‘Actually I wouldn’t. Not as a way you’d behave.’
‘I’m glad – but I’m saying if it was for real—’
‘It’s not – so leave it, please?’
‘If we were stopped – with luck we won’t be – if we were though, in the next hour say, we’d be on course to make Carcassonne well before curfew, our papers are in order, and as yet touch wood we aren’t actually being hunted – what I’m saying is that at this stage we shouldn’t have much to worry about.’
‘Let’s hope.’
Change of subject, a minute later: ‘I suppose you realise Marc’s incurred the death penalty.’
‘SOE’s sentence, you mean.’
‘Yes – delegated to you and me. Shoot him on sight. Given the opportunity, it’s our bounden duty and would be my pleasure.’
‘So once he knows we know, he’ll be twice as keen to kill us.’
‘I doubt he’d be half-hearted about it even now. Giving you to the Gestapo wouldn’t have been aimed at prolonging your life, would it. I wonder what turned him. They’d have got on to him through the Vérisoins, most likely: then he either plays ball or gets the chop. Often as not they offer money too… I’m turning right here, over the canal, then left on to the route nationale.’
‘Are you carrying your Lama?’
‘You bet.’ His handgun. Close resemblance to a Colt .45 but Spanish-made, 9-millimetre so easy to get ammo for. Heavy, clumsy-looking thing, although in firearms training on the field agent’s course she’d done surprisingly well with one, considering its weight and her small hands. Jake said, about the pistol, ‘Touch wood, won’t need to use it. The great thing for you and me is to slip through unseen, unheard.’
‘Just possible, I suppose. Hope to God Déclan gets your message before it’s too damn late.’
‘I’ll try to get through to him again – if that’s remotely possible. The mountain’s about all he can go for, and he may have had some route in mind. What a hole to be in, though. Can’t take his poor wife, can’t tell her anything – if he’s lucky, just bloody vanish. We’ve discussed that, on occasion, possible cost of what’s otherwise been the perfect cover… But Marteneau and his boys will be just about ready to go, you realise. Jump-off point’s an old barn on the edge of Noé. Please God, at least we’ll have pulled that off.’
‘Damn Marc, for poor old Alain.’
‘The most difficult thing to guard against is the knife in the back. Suzie, we’ve a long haul ahead of us, why don’t you take a nap?’
‘Doubt if I could – and since you obviously can’t—’
‘I wasn’t up all night.’
‘Nor was I, as it happens. But all right – if I can drop off…’
Trundling on. Jake silent, giving her a chance to sleep.
She woke when they were to the east of Quillan, having got past it by way of a country lane that avoided going through the town, cut the corner and eventually got them on to the 117 too far east for the ruined château; he had to turn back for a few kilometres to reach it, and was making that turn when she woke. Curfew was in force by then, had been when he’d been similarly detouring around Limoux, and he was using the car’s lights as sparingly as possible. Any other traffic one encountered was as likely as not to mean trouble; he told her he’d turned off the 623 once when there’d been full headlights approaching from a then fairly distant curve of road before they vanished temporarily into a dip, and he’d spotted a farm entrance he could get into, switching the Buick’s lights off and sitting tight, Rosie muttering to herself in her sleep, until the thing had gone blazing past – petrol engine and travelling fast, more than likely Boche.
Had to use lights getting up to the château, on that steep and narrow approach road snaking up through trees; then on the dangerously open summit, lights off and Rosie out – stringing out her aerial wire and then getting down to work between the car and a crumbling stone wall where she could safely use the little fishing torch – battery incidentally getting low. Last use of it in any case, last transmission – telling Baker Street that Raoul had been turned and Jake and Lucy were on the run making for the eastern Pyrenees. Raoul not having been apprised of Hardball’s purpose, location or other operational detail, it was taking place as planned at the time of this transmission, and on completion all involved would be withdrawing by way of Col de – whatever that mountain pass was called. No beach pick-up therefore required, and no further communication possible after this message. Warning of the betrayal had been passed through an intermediary to Batsman, but his movements henceforth were not predictable although a further attempt to contact him would be made.
