by Allan Jones
Then, abruptly, she was lifted to her feet, but she couldn’t stand: her legs had gone! The women hauled her arms over their shoulders and dragged her back to Wessendorf’s office and threw her into the chair, making her scream once more as her bottom hit the hard wood of the seat. She squirmed, trying to escape the pain, and sobbed uncontrollably, her arms between her closed knees in an effort to hide her nakedness below her shirt. Wessendorf was sitting in his chair, smoking a foul-smelling cigar.
He waited, watching, till her sobbing subsided, then he shouted at her, “Remember where you are! Remember who you’re talking to. You will never talk to me like that again! Who do you think you are? You’re nothing! Nothing, unless I say so! You will never defy me again!”
Amelia lifted her head, her face a piteous sight, tears rolling down her cheeks. Wessendorf brought his breathing under control; then, in a normal tone, spoke again. “What I ask of you is not so bad. If you please me I will reward you well. You shall have fine clothes, money, jewellery, position. By the time we win this war, you will be a rich woman! What’s the alternative? Grubbing a living in a stinking French pension! But then there is no alternative: you either do as you’re told or…” He left it unspoken.
Through the pain, Amelia’s mind began to work again. She focussed her wet eyes on his face as she thought: “All right, you bastard, whatever it takes. But there’s a price, and one day you’ll pay!”
“My patience grows thin. What is it to be?” he barked.
Amelia dropped her head in submission, waited awhile for effect, then lifted it again. Her eyes locked onto his and she said meekly:“I will do whatever the Herr Sturmbannführer wants me to do.”
* * * *
It had been three months since Amelia’s last contact. She had disappeared again! Paul had slipped back into the depths of despair. Several times he had railed at his superiors, begging them to let him go after her, find her; but they had refused, exhorting him to be patient. They had said it was quite common for agents to be out of contact for long periods, but he knew better.
Something was terribly wrong, he could feel it, and each day the feeling grew stronger. He was beginning to think that they didn’t trust him, that their assurances they were merely saving him for “something special” rang hollow in his ears.
Pru sought him out quite often, dragging him out for long walks, taking him to dances and to the bar. Their friendship, purely platonic, had grown, and she did her level best to cheer him up. She trotted out the usual platitudes: “There is always hope”, “No news is good news”, and so on, so often that she began to disbelieve herself. Eventually, she stopped it, and when they were together she avoided the subject entirely, for which Paul was grateful.
He was lying sleeplessly in his bed, the light on, staring at the ceiling, when there was a pounding on his door. “Bugger off!” he shouted.
“Paul, it’s me,” Pru shouted through the door. “Let me in, there’s news.”
Paul leapt out of bed and crossed to the door. He was just about to fling it open when he realised he was naked! He opened the door a crack, intending to ask her to wait, but she pushed against it and strode into the room, clutching a large buff envelope to her chest. She turned round and saw Paul, who had taken refuge behind the door.“What are you doing there?” she asked.
Paul looked shamefaced. “Chuck my trousers over, will you, Pru?”She laughed, then did as she was bidden. He caught them one-handed, and she was still facing him, grinning. “And turn around,” he raised his voice.
She turned her back. Paul let go of the door, which swung to close, and had got one leg in his trousers when Pru whirled around. “Oooh, she’s a lucky girl!” she said with a giggle.
Paul looked up aghast; but, seeing the look on Pru’s face, he gave up and laughed, taking more time to make himself decent.“Pru Perkins, you’re a trollop!” he said.
“Girl’s got to take what she can get these days. Wait till I tell the girls.”
“Just you dare!” he threatened.
Pru became serious and went and sat on the bed, patting a place beside her and clutching the envelope protectively to her chest. Paul slipped a jumper on and sat down next to her. “Now, I’ve got some photos to show you. We’re pretty sure she sent them.” Paul tried to grab the envelope, but she was too quick for him. “Paul, you’ve got to promise me you’ll remain calm. Don’t go off the deep end. There’s more to these than meets the eye. Promise me!” she said urgently.
