He’d felt combined relief and irritation, and had been ashamed at both. He’d felt for her. As if her brother Hugh’s going over to Rome wasn’t shock enough for her family, Peter Hill had appeared on their conventional Anglican scene with his unconventional mother and his cosmopolitan tastes in foreign Jewish women-friends. He could imagine the pressure. Poor Amelia.
‘Look, in a few weeks we might be fighting for our lives. If not, this war’s not going to get any easier. When it’s over, the world will be different, and we’ll probably be different. Let’s stay friends, good friends.’ Cosmopolitan? More likely that other social awkwardness—not for Amelia’s delicate ears? ‘Do tell your mother I’m posted away and won’t be back for some time. By the way, did you see the government is calling for people good at crosswords to come forward? You must try.’
****
One final visit to the flat gave him the parting image of Madame and the professor comfortably playing bezique, a crème de menthe at their elbows, the professor addressing her as Claudine-Jeanne. He’d remembered to return the plum smoking jacket and embroidered slippers. The professor had greeted them like old friends who’d dropped in unexpectedly.
****
Nick he’d met in a pub behind Victoria station. By then he’d moved into his pre-departure rooms, in a block in Victoria, and was sure the porter kept a record of callers. Nick brought interesting news. The names given by the professor’s visitors were said to be unknown at the ministries recorded as their addresses. Davidson wasn’t recorded at all. Someone had ripped a page from the visitors’ book. ‘The dates fit.’
****
Then his operational orders for the mission. Hendersley had run through them in formal manner ‘to avoid any misunderstanding’. Very proficient. He had the final briefings: the latest information on Vichy (sketchy), British and Canadian policy towards France and priorities. Repeated emphasis on Halifax’s personal interest. On the eve of his departure, Major Reichenau had come with instructions on making contact with the sympathetic Abwehr officer. He’d added some general advice. Be wary of phones in hotel rooms. Use public callboxes. Take the third taxi. Be constantly observant. ‘The rule is: “if you see the same new face twice, start to worry”.’
The final rituals. Hendersley and an unnamed colleague had come to conduct a last check. Then the Canadian secretary arrived in a car to take him to the aerodrome. As traffic lights held the car up in Whitehall, he’d seen his father, holding a bulky briefcase, briskly striding towards the Cabinet Office. He looked weather-beaten, older, more lines on the face, thinner, pre-occupied. Involuntarily Peter said, ‘There’s my father, over from Egypt.’
The lights turned to green. The secretary leaned forward to look. ‘Shall I ask the driver to stop? You’ve time to say hello.’
‘No. No, thank you. It’s better not.’
Chapter Nine
The pilot cut the engines. In the sudden silence, as he came down the steps on to the airfield, Peter could hear birdsong above the murmurings of the few other passengers to Berne. At last, the unseen larks. Music showering on my upturned listening face. Perhaps she was looking at the same patch of Swiss blue sky. Strange joy.
A veteran American reporter and his leggy secretary had been on the flight. As they headed for the arrivals hall, the reporter edged up to Peter, who opened the conversation with him. It could be only a good thing to have the press notice his appointment and projected arrival in Vichy. An open Canadian mission. They arranged to meet for a drink at the reporter’s hotel, in the old city by the federal parliament building.
****
As Canada had no direct Swiss representation, Peter’s diplomatic home was the British legation, outside the old city in an area of substantial villas not very far from the aerodrome. Before doing anything else, he must make himself known there, must meet his British colleagues and discuss arrangements for sending his reports. That done, he must introduce himself at the Swiss Foreign Ministry. That done, he must present himself at the French Legation, show his credentials and have them accepted and noted, also discuss transit to Vichy and presenting himself there, making all arrangements necessary to take up his post as soon as possible. He must activate his mission’s Swiss and French bank accounts and arrange finance for himself and his work. Phew!
If publicly settling into his role was to be the first step, that solved itself: he hadn’t realised how much sheer administration went into being a secret agent. Nothing about that in Maugham or Oppenheim or Greene.
