Gone now – same way she’d be going.
Jake had murmured when saying goodbye – inside the house of course – ‘Good luck, Suzie. Remember now, ultra-caution.’
‘Betcha life, boss.’
‘I mean it, though. Couldn’t do without you. Have I said that before, or is it just so darned obvious I didn’t need to?’
He’d better watch it too, she thought. And be lucky. If they both exercised caution and had luck – well, who could tell, might really make something of it. Fingers crossed, on jolting handlebars; dreams could come true, had been known to. Not that it had to be mere dream, depended surely on how hard you worked at it. If you got the chance to work on anything. That you might call the ‘luck’ element – after which it would be up to you – if he felt similarly inclined, of course. She was around that corner now and into the straight where the forest sloped down to straddle it; then in a few minutes, having passed that little group of farm buildings and cottages – could see their chimneys now, and the road ahead was clear, that car having hurtled on – no problem there, thank God. Better step on it though: didn’t want to be in sight of other traffic when she turned up into the trees, and with the light going quite fast now couldn’t afford to hang around.
* * *
The dirt track left the road with branches each way, one to the right into vineyard and one left into the edge of forest. This one led back westward, roughly parallel to the road, before it curved right and began to climb – not all that steeply to start with, but enough of a gradient, over earth and loose stones, that she found it easier to get off and push. From the road when passing that morning it had looked easier than this. Still – making progress: one’s chief concern was the light, wanting if possible to get up there – wherever – and rig the aerial wire without having to use Uncle Bertie’s torch. Next thing then was that after about a quarter of an hour the track having passed over a ridge continued downward, facing her with the decision whether to stay with it, down into the dip – its depth in this failing light unassessable – before climbing the next ridge, or striking off through the trees along this one.
Didn’t need to be any higher, she decided. And it would be really dark before she’d have got back up to this level. So leave the track, follow the ridge eastward, install oneself somewhere on the wood’s eastern fringe, where when the sun rose you’d have a view down to the road on that side.
Leave the bike somewhere near the track here?
No. Hump it along. Imagine, if one came back for it at first light and it wasn’t there. Scruffy-looking female with tired eyes and a battered suitcase, begging for a lift – having been where all night, for God’s sake, doing what? OK, against that, how many potential bicycle thieves were likely to be prowling around in woodland miles from anywhere on a late November night?
Answer, mentally shrugging, not so many. But still – ultra-caution, Suzie…
Humping it along. Staying on this contour this way and that through leafless trees. It was less the awkwardness of the bike itself than the transceiver’s weight on its rear end. Would have to use the torch, she realised, to all intents and purposes it was already dark, and there’d be no moon. The monthly dark period only began tomorrow, but cloud-cover would take care of that in any case. Somewhat blundering progress – actually quite awkward, one way and another. So take it easy now? Had been expending a lot of effort, but mainly to beat the darkness, and you’d lost out on that, as far as time was concerned, the listening-out period began only at eleven, and it couldn’t be much after eight yet.
So stop and rest. Give it until nine, say. Get the torch out first, to check the time, then flop out.
Actually, nine-fifteen. It didn’t look all that much darker. Hefting the loaded bike again and plodding on. Simple enough strategy – get to the eastern side of this stretch of forest, see how it looked down there, if there was anything to see, then retire into the trees’ cover, set up shop and await the magic hour. About another half-hour’s slog now, she guessed, and then – hour, hour and a half maybe.
Might have made more sense to have left the bike back there near the track. As it was, she was going to have to lug this bloody encumbrance all the way back there at first light…
Jake had mentioned the moonless period starting tomorrow night. It must have been basic to the planning, timetable of events, the felucca’s arrival offshore and its boat’s approach, and the pick-up operation three nights later. Moonless periods lasting three or four days – which would impose its own time-limit on the Noé operation. But if there happened to be a change in the weather and a clear night sky, no matter. Only a little radiance from stars, she supposed. On the other hand, if the commandos couldn’t do it in the three days or four it might still be OK, with continuing cloud-cover. Moonless plus overcast would be the ideal – what Jake had called a belt-and-braces situation.