Paul nodded and Pru reached into the envelope and pulled out an eight by ten black and white and handed it to him. Paul looked and his heart leapt at the sight. There she was sat at a restaurant table, smiling at the camera, dressed in a fine, strapless ball gown. A diamond necklace hung round her neck, reaching down to her exposed cleavage. Her hair was coiffured, exposing her slender neck.
The men at the table wore German uniforms. They all had their glasses raised: they were toasting her! “Fucking hell!” Paul swore. The other four pictures were similar; different locations maybe, but she was always in the company of Germans. One man in particular was in each one. Paul studied his insignia: an SS colonel! She was hanging on his arm in one picture. In another, again at the restaurant table, he was kissing her cheek! Paul’s world reeled. It made no sense to him, and his shock was profound.
He looked wildly at Pru and she held his arm to steady him. “What the fuck is this, Pru? What’s going on? Did they send her there, the bastards?”
“Calm down, Paul. I told you,” she said. Getting down on her knees next to the bed, she pulled him down next to her and laid the five pictures in a row along the bed. “Now think, you stupid man. She sent these! I know it! So why? Has she gone over and is rubbing our noses in it? I don’t think so! You and I both know her: she wouldn’t. Never in a million years! So, look again. There’s something else, a message in there. So what is it? Is there anything common? In each she knows she’s being photographed; she’s looking at the camera and she’s smiling. That means she’s safe, she’s not their prisoner. Somehow she has their trust, so they don’t know who she really is. Come on, Paul, help me here. She’s got herself close to some real players; therefore she must have access to some really good info, so how can she get it out? We know she could contact the Rennes people, but she hasn’t, she’s kept her head down. Nobody’s been arrested that she knew about recently in Rennes − we’d know − therefore she’s kept away and kept her mouth shut. Now come on, Paul, you know her too! There’s something else: find it!”
Paul looked desperately at the photos, picking up one after another and laying them down again; then a germ of an idea formed and he got up, went to the dresser and came back with a magnifying glass. He studied each intently, as Pru anxiously watched, then a slow smile crossed his face. “I think I’ve got it! Look, here and here.” He handed the glass to Pru and pointed to where she should look.
Pru was puzzled. “What? I don’t see,” she said.
Paul took back the glass. “Look at her left hand. Here she’s holding her glass, here she’s resting her head on her palm. Here her hand is on her thighs. Look at her fingers: a ‘V’ sign. It’s in every picture. Look!”
“Oh, yes, I see it now. Subtle, clever cow!” Pru said.
“There’s more! Look, in every picture she’s wearing the same brooch, the one I gave her− remember I told you about it? Her last message mentioned it.”
Pru still had the glass and was comparing each picture. “Oh yes, oh yes,” she said excitedly. “So what does that tell us?”
“One, she’s still with us and she’s onto something. Two, she wants me to go find out what it is and help her.”
“How do you make that out?” Pru was puzzled.
“She’s always in the company of German officers; who else could get close to her but another German officer, an ex-German officer − me! Now they’ll have to bloody well let me go.”
“Bloody hell!” Pru said, quickly gathering the photos and shoving them back
in the envelope. “I’d better get these to Gibbons pronto.” She moved to the door, but Paul grabbed her arm.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
“Christ, Paul, I was supposed to take them directly to him. He’ll know I’ve shown you; he’ll skin me alive.”Pru was aghast.
Paul was hauling his socks on, then his shoes. He looked up at her and grinned. “Tough! You’ll charm him, Pru, I know you will, you’re a natural.”
“Come on then,” Pru said grumpily.
They were nearly out of the door when Pru stopped him. “Paul, there’s one other thing, you realise…?”
“That she’s this man’s mistress,” he interrupted.
“Yes, she could be,” Pru said quietly, looking anxiously at him.
