He’d grunted – surprised, for a moment… Rock of a man not all that quick on the uptake, she mentally noted…
‘Will you come here – now? We could have something to eat?’
‘Oh, I’d love to, but—’
‘Uh?’
‘Michel dear, it’s so late!’
‘Late?’
‘The curfew, darling. And by the time I’ve cleaned up and changed – have to, I’ve ridden about a hundred kilometres today – frankly, I’m exhausted!’
Two tarts on their way out stared at her as they passed. Skinny legs under short skirts, wooden shoes clacking on the linoleum. All the lads would be in town of course, tonight. César was agreeing reluctantly, ‘All right – so come tomorrow. As early as you like, but you could lunch with me here, or—’
‘Can’t wait. Lots to tell you, darling…’
‘Went well, did it?’
‘Very well. Except I missed you—’
‘Anything about our mutual friend?’
‘Yes, it’s all fixed.’ The tarts were in the doorway to Ursule’s apartment, and one of them was listening. And over this telephone line, anyone might be listening… Rosie told him, ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll—’
‘Talking to him tonight, d’you expect?’
‘I don’t know. Might try, later. Anyway—’
‘He’s got to be told, hasn’t he – as soon as possible, surely. And perhaps now he’d consent to talk to me – might join us tomorrow, if you asked him nicely?’
‘I’ll ask him -if I get him.’
‘Another thing is I’d like a list of the new customers you’ve found. The whole business. When you can?’
The idea was highly unattractive. But she agreed – ‘All right. If I can stay awake that long.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily have to be done tonight, Jeanne-Marie.’
‘All right. I dare say… But Michel – darling – I really must go and have a bath, while the water lasts. So—’
‘It’s finished, honey!’ The tart in the doorway had called this to her. Adding – by way of explanation – ‘It’s Saturday, after all!’
She sighed, turning away. ‘Michel?’
‘Who was that?’
‘Just another – inmate. Says there’s no hot water left. Look, I’m going to run – it may not be completely cold. See you tomorrow?’
* * *
She did all her chores before turning in: including a repair to the bra that had begun to irritate. Laundering it then, with other ‘smalls’. The thought in her head meanwhile of having to put all those Resistance men’s names, addresses and other particulars on paper appalled her. Names on bits of paper could be death warrants. If she were stopped and searched on her way to the Belle Femme in the morning, for instance… There was a sense of treachery involved, simply in risking it. Not only those individuals’ lives, but their families’ as well: and they were paying her the compliment of trusting her, for God’s sake…
She wrote slowly, unwillingly. By the time she’d finished she was so tired she could hardly think straight. Preparing for bed, finding the suicide pill on the bedside table where she’d put it before starting the sewing job: she barely remembered having put it there. The rice paper was intact but discoloured, somewhat. Sweat. All the long, hot days. Might not be such a marvellous idea – if it got really soaked. If sweat had the same effect that saliva was supposed to have?
Marilyn’s voice: Bring the beastly little thing back with you – uh?
She’d dropped off – almost. Perched on the edge of the bed: jerking awake again, and pushing herself off it – to attend to the window: light off first, then drawn back the heavy blackout curtains – she already had the sash window pushed right up, not only for air to breathe but with thoughts of the bombing raid on La Haye, the chance of hearing it. Straight-line distance being roughly twenty-five kilometres – thirty at most.
Conditions were good, for the bombers and for the drops. Very little wind, no cloud that she could see, stars paled by a nearly full moon. Leaning in the window, her head and shoulders out, gazing up at it: thinking of it as a bombers’ moon tonight, and that next weekend when it would be only about half the size it would serve as a Lysander’s moon. Thinking of which led her to that question of César’s – but there’d been no danger in it. A breach of the convention to have asked, but – she could hear it in her memory, an entirely conversational tone, and he’d made no attempt to return to the question when she’d hedged.
Exhaustion bred paranoia.
And the remedy for exhaustion was – bed.
