The Monte Cristo Cover-Up

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  The senior pilot glanced around and nodded at him. Thomas Lieven took out his old-fashioned gold repeater from the pocket of his overalls and pressed the spring: 0028 hours.

  The wireless operator helped him to drop a bulky package, also equipped with a parachute, through the trap. Thomas shook hands with him and followed the parcel.

  Crouching as he had been taught, Thomas swore an oath. If I ever get out of all this, he told himself, and meet Dantes Villeforte anywhere again on this earth, 111 avenge you, Chantal, 111 avenge you. He added aloud, foolishly enough: "I love you so much, Chantal."

  Then he spread his arms wide and jumped toward the left-hand wing of the aircraft, out into the dark night.

  Below he could see two fires glowing in a small glade and the red dots of three pocket torches.

  During the next ten seconds of the drop he thought, 111 have to land in the triangle formed by those red dots. The clearing is free of trees there. If I don't land in that triangle it's highly probable I shall get an oak branch in the .. . My God, and this month I shall be thirty-four! Steer a bit with the arms now. That's fine, I'm over the triangle again. Those decent French partisans down there with their red torches think I've been sent to them by Colonel Buckmaster in London. If they had the slightest idea that I've been sent to them by Admiral Canaris in Berlin—

  During the last ten seconds of the drop he thought, A walrus mustache like this is just about the most repulsive thing on earth, really. The hairs are always getting into one's mouth. And then these long sideburns those Intelligence characters made me grow. Typical secret service idiocy! They think a walrus mustache and sideburns make me look English. As if a genuine English captain intending to drop into German-occupied France on a secret mission wouldn't immediately shave off his sideburns and walrus mustache in order to look less English! Imbeciles, the whole lot of them. They can all...

  Thomas Lieven, alias Captain Everett, came to earth with a painful thump, face downward, with a fair amount of mustache hairs in his mouth. But he remembered at the very last moment to swear in English, not German.

  Then he rose slowly to his feet. Four people stood before him in the light of the two flickering fires. There were three men and one woman. They all wore wind jackets.

  The woman was young and pretty. She had fair hair drawn strictly back from her forehead. The cheekbones were high, the eyes slanting and the mouth attractive.

  One of the three men was short and fat, one tall and thin and one as shaggy as a Stone Age specimen.

  The short, fat man addressed Thomas in English. "How many rabbits has my mother-in-law got in her garden?"

  Thomas replied with a marvelous Oxford accent: 'Two white, eleven black and one piebald. They must soon go to Fernandel. The hairdresser's already waiting for them."

  "Do you like Tchaikovsky?" the severe-looking blonde asked in French. Her eyes glittered and her teeth gleamed in

  the reflected light of the fire beside her. She was holding a heavy pistol at the ready.

  He replied dutifully, in French but with an English accent, uttering the sentence Colonel Werthe had taught him in Paris at the last momeiSt. "I prefer Chopin." This statement seemed to satisfy the blonde, who put away her murderous tool. The stout little man demanded: "Can we see your papers?"

  Thomas handed them his forged papers. The tall thin partisan announced with an air of authority: "That will do. Welcome, Captain Everett."

  They all shook hands with him vigorously.

  So it's as easy as that, thought Thomas. If I ever allowed myself to play such silly games on the London Stock Exchange for a single day I'd be flat broke the same evening, that's certain.

  [9]

  It really had not been so very difficult to carry out the plan. German Intelligence had discovered that a new and strong resistance group of French partisans had been organized in the highly picturesque woodland region on the other side of the Creuze Valley. The group was called the Crozant, after the small village of that name south of Gargilesse.

  The Crozant group was most anxious to get in touch with London and go into action against the Germans under British orders. Its members were peculiarly dangerous because they operated in territory almost impossible to control and full of important railways, roads and power stations. Ravines and rocky hills impeded any serious counteraction by the Germans, even with tanks.

  The new group had affiliations with that of Limoges, which possessed a transmitter and communicated regularly with London. But the wireless operator was a double agent who also worked for the Germans. It was through him that German Intelligence in Paris learned of the desire of the Crozant group to possess its own transmitter.

