by Robert Ryan
The train jerked, women squealed, luggage shifted and they were off. He glanced up at his case, but it was still on the rack, still full of the lovely tightly bound wads of francs. Enough to run the line and then some. So, a night in Paris, maybe at a decent hotel rather than Tante Clara’s spare room, a meal at Gérard’s place—out the front instead of lurking in the kitchen—a new suit or a shirt perhaps and then back to Lille and Odile. She’d seemed, for a few moments in Marseilles, a long way away, faded and bleached like an old photograph in the bright Riviera sunlight; now coming home, he felt an overpowering need to hold her.
Then he sensed a new emotion, one he didn’t even recognise for a moment. He wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the temptations of Lucy, the danger of the trek south or the giddy thought of all that money jiggling about above his head, the promise of a more comfortable life. Whatever it was, he knew he desperately wanted to marry Odile.
Sixteen
The Savoy Hotel, London, 1942
‘PERSECUTED.’
Claude Dansey wiped his mouth with his napkin and smiled. He had asked the man opposite him how he had felt since his return to home shores. It wasn’t the answer he had expected. ‘Why?’
Anthony Neave took another bite of the Savoy’s excellent steak pie and chewed for a second. ‘Think about it. You turn up in Geneva, having scraped across the border, and they stick you in a hotel for a few weeks while they decide what to do with you and check you out. You come back through Vichy France to Marseilles, where everyone thinks you might be a spy—Pat O’Leary sends his regards by the way.’ Dansey nodded. Quite why Guérisse should have taken an Irish nom de plume, rather than, say, Swiss, to obtain a neutral passport was beyond him, but the Belgian was unpredictable at the best of times.
‘The guides deliver you to Barcelona,’ continued Neave, ‘where the consulate treats you like a bad smell. They get you to Gib where you are told you have had the temerity to turn up on a Saturday afternoon when the consulate is closed and you are shipped back to Glasgow, then Liverpool and finally London, where nobody believes a bloody word you say.’
Dansey laughed. On the face of it the man before him, still showing signs of a prolonged bad diet, with sunken cheeks and poor complexion, was the kind of person he despised. Eton, Oxford, called to the Bar, a life of privilege, too much education by half. Yet his resourcefulness and bravery shone through, especially in the self-deprecating accounts he had given to all those Intelligence Officers who hadn’t believed a word he said—Dansey had read every report—where he was careful to praise his helpers at every stage, rather than draw himself as something out of Sapper. ‘I’m sorry there’s not as much meat as there used to be,’ Dansey said, pointing at the pie. ‘But at least the Savoy don’t use sawdust.’
Neave swallowed and smiled. ‘When you’ve eaten …’ He stopped himself, frightened of becoming a POW bore.
‘So the feeling of persecution has gone?’
‘More or less. I went along Jermyn Street and bought myself two shirts, a box of cigars, new cufflinks, tea at the Fountain … First time I felt able to let myself go without being consumed with guilt about the other chaps. The ones still in there.’
Dansey saw his opening. ‘That’s what I would like to talk to you about. How d’you fancy giving them a hand? Helping get them out. Stop some of them from being nabbed in the first place?’
Neave had been waiting for almost fifty minutes for Dansey to get to the point. He knew the man’s reputation. A complete shit. But this at a time when complete shits might be the best men to have around. ‘How?’
‘You know Jimmy Langley?’
Neave nodded. ‘I know of him. From Marseilles.’
‘He’s been working single-handed since last year … oh, damn, I didn’t mean that.’
‘What?’
‘Langley only has one arm.’ They both burst out with embarrassed laughter, causing a few other customers to sniff in their direction. ‘He’s a good chap. He’s in Room 900, in charge of escape and evasion tactics. We need someone who has actually done it recently to go in there with him—to add the practice to the theory.’ And someone who was his creature, he failed to add.
‘Room 900? Is it part of … Ba—’ He dropped his voice to the merest whisper, and used the accepted shorthand for the Special Operations Executive, an organisation he’d only been told about twenty-four hours previously, ‘Baker Street?’
