Initiation

by S C Brown

  Eve took a moment to consider how she was getting on. Firstly, she was alive. There was no mention of torture or drugs. So far, she had been treated well and everything that had happened so far was pretty much as Smithens had predicted in her training.

  Eve was surprised at how oddly tall, proud and emboldened she felt. She didn’t feel scared any more. This was not how she thought she would be – she was expecting arrest to be terrifying but so far, it hadn’t been. She looked confidently at her captors, her head held high. Her time as a secret agent may have been short but this was not going to be the end of the road for her, she thought. No. Play for time.

  Inevitably, after an hour or two, standing in heels, her calves began to ache. As the hours passed the ache seeped up her legs to her lower back, then the balls of her feet, then her neck and eventually, pretty much everything ached. The ache crept slowly into the base of her skull, a dull, throbbing, irresistible pain. Her mouth dried up, as did her eyes. The man and woman fed her small sips of water every now and then but Eve could see they were deliberately keeping her dehydrated and with dehydration, came a deeper sense of fatigue.

  Eve asked to use the toilet. From the wardrobe behind her, the man produced a bedpan and slid it between her legs. He smelt a little of garlic. Her captors both watched her closely, especially the woman. Eve took her time, enjoying the chance to bend her legs deeply. She raised her hands for help standing up. It amused Eve to see how alarmed her captors looked at this. The man stepped forward carefully, grabbed Eve’s hands and pulled up. The woman watched Eve’s every move with her fists clenched. Eve said thank you politely and went back to standing up again. The bedpan was passed out through the door. The corridor outside gave no clue as to what time of day it was.

  Eve resolved herself to a night of being kept upright and awake. She knew just how much this was going to hurt. She also knew how she needed to keep her mind off the pain and focused on her own survival. Keeping busy, she studied every nook and cranny of the room, the desk and each chair in turn. The sharp tick of every scratch on the desk, the faded woodwork on the chair where greasy hands had grasped it over decades. Concentration beat boredom, kept her sharp, kept her fighting.

  She studied her guards. The man had slightly odd socks on. The woman’s left eye spasmed a little as she grew tired. It must have been well into the night when the man and woman began to take it in turns to go out, presumably to get some sleep. It made Eve feel good to know she was outlasting them, for now at least.

  But it was inevitable, eventually, the fatigue began to take control. Her knees began to give a little without warning. Eve winked alternately, pressed her fingernails into her palms, sucked in long breaths but in the end, she could feel herself sinking.

  Suddenly, both of Eve’s knees gave way. The man leapt up from his chair to grab her - not to stop her falling over but to jerk her upright and stand her up once again.

  Eve raised a hand to get hair out of her eyes. He screamed something at her and slapped her hand down. This outburst shocked Eve but she kept her calm, maybe she was handling the night better than he was, thought Eve. The room smelt stuffier and staler as the hours passed. The dance continued throughout the rest of the night, Eve fell asleep standing up, the man or woman screaming and repositioning her. All Eve wanted now was to sleep. That was all she wanted in the world. The chance for just a moment with her head resting on the desk, to remove these awful shoes.

  The man and woman ended their shift pattern, perhaps it was now daylight outside, thought Eve. They started asking her simple questions. What is your name? Where did you come from? Were you trained in Minley, like the others? Eve struggled to understand the questions and realised just how the night had numbed her senses. Eve said nothing but let her knees give way and dropped to the floor. She kicked off her shoes but the man simply put them back on Eve’s feet before forcing her upright once again.

  Like an egg timer, brown sweat stains crept slowly down the white shirt collars of her guards.

  * * *

  Eve listened to the staff of the Hotel Majestic rouse for a new day on the floors above and the corridor outside.