  The treacherous wireless operator who had told the Germans instead of London what the Crozant group wanted next received messages which purported to come from London but really emanated from German Intelligence in Paris. These messages requested the Limoges group to inform that of Crozant about the projected arrival of a Captain Robert Almond

  Everett by parachute over a glade in the Crozant woods shortly after midnight on April 4, 1943.

  "Where is the parachute we dropped with the radio equipment?" asked Thomas Lieven in his new character as Captain Everett He was anxious about the apparatus in question. German technicians had been working on it for a long time.

  "It's already hidden," said the severe-looking beauty, who never took her eyes off Thomas. "Allow me to introduce my friends to you." She had a rapid, resolute way of speaking and obviously dominated the men just as Chantal had dominated her own gangsters. But instead of passion and temperament the blonde employed a chilly intellectuality in exercising her control.

  The little fat man turned out to be Robert Cassier, the mayor of Crozant. The tall, shrewd-faced, taciturn fellow was introduced as a former lieutenant named Bellecourt The third partisan, a potter from Gargilesse, was presented by the mysterious blonde as Emile Rouff.

  Thomas wondered why that peremptory little fair-haired bluestocking of a partisan kept eyeing him with such apparent distaste. Or could it be that she was sensually attracted by him? She seemed a weird sort of creature in any case.

  The potter, heavily bearded and shockheaded, announced: "I swore nine months ago that I wouldn't cut my hair until that Hitler scum has been liquidated."

  "We mustn't be too optimistic, M. Rouff. I think it will be a year or two yet before you'll be seeing a barber." Thomas turned to the girl. "And may I ask your own name, mademoiselle?"

  "Yvonne Dechamps. Assistant to Professor Debouche."

  "Debouche?" Thomas started slightly. "The famous physicist?"

  "I expect you've heard of iim in England," said the blond Yvonne proudly.

  And in Germany too, thought Thomas. But I'd better not say so. He inquired politely: "I was under the impression that the professor taught at the university of Strasbourg?"

  Bellecourt's lean figure confronted him. The ex-lieutenant informed him in an expressionless tone: "Strasbourg University has been transferred to Clermont-Ferrand. Didn't you know that in London, Captain?"

  Damn, thought Thomas. That comes of talking too much. He answered coolly: "It's certain to be known, of course. Not by me, unfortunately. Gap in my education. Sorry."

  A rather uncomfortable pause ensued. Thomas thought, Sheer cheek's the only hope now. He stared haughtily at the ex-officer and rapped out: "Don't let's waste time. What's the next move?"

  Bellecourt stared calmly back at him. "Professor D6bouche," he retorted deliberately, "is waiting for us in the mill at Gargilesse."

  "There are too many Vichy militia about in the villages," said Yvonne. She glanced briefly at the ex-lieutenant with an expression which Thomas didn't like at all. I shan't have any trouble with the mayor and the potter, he thought. But those other two are dangerous. Very dangerous.

  "Who's the wireless operator of your group?" he demanded.

  "I am," answered the blonde, tight-lipped.

  You would be, he thought. Worse and wors
e.

  [10]

  Professor DebouchS resembled Albert Einstein. Small and slight, with the massive cranium of a scholar, he possessed a white, leonine mane, kind, melancholy eyes and an occiput of unusual size. He surveyed Thomas Lieven for some time in silence. Thomas forced himself to return the professor's calm, penetrating gaze. The effort made him feel hot and cold alternately, as he stood in the center of that mute group of five.

  At last Debouch6 laid botli hands on Thomas Lieven's shoulders and said: "Welcome!" The scene of this meeting was the living room of the mill at Gargilesse.

  The professor addressed the others: "The captain is all right, my friends. I know a good man when I see him."

  The attitude of the four partisans changed from one second to the next. After being so formal and taciturn they suddenly all began talking at once, slapped Thomas on the shoulder, laughed and became his friends.

  Yvonne came up to him with her eyes shining. They were sea-green and very beautiful. She threw her arms round Thomas and kissed him. He flushed, for Yvonne had kissed him with the passion of a patriot thanking a national hero. Then she said, beaming: "Professor Debouch^ has never yet been mistaken in his judgment of anyone. We trust him. For us he is God Almighty."

