* * *
On their way into the town they’d found themselves passing a house that had a notice in a window saying ‘Rooms’, and had booked in for two nights – separate rooms, Rosie allegedly being Jake’s sister – Jake’s idea, no prior discussion and neither of them had mentioned it since – then sluiced off in cold water, changed some clothes, and set out to find l’Etoile, which was easy enough after first locating l’Hôtel des Pyrénées. The hotel faced the sea across a road and a crescent-shaped beach about a kilometre from end to end; following Marc’s instructions they went down an alleyway at the side of the hotel to a triangular cobbled area, and there was the bar en face.
They stopped on the cobbles, looking at it.
‘Might have booked into the hotel, if we’d thought.’
Jake leant with a hand on a lamp-post. ‘Better off where we are, I’d say – not right in Marc’s likely zone of operations. Come to think of it, if we could find ourselves a passeur Marc wouldn’t know of – maybe not use this Gérard…’
‘Making it a bit easy for Marc otherwise, I suppose.’
‘Except if Gérard can get us away quickly, a chance worth taking? We know he’s reliable, whereas one’s heard a lot of them are crooks – take your money and leave you stranded—’
‘Taking Gérard on trust on Marc’s recommendation?’
‘Well – yes. With the escape-line, he used him and got people out – same man, he’s not turned.’
‘But this is where Marc’ll come – if he is coming.’
‘But if we’ve cleared out by then—’
‘Should we see what we think of Gérard and how soon he’d reckon to get us away?’
‘Yes. That’s it.’ He patted her arm. ‘Twenty-four hours maximum – to be gone by this time tomorrow, say.’
‘Or sooner. Alternatively if he could produce a passeur Marc wouldn’t know of – we’d have to pay him whatever he’d have made using one of his own lot?’
‘Yes. Yes…’ An arm tight around her shoulders for a moment. ‘But I’ll see him first on my own. If we have to go elsewhere, the less he knows about us the better, so—’
‘All right.’
‘So. Go back to the front there, have a look at the sea, then come back, I’ll meet you hereabouts. Ten minutes, say?’
‘What’ll I be when you introduce me – your sister again?’
‘How about wife?’
‘Oh – I think I’d buy that…’
‘You mean it?’
‘Time being, make it fiancée?’
* * *
It was a vivid seascape beyond the long, surf-washed crescent of beach. Cloud had been breaking up in recent hours, allowing for periods of sunshine like this one, with a brisk wind smashing the tops off the rollers that were powering slantwise into the bay from the north and/or north-west, smashing themselves white against the headlands, racing on into the bay in a welter of white and green – bottle-green when the sun was covered, emerald when it all fit up again, as now…
Not a sail or anything else in sight. Fishing-boats at the far end there, inside an arc of sea-wall sheltering them. She wondered if she’d just become engaged: rather thought she had. In which case, better tell him her real name and start calling him James instead of Jake. Ending up, if they did actually go through with it, as Mrs James Kinnear. Not a bad name, she thought – in fact it would be one of the best she’d had. Having started life as Rosalie de Bosque, then become Rosie Ewing – wife of Squadron Leader Ewing, whom she’d come to dislike quite strongly, had only not walked out on because at about the time she’d realised there was nothing else for it, he’d saved her the trouble by getting himself shot down into the Channel by a Messerschmidt 109.
Which was when she’d offered herself to SOE for training as a field agent, been turned down for some silly reason and that same evening got plastered with the Australian, ending up in bed with him at the Savoy. Savoy, not the Charing Cross Hotel, as had been alleged.
‘Suzie. Suzie…’
Jake – taking her by surprise – taking her arm, turning with her towards the Etoile. ‘I think he’s probably OK. Any case the best chance we’ve got.’