  Eventually the door opened and Berner walked in. Eve was almost pleased to see him. At last, a break from the boredom. Even though he stood some distance from her, Eve noticed how he smelled of soap, was freshly shaved and wearing a different suit. Eve watched Berner frown and cough lightly at the stuffiness of the room before taking a moment to study Eve again. Her skin was pallid, strands of hair hung across her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Good morning. Eve, you look terrible.’ He was speaking French now. He walked lightly to a chair and sat down behind the desk. He leaned forward from the waist, clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him and still far enough away to not tempt Eve into reaching for him. ‘I trust that my helpers here have left you without sleep. No?’ He was chipper but not smug. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  Eve was not expecting that. Eve nodded. ‘Yes, please.’ Berner gave an order and the man that left to get tea.

  ‘Please, Mademoiselle, sit.’ Berner gestured to the chair behind her.

  Eve took a second to take that in. Falteringly she put a hand out to feel behind her for the chair, keeping her eyes on Berner. Her knees gave too quickly and she landed heavily on the chair. She ached all over and sitting down had not ended the pain but only altered it. With an effort, she pushed off her shoes. She felt her feet throb against the dry, cold floor. Eve’s training returned to her. She turned slightly so that she could only look sideways at Berner to hide some of her body language.

  Berner spoke in the same slow, methodical tone as yesterday but now in English.

  The door opened and the man arrived carrying tea in a dainty china cup. He looked quite embarrassed. Eve looked him in the eye. ‘Merci,’ she croaked. The tea soothed and warmed her throat, her first proper drink since the café. The motif on the cup reminded her of happier visits to the Hotel Majestic before the war.

  Berner went on. ‘Eve, I explained how this works yesterday and nothing’s changed. I have made sure you have had all night to think about it.’ Berner gave a little smile. ‘All I want to know is if you will work with me or not. Everything else is a detail after that.’

  Eve remained silent.

  With that, Berner stood up and buttoned his jacket and waited. He looked at the woman guard. ‘She’s had long enough on that chair. Put her back on her feet and back to the old routine please.’ To save him them the bother, Eve sighed, smiled and stood up. Eve could see that her little act of defiance - the smile and standing up on her own – made an impression on Berner. He turned and left, careful to make sure Eve still did not get to see what might be going on in the corridor outside but by refusing at this early stage to answer Berner, she felt she had made a decision for herself, not at the bidding of her captor. It was a tiny victory but to Eve, it mattered greatly.

  * * *

  Eve estimated six or seven hours must have passed before Berner returned. He came straight out with it.

  ‘I want to play you back to London, so I will give you messages to send. You will encode them and send them to London for me as if they were your own. I will check your encoding and listen to your messages, so I know you haven’t tricked me. One false move, and it’s all over. I know all the usual tricks so you need to play this cleanly or not at all. Don’t have a moral crisis about any of this either. You’re not betraying your country, you are simply staying alive and everyone in London understands.’

  ‘Assuming you’ll agree, tonight, you will come with me to your flat in the 6th District. I know where you live, remember. You will collect your own radio and cipher and bring it back here. You will transmit from here but you will use your own set. That will make everything look and sound quite authentic to your people in London.

  ‘You have no real alternatives. I will treat you well provided that you follow my simple instructions. You are in a much bigger game than you had thought, so act l
ike it. Your guards respect you. It will remain that way provided you cooperate. If you fail me, I will have you delivered to the Gestapo on Avenue Foch. There you can be certain of being treated very differently to the way you will be treated here. Alluring as you are, Eve, they will have their fill of you in all sorts of ways before you die.’

  ‘Well?’ he asked. It was crunch time and Eve was prepared but she said nothing.

  Eve gave the same enigmatic smile as she did in the café the day before but said nothing. Berner had seen that smile in other agents in the past and it spelled trouble.

  * * *

  They marched Eve on a different route through the corridors of the Hotel Majestic to get to the car. Berner was still making sure Eve stood no chance of memorising an escape route. Squeezed in the back of a car tightly between Berner and the male guard, who she now knew was called Josef, she could not help but notice how Josef’s thighs were rock hard – this man was an athlete. She could also feel the hardness in Berner’s arms, pressed tightly against hers. Berner was fitter and stronger than he looked in that baggy suit. The woman guard, climbed into the passenger seat, wearing a grey woollen collarless jacket, a little hint of Bavaria, noticed Eve.