  The old man raised his hands deprecatingly.

  Yvonne was still standing quite close to Thomas. She said in a provocatively hoarse tone: "You have put your life at our

  service. Yet we were suspicious of you and that must have pained you. Please forgive us."

  Thomas looked at the kindly, white-haired scholar, the primitive Rouff, the laconic lieutenant, the stout, comical mayor, who all loved their country. It is for you to forgive me, he thought, all of you. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. But what should or could I have done? I wanted then and I want now to save your lives—and mine too.

  He had brought with him genuine British army rations, genuine English cigarettes and pipe tobacco and bottles of scotch whisky stamped "For Members of His Majesty's Royal Air Force Only." All these agreeable items came from stores captured by the German Army.

  The partisans opened one of the bottles and toasted him as if he were a hero, while he kept thinking how disgracefully he was behaving. The whisky tasted like oil. He felt wretched, now that they were all treating him like a friend and comrade, with the greatest respect and admiration. The worse of it all was that even Yvonne, the cool, intellectual Yvonne, looked at him in that way, with a moist gleam in her eyes and parted lips.

  "What we most urgently need," said the long-haired potter, "is dynamite and ammunition."

  "You have weapons then?" Thomas inquired casually. Bellecourt told him that the members of the Crozant group, about sixty-five in all, had raided two French depots and one German. "We possess at this moment," he declared with some pride, "three hundred and fifty French Lebel rifles, caliber, 7.5, sixty-eight British Sten guns, thirty German fifty-millimeter trench mortars, fifty German FN machine guns and twenty-four French army machine guns."

  Well, I hope you'll enjoy having them, thought Thomas. "And I nearly forgot our nineteen Hotchkiss models," the lieutenant added.

  "But there's no ammunition for any of them," said the mayor.

  Thank God for that anyway, thought Thomas. The old professor observed: "Well report the whole position to London. Could you now please explain the code and transmission data to us, Captain?"

  Thomas complied. Yvonne immediately understood the code system. It was based on much letter-transposition and the substitution of letter groups for individual letters. Thomas grew more and more melancholy as he reflected that he was

  responsible for all this, had hoped that it would work and now it was working .. •

  Switching the apparatus on, he said: "It's now five minutes to two. At two o'clock precisely London will be expecting our first message. Frequency 1773 kHz." The transmitter had been adjusted to that frequency by German technicians. Thomas went on: "You will always report as 'Nightingale Seventeen.' You will ask for Room two-thirty-one at the London War Office. Colonel Buckmaster of the Special Operations Branch will answer." He stood up. "Please take over. Mile. Yvonne."

  They had already encoded their first message. Now they were all looking at their watches. The second hand was approaching the last minute before two a.m. Fifteen seconds more, ten, five, one ...

  Now!

  Yvonne began to transmit in Morse. The men stood around her in a close circle. The stout, comical mayor, the lean lieutenant, the old professor and the long-haired potter watched the girl intently.

  Thomas stood a little apart from them.

  Well, now we're off, he was thinking. Can't stop now. God help them all. And God help me too.

  [11]

  "Whoops, here they come!" announced the Viennese corporal, Schlumberger. Seated with earphones adjusted before his receiving apparatus he began to take down the message. At an adjoining table Corporal Raddatz was studying with critical attention a French nudist magazine.

  He now rose and came to sit by his colleague, adjusting earphones in his turn. Both men scribbled down the text that was reaching them from hundreds of miles away, through fog and darkness, transmitted in dots and dashes by a girl sitting in an old mill on the River Creuze.

  The text corresponded exactly with the script which Schlumberger had before him. It had been handed to them by their strange new chief, Thomas Lieven, eight hours before, when he left Paris.

  "gr 18 34512 etkgo nspon crags" began the text on Schlum-berger's desk. The Morse signals being received on Frequency 1773 also read "gr 18 34512 etkgo nspon crags."

  "Fits like a glove, eh?" grunted the Viennese.

  "What about those guys in London?" demanded the other corporal, who came from New Cologne. "Think they're listening in?"

