’t.”
“He tries to come across as a gentleman whenever he wants to impress a woman, and has never forced himself on a girl, from all the reports we’ve received. He enjoys the hunt, as he puts it.”
Cutter tapped the wheel with his fingertips. Amsel sounded like an amateur. A man more interested in wearing a uniform than actually doing his duty.“Corrupt?” Cutter asked as he downshifted on the clutch.
“Not that we’ve heard.”
“Have you two ever . . . you know.”
“What?”
Cutter’s cheeks reddened. “Made the beast with two backs?”
Talia gave a disgusted look. “No, I would never let him. He is fun to toy with, though.”
Cutter nodded, the look of annoyance on Amsel’s face when Talia grabbed his hand stood out in his mind. “Maybe you should ease up on him. I’d rather not have him make life difficult for me because of jealousy.”
“Jealousy, why would he be jealous?” Talia asked innocently.
“Calm down, I’m not trying to get in your knickers. Amsel is self-infatuated. The idea of you choosing me over him must drive him crazy. The only way I see throwing him off is by playing off his jealousy for you.” Cutter blushed further as he said it. He was a good agent but lacked any grace when it came to talking to women. He always managed to say the wrong thing. They continued on in silence for a while until Talia turned and started to stare at Cutter.
“What is it?”
“You’re not very good at talking to women.” Talia smirked.
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re young, your face turns crimson whenever we talk about romance. Have you ever been with a woman?” She smiled coyly.
“Of course I have!” Cutter lied. In truth, he had never been with a woman, let alone on a date. When he had been at university he barely looked eighteen and was always mistaken for one of his friend’s younger brothers. Since the start of the war, little had changed and Cutter had never mastered the art of seduction.
Talia watched his face turn flush with rage from the inquisition. “It’s okay if you haven’t; it’s actually quite cute.”
Cutter shot her a glance but said nothing. She was toying with him. They arrived back at the safe house as the sun started to set. Cutter parked the car in front of the safe house and got out and opened the door for Talia. “We can worry about Amsel tomorrow,” he said, quickly changing the topic of discussion.
They walked into the house and Cutter made for the kitchen while Talia sat down in the living room; he started to inspect the cupboard. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. He grabbed a slice of bread from Claude’s bakery and tore into it. He walked into the living room still nibbling on the bread. “Is there a spare bedroom?” he asked, feeling fatigue begin to creep into his body. He hadn’t slept in 36 hours.
Talia’s lips pursed into a thin, unsympathetic smile. “No, just my room. You can sleep on that couch.” She nodded to an old dilapidated couch that sat along the wall.
Cutter grunted and walked back into the kitchen, took off his jacket, shirt, and pants and hung them carefully on a chair. Dressed in only a pair of briefs and an undershirt, he defiantly strode back into the living room past Talia and collapsed on the couch. Talia gave him an annoyed look but said nothing. Cutter grabbed and wrapped himself in a blanket that was draped over the backrest of the couch. “We’ll go back out tomorrow.” Without another word he drifted off to sleep.
***
The streets of London were slick with rain. The dreary skies were a welcome sight, as they offered the country a respite from the incessant bombing of the Luftwaffe. The citizens of London had survived much over the past year. The Blitz had tested the English resolve, but the people had proved to be unyielding. Hambro watched as a group of Londoners salvaged what they could from their bombed-out apartments. Not a tear was shed for their loss, Hambro noticed as he looked over their faces. They all had similar express
ions on their faces, a look of stubborn defiance and a refusal to let the Luftwaffe affect their way of life. Hambro continued down the street and turned left onto Baker Street. He spotted the four guards watching the entrance to SOE and nodded to the nearest one.
“Morning, James,” Hambro said as he walked past the guard dressed in plain clothes.
“Morning, sir.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“Henry had an old whore proposition him earlier, but other than that, nothing.”
“Didn’t he tell her he was spoken for?” Hambro joked as he walked into SOE. He took his bowler hat off, made his way upstairs, and was greeted at the top of the stairs by his secretary. “Good morning, Charlotte.”
“Good morning, sir. We received word from Bishop and Tiger last night.”