  They pulled out beyond the gates and drove down the avenues and streets Eve knew so well. Eve sat still as they drove a circuitous route to the 6th District. Eve wasn’t expecting anyone from the Resistance to be watching for her but she looked out the windows all the same. It was good to be outside the Majestic.

  Eve noticed a clock as they drove along - curfew was not due to start for another 20 minutes but already the rain-drenched streets were dark and empty. They turned into her street, the driver killed the engine and allowed the car to roll up silently against the kerb outside her door. The tyres crackled against the road surface as rain drummed on the roof.

  Berner spoke quietly into Eve’s ear. ‘Remember: straight in and straight out. If challenged, you say there’s been a change of plan, nothing to worry about and all is well. You’re staying with friends. You will be back in a couple of days. You’re just taking security precautions to make sure you’re not being watched. Maybe even say it’s been exciting. Josef here will be with you for most of the way just in case you start feeling adventurous. If you think you can run fast, Josef here can run faster.’ Eve was inclined to believe him. ‘Now,’ finished Berner, ‘off you go.’

  Josef unfolded himself from the car, towering above Eve and pulled up his collar. Eve looked down the street and counted at least four men stood idly against lamp posts or in the shadows of doorways watching her watch them. A couple of uniformed policemen stood getting wetter at a checkpoint set up at the end of street to stop anyone coming through.

  Eve walked slowly, her feet still swollen in her shoes, across the pavement and up to the door. With her key in her hand, she was through the door in an instant, with Josef through the door before Eve could slam it. Eve and Josef could not help but share a small smile at that.

  Inside, the house was quiet except for the clatter of pots upstairs. Eve walked unsteadily up the edge of the staircase, staying close to the walls to stop the floorboards squeaking. She sneaked past the Agard’s door on tiptoe, the back of her legs were still painful from standing up all night. Eve heard Helene Agard shouting at Edouard for getting the wrong kind of flour, again. Edouard was protesting his innocence at full volume. In a way, Eve was glad that they would not notice her being around today, ignorance in the spying game is a good way of staying alive. As Eve approached her own door, Josef hung back in a dark corner. Eve found her door was as she left it, the single strand of hair stuck with saliva across the frame was still there – she’d had no intruders whilst she had been away.

  Eve entered the silent apartment. The bottle of wine she had left on the table beside her chair was untouched. Undaunted, Eve strode across and took a lusty mouthful from the bottle, then another. It didn’t taste great but it felt wonderful. Another tiny victory. Smithens would be proud, she thought.

  Wiping the back of her hand across her lips, Eve stopped to listen, feeling the wine swell her tongue. The Agards were still arguing about the flour. Eve gave a sad smile and slipped off her shoes. The rug felt good between her blackened toes. Eve hobbled quietly across the rug, unlatched the wooden sewing machine cover and pulled out her radio set. She pulled her cipher sheets out from under the cooker. Eve stood up and, spotting the stale loaf on the table, ripped off a chunk and pushed it into her mouth. She struggled to eat it, tough as it was.

  Eve nipped into her bedroom, dug out a pair of lace-up shoes and winced as she put them on. Eve thought she would stand a better chance of running in these than her heels. She reached for a bag and quickly stuffed in some clothes before stepping back into the main room for another swig of wine. She checked under the table, feeling for her pistol. It was still there. Eve stood up to think and decided to leave the pistol where it was, for now.

  Josef looked nervous when Eve stepped out into the corridor carrying her radio in its usual suitcase. She pulled her coat into place and patted her pockets. She quickly nipped back inside but, to Josef’s great relief, almost immediately reappeared carrying the small bag with the clothes, giving Hans a silly-old-me look. Eve locked her door, silently wished the Agards good luck and probably goodbye as she crept passed their door. Mr Agard was agreeing loudly to go to the shops first thing in the morning if it was that important. Coward, Eve smiled.