She’d asked Jake whether the felucca on its second visit would be picking up the German, von Schleben, and he’d cocked an eyebrow: ‘Really want to know?’
‘Not all that desperately, I suppose.’
‘Well, then.’
‘The other party goes over the mountains, does it?’
Because something he’d said recently had indicated that von Schleben and his Boche companions would be taking different exit routes. Which might be the safest or surest – sea or mountains – well, since he hadn’t been in a mood for answering questions – and incidentally there was now the likelihood of beaches being wired and patrolled… All he’d said then had been ‘Aren’t so many alternatives, Suzie, are there?’
Both lots over the mountains, maybe. German troops busy patrolling beaches that would now be unusable. They’d also be patrolling the Zone Interdite, of course – would be doing that already – as Marc had said, shooting at anything that moved.
Slight greying of the dark ahead of her, the trees’ vertical stripes blacker than they had been, against that background. And a detectable down-gradient now. Then from the straggly fringe of this strip of forest she was looking down over the regularly patterned expanse of vineyard: making out in the far corner close to the road a single-storey shack – or chai – stone-built and she thought most likely whitewashed, accounting for its visibility. No lights, she guessed it wasn’t lived in. So of no concern. Access to it though would be by way of the track on which she’d turned in from the road – if one had turned right instead of left – and where beyond a black line of hedgerow vehicles were still passing this way and that – mostly gazos by the sound of them.
OK. Orientation complete. Wondering whether at daybreak she might go straight down through the trees from here, rather than the longer route she’d come by. Maybe: but think of that when there was light to see by – how good or difficult the going might be directly downhill. For now, back into cover, assemble transceiver and rig up the aerial wire, remove overcoat, pull on sweater then coat too and wrap up in it. Sit then, drink some so-called coffee, maybe snooze.
* * *
What seemed to have woken her was a car door slamming – at some distance, but loud enough in the quiet of the night – and in the moment of waking, awareness of an engine having just been switched off. Petrol engine. To know this she knew she must actually have heard it, been listening to it maybe in half-sleep.
Stopped now, anyway. But – a car driven in from the road and stopped somewhere down there?
Unlikely, surely. Just stopped in the road, she guessed. Checking the time, which was ten thirty-two. Less than half an hour to listen-out time. It gave her a jolt – hadn’t reckoned on sleeping deeply or for so long. Three-quarters of an hour, roughly. Sliding the torch back into her coat pocket as she got up, pushing herself off from the tree she’d been using as a backrest, moving quietly to see what, if anything, might be visible down there. Expecting – brain more or less in gear by this time – a car stopped on the roadside, its driver most likely out of it for a leak.
Wrong. No car, and not in the road – a van, close to t
hat single-storey shack and with its lights on, lighting itself up – reflection of its headlights on the whitewashed wall: light also visible inside it, the rectangle of one rear door standing open. Had only in that moment been opened, was blacked-out now for a moment by an emerging human form, yellowish-glowing rectangle now visible again.
And a voice – male, and German-sounding. Answered by another one – a man passing through the headlight beams between van and shack. In sight again briefly before – no, still there. The van’s driver maybe, who’d got out and slammed that door – joining his friend who was peeing against the shack’s wall.
Yes – wasn’t their shack, must belong to the vineyard – French, therefore OK for a Boche to pee on. Both of them at it now – and both in uniform, light glinting on their caps’ peaks and insignia.