* * *
Rosie said, telling it fast now – with a target in sight, I surmised, a point she wanted to reach in this session – ‘Gérard as he called himself had never heard of anyone called Marc Voreux, but when I described him and Jake mentioned the Jewish couple who’d been the last ones he’d sent through – putting a rough date on it too – there was no doubt he knew who we were talking about. Jake then gave him the background: Marc having been turned and in cahoots with the Gestapo, which was why we were in a hurry to get out. Whether this might deter Gérard from helping us as we’d like him to – with an introduction to a passeur – was obviously up to him, and if so we’d have to find someone else. This was bullshit, but obviously we would have had to – that was how it was, what we were up against. Presumably his tracks were covered, though – and Voreux wasn’t going to inform on him because he’d be incriminating himself. There’d have been other angles I dare say, but the upshot was Gérard said if the money could be agreed, he could handle it. All he was really interested in was money. If a passeur of good repute were by chance to be available at such alarmingly short notice, what about finance? Regrettably, only cash would be acceptable. Passeurs took their own lives in their hands, in the course of saving others, and like anyone else had families dependent on them. And so forth. Jake assured him we had cash. As long as he wasn’t (a) holding us to ransom, and (b) could have us on our way by tomorrow noon. That caused a bit of an eruption, but it simmered down when Jake made it clear we’d pay in advance and well over the odds, agreeing a figure right away if Gérard would get his man here this evening – tonight. He thought that might be possible: but another point now, what about equipment? Backpacks, boots, outer protective clothing – and rations, water-bottles – all absolute necessities: could in fact be provided, at a certain cost…’
I broke in with ‘What did Gérard look like?’
‘Stocky, fiftyish, foxy-looking. He was French, all right, although his wife was Spanish and the young waiter, Andrés, was her nephew. Nice lad, we got on well right from the start. He was about nineteen and his father had been killed in their civil war, shot after being taken prisoner. He was smallish with curly dark hair and eyes like brown buttons. You think I’m waffling, but it so happens he saved my life, d’you mind if I tell you what he looked like?’
‘Sorry, Rosie…’
‘I should think so. Where was I… Oh, the passeur turned out to be his uncle, the woman’s brother. Eladio, his name was. So – basics – there are your characters, Gérard would have his brother-in-law at the Etoile to meet us later that evening – eight o’clock, say, eight-thirty – yes, guaranteed, if we’d produce the cash, have it there this evening, uh? The morning would be soon enough to discuss the gear and price it: we could see it, here in Banyuls. Boots no good if they don’t fit, eh? And Andrés would convey all this to his uncle: he – Andrés – was so fortunate as to possess a petrolette, motor-scooter.
‘And so on. Price agreed. Just as well we were really loaded. Madame incidentally was in on all of it – not conversationally, but ears and eyes, crikey… You could have fun with this scene. Actually it wasn’t fun, for us, too many uncertainties and all we could do was accept them. A complete chance we were taking, if they turned out to be crooks we were in their hands. And the Noé action might have failed – no way of knowing, we were both fairly agonised for Déclan. Jake was hoping to talk to the tobacconist again, get him to pass on a message about the Pau réseau; he’d thought of doing it from the Etoile, but decided there was too much risk of a tap on the line, if Marc had put the Gestapo on to Gérard, which he might have. He made the call – on the way back to our digs, from a phone in the Hôtel des Pyrénées: the tobacconist said he’d given him the first message, and would try to get this one to him.’
‘At least Décl
an did know the worst of it.’
‘Yes. And to have been in a position to have spoken with the tobacconist he’d obviously survived Noé, so maybe that had gone to plan. We both felt better for it.’
‘Think we’d feel better for a kümmel now?’
‘Well…’ Slight frown: fingertips to one of the ruby studs. Then: ‘How would you feel about a cognac?’
* * *
She gave me the rest of it over that cognac. In other words, made it last. Which wasn’t such a bad idea. Tonight though she was really singing for her supper – needing from her own point of view to get on with it, get it over – I wasn’t having to keep her to the point, only listen and occasionally put a question.