And sleep. Like the surf on that dark beach – washing over her, washing her into dreams conjured by her last waking thoughts. Distant drumming of exploding bombs, flames reflected in the sky, and a few miles away – she’d got there herself, somehow – in the forest clearing with other dark, wordless characters grouped here and there, pinpoints of red torches marking the extremities of the dropping ground, and one torch unmasked, white, flashing the recognition signal into the sky. Lebrun, that was – his pale face upturned to the moon, the torch aimed at a single oncoming aircraft – black, twin-engined, blasting over in its own welter of deafening sound and the containers spilling out, ’chutes opening as the noise peaked and immediately fell away. Gone: but the loads swinging earthward, men standing back staring up to catch sight of them in mid-air before each crashed down shaking the hard-baked ground and was then surrounded by the dark shapes desperately bundling the masses of material and lines then humping the containers into the cover of the wood and to whatever transport they had waiting – a farm-cart, coal-lorry, forester’s tractor with a trailer… Rosie woke in the morning – having heard nothing, slept without moving from the moment her head had sunk into the pillow – with the thought in her mind that Lebrun would have seen to it, surely, that the villagers were warned: a whisper of unknown origin, family to family. She hoped they’d have managed that.
* * *
César hadn’t heard the bombing either, but he’d heard of it. By breakfast time everyone in Rouen had heard that the target had been a Wehrmacht ammunition dump at La Haye, part of which had blown up: there’d been one extremely loud explosion, apparently. It was also said that there’d been considerable loss of life. The younger son of the house, Gaston, had told César this when he’d brought him his morning ersatz coffee.
‘We’re less well informed, on Rive Gauche.’ Rosie had attended Mass in the Saint Sever church, breakfasted late and got to the Belle Femme in mid-morning: she’d been shown up to Monsieur Rossier’s room by the other boy, Emil. ‘All we heard was there’d been a raid somewhere east of here.’ She added, ‘Let’s hope the lives lost were all German.’
César stared at her for a moment. She added, ‘Not only as a worthwhile end in itself, but it doesn’t help us much to have our own people killing Frenchmen, does it.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ He changed the subject. ‘Did you get hold of Romeo?’
‘Sorry, no. Being Sunday – and having no idea where he lives. Catch him tomorrow, I expect. His pickup’s set for Friday night, by the way – Lysander, a field near Bellencombre. If you’ve got your map—’
‘Bellencombre…’ He went over to the briefcase which he kept locked, and opened it. He was wearing lightweight khaki trousers and a white open-necked shirt. Barely thirty, she’d have guessed – let alone the forty or so they’d said he was. He came limping back, opening the map. ‘Show me.’
‘Here. It’s a clearing in woodland, quite high. The R/V’s set for midnight, French time. I’ll go out there that day and be on hand to meet the new man – if they send one. I’d guess they will – wouldn’t you?’ He’d nodded; she went on, ‘The réseau leader there is a forester by name of Plumier, lives at Ardouval.’ She put her finger on the map again. ‘I spent a night in his house, he’d got some of the others together so I was able to kill several birds at one go. Did the same in a couple of other places too. Saving legwork – and time on the road is time o
ne’s exposed, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve thought it all out.’
‘Well. Common sense, really. Anyway this isn’t my first deployment, Michel.’
‘No. Of course…’
Looking at her as if she fascinated him. Although why she should have was a mystery. He was a far more experienced agent than she was, by all accounts. And Buckmaster’s blue-eyed boy. She thought, Perhaps it’s my damn mouth again… Telling him, ‘The other places, I had several together at once, were Neufchatel and a village just south of Amiens called Dury. The king-pin there is a cattle dealer by name of Mattan.’
‘As I said, Angel – although you didn’t exactly enthuse – I need to have all the names and details. If anything should happen to you – and with Romeo out of it—’
‘I know. I just hate putting names on paper. To be honest, I didn’t much like having to talk about it on the phone, either. Also I was – exhausted.’