She’d signed off with a coded ‘Adieu’
***.
‘Quite some news for Buck and his boys and girls to digest over Thursday breakfast.’
‘And the last news they could hope for for some while.’ Rosie added, ‘I should mention, though, there was a way out for Déclan that Jake remembered having discussed with him – to contact the réseau Organiser in the Lourdes-Pau district, the man who’d passed Hardball to him. There was a safe-house between Pau and Tarbes, and some cleric – an abbot, might have been – who was Resistance-connected and was in touch with mountain guides in that area. Jake had forgotten about this, in our lightning evacuation of Toulouse, but he thought Déclan would probably have kept it in mind – and if he could get in touch with him again – the tobacconist, I suppose – he’d suggest it. By then of course if he’d had the first message he might already have taken off. That would have been the smart thing, not even to go home.’
‘Monsieur, madame—’
Head waiter. We’d ordered our meal some time before, telling him no rush but when you like… In fact I was relieved; we’d risked a second vodka martini, and there was wine to come – although luckily they had a good selection in half-bottles. We’d ordered scallops in some sauce or other that Rosie had known about and approved, then duck with spinach and sautéed potatoes; a half of Sancerre with the scallops – remembering how she’d gone for that – and of a good claret with the duck. Well – she was giving me a whole damn book! In fact had been working at it like a beaver – and on top of that was extremely good company. On top of that – well, this was Rosie Quarry, the one and only, who in my wildest dreams I’d never thought I’d have the luck and privilege to meet. Telling me when we were settled at the table, ‘Really will get us to Banyuls now, I promise.’
* * *
She’d got back into the car with the transceiver in its case but not properly packed up, had then separated the various parts and transferred the case to the floor with the jumble loose in it, and Jake had stopped or slowed at various points – rivers mainly – until she’d got rid of all of it.
Now as far as London was concerned they were perdus – lost, deaf and dumb. She told him, ‘I’m out of a job’, and his answer was, ‘I’m sure they’ll find alternative employment for you in due course.’
‘Then let’s say for both of us.’
‘But perhaps not together, d’you think?’
‘Not in the field together, you mean.’
‘Could have its complications, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes, well, bugger them. The essential, I’d say, would be to have the home base secure – would you go along with that?’
‘You mean us.’
‘Surely. Seriously, Suzie. In fact—’
‘Let’s get there, then get serious?’
Getting there by way of the outskirts of Perpignan, then Canet-en-Roussillon where they dumped the Buick on the edge of a builder’s yard, and the long, far from enjoyable trek back into town and to the station. Jake’s limp had become a lot more noticeable by the time they got there, although it worried her more than it seemed to worry him: he wasn’t so much limping as hobbling, assuring her from time to time that it didn’t hurt, only sort of stiffened when used harder than it was used to: and declining to take her arm or let her take his suitcase as well as hers: what did she thi
nk he was – a cripple?
Certainly was not a mountaineer.
But having told herself that, had to recognise that he might well become one.
The station was already crowded before it was fully daylight, and the queue at the guichet, where everyone had to show their papers, was more than half an hour long. The clerks selling tickets were supervised by gendarmerie and Funkabwehr – not all the time, but constantly enough to ensure they were scrupulous in the double-checking of identities. Jake had given Rosie about half the wad of francs he’d collected from his apartment – in case they should somehow become separated, she had to be able to carry on alone if necessary: and at Banyuls the bar-keeper Gérard – Marc’s friend – was going to want cash for his passeur or passeurs – despite which he bought her train ticket as well as his own, in the belief that this looked more natural.
He’d told her before they’d joined the queue, ‘Older man, much younger woman, after all—’
‘Not that much younger.’
‘Go on with you. Anyone’d think I should be in a wheelchair!’
‘Accidents in the hunting field have nothing to do with age.’