One of them had climbed back inside. Funkabwehr, she guessed – security police. And if she was right on that, it was a radio-detection van. Here, of all places… Thinking about it, though, not all that far from where she’d been on the air yesterday and Wednesday. Might be more than one of them on the job, at that, around the area generally. Not such a wild coincidence therefore. Second one lighting a cigarette: flare of match or lighter, then a pause while he looked around before joining his colleague in the van. Almost as if they knew about the 2300 deadline – which they might, come to think of it. Ridiculous – right here, almost in spitting distance: something rather more bothersome than ‘ridiculous’ though, seeing as she was going to have to answer Sevenoaks very shortly with Receiving you strength X, send your message – and the German listener down there, if he was on the ball and correct frequency…
Well. Might not be tuned-in in time. But in any case one did have to take in whatever was being sent. Hardball postponed, for instance, or the landing at some place other than Canet-Plage. Lives might hang on it.
But if there was a second van at work and they managed to get cross-bearings…
Might beat the bastards to it?
Time now 2254. Six minutes, if Sevenoaks came through on time. Might not, hadn’t always, even quite recently had not. She was backing into the trees: actually edging backwards as if she was only a few feet away from them rather than a few hundred metres. Then after a moment’s near panic – having picked the wrong tree then finding the right one and the set and flopping down beside it, muttering to herself – headscarf back out of the way, headphones over her ears and the Send/Receive switch to ‘Receive’… Time by torchlight 2257. Three minutes. Telling herself she needn’t give the Sevenoaks girl the strength of her transmission, just Send your message and let her get on with it: then not acknowledge, either, trust the girl to cotton-on and those sods down there to be still swapping dirty jokes or making tea, whatever.
Minute to go, maybe. Battery switch to ‘On’. Little red light, and a mélange of sounds in the headphones. Volume up just a little, whooshing noise mounting to a howl. Down a fraction: and fiddling with the tuner: interference still there but lower-pitched. Further tiny adjustment…
Sevenoaks calling!
Bless her. Bang on time. Picked the right night for punctuality, precious! Series of A’s going on longer than it need have, but —
A one-second pause, and Over.
Torch on and pad in place, pencil poised. Fingers of left hand inviting the girl to send her message – Over… A group of four letters had encompassed that, a ripple of dots and dashes that had taken about half a second. And getting it now – what she’d come all this way for – ten or twelve seconds’ worth was all it came to, before the familiar AR for Message ends, out…
Which one should have acknowledged with the single letter K – but she could do without it, and the bloody Funkabwehr most certainly could. Instead, battery switch to ‘Off’, and—
Nothing. Except pack up, be ready to leg it if she had to. Praying meanwhile that between her and the Sevenoaks kid they’d had it over and done with before those sods had even got round to switching on.
14
Baker Street’s message had been simply a go-ahead – no changes contemplated to Hardball Stage One. Jake had been happy with that – last-minute changes not being easy to cope with, with the communications problems – only initially puzzled by the absence of reaction to Rosie’s Friday-night report of imminent wiring of the beaches. Anyway, he and Rosie had unscrambled the message in her first few minutes in the house – Sunday, this was, lunchtime, in point of fact late lunchtime; she’d got back two hours later than expected and he’d been in a state of some anxiety. The nail-biting mode. But on account of her safety or lack of it: nothing to criticise in that. Relaxing now, in any case – she’d given him an outline of the night’s small crisis, which had led to her taking a much longer, roundabout route back into town. Explaining, ‘You see, it struck me as not impossible they’d have picked up my Friday transmission – after all, I’d used roughly that same location on Wednesday – give or take about fifty kilometres this way or that – and this time if they’d decided to make a job of it they might well have had more than one van out, to get cross-bearings on me. If they’d got on to me at all – you got it, uh? What I’d seen – impression I’d had – was these two not being in any hurry or at all purposeful when they’d climbed back into their van, might only have been getting out of the cold night air. So perhaps I’d be ahead of them – if I was really quick – and obviously I was darn lucky the other end was, too, and had only that short message.’
‘Some luck maybe, but ninety-per-cent smart reaction, Suzie.’