‘I realized that. As to telephones, though – well, you’re right, but – frankly, Angel, speaking as a very experienced agent – one can put too many obstacles in one’s own path. Obviously, one doesn’t articulate certain words… Huh?’
It was true, she thought, as she remembered their conversation, that it could have been some business subject they’d been discussing… She shrugged. ‘Anyway – here it is.’ Unrolling yesterday’s Le Matin, which she’d picked up at Ursule’s, and flattening the curled sheets of paper which she’d had inside it. ‘Item one, copies of all the transmissions I made. This on its own gives you most of the story, really.’
‘Let me see.’
She sat back, reached for a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
A quick shake of the fair head: impatient, eager to read the stuff. The moustache still looked silly. When they knew each other better, she thought, she’d pick a good moment to suggest it didn’t really suit him. Or that he’d be handsomer without it… He was engrossed in the material she’d given him, narrow eyes sliding to and fro, diverting now and then to check a location on the map.
Finishing, he glancing across at her. Looking surprised – or admiring, or both…
‘This is a heck of a lot of munitions they’ll have coming in.’ Glancing down at the pages again, flicking through them… ‘What, a dozen different groups here?’
‘Eleven. It’s been some time, remember, since they had anything. And the closer we get to the invasion the more they’re anxious to stock up. Incidentally, there’ll have been two drops last night, under cover of the La Haye bombing.’ The slit eyes glared at her.
‘Last night? Last night, Angel? Drops you arranged?’
‘Not exactly. London did, before I came out. All I had to do was tip the boys off to be ready for it. I did that the weekend before you arrived.’
‘And decided not to mention it to me?’
He looked angry. Really very angry: you could see it growing in him. She shook her head, holding his stare. ‘It was done. On Colonel Buckmaster’s orders. If you’d been here when I arrived – but you weren’t, I simply got on with it. I’m sorry – perhaps I should have told you about it – but really, what for? Never occurred to me, I don’t think.’
‘Never occurred to you… Jeanne-Marie – I’m the Organizer here. Remember? Don’t you think I should know what’s going on? Are you working with me, or are you an independent operator?’
‘Now you’re here, I work with you. Under your direction. Obviously.’ She exhaled smoke. ‘Goes without saying. But why you should be – as furious as you seem to be—’
‘Furious…’ Still glaring… ‘Yes. Also – amazed… I’m your Organizer, for God’s sake, I insist on being informed of every damn thing that goes on here! What you do, or intend doing, or are told to do by London—’
‘Michel, listen.’ She’d got up, was standing at one of the windows, her back to it. ‘Let’s understand each other… I work under your orders – now. Before you got here I didn’t – obviously. I was under orders from Baker Street. What’s more, I was trained – as you must have been too, and both of us must have practised this in the field – not to provide people with information they don’t need. I certainly don’t want any I don’t need… All right?’
‘Well –’
‘Romeo’s case is relevant, isn’t it? He’s proved something – by distancing himself from all the members of his former réseau except the Organizer he’s alive although the rest of them are dead – or may wish they were… I think I’d like to work in much the same way – contact with you, no-one else. We could work like that, couldn’t we?’
He sighed, passing a hand across his eyes…
‘Yes, we could. I’d have no objection to that at all. But sit down, Jeanne-Marie. And let’s calm down. As you say – we must understand each other. I’m sorry – you took me by surprise – you’ll admit it’s unusual for an Organizer to be told after a drop takes place… I still think you should have told me. I take it, incidentally, that you’ll be following up, to check they got it all?’
‘No need.’ She shook her head. ‘If anything went wrong, I’d hear. Anyway – here’s the next instalment.’ A second sheaf of notepaper: she pushed it to him across the table. ‘The last two names on this are last night’s recipients. I met them both in Lyons-la-Forêt, in the schoolmaster’s house – as I said, the weekend before you arrived. I was looking for you here that Thursday, of course, and you weren’t here so I went ahead. Lebrun is the schoolmaster. Mousey little man, but he’s right on the ball.’
