Blue Noon

by Robert Ryan

  ‘And the French? The men and women in those houses and along the railways? They’ll be shot or deported to Germany to die in some stinking—’

  King cut him off. ‘Harry. We have to try and see the bigger picture here. The greater good.’

  ‘The greater good? You think blowing my own line is the greater good?’

  King was behind him now, and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know this is an onerous task. London appreciates that as well. It is willing to make you an offer.’

  ‘I don’t want their money,’ he found himself saying.

  ‘Well, there will be money, Harry. My Brandenburger will pay a fortune for your line. A fortune. We’ll even let you keep it. London are offering something else, though. They are offering to expunge your file from the records. All of it. Harry Cole, con man, scam artist, forger, car thief, embezzler.’ There was a pause. ‘Deserter. Have I missed anything?’

  Harry laughed hollowly. ‘If I take your offer, you could add traitor and murderer.’

  ‘Traitor? Oh, no, Harry. Patriot, Harry, patriot. Look, the Firm will take you onto the books. Rank equivalent to a commissioned officer, salary paid into an account in London. You’d be going legit, Cole.’

  ‘Legit? You call selling out fifty, sixty people going legit? Jesus, I thought I was a bastard.’

  He turned to face King, the man’s features fitfully bleached by the distant muzzle flashes and bomb detonations. Acrid fumes were drifting across to them on the wind, the smell of high explosives. Up above the continuous low rumble of aero engines.

  ‘Thirty years ago,’ said King, ‘our generals had to send men over the top, knowing they were going to walk into machine guns. That millions might die. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. But someone has to do those kinds of things. And that someone is us, Cole.’

  ‘You. That someone is you, not me.’

  ‘Is that a no, Harry?’

  Harry grabbed King’s lapel with his left hand and he felt the man start, expecting a blow to follow, but Harry kept his fist down, if not his temper. ‘It’s a no. It’s a no, it’s a fuck off and don’t come near any of my people.’

  ‘Your people? Good God, Harry, I do believe you’ve gone soft on me. Is this the same Harry who lied and cheated his way across Hong Kong and France and London?’

  He thought for a minute. ‘No, I don’t think it is.’

  King took Harry’s hand away and said, regretfully, ‘Ah well, that’s plan B then.’

  Harry was about to ask what that would be when he heard the footfall behind him, the cosh landed on the side of his head and he crumpled into King’s waiting arms.

  Odile came home to the empty house, exhausted and wishing for once that Harry would be there with a cup of coffee. Instead, the fire was long dead, the house unwelcoming. She went upstairs, stripped off the nurse’s uniform, and washed away the clinging smell of the ward. The still-raw memory of a flyer flashed before her—the arm that ended in a jagged knob of bone, the face crisped by flame, the sound of lungs scorched beyond use. Dead by the end of her shift.

  There had been two other deaths on her ward, both old men, which shouldn’t have affected her as much as the young pilot, but they did. They all did now. She touched her abdomen. Maybe it was something to do with her new condition. How would Harry take that news?

  She threw water on her face, dried, slipped into a robe and padded downstairs, her wet feet leaving marks on the wooden treads. One way or another, Harry would probably confound her expectations when he found out about the child. But why should she expect Harry to be like other men? She knew what he was when she let herself fall in love with him.

  When she saw the flowers she burst out laughing. The bastard did care after all. A great spray of lilies in the centre of the kitchen table, a mix of pink and white, the rich odour filling the room. She picked up the note sitting on top of a tightly wrapped parcel, opened it and began to read, her smile fading.

  Twenty-one

  HARRY TRIED TO RAISE his head, but starbursts exploded behind his eyes and he gagged twice. Near him he could hear low voices, the words difficult to make out over the whump of ack-ack shells. The earth was shaking as sticks of bombs detonated to the north. He lifted his head again.

  There was a shape swinging in front of him, an oval of some kind, moving in the breeze. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes and it came into sharper focus. A noose.

  ‘Get him up and get it done,’ said King.