They’d gone back to their rooming house, and rested – slept maybe, and found the water warm enough to bath in. They’d have taken in sustenance of some kind before leaving the Etoile, I think. Rosie wasn’t bothering with trivialities though, jumped straight to eight, eight-thirty or thereabouts when they were to have supper – paella made with – oh, mussels and – anchovies, it might have been, Madame had promised them? – and to be introduced to Eladio, and give Gérard half the money.
* * *
Eladio hadn’t arrived when they got there, but Andrés had seen him earlier and was certain he was coming. The place was quite full, and Madame had kept a table for them at the kitchen end of the darkish, low-ceilinged, lamp-lit room, a table big enough for six in the angle between the left-hand wall and that end of the counter. She asked whether they’d like to have their meal right away and they opted for this – to be finished before Eladio turned up seemed a good idea. Gérard appeared while they were eating it, and brought them a bottle of wine they hadn’t asked for; they’d had a glass when they’d first arrived, but wanted to be clear-headed in their negotiations with Eladio.
They finished the paella, which was very good, and Andrés brought coffee, to all intents and purposes joined them, having to go off a couple of times but both times returning. There was a waitress-cum-kitchenmaid – French, local girl – and several tables were unoccupied by this time, so there was no great pressure on him. This must have been when he told them about the Fascists having murdered his father, his hatred of them and of their German buddies; he was surprised Franco hadn’t yet joined in this war – presumably wasn’t quite sure the Boches were going to win it. He asked Rosie was she by any chance English; then, ‘SOE, maybe?’ She gave him somewhat vague answers, including the fact her father had been French, and he said he’d like nothing better than to do something of that kind: how could he apply to be considered for such employment? Rosie had been about to suggest that BCRA might be a better bet, on account of his not having a word of English, when Eladio arrived – Andrés leaping to his feet to perform the introductions, and Gérard then joining them.
Eladio was a man of about forty, dark-skinned like his sister and nephew, curly-haired like Andrés too, but heavily-built and ponderous in his movements. He spoke French slowly with a Spanish accent.
Terms were agreed. They’d see to the provision of gear in the morning: at Aristide’s grenier, say 0930? Grenier meaning loft or attic. It would take a little time: and rations for the journey could be prepared in the kitchen here, also in the morning? Gérard agreed, no problem. Jake had already given him half the passage-money, would bring the rest of it to this loft – which was actually an artist’s studio, one of them had mentioned – in the morning. Come here, Gérard suggested, and either he or Andrés would take them along. It was actually no distance. Better bring such gear as they had, although they might have to leave some of it behind – essentials only, no more than fitted in the backpacks.
That was about that. Eladio finished the wine. They’d start the journey in a donkey-cart, he said. Only a few kilometres, to a place where they’d spend the night, setting off before daylight next morning. Jake hadn’t liked the sound of that, would have preferred to be putting more distance behind them, but all of this was in Eladio’s hands, obviously had to be. And at least they’d be out of Banyuls. While Rosie thought a pause before the marathon mightn’t be a bad thing at all. Jake was looking distinctly under par after the hike from Collioure, and she wasn’t looking forward to three days of foot-slogging over mountains.
Eladio had departed then, and Andrés had gone to see him on his way. Jake got up and moved to the counter to pay the bill, having seen that madame did not bring bills to tables, and Rosie decided to visit the ladies’ WC before departure. She’d seen where it was: you went along to the end of the counter and around it to the left, the entrance to the kitchen was then on your left, there was a staircase just past it on the right, staff entry/exit just beyond that, and beyond that a door marked Dames.
Jake would make it all right, she told herself in the flyblown mirror. Simply because he knew he had to. She’d told herself this before, and believed it, but also realised it was going to be hellish for him. Maybe when it got really bad, Eladio would lend a hand. He was big enough, strong enough by the look of him.