****
At the British legation, the minister offered tea with anchovy toast and remarked how much they were looking forward to his first-hand impressions of Vichy, though of course they had sources, good sources.
Peter borrowed a room with a telephone to make his appointments and paid his introductory visit to the secure area and the cipher room. Then he was free to go to the pension, La Glycine, where the legation placed guests – not far from the main station, reliable landlady, good for a couple of nights, home from home for longer.
In a quiet, arcaded area of 18th-century guildhouses and shops, of little squares with trickling fountains, La Glycine was true to its name. An ancient wisteria extended its espaliered branches over the front door and all along the façade, globules of heavy mauve flowers dropping down in lavish bunches. They were well past their best but the sweet scent still hung over the sunny street.
The landlady’s sturdy daughter showed him to his room, overlooking a pleasant, shady garden where he could take breakfast if he pleased. He spent a few minutes with the landlady over a coffee in the dining room, dealing with the formalities and chatting about the effect of the war on her country, neutral though it was: the fear of food and petrol shortages, the fear of Hitler’s intentions, the fear they could not export their goods. He looked at the rack of newspapers – in French and German – on their wooden reading frames.
He retrieved his attaché case from his room and went out to find the Swiss Federal Foreign Ministry, taking his time to follow the street map lent by the pension, resisting the temptation to explore the inviting passageways and alleys. Hurrying was impossible, though, in streets ablaze with colour from flowers clustered in boxes, tubs, hanging baskets. Geraniums, petunias, tulips, blue gentian. His spirits lifted as he walked. Grim, grimy, tense London was a world apart, a world away.
****
His Swiss formalities completed, he went to look up the American reporter, Ed, at his hotel on the city’s rocky buttress, high above the Aare river valley. Ed was on the terrace, relaxed, drinking Swiss white wine and contemplating the far ring of mountain peaks, sharply white in the blue sky. The leggy secretary was resting until dinner. He poured a glass for Peter. Did he know the winner of the New York Times newsroom’s competition for the most boring feature title ever? ‘“Canada: Friendly Giant to the North”.’
Just then, a slightly-built man in dark suit came on to the terrace. He took a seat behind Peter and ordered a beer and a copy of Berner Zeitung. Peter heard him pay when his order was taken.
As the blue of the sky deepened and the sun picked out the peaks in red, a drink turned into dinner. The secretary, Dorothy, joined them, freshly bathed and sweetly scented with – wasn’t it Arpège, he asked her?
‘Your wife’s a lucky woman.’
Peter smiled and shook his head.
‘Lady friends, then. I just bought it in the lobby.’
Ed was good on France. Better than any of the London briefings. In occupied France – Peter was okay with the German-imposed division into occupied and non-occupied zones? – life was tough. The Germans were draining everything into invasion preparations and the people were economically distraught and low in spirit. ‘Just doing the best they can to keep on the right side of the occupier and make do.’ Transport had broken down with so many road bridges wrecked and railway junctions shattered. As for the unoccupied zone in the south, it hadn’t anything like the resources of the occupied north. France was living on i
ts reserves. Food in very short supply, with meatless days and cutbacks in sugar and butter. ‘A butter shortage in France! Would you believe?’ He shared his experience of getting through the frontier and on to Vichy. ‘All along the border with Switzerland, the French are being squeezed between the Germans and the Italians. “Unoccupied maybe. Not independent” is the message. But they’re managing to keep one or two crossing points under their control.’ In Vichy, Ed had been horrified by Pétain’s ruthlessness in bringing war guilt cases against the former government. ‘Men he’s served with, mark you. Daladier, Mandel. He has to demonstrate a clean break with a Republic that was quote corrupt, unquote. Mind you, that’s not the nastiest step taken by Henri Philippe Benoni Omer Joseph Pétain.’
Behind Peter, the slight man had left after a second beer. Just before he went, a rather more heavily-built man in a blazer, grey trousers and an alpine hat had come in and ordered a plate of cured meat and cheese and a half of red wine, which he paid for straight away. He asked the waiter for a box of matches and used several before his pipe was alight to his satisfaction.