  Hands slid under his armpits and Harry was lifted to his feet. The fake Gestapo men cursed as he slumped his weight against them.

  ‘Do his wrists. Behind his back.’

  Harry tried to struggle, but his muscles would not respond. He was unable to resist as his hands were yanked back and bound. His knees buckled again, and not just from weakness.

  ‘You’re no different from them if you do this, King.’ Harry licked his lips. His voice was cracked.

  ‘I never said we were, Harry. We all fight the war as we see fit.’

  ‘Jesus—’

  Another wall of tumbling bombs tore open the horizon and the slash of flame turned King’s face crimson.

  ‘King—’ he started.

  ‘String him up.’

  The bag was forced over his head. Not here, not like this, not without Odile. He choked as the gag went round the outside of the sack, forcing the material against his nose, so he could hardly breathe.

  ‘They’ll think you betrayed your own people, Harry. And they took their revenge. It’s neat, you must admit.’

  Harry lurched forward, but rough hands dragged him back. ‘You had your chance, Harry. Negotiations over.’

  The rope slid down over his head and the thick cord slammed into his Adam’s apple, slipping and burning the skin until it settled beneath his chin and forced him upwards. He was on his toes now, almost begging for the moment when the creaking rope pulled him free of the earth and it was all over.

  Odile travelled to the address Harry had given her on the last tram into Lille before curfew, the parcel pressed to her body as tightly as she dared. She was so tired her head was swimming. She alighted from the tram at the outskirts of Lille, checked that there was a return in half an hour—again, it would be the last service of the night—and headed east, past the grand houses shuttered tight.

  The streets darkened as twilight slipped away and she wished she’d remembered to bring a torch. There was little traffic on the roads, just the occasional cruising saloon, one of which slowed to examine her, but she turned her collar up and quickened her pace. Up above, bombers passed harmlessly over the blackened city, their target the factories on either side of the Belgian border.

  What was Harry up to this time? Trust me, the note had said. That phrase always worried her.

  The house she sought was one of the smaller of the mansions, but still impressive, with Dutch-style gabled roofs, spacious grounds, and the kind of forbidding gates that didn’t need a sign saying No Hawkers, Salesmen or Beggars to tell strangers not to bother. She pressed the bell. She tried again, straining her ears to hear over the bombers’ drone from above. A crack of light from a door and a stooped figure walked down the drive, boots crunching on the gravel. She explained, as directed by Harry’s note, who she was, and the old Belgian retainer opened the gates and led her up to the house.

  Pieter Wolkers tipped the last of the wine into his glass as the woman entered the brightly lit room, blinking. He watched her take in the surroundings, the beautiful plasterwork, the freshly cleaned carpet, the oil paintings—none of them first rate, but impressive enough—his leather-topped desk with the prominent humidor. She looked tired and drawn, and not a little frightened.

  ‘Come in, sit down.’

  The woman approached quickly, but did not sit. She placed a parcel down next to the humidor.

  ‘Can I offer you something to drink? Eat, perhaps?’

  ‘You’re not French.’ Her voice was firm and she was less intimidated than he had
originally thought.

  ‘Half German.’ He watched surprise flick across her face. ‘And half Dutch.’

  ‘How did you choose which half to be?’

  Wolkers shrugged. He was used to the question. ‘Which side to back you mean? I am a betting man. Not a lot. Some cards, the horses. Enough to know how to add up the odds. Should I go with the countries that roll over and let an enemy army stream across their land in forty-eight hours? Countries whose armies do not fire a shot? Or if they do, it is their own officers they kill. Or should I go with the fastest, best-armed military force the world has ever seen? Let me see.’ He tapped his fingertips together as if in contemplation.

  She frowned, but not letting on it wasn’t the answer she expected. She was dealing with a Brandenburger, the enemy. Now she really didn’t know what Harry’s game was. ‘It’s not all about winners and losers.’

  Wolkers furrowed his brow. ‘If war is not all about winners and losers, what is it about?’