He was lost again, absorbed in her notes. His insistence on having it all on paper was justified, she’d realized, in a way. Usually you’d make one contact at a time, or at most two or three, and commit them to memory; she did happen to have an exceptionally reliable and capacious one. But César could hardly have managed this lot without having notes to refer to when he needed.
‘You won’t leave that screed lying around, I hope?’
‘What?’
Still reading… Glancing up then, a finger at the point he’d reached. Blank for a moment, before it sank in. ‘No – of course not.’ Eyes down again. Rosie watching him, her cigarette nearly finished, holding the stub between fingertip and thumbtip to get the last of it. Sounds of a brass band out there: some Boche parade. They were inclined to dress up and goose-step through the towns which they infested, on Sundays.
Music certainly not the food of love, she thought. More a cacophony of hate.
He’d finished. Shuffling the sheets together, folding them; his hands shaking slightly, she noticed. Glancing up at her then, hesitating – as if he was getting himself together… ‘Last night’s bombing was intended only as a cover to these drops, you said?’
‘Three birds with one stone. Hitting the Boche ammo dump at La Haye would have been a worthwhile effort anyway, I’d have thought. But listen, Michel – I’ve another thing to tell you about. Before you complain of being left in the dark again. When I met these people I wasn’t only collecting requests for drops and suggestions for dropping-fields and so on, I was asking them for something in return.’
She told him about the rocket-site research. Not mentioning Colonel Walther, of course, only the fact she’d asked for reports on any survey operations or construction work.
‘In fact this isn’t S.O.E. business, Michel, it’s S.I.S. Maurice Buckmaster agreed they could use me for it, and he suggested I should let you in on it if I felt I needed help. S.I.S. on the other hand made it clear they’d rather I kept it to myself.’
‘Buck’s the man I’d follow. He’s a great guy. Truly is. Did I tell you he came to my wedding?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘In Dublin?’
‘Well – no. But—’
‘It’s where my wife is. She’s there now. Out of the bombing, thank God … But are you saying you’ve found you do need my help?’
‘No. No, I’m not.’ She added – with a quick smile, softening it – ‘Thanks all the same… It’s only that we’re sure to
get messages coming in about it, I don’t want to have to keep them from you, so it’s best to tell you. It’s my personal brief, though, there’s nothing for you to do.’
‘All right… They’ll cooperate, will they?’ He touched her notes. ‘This bunch?’
‘It’s very much in their interests, isn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘And not only them – every réseau to the north and east, right into the Pas de Calais.’
‘They’re passing the request along – that it?’
She nodded. ‘Some reports may go direct to London, of course. That’s what I’ve asked for, hope for. But we’re likely to field at least a few here too – if anything of that sort’s happening.’
‘Yes. Yes – if it is… Anyway – as you say, it’s your personal brief, so – just keep me informed. Primarily, in case anything happened to you – and there’d be pieces to pick up… Meanwhile, Angel,’ – he patted her notes – ‘I must say, you’ve made a flying start…’
14
The moon was about full. Ben rode stooped low over the handlebars, using the shadow in the deep lanes close to their hedges, hugging the wrong side when that was the dark one: he was retracing the route by which he’d come with Vidor eight days ago, having to think hard to remember the twists and turns. Slanting right now where another lane came in from the left: somewhere ahead there, this straight bit, was where that truck had been stopped, the Demorêts’ farm.
Seemingly deserted now. No glimmer of light, except the moon’s on glass. Tall, straight trees like mourners: you’d expect owls, the flutter of bats, that scream… Pedalling on – legs pumping, heart pumping too, breaths harshly audible in his one good ear… Boche patrols were more frequent than they’d been a week ago, Boches thicker on the ground all over this peninsula and its immediate hinterland; Madame Durand had told him that she’d heard they were searching for weapons caches. Perhaps for the one cache which Vidor had decided should be left where it was. So what chances of survival this L’Abervrac’h pinpoint might have, God knew.
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