She came out of the toilette, turned left past the back door and then around the foot of the stairs, was on her way through to the bar when the crash of Jake’s 9-millimetre – double crash, two fast shots – came near to stopping her heart, did of course stop her in her tracks – seeing through a whole lot of movement a group of men at the end of the room just inside the door, Marc going down with Jake’s bullets in him and a German in a trench coat with a Schmeisser snarling deafeningly in gloved hands, Jake there to her right crumpling, toppling where he’d been at the counter chatting with madame – who’d ducked down behind it, screaming. There was a lot of screaming as the Schmeisser’s racket ceased, and arms around her from behind, a shout in her ear of ‘Viens – come!’ Andrés – dragging her back towards the staircase. Estelle the waitress this side of the kitchen doorway, screaming, also blocking Rosie’s view of whatever else was happening in there, offering help to madame who was there with her. Rosie had had a glimpse of a second German, she thought, but only momentarily: her impulse was to get back to Jake – useless and fatal as that would have been – and in any case Andrés had her at the back door, urging, ‘Quick, quick, you’ll be all right, if only—’
Dark alleyway, a step down into it. Racket of shouts and screams subdued by the closing of the door. Jake dead. Dead. Half a clip of 9-millimetre out of that Schmeisser which she could still see juddering, flaming – you didn’t walk or even limp away from that. Marc dead too, but—
‘Christ. Oh, Christ…’
18
Sunday breakfast at the Brasserie des Aviateurs. I’d had coffee at my own hotel before setting out – needing it, having spent some time at the laptop after seeing Rosie home last night, and then been blasted out of sleep by the coup de téléphone I’d requested, in order to meet her here at nine. Early enough, for a Sunday morning after a very late Saturday night, in any case necessitated by this shindig’s guest of honour being due to put in an appearance, at last. I can’t say I was exactly tingling with excitement at the prospect of seeing, hearing or even meeting him, but Rosie was, in her own quiet way, and as much as anything out of politeness to her one was bound to show a bit of interest.
The brasserie was fuller than I’d seen it until now – and noisier than one might have expected. They couldn’t by any means all have been former agents: I vaguely remembered Rosie having mentioned that a good few were actually relatives, siblings or offspring who kept in touch out of family pride or loyalty. And it wasn’t difficult to see where the centre of attraction was – in the middle there, grey, white and baldheaded delegates clustered like bees round honey. Trying to spot Rosie, I was beginning to think she might be in that swarm – in which case I’d wait until she came out of it – when I saw her waving to me from a table off to the right, close to the door people used when coming or going from/to the hotel itself. She was wearing a charcoal-grey jacket and skirt, white blouse, and had with her a woman to whom she’d introduced me a few days ago
. Tall, white-headed, a BCRA widow – not all that jolly-looking, more what you might call a commanding presence. Reaching them, I shook hands with her, after kissing Rosie.
And that was something to be proud of. They could keep their André Brussauds et al – to be on kissing terms with Rosie Quarry knocked any of that stuff into the proverbial cocked hat. This friend of hers – Rosie had reminded me that her name was Amélie Viernet – was leaving us, seemingly making for centre-stage, where there was some reshuffling in progress – had been camera flashes, two pressmen with cameras shouldering their way out. Rosie told me, ‘Brussaud’s only been here about ten minutes. Look, this is your coffee, and it’s getting cold – you’re a little late, you know. The rest of it’s yours too.’
‘Very kind, Rosie. But listen – while we have time – I was sorting my notes last night, and if you wouldn’t mind, one thing’s not as clear as it might be – your escape route, after they’d smuggled you out of Banyuls—’
‘Go into it later, shall we? What you need to know about now – I do mean now – is Ben and events in Australia. Here – sugar?’
For my cold coffee. ‘No, thanks. But just to get this out of the way – please – you spent three days in Aristide’s loft, were then moved by donkey-cart – inland, westward, to that other place – combined efforts of Gérard, Andrés and Aristide – town still being searched, all that… Rosie?’
She’d sighed. ‘All right. But just very briefly.’
‘Bless you. I guarantee, less than two minutes. The puzzle is that when Eladio joined you, instead of making a beeline for the border and the mountains you went quite a long way west. Hadn’t realised until early this morning, looking it up on the map. You were actually being hunted, but still—’
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