  ‘Right and wrong.’

  ‘What makes you think the Germans are wrong?’

  ‘Monveaux?’

  Wolkers went quiet for a moment. He had spent long hours justifying that to himself. ‘You want to read what Britain and France got up to in Africa. Or India. Or Algeria. Or South Africa.’

  ‘You believe it was the same thing?’

  ‘I believe it was worse in some cases.’

  ‘I believe it was a long time ago.’

  He shook his head at her naivety. ‘I really don’t care what you believe, Mam’selle.’

  She realised from the sibilance of the last word that he had been drinking. The sourness of the belligerent drunk was upon him. It was dangerous to goad him further. Now she didn’t care what Harry was playing at, she wanted out, quickly. ‘I was told there would be a return package.’

  ‘Indeed. If you don’t mind, I just need to check I am getting my half of the bargain.’

  He took his time opening the heavily taped parcel, snipping at the stubborn sections of string with a pair of nail scissors, until a thick notebook and a pre-war Michelin motoring map of France lay in front of him. He lifted a corner of the map, and grunted his satisfaction when he saw the red rings around certain villages, and dotted lines connecting them. He looked up and caught the stunned expression on her face.

  From the drawer of the desk, he took a large envelope of money and tossed it in front of her. ‘Deutschmarks as requested. Real ones, not Occupation, so be careful where you use them. I suspect your old life is over. I would think about moving. Tell Mason. We can help, of course, with relocation permits.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, I should arrange transport back for you, as it is after …’

  She was still staring at the map and folder.

  Slowly he said: ‘You didn’t know?’

  A sob caught in her throat.

  ‘You didn’t know what Mason was doing, did you?’

  Wolkers reached over and took a cigar from the humidor and, as usual, ran it under his nose. This was strange. The woman’s surprise was not faked. She was shaking from head to foot.

  There was only one way to be sure he wasn’t being played for a fool here, and that was to act on the information at once. He could have Abwehr teams mobilised in the north, and gendarmes in the ZNO, before midnight. And the woman? He pressed the buzzer on the desk intercom. ‘Georges? Yes, make up a room will you? Our guest will be staying over tonight. Yes, the Rose Room.’ The most secure room in the house. ‘I’m sorry, I will have to detain you for a few hours. Just while I check the veracity of the information. Then … you will be free to go. As long as there are no problems. Do you understand?’

  But the woman didn’t move, her body rigid with the shock of betrayal.

  Harry had lost all feeling in his toes, and his calves had cramped, but his shoes kept their precarious contact with the soil while the rope sawed back and forward on his neck, chafing his skin until it was raw. The air raid had stopped, the guns were silent, and he imagined the countryside dark once more, apart from the dull residual glow of scattered fires that he could see through the loose weave of the hood. How long had he been here like this? He had dropped out of normal time; he no longer knew whether hours or minutes had passed.

  His toes buckled and he felt his entire weight press against the noose, the air suddenly clamped off as his windpipe compressed. Harry desperately scrabbled for a hold.

  When he regained his composure and balance, he realised that the bindings on his hands were coming loose. If he worked at it, he could get his hands free. If only his legs held out. He found himself praying to Odile’s God, praying for the blood to keep pumping to his burning calves, just for a while longer, please Lord.

  Twenty-two

  ‘LISTEN, WE’D ALL HAVE a damn sight fewer problems if the bloody RAF could stay in the air where it belongs. Eh?’

  Anthony Neave joined in Dansey’s laughter, although with a growing unease. They were in the Colonel’s Alvis, heading up the A11 towards Newmarket, making good progress on roads empty but for the odd army convoy. For the first time, Neave noticed how many American vehicles there were, both USAAF and US army, and the numbers increased as they headed north.

