by Kit Sergeant
“Looks like you are going to be part of Spindle now.” Peter tucked the telegram into his front pocket.
Odette bestowed a genuine smile on him. “Looks like it.”
Chapter 25
Mathilde
Bleicher and Mathilde relocated to a smaller villa in Saint-Germain-en-Laye in order to carry out his new plan, termed, Das Funkspiele, or, ‘The Radio Game.’ The villa had a large garden, which might once have been beautiful, and played host to grand, pre-Occupation parties. Now the grass had turned brown and the trees withered from lack of care. Even before they moved in, Bleicher, who seemed to want a pseudonym for everything, decided to call the house, ‘The Cattery.’
Mathilde had one request before complying. “I want you to free René Aubertin,” she told Bleicher as he set her bag in a second-floor bedroom.
“I can’t.” He unzipped the bag and tossed her black pajamas on the bed. “He’s already been sent on to Germany.”
“To prison?” she demanded, making no move to unpack.
“Sort of… more like an internment camp.”
She thought back to how brave René had been when he was arrested. “What do they do to people there?”
“Well,” Bleicher pulled at the collar of his uniform. “I’m not exactly sure—Hitler set up these types of camps because the prisons were becoming overburdened.”
“Overburdened because he was arresting innocent people.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I thought you told me that you weren’t a Nazi.”
“I’m not. I prefer to outwit my enemies rather than resort to torture to get information out of them.” He dumped the rest of her things on the bed. “The René situation was out of my hands—Hitler’s latest Führerbefehle states that ‘all enemies encountered by German troops on so-called Resistance expeditions with or without weapons are to be annihilated to the last man, and all mercy shall be refused to them.’” He lowered his chin, the glare from the electric lightbulb lighting upon his glasses and obscuring his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re here with me now—he might have said ‘to the last man,’ but that doesn’t mean women will be spared from his vengeance.”
Mathilde ran a hand through her hair, considering what Bleicher had said as he left to unload more of their belongings. I could leave if I wanted to. She went to the window and looked out at the garden. There was a layer of snow on the ground and roof, but not enough to provide much of a deterrent. She could sneak out of the window, climb down to the ground, and then exit through the back gate. And then what? She tightened her fur coat around her body. She had no idea where to go after that: everyone connected with Interallié had been captured, and, like René, probably sent to Germany to suffer Hitler’s worst.
She was still staring out the window when Bleicher returned. “This house is perfect,” he confirmed. “We’ll set up the radio station on the third floor and Borchers and Kayser can share the bedroom next to ours.” He shot her a grin. “Which means we might have to cool our passion a tad.”
“Why are they forced to room together? There’s an extra bedroom on the first floor.”
“It’s not extra,” he corrected. “Another person will be moving in there shortly.”
“Who? One of your Abwehr lackeys?”
“No. Viola Borni.”
Mathilde’s mouth fell open. “You cannot be serious.”
Bleicher peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Have I ever not been?”
“Why her?” Mathilde’s voice was shriller than she wanted. “Why?”
“As you said, you had nothing to do with the coding. In lieu of all of the arrests that have gone down, we wanted to make sure London detects some semblance of the old network: hence Viola’s presence.”
She stamped her foot. “I refuse to be in the same room with her.”
Bleicher shot her a sly smile. “I can arrange for that.”
Borchers and Kayser joined them that night for dinner, though Viola was mercifully absent.
“Mathilde, say you had indeed been sent before a firing squad,” The mouth of the already-drunk Borchers was full of food. “What would your last request have been?”
Her reply was immediate. “To have a superb dinner, to make love, and to hear Mozart’s Requiem.”
“That’s three demands,” Bleicher commented.
She turned to him. “I believe, after all that I’ve done for the Abwehr, I deserve all of them.”
He picked up a morsel of meat with his fork. “I fully agree.”
Kayser decided it was time to change the subject. “When will Mono arrive?”
“Who is Mono?” Mathilde asked.
Bleicher gave her a funny look. “He became Interallié’s main wireless operator after Marcel left. We need him to send the transmissions. As with Viola, we want to maintain the facade of normal operations as much as possible to keep London from becoming suspicious.”
“And I take it Viola will be here tomorrow as well?”
“Yes,” Bleicher nodded at his colleague. “Kayser is going to retrieve her from La Santé prison.” His lips turned upward into an oily grin. “Tomorrow will be our first attempt at tricking the SOE.”
And so it was arranged: the next night, three former Interallié colleagues and their Abwehr counterparts met in the frigid attic room. To prevent any of the erstwhile Resistance operatives from somehow warning London of their circumstances, Kayser painstakingly rearranged Mathilde’s message before giving it to Viola. As Bleicher had stated previously, The Cat would inform London that Armand and a few others had indeed been arrested, but she had managed to escape and would carry on the network along with Viola and Mono.
Mathilde broke her own rule and stayed in the attic to watch Viola encrypt the message. Borchers hovered over Viola’s shoulder to ensure that she didn’t try anything suspicious.
Mono then tapped his call sign out on his Morse key while Mathilde bit at a hangnail, waiting to see if Bleicher’s plan would work.