  ‘Change of clothes,’ whispered Eve as she walked past Hans holding up her bag. Josef had not seemed to notice that Eve had changed her shoes. But the woman, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs took no time in searching Eve’s bag and suitcase. Eve had guessed it right and satisfied herself that she had been wise to leave the pistol strapped to the table.

  Berner blew his cheeks out with palpable relief as the car pulled away with Eve tucked in next to him. The woman guard, sat in the passenger seat again, started rummaging through Eve’s bag. Satisfied, she turned and in silence handed it to Eve.

  ‘Nothing, Ursula?’ asked Berner.

  ‘Nothing, Sir, she has no gun or knife.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Berner raise an eyebrow in surprise before turning to look out at the rain. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it was rain just like this that did for you eventually, Eve.’ Berner watched the puddles in the roads speed by. ‘Any other high society Parisian woman would duck for cover, get under an umbrella – anything, frankly, to keep the rain off. But not you. We watched you go out into the rain and just keep going without a fuss. Only Ursula here goes out in the rain without a fuss. That’s how we knew you were no ordinary Paris girl.’ Berner turned to look Eve in the eye. ‘You see, you had to be military, or an agent. Funny isn’t it, how the silliest, simplest of things give you away.’

  Eve gave a small, ironic, snort of a laugh. Just look what the Army had made her, she thought: predictable.

  * * *

  The villagers hadn’t seen it before. The sleek, black Mercedes came to a sudden halt in the village square. A limp body was pushed from a back door. The car sped off.

  The regular drinkers at Henri’s Bar looked up from their glasses as the rain fell in sweeping sheets across the square, dripping irreverently from the nose of the war memorial statue. The volume of conversation gradually lowered to unconnected whispers as interest rose in the man laying across the kerb. An unspoken sense that something should be done filled the bar but no one wanted to make the first move.

  The man lying in the square lifted his head a fraction off the pavement, where a puddle was starting to form under his battered, bruised and cut face. Henri, the owner of the bar, stood in the window staring, slowly scratching his chin. If one thing was bad for business, it was having an unconscious, or semi-conscious man at least, stretched out outside his bar. Henri could see his competitor Julien, who ran the Tabac across the square, pondering the same question. Seeing an opportunity, Henri hoped the man, whoever he was, was more in need of a beer than a
cigarette. Henri dispatched his youngest waiter, François out into the rain to carry the man in. Opposite, Julien could be seen flapping his arms despairingly.

  François stepped out into the rain under protest and grabbed at a wrist. The man in the puddle gave a tormented yell and swore. After an uncomfortable couple of seconds, the man lying in the rain and the waiter made eye contact.

  ‘Not my wrists!’

  Indignantly, François bent down to grab the invalid around his shoulders and started to drag. His appeal for assistance was met with staring silence from through the café window.

  Everything François did made the man gasp or grunt in pain. In a moment, whilst François regained his strength in time for another heave, the injured man looked down into the puddle and for a second saw his own reflection in the water and did not recognise himself. François looked back to his boss pleadingly, Henri simply nodded with his head towards the door: get him in, quick. François shot his boss an anguished look and tried again. The man was trying to get up but his legs kept buckling beneath him. After some clumsy pulling, hauling, dragging and swearing, as well as plenty of words of unhelpful advice from his boss, François got the man into the bar and sat down on a low bench.

  The customers looked at the stranger, mouths open in silence.

  The wind banged the door open, François heaved it back into place before returning to gawp at the newcomer. The drinker’s heads moved in unison from François back to the man on the bench, whose head had slumped to one side, rain dripping from his matted hair.

  ‘Come on, François, get this man a drink,’ demanded Henri. François scuttled off, guessing that whoever that was on the bench, he probably needed a beer. François placed the beer down in front of the man before returning to the bar to pour himself one, ignoring Henri’s glare.