“We’ll talk about it in my office after I check the operations room,” Hambro said as he led her down the hall.
“Sir, Lord Mountbatten is in your office.”
Hambro stopped and turned around. “What the hell does he want?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Hambro tapped his bowler against his leg in thought and made up his mind. “Don’t brief me on Tiger and Bishop yet. We’ll talk after I get rid of him.” He turned back around and strode toward his office. He could check on the operations room later.
“Admiral, what an unexpected surprise. Belated congratulations on the promotion by the way,” Hambro said as he walked into his office.
Lord Mountbatten was already seated in one of the chairs in front of Hambro’s desk and looked over his shoulder and smiled at Hambro. “Charles, apologies for the unannounced visit.” He extended his hand to Hambro, not bothering to stand up from his seat.
Hambro deliberately took his time setting his briefcase down, taking off his coat and hat, and hanging them on the coat hanger. He turned back and finally took Mountbatten’s outstretched hand, much to the admiral’s chagrin. “So what can the SOE do for you?” Hambro sat down and adjusted his glasses.
“Well, after our little discussion with the Prime Minister, I’ve yet to hear anything from SOE in regard to Dieppe.”
“Why would you? My man has been there less than 48 hours.”
Mountbatten’s lips cracked into a Cheshire cat smile. “Yes, but due to the short timeline we have for planning not just this raid but the Saint-Nazaire one we really need more from you.”
“Dickie, I’m doing all I can, but what the bloody hell do you want from me for Saint-Nazaire? Generating intelligence for these locations takes time, and at the moment I don’t have any personnel in the area around Saint-Nazaire.”
Mountbatten nodded, a hint of annoyance etched on his face. “What about your man in Normandy? Can’t you send him?”
“No. Too risky, and it would raise too many questions with the Germans.”
Mountbatten nodded in feigned understanding and leaned forward in his chair threateningly. “Charles, SOE really needs to be more of a team player with Combined Operations.”
Hambro remained silent, not trusting his temper.
“SOE has been sandbagging or disregarding Combined Operations’ requests for intelligence repeatedly. Naturally, I assume that is due to the SOE providing support to British forces around the globe. But Charles, you heard Winston.” Mountbatten leered at Hambro as he used the Prime Minister’s Christian name. “Combined Operations is the priority.”
“Dickie, Combined Operations isn’t the priority,” Hambro replied coolly, “winning the war is.”
“Which is what we are doing,” Mountbatten snapped. “If SOE can’t support us then perhaps we need to narrow your scope of tasks to ensure you can accomplish your missions.”
Hambro smirked and took his horn-rimmed glasses off and started to clean them. “Dickie,” he started, then paused and put his glasses back on. “If Combined Operations is a priority for the PM, then I will need a memorandum stating that. At this time I am accomplishing all tasks and mission requirements that the PM and the Chief of Staff task me with. If you have any issues or qualms, please see them.”
Mountbatten’s smile faded as he realized he had been outmaneuvered, but he quickly recovered. “Well, thank you for your time, Charles, and the clarification. I hope to be seeing more of your reports.” He stood and acknowledged Hambro, not willing to loiter in his defeat. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must be going.”
Hambro nodded but didn’t bother to stand up and walk him out. “Always a pleasure, Dickie. If you need anything at all, don’t be afraid to let us know.”
Mountbatten nodded and strode out of his office, ignoring Hambro’s secretary as she gave him his hat.
“Shit,” Hambro mumbled once his office was empty.
“What was that about, sir?” Charlotte asked from the open doorway.
“I swear to God, politicians will end this country,” Hambro groaned and started in on a stack of papers on his desk. “Charlotte, I need a meeting with the PM as soon as possible.” He looked down at the papers and back at Charlotte. “Damn. Brief me on Tiger and Bishop in an hour. I need to whittle this paperwork down first.”
***
The smell of eggs wafted through the house. When Cutter woke, he spotted Talia in the kitchen. Her long brown hair was down her back and covered half of her robe. She hadn’t dressed yet; her feet and legs were bare. She had a nice body, Cutter thought, eyeing her shapely alabaster legs as she made breakfast. He silently stood up from the couch, stalked into the kitchen, and grabbed his trousers and put them on. “Smells good,” he said as he strapped on his belt.