In mere moments, Mono held up one finger as he listened. “Message received,” he stated dryly. He handed the Morse to Viola, who quickly decoded it and then passed it to Bleicher.
“Have news for you,” Bleicher read aloud, the excitement obvious in his voice. “Stay at your receiver.” He released the paper from his hands and Mathilde watched it float to the floor.
“They’re falling for it!” Kayser said, pulling Viola out of her chair and hugging her.
Mathilde narrowed her eyes. Kayser was a simple man, clearly lower on the Abwehr chain of command than Bleicher, and up until now she’d not paid him much attention. “Indeed they are,” she said, putting a slim hand on Kayser’s shoulder. He immediately dropped Viola to enfold his arms around Mathilde.
“What do you think they could want?” Bleicher asked, his voice stony as he watched Kayser twirl Mathilde around.
This question was enough to bring Kayser back to reality. “Whatever they ask, we will make sure to spin it so Germany will benefit.”
“Shhh,” Mono commanded as the wireless once again came to life. He wrote down what seemed like gibberish to Mathilde. Once the wireless went quiet, Viola decoded the message. This time she didn’t bother handing it off and read it aloud: “Report whereabouts Armand.”
“Tell them he is in Fresnes Prison, but it is impossible to contact him,” Bleicher instructed. “Tell them The Cat is out of funds and is requesting more money.”
“You can’t possibly think—” Mathilde started to say, but Bleicher held up his hand. “Do it, Viola.”
A few minutes later, Viola decoded a message stating that Mathilde could retrieve more funds from the concierge at 10 Boulevard Malesherbes, near the Madeleine.
Chapter 26
Didi
Didi laid her latest solved indecipherable on Leo Marks’ desk.
He looked up. “Nice work. Was it his mistake?”
“No. Morse mutilation.”
He nodded. “I figured. Archambault doesn’t usually make errors i
n his coding.”
Didi felt her knees grow weak and sat down in the chair opposite his desk. That was Archie’s message. The fact that Archie had sent that dispatch made what she had to tell Marks even worse. “He didn’t do any security checks, sir.”
Marks raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“None, sir.”
Marks frowned before he picked up the phone. “Get me Fawley Court,” he barked into the receiver.
Since Marks seemed to have forgotten she was there, Didi remained sitting, curious as to what he was going to do. “Captain Smith?” Marks asked after a minute. “I need you to find Archambault’s wireless operator.”
Didi remembered how Archie had promised he’d send her a personal message and felt a ridiculous twinge of jealousy that he was communicating with another FANY operator.
“I need to know if he’s been performing his security checks. Well then, yes, put her on.” It took a minute for the girl to get on the line and then Marks demanded, “When was the last time—” He paused to listen. “But—” It was clear Archie’s operator was quite talkative. “He doesn’t make those kinds of mistakes. Ever.” Another pause. “I need Captain Smith again.” As he waited, he looked over at Didi. “She should have known—his last three messages didn’t have checks, but she didn’t pay it much thought.” Marks turned his attention back to the phone. “I think it’s safe to say that Archambault has been compromised.”
Didi felt tears well up, but she blinked them back as Marks hung up the phone, only to pick it back up. “Get me Buckmaster,” he commanded.
Chapter 27
Odette
Odette was up early once again a few days later and found Peter in his customary place in the kitchen. He waited until she had settled herself at the table before asking, “Can you ride a bicycle?”
Having spent several years blind or in bed with a serious illness, Odette had never learned, but how hard could it be? “I’ve just endured a night in a Marseille brothel. I think I can manage a bicycle.”
He reached into the bag at his side. “Though I fail to see the connection between a bordello and riding a bike, I would like you to cycle up to the Villa Diana and deliver this,” he put an envelope on the table, “to the Baron de Carteret. It’s about seven kilometers away so it shouldn’t take too long.”
“De Carteret,” Odette repeated as she took the envelope.
Half an hour later, Odette lay in a ditch with ripped stockings, the bicycle on top of her, its wheels still spinning. She sat up, pushing the bike to the side before removing both stockings. She climbed back on to continue her precariously wobbly journey to the Baron’s villa, thinking that Peter had indeed been correct: the connection between spending the night in a brothel and learning to ride a bike was very slim.
When she returned, she found Peter out on the balcony standing next to a brawny man smoking a cigar. “Ah, Lise,” he said, obviously pretending not to notice her disheveled appearance. “I’d like you to meet Alec Rabinovitch, Spindle’s radio operator.”
Alec reached out a meaty hand.
“I would have never thought you a radio operator,” Odette stated. He had clearly seen his share of fights; his nose was misshapen and he bore several scars on his face.
Peter laughed. “Alec is one of the best in all of France, not to mention he can swear in four languages.”
Alec’s firm mouth turned up into a smile. “And there’s nobody else I’d work for.”
“Lise is our newest addition to the network,” Peter told him.
Alec’s eyes traveled down from Odette’s face to her stocking-less feet before he raised an eyebrow at Peter.