The nastiest step? Peter asked Ed to hold on for a moment while he went to the lobby in search of cigarettes. Among the cigars in the glass case was a yellow box of papirosy and he bought that too.
The terrace had filled up with diners, the mountains now only outlined against the clear night sky, though a last ray of sun had caught the jagged tip of the Jungfrau.
Dorothy accepted a papirosa. ‘It reminds me of my grandfather.’ Ed put down his pipe and took one.
Peter waved his. ‘Don’t forget to pinch the end.’
‘With this dame? Could I ever? Now the nastiest thing, in this reporter’s humble opinion—’
Dorothy snorted.
‘In this reporter’s humble, repeat humble, opinion, the nastiest and worst thing is their withdrawing French citizenship from foreigners-by-decree. On the grounds that too many have taken citizenship quote for personal reasons unquote. In other words, Jewish refugees. Pétain’s new ambassador is going to have a lot of explaining to do in Washington—I hope.’
Ed moved on to ask about London. Fortunately for Peter, the American liked to talk. He mentioned Hoare and the Hoare-Laval pact, the presence of a pro-peace lobby in the government; he mentioned rumours that peace approaches had been made through Spain and questioned how secure W.S.C. really was. He moved on to invasion, how the people – how the rich, how the slums – might respond to German troops on English streets.
‘You came from London, yes?’ Dorothy broke in. She patted Peter’s knee, giving it a little squeeze. ‘Let’s have the real potatoes.’
He’d been happy to let Ed roll on. In other circumstances they might have had a very interesting exchange. He stuck to “his impressions” of a Britain, a British people ready to stand alone under Churchill’s leadership, what could be seen on trips around the country, anecdotes from the buses, from pubs, the irrepressibility of East Enders, the exuberance of the Home Guard and their roadblocks – Ed should write about them if he came to London – and moved the conversation to Washington. Luckily, Ed liked to talk.
With the moon in the sky and the mountain peaks tipped with silver, they parted. Dorothy had gone in. She had an early call at the Telegraph Office. Peter said he had a busy day ahead to prepare for transit. The veteran reporter finished his brandy and knocked out his pipe and promised to meet him in Vichy, to exchange impressions and have someone truly reasonable to talk to.
Alpine hat had just gone, having followed his cheese and wine with compote and coffee, for which he’d also paid at once. He’d been wearing shoes with heavy rubber soles, in a strange way matching the hat.
Peter went directly back. In the hushed streets, stopping near a shop-window to check the map and light a papirosa, he could not hear any footsteps behind him, but he felt rather than saw a shadow at the street corner.
At the pension, the bookmark he’d placed in The Faber Book of Modern Verse remained as he’d placed it.
****
‘Be so generous as to permit me, on behalf of the French Republic, to welcome the national representative of Canada, a nation with whom happy providence has given France long and deep links of blood, culture and history, and to assure him that we are at his disposal for any assistance we can afford him towards the success of his mission.’
Grave, formal, elegant, articulate, everything for which diplomacy was created – thus the elderly, grey-bearded minister in his somewhat rusty frock coat, drawn up behind his ornate second empire desk to receive Peter’s credentials.
Coffee was served in tiny eggshell cups. The minister inquired delicately when the chargé himself might be expected and when the Canadian minister himself might honour the Republic by going to Vichy. His government was, of course, pleased that Canada had understood the essential continuity of the French state through the vicissitudes of recent events from which the renewed republic had arisen. However it was his duty to remind that Canadian diplomatic status while naturally respected by France would regrettably not protect Canada’s representatives should they cross into the occupied zone or otherwise encounter German forces. ‘Internment in Germany would almost certainly be your fate. Please be aware.’ The warning delivered, he handed Peter over to a first secretary to settle transit, papers and passport, travel arrangements, presentation in Vichy and establishing representation.
‘I feel myself fortunate to be witness to an historic moment in the history of France.’ As the first secretary bristled, Peter added, ‘The forwarding of the National Revolution.’
The secretary’s brow cleared. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘As long as you remember that, you can be sure of a serious reception that should permit you to fulfil your mission.’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow.