‘Forget the hunting field. I had a smash-up in a Renault – in Lille, that was. When you were barely out of your pram!’
He’d paid for the tickets anyway, after they’d identified themselves – papers which had been forged in London being accepted after careful examination, identities and ticket details then entered in a register. Hardly surprising the queue was slow-moving. Nowhere to sit, of course, while waiting – and further delay when the train steamed in, finally, and the place filled up with passengers from Narbonne. Boche military were by now around in greater numbers – uniformed, not Gestapo, a lot of them mere boys. Jake didn’t get the weight off his knee until finally they were allowed to board, and crowded into the boxlike carriage with its hard benches and dirty windows; their travelling companions were initially a mother with three young daughters, an old man sucking an empty clay pipe and two labourers – vineyard workers, might be. A few nods and mutters of bonjour… Jake got their suitcases up into the rack, steered Rosie into a corner seat, sank down beside her, stuck that leg out straight and let out a long, hard breath.
‘Better?’
Actually of course, ‘Va mieux?’
He smiled at her. ‘You’ve no idea.’
* * *
Perpignan to Argelès twenty kilometres, Argelès to Collioure six and a half: about an hour’s run. In the course of it, soon after leaving Perpignan they had a visit from a ticket inspector who looked a bit like a weasel and had two other civilians – plain clothes, not railway uniforms like his, but Frenchmen and as like as not DST or Gestapo. Then at Argelès three Germans, an NCO and two corporals pushed in; they’d been standing in the corridor and now replaced the two labourers who were getting out, but being three in a space previously occupied by two necessitated the two smaller children crowding on to their mother’s lap, the older one standing close up against them. The mother had engaged Jake in conversation just as they’d been pulling into the station, asking him, ‘Are you and the young lady taking a little holiday, monsieur?’ and he’d told her, ‘Little honeymoon.’ Elaborating with ‘Four days is all we have. Back in Toulouse Monday. We were married a few weeks ago, these are the first days we could get away together.’
‘Precious days, then!’
‘Precious hours, madame!’
‘A shame to have so little time.’ She smiled sympathetically at Rosie. ‘May I ask what sort of an employer won’t allow you at least two weeks off for a honeymoon?’
‘I’m a nurse, at a hospital outside Toulouse. We’re shorthanded at the moment.’ She was thinking of the hospital at Fonsorbes where Déclan’s wife worked, didn’t name it in case the woman turned out to be a matron there. A million to one against, but coincidences did happen – why risk them when you didn’t need to? The woman asking then – wriggling irritably as the Boches pushed up still further – ‘Collioure, you’re going to?’ and Jake took over again, saying yes, but they’d not had time to book at an hotel, only hoped—’
‘You’ll be all right, I’m sure. My daughters and I are going to Banyuls – I have an uncle there who’s ill, that’s how we’ve had permission. Entry is strictly controlled, you know – on account of its proximity to the border, some such reason—’
A whistle shrilled and the train lurched, got going. Rosie leant her head back, closed her eyes; the woman said, ‘Twenty minutes is all you’ve got, young lady.’
‘Just a few minutes helps.’ Smiling at the children, then meeting the eyes of the Boche NCO – Feldwebel, something of that kind – eyes like wet stones under greying brows – malicious, unblinking. She shut her eyes again, wondered where they’d be getting out. If at Collioure, might be awkward: the station was at some height above the town, apparently, Jake wasn’t intending to go down into it if they could avoid doing so. You’d only have to climb another steep hill to get out of it and continue southward – shanks’s pony over the high ground inland of Port Vendres – four kilometres to get to Port Vendres, then another six to Banyuls.
She’d opened her eyes again, found the German still staring. It was – disconcerting. A hard, even penetrative stare: simply to embarrass, frighten – or provoke reaction?
Jake asked her quietly, ‘All right?’
‘Except the one keeps staring.’
‘Is a bit sinister. But if I objected—’
‘No, don’t do that. It’s intended to intimidate, I think.’ A smile. ‘Does, too.’