“Well,” Peter cleared his throat. “Alec, why don’t you go back and look for those messages?”
“Yes.” He gave Peter a wink. “I’ll leave you two alone while I see if I can find the bastards.”
Odette walked over to the balcony railing, pretending not to hear Peter admonish him for speaking that way in front of a lady.
After Alec had left, Peter joined her. “Did you know your knee was bleeding?”
She looked down at the trickle of blood dripping down her scraped leg.
“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t know how to ride?”
Odette turned to him. “You seem to take for granted that everyone is as competent as you are. I couldn’t let you be wrong.”
He laughed. “You certainly are an extraordinary woman, Lise. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
She glowed under his praise. “Oh, I assure you, I am most ordinary. I am a better cook than a British agent and far more accomplished at wiping little girls’ noses than sleeping in Marseille brothels… or riding a bike, for that matter.”
He gave her a brief smile before his face grew serious. “How do you like working here in Cannes?”
She thought about what she’d seen on the road that morning: people lounging on the beach, batting balls about and sun-tanning. “It’s not quite the France I knew as a girl, or the resentful, rebellious France I expected to find. It doesn’t seem the war goes on here.”
“No,” he agreed. “But appearances can be deceiving.”
“I do like working for you, though,” she said, surprised by the earnestness in her own tone. “I think you work very hard—you don’t like to dally around. You are dedicated to your operations. I appreciate that.”
“And I am glad that you’ve decided to stay on.”
She met his gaze, noticing once again how kindly his eyes were beneath his glasses.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Lise, but I’m going to try to send you back to England.”
She took a step back. Hadn’t he just said he was glad to have her there? “Why?”
“It’s Carte.”
“The leader of the Southern Cell?” Odette knew that Carte was a Frenchman who’d founded his own Resistance group consisting mostly of students, artists, and Riviera sycophants. Peter had been sent to Cannes to make sure the Carte network was worthy of SOE money and protection.
“Yes.” Peter took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. She couldn’t help admiring how sculpted his cheekbones were, as if they’d been chiseled from marble.
He replaced his glasses. “Despite the vast network he claims to have grown, Carte’s an arrogant fool. One of his couriers was carrying a suitcase full of sensitive information—names of networks, contacts, anything you can imagine we wouldn’t want the Nazis to know—and it disappeared after he fell asleep on a train. Now even Carte’s right-hand man, Paul Frager, wants nothing to do with him.” He turned to Odette. “I’m sending Carte back to London, along with five of his generals, for a consultation and I was hoping you would accompany them and give Buck a full report of what I’ve just told you. Does that sound like something you would be up for?”
Odette had no desire to return to London, but she wasn’t about to refuse Peter. “Yes.”
“Carte’s a stubborn nincompoop, but this should be no more difficult for you than…”
She held up her hand. “Riding a bike. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go clean up.”
His gaze dropped to her bare legs before he nodded.
Chapter 28
Didi
In the first week of November, Didi was given eight indecipherables and managed to solve all but one of them. That one she took straight to Leo Marks.
“It’s from Peter Churchill,” Didi told him as she put it on his desk.
“Ah, Peter. Yes, I remember him, and his operator, Alec Rabinovitch, the beast.” Marks smiled. “That was the first time I’d met Buckmaster. Alec was showing me one of his boxing moves when Buck walked into my office.” He frowned. “Miss Nearne, do you recall when we talked about Archambault and his lack of security checks?”
“Of course.” She took that as an invitation to sit down.
His frown deepened and Didi wondered if she had done something wrong, but instead of looking at her, he fixed his gaze on something
beyond her right shoulder. “I warned Buck about it, and do you know what he did?”
“No.”
“He had the FANY operator admonish Archie that he’d forgotten his security checks and must never do it again.”
“But, if he really were compromised, then the Nazis—”
“Know about our security checks.” His voice was grave. “I don’t know why Buck would do that.”
Didi had no explanation either, and she didn’t want to think of the fearless Archie being a prisoner of the Nazis. “About Peter’s indecipherable…”
“Ah, yes, Peter.” Marks seemed grateful for the distraction. “I wrote his poem code myself.”
“Really, sir?” Didi had the poem in her purse and took it out to read it again.
I danced two waltzes
One fox-trot
And the polka
With no partner
That they could see
And hope I did not tire you.
I glided round
The other ballroom
The one called life
Just as alone
And have to thank you
For giving me
The sprinkling of moments
Which are my place at the table
In a winner’s world.
Keep a space for me
On your card
If you are dancing still.
“It's beautiful,” Didi told him, “though a touch sad.”
“Yes. Completely different from Peter Churchill, who could probably charm the pants off Miss Atkins herself.”
Didi cleared her throat.
“Oh, sorry,” Marks said. He took out a pencil and a pad of paper. “During his training, Peter occasionally flip-flopped the order of the letters, which changed the numbers underneath.” He looked up at Didi. “This results in what I call ‘hatted’ columns, and sometimes takes a little coding surgery.” He worked for a few minutes before shouting, “Got you!” After a round of furious writing, he pushed the pad toward Didi.