“Probably is,” he said, “but I can’t think about that right now. Whatever she’s doing, she’ll have a bloody good reason, that’s for sure. Come on!” He propelled her out of the door.
They hurried across the park to the house which contained Major-General Sir Charles Gibbons’ office. His light was still on, as he had a habit of working till the early hours. They went in, upstairs to his office. Pru tapped on the door and opened it, ushering Paul in. She fetched two chairs and they sat facing him.
He didn’t look up; he was reading papers, occasionally scribbling a note, and they waited in silence. Finally, he put the pen down and looked up, his eyes glittering with intelligence behind his round owl-like glasses.
“Ah, Pru, and Mr…?” he enquired, fixing his stare on Paul, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Klaussen, sir,” Paul said.
“Oh yes, of course. I hear you’ve been badgering my officers, champing at the bit, to say the least.”
Paul was embarrassed and said nothing. Gibbons turned to Pru.“What is it, Pru?” he said.
Pru handed him the envelope. “It’s Pumpkin, sir. She’s surfaced,” Pru told him.
Gibbons looked at the contents of the envelope, taking his time. “I presume that Mr Klaussen is here because you showed him these before me, eh, Pru?” Pru shifted nervously. Gibbons gave her a long baleful look. She wilted. “Do anything like that again, Pru, and I’ll put you over my knee and tan your behind,” he said at last.
Pru smiled nervously. “Oooh, lovely,” she said; then, seeing his fierce glare, added, “Yes, sir, sorry, sir.” She pulled a notepad and pen from her tunic and busied herself.
Gibbons studied the pictures some more, before laying them down. “So, she’s hobnobbing with bigwig Germans, no less! Mr Klaussen, tell me what you make of this.”
“If I may, sir…” Paul got up and, taking the magnifying glass from his pocket, went round the desk and stood behind Gibbons and talked him through each photo, pointing out the minutiae. Gibbons said nothing, using the glass as directed by Paul; then Paul returned to his seat.
Gibbons steepled his fingers, pressing them to his lips, deep in thought. The others remained silent, watching him, till finally he broke the silence. “I tend to agree with your conclusions,” he said, “not least because I’ve met the girl, briefed her myself; very able. Do we know where this place is?”
“It shouldn’t be hard to find,” Paul said. “We could ask the Rennes people.”
“I’d prefer to keep them out of this business; they’re doing, um…rather well at the moment. It’s best not to rock that particular boat. In fact, I think this had better stay with the three of us; unless, of course, Pru has pasted copies of these everywhere so all and sundry can gawp, eh, Pru?”
“No-one else has seen them, sir.” Pru spoke quickly, her face reddening.
“If I let you go, and I mean if, where would you start, er, Paul, isn’t it?” Gibbons’ tone became friendlier.
Paul thought a little. “On her last signal she mentioned ‘friendlies’ at a map reference; they must have helped her. I’d go there.”
“Good, just what I was thinking.”
Paul was astonished! He hadn’t thought Gibbons would have remembered her message, but he was well renowned for his acute memory and attention to detail; it was this that had gotten him the job − that and Churchill’s confidence. “Fetch us all a drink, Pru, would you?” Gibbons said. “Now! Some things I want to make very clear. If she’s in imminent danger, you get her out. If anything goes wrong, you both get out. In fact, get her out anyway; take what she’s got and get her home. She couldn’t keep it up indefinitely anyway. Is that clear?”
Paul was profoundly relieved and heartily agreed. Pru poured each a large measure of whisky and sat down. “Now, let’s get our heads together and come up with a plan,” Gibbons said with a wolfish grin. “Whatever she’s got for us should be pure gold dust. We’ll need to be very sneaky indeed to get our hands on it. We stay up all night if we have to!”
This was what Gibbons relished the most in his job: he loved the strategy, the guile, the deceit, the planning. They did, in fact, stay up all night!