  "I doubt it, on this frequency," Schlumberger retorted.

  They were sitting in a room on the top floor of the Hotel Lutetia, headquarters of German Military Intelligence in Paris.

  Schlumberger's earphones ceased buzzing. He leaned back, then tapped out, as he had been instructed: "We'll be back."

  Raddatz growled: "Why don't the bastards give up? That's what I'd like to know."

  "They can't, George. Hitler 'ud stick 'em all up against the wall."

  "Hitler," groaned the other. "What's the good of talking about Hitler? We're all Hitlers. We elected him didn't we? Christ, I think we've all gone crazy with our 'Heil Hitlers.' Oughta think more, that's what we oughta do. And yell less."

  The two men went on talking in this not particularly patriotic fashion for quite a time. Then Schlumberger began to tap out in Morse, duly coded, the message his special task commander, Lieven, had left with him.

  from room 231 war office london to nightingale 17— message understood—welcome you as new member of our special operations branch—from now on report daily at time specified—instructions will be transmitted—we shall be collecting captain everett to-day the 4th april 1943—

  [12]

  "—in a lysander aircraft at dusk about 6 p.m. from the clearing where he landed—vive la franee—vive la liberte buckmas-ter—message ends." Such was*.the message in Morse decoded by five men and one girl in a mill on the River Creuze. After deciphering it they jumped up and embraced one another in a frenzy of delight.

  Just before three a.m. they all retired to bed.

  Yvonne had asked Thomas to bring the instruction leaflet for the transmitter to her room. He knocked at her door a few minutes later with the leaflet, which was printed in English, in his hand. He felt tired and depressed. He couldn't get Chantal out of his mind.

  "One moment," Yvonne called from the other side of the

  door. He thought she had probably already undressed and would be putting something on before opening the door. He waited a moment. Then he heard her voice. "You can come in now, Captain."

  He opened the door.

  His assumption had been wrong. If Yvonne had been putting something on when he knocked, she had taken it off aga
in afterward. For she stood there before him, in the small, overheated room, with its rustic furniture, naked as the day she was born.

  Oh, no, thought Thomas. No! This is really too much. First she suspected me. Now she trusts me and wants to prove it... no, no, I simply can't ... oh, Chantal, my beloved, dead Chantal...

  He put the leaflet on a crudely fashioned chest of drawers, turned as red as a schoolboy and mumbled hurriedly: "A thousand pardons, mademoiselle."

  Then he left the room.

  Yvonne stood motionless, her lips quivering. But no tears came. She clenched her fists. From one moment to the next her feelings changed completely. That miserable wretch, she thought. That cold-blooded Englishman. I'll make him pay for this.

  Between the opening and shutting of a door a woman ready for love had replaced it by deadly hatred.

  Next morning she had disappeared. None of the men knew where. They found a note in her room to the effect that she had gone on ahead to Clermont-Ferrand.

  The fat mayor lost his temper. "That's a nice thing! Who's going to cook for us now? Just when we were going to give you a farewell meal, Captain!"

  "Gentlemen, if you will permit me to do the cooking—"

  "Good heavens, can you cook, then?"

  "A little," said Thomas modestly. Accordingly, he prepared the only kind of meal suitable in the circumstances, viz., a thoroughly English one, though he knew he was taking a certain risk in doing so among Frenchmen.

  MENU

  (Roast (Beef, Vegetables and Yorkshire (Pudding CApple (Pudding

  AT THE GARGILESSE MILL, 4 APRIL 1943

  How Thomas softened up the partisans.

  Roast Beef

  A well-hung, boned sirloin is placed in a roasting pan, basted with plenty of hot butter, mixed with suet and fried quickly on all sides, then salted and peppered. The pan is then placed in a preheated oven at a high temperature and left to roast for forty-five minutes, with frequent basting. The heat is then reduced. No water should be added. The joint can be turned a few times. But during the last part of the roasting the layer of fat should face upward. When removing from oven do not carve immediately, as the juices will then run out and the joint will look gray. Leave it to stand for a few minutes. If the sirloin is baked on the rack, the drippings can be used to cook the Yorkshire Pudding.