‘No, it bloody well isn’t. It’s in the War Office. MI9. Don’t get carried away—it was a tea room up until Langley commandeered it. We aren’t talking big resources. But it is our show, not Baker Street’s. Your job will be to organise briefings—lectures, that sort of thing—for all the services and to keep the lines running as best you can. You, of all people, know the ropes.’
‘How many staff, sir?’
‘I just told you. You and Langley.’ Neave opened his mouth to speak. ‘It’ll grow. Actually, it’s three. You’ve also got a madman you will have to keep reined in.’
‘Madman?’
‘Clayton Hutton.’ Dansey lowered his voice. ‘Supposed to be a fucking genius. He produces escape paraphernalia—pens with compasses, shaving brushes with currency, a cigarette holder that’s a telescope—’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Everything all right, Mr Dansey?’
They both looked up at the maître d’, Neave realising that the man wasn’t using Dansey’s rank. ‘Excellent, as usual, Menetta.’
‘Some more wine?’
‘You have more of this vintage?’
‘For you, Mr Dansey, there is always more.’ He lowered his voice, exaggerating the Italian accent, ‘To follow, some ripe Stilton.’
As he swept away with a flourish, the temptation of rich, blue veins left hanging in the air, Dansey said by way of explanation: ‘Most of his relatives are interned on the Isle of Man. If he keeps me sweet he somehow reckons they’ll be better treated.’
‘And will they?’ asked Neave, regretting the question as it left his lips.
‘I doubt it. Some of the Italians are getting what they deserve.’ Neave had been warned that Dansey had a long list of dislikes, starting with Albanians and ending up with Zionists, calling at all stations in between. ‘What were we saying?’
‘I asked if you were serious about this madman.’
‘About Clutty? Yes, absolutely. Challenged Houdini when he was a boy. Said he could build an escape-proof box. Houdini got out, of course. Transpired he bribed the carpenter to make all the nails short, except two, which acted as hinges so he could push one side down. Clutty was furious when he found out. Been obsessed with escapes and illusions ever since. You can have him, you’re very welcome. Just try to stop him writing letters, will you? Must send a dozen a day.’
‘Who to?’
‘Who to? Everyone from Churchill down. Winston’—this was Dansey’s way of telling him he had access to the top—‘even wondered if he was worth the trouble.’
‘Is he?’
‘I’ll let you decide.’
Neave leaned back and took a sip of the claret while the maître d’ fussed with the fresh bottle. The warm glow coursing through him wasn’t so much from the alcohol as the feeling of purpose creeping back into his life. The thought of doing something—anything—for those in the Stalags and Oflags, and of keeping the RAF boys away from them in the first place, it was a sure way to expunge the last of his guilt. Mason had suggested that something along these lines be set up, some kind of blueprint for the captured, and he was, a resourceful fellow. ‘When do I start?’
Dansey ran his substantial nose over the quarter inch of new wine in a fresh glass, nodded and waved Menetta away before he answered.
‘Tomorrow. Langley’s expecting you. Well, I knew you’d say yes. Had you vetted already.’
‘Good. I mean, excellent. Thank you.’
‘One thing—you met Donald Darling in Gib, I believe. Well, Darling says he’s a bit worried about one fellow who ke
eps coming down to Marseilles demanding more funds. Chap called Mason or Paul. Did you run into him?’
Neave nodded. ‘Harry Mason. Yes. Bit of an odd sort …’
‘But?’
‘But he helped me at Calais. He’s got quite a few people down to the coast. No, I’d say he was a good thing, overall.’
Dansey wagged his finger in agreement. Was it worth mentioning O’Leary’s doubts? Probably not. ‘That’s what I think. I said to Darling, let him run. Let him run.’ Then, almost casually, he said: ‘Let Darling and O’Leary know you’ve given this Mason a clean slate, will you?’ Neave nodded. ‘Now? Pudding?’