Talia turned her head and smiled thinly. “Sit down, I’ll make you a plate.”
“I’m getting breakfast?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Talia asked as she put a plate in front of him.
Cutter eyed the eggs suspiciously, but grabbed a fork. He dug into the eggs and wolfed them down quickly.
“Would you like some more?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll eat in a moment.” Talia smiled. She leaned forward with the pan and shoveled some more eggs onto his plate. As she did, her robe dropped slightly, exposing the top of her breasts to him.
Cutter couldn’t help but stare. His eyes transfixed on the low cut of her robe. His eyes slowly drifted up and saw her smirking. She was toying with him. Cutter glared at her but she pretended not to notice. She continued to move about the kitchen, the thin fabric of her robe stretching and pressing to her body as she leaned over the sink or reached for something in the cupboard.
Cutter watched her movements and realized she was trying to bait him. It was all an act after seeing him fumble around the other day trying to interact with her. In the night she must have realized that his floundering behavior was something she could exploit. Cutter watched a moment longer as she bent over to pick something up from the floor. Her robe rising up along her pale hips. He frowned and set his utensils down on the plate.
“We need to get ready,” he grunted as he stood up. “Get dressed.”
Talia turned and smiled, relishing Cutter’s annoyance. “I’ll go change and we can leave.”
Cutter nodded and started to get ready. As soon as she went upstairs he walked into the kitchen and checked the cabinets for his pistol and found it where he had left it. He checked the magazine; the rounds were still there. Was he being paranoid? No, paranoid was what had kept him alive so far. She was trying to get in his head. Unfortunately for him, it was working. He walked over to the sink and stuck his head under the facet and turned it on, letting the icy water clear his mind. Watching her turn on the charm with Amsel, and how she handled a pistol, left little doubt in Cutter’s mind that she was more dangerous than she let on. He grabbed a towel and dried his head vigorously. The thought of Victor bubbled to the forefront of his brain and Cutter wondered if he’d be able to kill Talia if necessary. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. He was so close to the end, to being done with fieldwork. Now wasn’t the tim
e to lose it over some girl. All he had to do was keep his nose clean and he’d be back in England in no time. He started to button his shirt, the memory of Victor’s head caved in by the bullet in his skull lingering on his mind. Cutter fumbled with the buttons as his hands started to shake.
He looked down at his trembling hands in revulsion. “I’m a bloody coward.” He struggled to finish buttoning his shirt but as he fumbled with the buttons the memory of Freddy congratulating him on his escape made him queasy. He stopped what he was doing and took a deep breath. How did anyone before him survive as a spy? The high risk, low life expectancy, and diminishing reward made him wonder why anyone would volunteer in the first place.
The memory of how one of his college professors approached him about joining the SOE flickered through his mind. The promise of adventure and a solid recommendation for graduate school after the war being the bait Cutter took. “You silly bastard.” He had certainly gotten his fill of adventure, and at this point, graduate school was the last thing he cared for. Had he known joining the SOE would be a Faustian bargain, perhaps he would have done things differently. Maybe. He slowly resumed buttoning his shirt, his mind shifting back to the here and now. It didn’t pay to dwell on past choices. Do your job. Victor’s last words came back to him. He was right, Cutter thought. No point reminiscing about past mistakes. But what about Talia? He thought they had come to a shaky truce the other day. But with the way she was behaving, Cutter couldn’t help but wonder if her intentions were more than just to help him. What was she playing at?
Talia came down a few moments later. She was dressed in a blue sheer dress and a white cardigan. Cutter deliberately ignored her appearance and led her out of the safe house, managing to dodge Madame Delacroix. Talia reached for Cutter’s hand, catching him off guard. “Lovers, remember,” she muttered as they walked toward the town center.
Cutter nodded and grudgingly accepted her hand. Her quick acceptance of playing the role was off-putting. Was she doing this because Cutter had convinced her to help, or was she trying to keep him off balance? He doubted he would ever get an honest answer to that question. They ambled down the lane out onto the main street of the town without a word. Silence being the mutually approved preference when it was just the two of them.