‘They never have been the nicest of people, Suzie pet. It won’t be for much longer now, anyway.’
‘As long as they aren’t getting out where we are.’
‘They’d most likely have transport meeting them. Did I mention that I love you?’
‘Not in so many words. Implied it once or twice.’
‘Take it as fact?’
‘Well, well, well.’
‘Do better than that, surely?’
‘How about “snap”?’
‘Much better, Suzie. Unbelievably so.’
‘I’m looking forward to having you use my real name. We’re going to have a lot to look back on, aren’t we?’
‘As of now, plenty to look forward to.’
‘Yes – well…’
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t look at that sod again.’
‘I won’t. He’s a sadist, isn’t he. I’ll fade on you now, then shut-eye until we’re there.’
‘Then don’t look at him or get near him. When we move I’ll try to keep myself between you.’
‘I really am quite keen on you, Jake.’
* * *
Old Rosie said, ‘That kind of dialogue.’
‘Keeping each other’s morale up in whispers under the fishy eye of an evil-minded Kraut.’
‘More lizard-like than fishy. Quite hateful. Evil, yes. The effect of it exaggerated I dare say because one wasn’t exactly riding high in any case. You’re right, would have been the value of the exchange with Jake. His notion too, of course. But we had a ten-kilometre hike ahead of us over country patrolled by goons who actually did shoot on sight – although we didn’t run into any – and I was worried for Jake with his gammy knee. We’d find Banyuls all right, just by following the railway and/or the coast road, but how it’d be when we got there, actually getting into the town – entry being so restricted, that woman had said – well, spin of a coin…’
‘And Marc and his new friends on your tail.’
‘Oh, they were. As I’ll be telling you in a moment.’ Dwelling a pause at this stage because the sommelier was favouring us with his attentions. I asked her, ‘Your Feldwebel admirer and his friends stayed on the train, did they?’
‘Yes. OK for the time being – didn’t want them getting out at Collioure, obviously, but preferably no reunion in Banyuls either. After all, it wasn’t much more than a fishing village at that time, not a town with parking problems
like it is now, odds were you would have run into anyone you’d ever met before. One’s hope was they might be going to Port Vendres – and maybe they were. Real creep, that one.’
Watching the sommelier half-fill her glass with Graves – which happened to be one I knew, and closely related to nectar.
‘Here’s to you, Rosie. Wouldn’t have missed a minute of this for anything on earth.’
‘You mean tonight?’
‘I mean the whole thing, these few days.’
‘How nice. Especially as I wouldn’t either. You know, when I wrote you that letter I damn near didn’t post it? I asked myself why am I doing this, what’s the point? Well, there is a point – one we haven’t got to yet, hell of a point in fact—’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘No.’ Both hands up, as if to ward me off. ‘Not talking about any of that yet. Banyuls first. Get you there in one leap – actually a ten-kilometre slog over varied terrain, lumping our suitcases. Jake I was sure in bloody agony from that knee – which wasn’t exactly propitious, for crossing mountains… But there they were, a beautiful distant mass with Banyuls somewhere this side of it – and we just – well, from the station at Collioure we started downhill, eastward, towards the harbour and that old castle and a patch of sea in sight, taking it easy until others had outdistanced us, then getting off-road in a southerly direction, I think over public gardens or allotments of some kind and up again over that hill’s rounded shoulder – in full view of some kind of lookout tower, which gave one another go of the heebie-jeebies… Going into detail again, having sworn I wouldn’t. All that matters is we made it – I guess, in something like four hours. Jake hobbling and me – well, not finding it exactly a lark. Anything that moved, we got out of its sight – a couple of trains, some gazos now and then, the odd horse and cart. No patrols or strongpoints, that was the vital thing. I think patrols might only have been out at night – either that or on the other side of Banyuls, the mountain side. Oh, this is a fantastic wine…’
Staying Alive Page 31