Seventeen
France, 1942
HARRY WAS OUT OF breath by the time he had cycled to the brow of the hill outside St Doual, one of the highest points overlooking the marshy land on the Belgian border. It was an excellent meeting place. A thin copse of trees afforded some cover, while allowing the countryside to be scoured for approaching trouble. Right now though, there was just factory smoke and the whirling lift mechanism of the mines moving below. Mid morning, and honest folk were at work.
King was already up there, his coke-powdered car pulled over into a thicket. The ground was crunchy with frost, and both men shivered as they shook hands, King not bothering to remove his heavy leather gloves. As Harry took the flask that was offered and tipped a mouthful of cognac down his throat, he wondered if that was an insult. Shouldn’t one gentleman remove his gloves when shaking hands with another? He gave the flask back. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ King said affably enough.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ he lied, thinking of the communication from Dansey. ‘Congratulations, by the way, M’sieur Paul.’
Harry took another hit. ‘On what?’
‘Your marriage.’
Harry shrugged, wondering how he knew. He had carried out the promise to himself, although it had needed a false marriage licence, an out-of-the-way church, and a new name, since Mason had been thrown out like bait across northern France, to try to flush him out. Seeing his name—even an assumed one—on Information Wanted posters in the centre of Lille had not been a pleasant experience. The reward was so tempting, he almost considered turning himself in.
The marriage itself had been simple, once he had persuaded Odile that it was the right move for both of them. Because he was a protestant, it took place in the sacristy of a small church in the northern suburbs of Paris, with just the priest, bride and groom and witnesses, Tante Clara, Gérard, Thérèse, all in their Sunday best. The wedding breakfast was prepared by Gérard, and Tante Clara treated them to a sumptuous room at the George V
He had moved to Odile’s house between Madeleine and Monveaux and, give or take his occasional excursion south, was pretty much settled in a routine, half-working for the line, half for himself. It was almost a job, or the closest he had ever had to one, gathering the evaders, getting them to Paris, sometimes to Tours, now and then all the way down to Marseilles. But he never lingered down there. Pick up the funds—or petition for more—and back. He was a married man, now, after all. Had a wife to think of and responsibilities.
‘Thank you,’ he finally said to King.
‘She’s nice. Your wife.’
‘Look, can we get on with it? It’s freezing.’ Harry had on a thin overcoat—it didn’t do to look too affluent—whereas King was swathed in a sheepskin.
‘Did you hear about Hong Kong?’
‘Of course. It was months ago.’
‘Not the capitulation. About how the Japs did it?’
Harry shook his head, wishing he was back indoors. His ears were beginning to throb with the cold.
‘Maps. They had detailed maps of all the defences, all the troop deployments. Knew where to stop and fight, knew where to go around.’ Harry said nothing. ‘You know how they acquired that information? Barbers. Most of the barbers in town were Japanese. Barbers and tarts. Pillow talk … the oldest espionage in the book.’
Suki. She only went with officers. She was of mixed blood, all right, but, he realised with a jolt, the other half wasn’t English, it was Japanese. That was why she didn’t look European. Because she wasn’t.
She hadn’t wanted the likes of Harry, not out of snobbery, but out of professional expediency. A mere lance-corporal didn’t have enough information to be worth the effort. Mind you, such was his obsession at the time, there was no telling what he might have done to win her over.
‘You OK?’ asked King.
‘So, what are you saying? Never trust a Nip barber?’
‘I’m saying we want to do the same. In fact, are doing the same. We have barbers, whores, waitresses, secretaries, miners … all going on with everyday life, all reporting back to us in London, one way or another. All giving us vital information.’
‘Hold on, hold on a sec … what are you saying? You told me you could get all this gen by debriefing pilots. Are you telling me I’m redundant?’
‘Not completely. But most of it’s shit, Harry.’ King’s voice was flat and weary, full of regret, as if Harry were a star pupil gone bad. ‘What you are giving us is shit. Most of your pilots spent their time in a haystack staring up a cow’s arse, not counting troop movements.’
Harry forgot the cold for a moment, a fury flaring up. ‘Look, I did just what you said—I spend bloody hours making notes about cow’s arses—’
King raised a palm to silence him. ‘You heard of Edith Cavell, Harry?’