  Neave stared out at a countryside distorted by war—every inch of free earth under crop, road signs missing, farmhouses almost swamped by sandbags, camouflage netting draped over the copses where vehicles had been hidden. He hadn’t yet gleaned why Dansey had invited him for a day at the races, but the Colonel had insisted he be at the SIS flat above Overton’s restaurant in St James’s by nine, and to bring binoculars. He hadn’t specified dress, so Neave had played safe and put on his uniform. Dansey was in a camel coat with velvet collar and a trilby. He was also in an exceedingly good mood, which, Neave knew, usually meant that, somewhere in the world, calamity was afoot.

  ‘Married recently, I hear?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Take some advice?’ For once this was a question asked rather gently.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell her what you do.’

  Neave was shocked. ‘I can’t, really, I’ve signed—’

  ‘Not specifically, you fool. Just make sure she knows that your work is of a highly sensitive nature. That you’re not just some desk jockey. Otherwise, all those missed dinners, late nights, weekends away without explanation, before you know it, she’ll smell a mistress. Be as open as good sense allows. There. Today’s sermon.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I will.’ Neave recalled hearing that Dansey had been married once. He wondered if he’d just been made privy to why the union didn’t last. If so, that made it a very strange day indeed, because you rarely got personal insights into the murky past of Uncle Claude.

  At the racecourse they parked in the members’ enclosure. The crowd formed a sea of blue and khaki, interspersed with USAAF olive and brown from the nearby airbases. Neave was relieved he had opted for his uniform. Those few men of call-up age wandering around in civvies were speared with withering glances by many of the servicemen.

  Newmarket was a course in reduced circumstances. Its perimeters had been sequestered as arable land, fences taken down, metal removed from the stands for recycling, and the number of meetings slashed. But at least it had avoided the fate of Epsom and Gatwick and Aintree, which had been closed for the duration. Most of the crowd had been bussed in from nearby military bases, the race meetings providing a useful pressure valve for the services.

  As they watched the horseflesh in the paddock, Dansey suggested that Big Game’s offspring would be worth watching and wagering on—especially as the horse had been sired by Bahram, the Aga Khan’s triple Classic winner. Neave asked him how he had acquired such detailed knowledge.

  ‘I was in the game for a while. Ran the stables for a chap called Bryan. American.’

  ‘When was this, sir?’

  ‘Late twenties. He wanted to win the Derby. Spent a fortune. I reckon we could have done, as well.’

  ‘But?’


  ‘He died. I was out of a job.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Went back to the only other thing I was qualified to be. A spy. Heard about Baker Street?’

  Neave shook his head.

  ‘Prosper network gone.’

  Neave thought he saw a shadow of a smile cross Dansey’s face, but when he looked again there was no sign. Prosper was the Special Operation Executive’s spy network in the French capital, run by Francis Suttill, an enormous web of amateur spies and their helpers.

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Whole of their set-up in Paris, bar a couple of strays. Disaster.’ Dansey couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice and Neave shuddered. ‘I told them, you send in clerks and teachers and dressmakers instead of professionals, you are asking for trouble.’

  Dansey rolled his form sheet and banged the paddock fence decisively. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s find ourselves a bookmaker.’ As they walked, Dansey said casually, ‘By the way, Neave. You’ve got some bad news of your own.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have a reliable report that one of your chaps has gone over.’

  ‘Over where?’

  ‘To the other side.’

  Neave slapped down a flash of fury. Why hadn’t Dansey told him before now? ‘Who?’

  ‘Mason.’

  Neave’s heart sank. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Gone renegade on us, Tony. Blew the line, turned in his wife, everything.’

  ‘Bloody hell. When?’

  ‘I heard this morning.’

  And Dansey had dragged him to the damn races and prattled on about bloodlines; fillies and the Aga Khan. ‘I’d better issue a warning about him, and find out what damage has been done.’

  ‘Got some of my chaps on that last point, don’t worry. I knew you’d want to call this outing off, Neave. But we all need a break. Thing is, wasn’t too sure about your Mason myself, nor was Guérisse, but, well … you vouchsafed for him as I recall.’

  Neave said angrily, ‘In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose I did, sir.’