‘Came off, anyway. At the time of course no way of knowing it had or hadn’t – would or wouldn’t. Slightly unnerving… If they’d been quick off the mark – another van already at it, even – next thing might have been a few truckloads of troops arriving to beat the forest, flush me out.’
She laughed: it had been unnerving. Added, ‘That was what I was watching and listening for, most of the night. Didn’t seem wise to move. Principle of not being on the roads between dusk and dawn.’
‘They’d have set up road-blocks too, wouldn’t they, spread a net.’
‘I guessed they might have. Hence the detour and holding you up. Sorry, Jake.’ She smiled at him: he had been in a bit of a state. She went on, ‘I set off as soon as I saw my Boches departing. Heard the van start up, then saw its lights come on. Daybreak, this was. They went out of sight to the right, didn’t reappear on the road, so had to be making for Toulouse. I galloped down through the trees, got out on to the road, off it on the other side at the first intersection, then through bloody miles of little lanes southward until I hit the 112. Came back on that – traffic building up by then, no problem.’
‘Quite some detour.’
‘Extra forty kilometres, roughly.’ She shrugged. ‘Not much option, though, wouldn’t have been a good time to get arrested, would it?’
‘Certainly would not. No – you couldn’t have done better.’ A glance over his shoulder: all clear – door open but Berthe still busy in her kitchen, you could hear her. And smell rabbit stew. Some kind of vegetables, she was preparing now. Jake said quietly, ‘You really are quite a girl, one way and another. Exhausted, are you?’
‘Somewhat. But peckish, mostly. And doesn’t that smell good?’
‘Does indeed. Sleep in the car, eh?’
‘Had crossed my mind. Is it somewhere close?’
‘At the station. Not wanting to draw attention unnecessarily to these premises. It’s a gazo Buick, not in its first youth, but your bike’ll go in the back all right. You could have come off a train – bike and all – and I’m there to meet you—’
‘I’d have a suitcase, wouldn’t I – transceiver in it?’
‘Suitcase, yes, transceiver, no. Don’t need it on this stage, safer without it, and touch wood they’re bringing you your spares. Déclan has that battery for charging, by the way.’
‘Thanks. Not that I’m in any hurry for that. But I’m Berthe’s protégée, the would-be nursery-school trainee, am
I?’
‘Might as well be. I’m giving you a lift to Perpignan, where you think your late husband’s aunt might have settled. Happen to be going there myself to take a look at the projected bypass, in particular where a bridge has to be replaced. Not strictly my business, only I do know my bridges and I’m doing it at the request of my colleague Jacques Jorisse, who feels they may be running into problems they don’t comprehend. Hence my doing it on a Sunday – back here early Monday, pressure of my own work and so forth.’
‘Sounds real enough. Does Jorisse have any idea what it’s about?’
‘None at all. Oh, in his heart of hearts, he does, in the most general way. He knows my name’s not Samblat, for instance, and that I’m here for purposes other than – you know, practising our mutual trade.’
‘Isn’t he ever curious about the rest of it?’
‘If he is, he’s never shown it. And he’s already done more than his share just taking me on and more or less giving me my head. But talking of names, Suzie – since we’re going to be in each other’s pockets for a while, with others as often as not in earshot – call me Jean, the name that’s on my papers?’
‘Of course – Jean. Sorry. As of now – promise… But what do we do about the barbed wire and next week’s pickup?’
‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing – for the moment. Up to Marc of course to give us a yell when there’s any move – once he’s got his BCRA friends away, that’s all we’ll want from him. Then if or when the work starts, you’ll have to get back on the old piano, pronto. That’s the answer, of course, they’re waiting to hear more from us – disinclined to send the felucca away empty-handed if they don’t have to. Might be an idea to have a signal ready coded up. And I’ll have a word with the commandos’ CO tonight. Touch wood… Berthe – don’t mean to say you’re going to feed us now?’
Staying Alive Page 24