‘I don’t … the nurse? In the last war?’
‘Yes. She was hiding escaped soldiers when she was caught. What most people don’t know is that she inadvertently blew open a couple of intelligence operations. We are a bit worried that the same thing might happen. That if the Germans come looking for your airmen, they might find some of our people, their radios, their documents. They’ll get caught in the crossfire.’
‘What do you expect me to do about that?’
‘Keep the lid on them, Harry. Keep your precious pilots undercover. No little shopping or drinking or whoring trips to alleviate the boredom.’ Harry nodded. Such things were not unheard of. After a few weeks the evaders usually felt as if they were already in prison and needed to let off steam. ‘That’s how rumours start, and, sooner or later, rumours bring the Abwehr.’
‘It’s difficult to watch them day and night.’
‘I don’t care how you do it, but I want them nailed down tight till you can ship them out,’ continued King. ‘Nothing must be allowed that might arouse the Germans’ suspicions and start house-to-house searches. That’s all I ask.’ That’s all Dansey asked. ‘Look, if you have any doubt about a house or a village being compromised, turn the pilots in.’
Harry was shocked. ‘To the Germans?’
‘Yes, to the Germans. They’ll be well treated. Well enough, anyway.’
Harry looked at King’s chapped face and tried to read something into it, but it was blank, fathomless. King’s hand shot out and Harry flinched, but he was only squeezing his shoulder, the leather gloves creaking as he did so. ‘I know what you are thinking. God knows we need those airmen back home. But we need our people, yours and mine, Harry, to get on with their job as well. And they don’t get shunted to an Oflag, as you well know. The security service’s people get shot. So, as I say, if any of the flyers give you trouble by making a nuisance of themselves—’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘It’s all a matter of not drawing attention to yourselves. It’s like these sabotage raids.’ King knew that Harry wouldn’t know who the Special Operations Executive were, so he didn’t bother with the acronym. ‘Those jokers who blew up the synthetic oil works?’ King pointed at the smudge of a smoke plume in the far distance. ‘Lost a day’s production and got fifty hostages shot. Three of our people gone. Is that a fair exchange?’
‘I—’
‘No it isn’t.’ Like Uncle Claude, King thought SOE and SIS were pulling in opposite directions, and he w
as very much on Dansey’s team. ‘Softly, softly, that’s our watchword here, Harry. No explosions, no sabotage, just nice, quiet intelligence gathering. Look.’ He reached into his overcoat and brought out a fat envelope. ‘A wedding present. A bonus. Call it what you will. Buy the wife something nice.’
King punched Harry on the arm with mock bonhomie and walked off to the car, leaving Harry wondering why that light tap on the bicep was still smarting ten minutes after the spy had disappeared into the lanes of the cold, dull countryside.
The barn was around three kilometres from the home Odile now shared with Harry. Too near, really, but these great louts needed plenty of space to move around in. Put them in one of the tiny houses hereabouts and they were liable to explode.
As usual, that evening she cycled over to check everything was all right. She steeled herself for the normal complaints about the paucity of food, the stringiness of the chicken—a chicken! If only they knew how precious they had become—and the smell of the barn. Then there were those who wanted to party. Couldn’t she send a few female friends along? They’d treat them right. Maybe get a gramophone, some wine …
She smiled to herself. Her idealism about the brave flyers had long since been eroded. They were just a bunch of young men like any others, mostly decent, some not, a few positively dangerous.
She pulled off the road, locked up the bike and gave the rapid knocking signals before she stepped into an atmosphere of sweat and smoke. Most of the evaders still wore the uniform they were shot down in, and wouldn’t change until the last minute, just before it was time to move them. If they were discovered here, a uniform might make the difference between a train east to a camp and a bullet in the head. However, it certainly didn’t help with personal hygiene.
Styles, the oldest of the group, and also the most polite, leapt to his feet, pushing his fringe back into place where it stayed for all of a second before flopping into his eyes once more. ‘Hello, Madame. Any news?’