CHAPTER 11
Paul and Pru went straight to work in the morning, forsaking sleep; in fact, they felt energised. Gibbons had that effect on his people, raised them to new standards. Paul had been astonished by the man’s deviousness and daring. The plan they had worked out ought to work, and it would, as long as Paul was equally devious and daring.
A week later, Paul walked at a leisurely pace along the muddy Brittany track which led to the map reference and to Henri’s farm. He wore sturdy boots, old and scuffed, but still sound. He had on a leather coat, equally faded, over a holed jumper, and corduroy trousers. He had a small rucksack slung over his shoulder, and, nestling in the small of his back, a silenced pistol. The path widened and culminated in a farmyard. Paul stopped and cast his eyes over the barn, the other outbuildings, the rusting machinery littered about and, finally, at the house itself.
A door in one of the outbuildings creaked open, and a man came out carrying an axe. He held it in both hands and stopped and fixed his confident gaze on Paul, saying nothing. Paul watched him, then a movement caught his eye, and out of nowhere a huge man was standing by the door of the house, holding a wicked-looking pitchfork. Ignoring the man with the axe, Paul walked slowly towards the big man, his face unconcerned. He stopped in front of him and they sized each other up in silence for a minute before Paul spoke. “Just over three months ago, a woman came here: tall, dark hair, brown eyes, very beautiful.”
The big man’s face remained expressionless. “What of it?” he growled.
The man with the axe approached from Paul’s left to within earshot and striking distance, increasing the tension. Paul kept his eyes on the big man and spoke softly. “Tell your friend to keep very still. I have no wish to hurt either of you.”
The big man’s eyes narrowed. “Brave words; there are two of us,” he said flatly.
“Not enough,” Paul replied menacingly. Behind the man the door opened and a woman appeared. Paul raised his voice to include her. “She had with her a brooch, very valuable, a brooch I gave her.”
He described it in detail, and, over the man’s shoulder, he saw recognition dawn on the woman’s face. The men remained impassive. Paul addressed the woman. “You have seen this brooch, Madame?” She remained silent, though he knew she had, so he pressed on .“While she was here she sent a signal to England. I think you know who I am. I think you’ve been expecting me. ”He smiled.
The big man was not impressed. “You look like a German to me,” he accused, tightening his grip on the pitchfork.
“I can’t help my looks,” Paul shot back, dropping his rucksack to the ground, readying his stance. They stared at each other, neither willing to back down, the axeman awaiting his cue. “She disappeared,” Paul said, watching the man’s eyes. “Did you betray her, sell her out?”
Anger flashed in the big man’s eyes, and he looked about to strike. Paul tensed his muscles. The axeman had taken a step closer. Paul had decided to take him out first and awaited the moment. The three men were deadly still, each waiting for the first m
ove to be made.
The woman had come closer and now she spoke. “No, sir! We did not; we helped her,” she said.
Henri turned angrily to her. “Lucille, what are you doing? He could be a German, a spy!”
Lucille regarded Paul for a while, appraising him. “I don’t think so, Henri. Put that down; you too, Gaspar.” She addressed her next words to Paul. “She told me about you, while these two were out. She described you, and yes, she showed me the beautiful brooch. We have waited a long time. We were beginning to think no-one would come. But here you are.”
She came forward and extended her hand. He shook it and turned to the big man, his hand outstretched. Henri hesitated, making up his mind, then grudgingly took it in a vice-like grip. “You can’t be too careful,” he said. “Good to see you.” Paul shook Gaspar’s hand and Lucille ushered them into the house.
They sat round the table. Henri glowered at him −he still needed convincing − and Gaspar’s face showed concern, as Lucille poured some wine and sat down. She cast a worried look at Paul and spoke. “She disappeared? How?”
“Not entirely. I’m afraid I didn’t tell you the whole truth. She was missing for three months; then a week ago she made contact. She sent some photos of herself to England.”
“Then she’s alive!” Gaspar said, the relief in his voice echoing the others’ expressions.