‘I hope for a reception that will allow me to understand the workings of the new government and to comprehend developments, diplomatic and also domestic.’
‘My cousin is in the cabinet of Paul Baudoin, the foreign minister. I will give you his number. Tell him Edouard and Julie send their love from Berne. Please be discreet. The atmosphere is difficult, but he should be able to open some doors.’ He scribbled a name and number on a scrap of paper. In his normal voice he began to discuss Peter’s returning to collect his documents.
‘One word more, if I may, before I leave. I was struck by a certain sadness on the part of the minister.’
‘His son is in Germany. He was taken on the Meuse.’
****
Ambling through the patches of light and shade in the bustling arcades, pausing occasionally to walk round the flower-decked fountains, he made his way to the Canadian government’s French bank and successfully arranged for a facility in Vichy.
Emerging into the sunlight, he felt so far so good, even satisfying. Time for a bite? In a square near the Federal Palace, a café by the flower market beckoned invitingly.
Across the square, a man standing in the shadow of a tall gothic gatehouse had picked out Peter and was keeping him under scrutiny as he chose a table in the shade by a bank of geraniums. The watcher waited until his quarry was settled, then, without taking his eyes off him, walked down the other side of the square and, slowing to a stroll, cut across to the table, where Peter was just putting down the menu.
‘May I join you?’
Fresh complexion, bright blue eyes, lean. Something rather parsonical about him—sporting parson. ‘By all means.’
‘Tim Mathews, visa control at the British consulate. First time in Switzerland?’
‘First visit to Berne, though I have been in the Bernese Oberland.’
‘It feels a very long way from home.’
‘Particularly from London.’
‘No blackout. I was just out to buy some fags and thought it must be you.’
‘A happy chance. I was planning to call in later. Time for a spot of lunch?’ He passed over the menu.
As Tim looked down at it, he muttered, ‘You know you’ve
company?’
‘Two men in turn at the Bellevue last night and one all this morning, small with spectacles.’
‘I have the sense that there may be another, hanging well back. Can’t be certain.’
‘Swiss, German, French?’
‘Take your pick.’
‘I’ll settle for Abwehr.’ But who was the other? The one hanging back? ‘Now, what’s it going to be?’
Towards the middle of lunch, with the hubbub of the café and the market at its height, Tim asked, ‘Anything I can do?’
‘At the moment, no, thank you. Nothing for another ten days or so. Until I come back from Vichy. Some time after that, a quick visa for a friend, perhaps, transport, secure communication with London. That sort of thing. I might need to contact you at short notice.’
They settled on signals for an urgent meeting and for danger. ‘Nick said, “Tim, maximum support, maximum security.” I’ll do my best for both. It’s obviously very significant.’
‘Thank you.’ Declining Tim’s unspoken invitation to say more, Peter looked at his watch and called for the bill. ‘I must see my government’s Swiss bankers or there’ll be no money.’ He looked at the map. ‘Where is it from here?’
‘Two minutes.’ Tim pointed at a weighty baroque building with a pillared and porticoed entrance certain to weigh on the spirits of all who entered.
****
The Canadian government’s business completed, he left by a side door and slipped down a narrow street to an unassuming house with a discreet nameplate. It announced the seat of a private bank. He rang the bell. The door opened a crack. He gave a name. The door shut noiselessly behind him.
Elderly, though of uncertain age, an avuncular appearance belied by eyes drained of expression, motionless, the private banker studied him soberly, then dropped his eyes to the heavy white envelope sealed with wax and addressed in dark-blue ink, which Peter had placed on the banker’s bare mahogany desk. The banker raised his eyebrows. Peter nodded and slid the letter further towards him. The banker read the inscription. After a pause for deliberation, he opened a drawer and withdrew a wafer-thin, chased-silver knife which he slid under the seal. Another pause and he opened the envelope and extracted two sheets of thick woven paper, one folded over once, the other doubled and sealed with a wafer. He opened the folded sheet and read its hand-written content. He looked up at Peter, then read the letter once more. Again he looked up at Peter. No sound penetrated the wood-panelled office.
Innocence To Die For Page 41