Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  ‘Now!’ hissed the chef de terrain. The meadow flickered into light as the men ignited the oil lamps. The aircraft appeared far more quickly than Mitchell had expected. In what seemed no time at all a shadow descended, landed, growled and the gull-winged blackbird was upon them. The pilot wheeled the aircraft, the backdraught from the propeller blowing the headgear from some of the men. Exhaust fumes stung eyes and throat. The deafening engine silenced any further shouted commands as Mitchell ran to the port side where the passenger ladder clung to the fuselage. Someone was already climbing down, a belted raincoat flapping about slim ankles, a beret tugged over neck-length hair. It was a woman, Mitchell realized with surprise. He had not expected a female operator to be sent. He knew it made no difference – there had been women at Bletchley and on his training course – but it still gave him a mild sense of shock that a woman had been suddenly cast into the darkness of this inhospitable place. When she was halfway down the ladder he reached up and relieved her of the suitcase. Its thirty-pound weight at an awkward angle above his head nearly wrenched his shoulder. It almost slipped from his grasp.

  ‘Careful!’ the woman insisted. She jumped off the lower rungs on to the ground and faced him. She was young but her eyes challenged him as she reached for the case he was now holding securely.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said, raising his voice above the aircraft’s roar.

  One of the men clambered up the ladder, leant in and hauled out a wooden box. He passed it down to another, repeated the retrieval again until three wooden boxes were on the ground, then closed the passenger cockpit. Men grabbed the boxes’ rope handles and ran for the edge of darkness behind the aircraft. There would be weapons, ammunition, money and cigarettes in them.

  Mitchell held her elbow, moving her away as the pilot raised a hand and eased the throttle. It had taken less than three minutes to unload his cargo. As the silhouette lifted into the sky the flare path was extinguished and darkness reclaimed the landing zone.

  The silence made their ears ring and as the men gathered in their lamps he stopped himself from shouting. ‘I’m Pascal,’ he told her, guiding her down on to the track where one of the men was already strapping the wooden crates on to Gaétan’s horse.

  ‘Ginny Lindhurst,’ she answered with a welcome smile but then quickly corrected herself. ‘Thérèse Fernay,’ she said, using her cover name. ‘I really can manage the suitcase.’

  As the gamekeeper marshalled the men from the meadow Mitchell guided her to where bicycles leant against the bank. He secured her suitcase under the spring clasp on the luggage rack of one. ‘I’m sure that’s so, but can you ride a bike?’

  She answered his teasing question with a frown. ‘I think I might remember how.’

  ‘Good. We have ten miles to go before dawn and the going is rough.’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be anything else,’ she said.

  Mitchell felt an immediate warmth towards the slightly built girl. She was obviously not as frail as she looked.

  25

  Ginny awoke to the idyllic sound of a farmyard chorus. Sun streamed through her bedroom window. Chickens clucked in the courtyard below along with the muted voices of the men going about their chores. The flight had been uncomfortable, the evasive flying at times tiring. She had managed to keep her anxiety hidden but before they had taken off from Tangmere on the Channel coast near Chichester she had hoped an opportunity might arise to go into town: a final walk down an English street would have been a welcome distraction to subdue her mounting tension. Naturally, though, she had been confined to base for the preceding hours. She had flourished during training but the beckoning unknown had made her nervous. Now she was here though, she resolved to dismiss the fear, pushing it far from her mind, refusing to see her mission as anything other than a challenging extension of her training and her own determination. She smiled as the tantalizing smell of cooked eggs wafted up from below. She could have been at home.

  She rinsed her face and stepped into a floral frock, pulling on a cardigan against the chill morning air. When she entered the kitchen she found a matronly woman wearing an apron dishing out eggs and homemade bread to a half-dozen scruffy-looking brigands around the table. Mitchell sat at the head of the table, his back to her as she entered, but one of the men, huge by comparison to the others, quickly wiped a hand across his matted beard and stood up.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ said Chaval.

  She smiled as the others stood. Mitchell turned, egg dripping down his chin quickly wiped by a napkin.

  ‘Please, don’t stand. It’s not necessary,’ said Ginny.

  ‘My dear,’ said the matron, wiping her hands on her apron and quickly taking Ginny’s hand in her own. ‘Let these scoundrels at least behave like gentlemen. I kept you a place here, next to the stove. I am Madame Gaétan. This is my home and you are welcome for as long as you wish to stay with us.’

  ‘Thank you, madame. You are most kind.’

  The men sat back down, but they couldn’t stop themselves glancing repeatedly at her: she was so slender, so young, hardly cut out for such dangerous work.

  Only Mitchell knew her real name. Though introductions weren’t strictly necessary, it was possible that knowing the man at her side might save her life if trouble suddenly struck; and so he would introduce her, but give as little information as possible. ‘Thérèse,’ he said cautiously, catching her eye and seeing that she understood. ‘Let me present you to the men who were with me last night.’ The same demand for security extended to Ginny as well as the men. If she were captured it served no purpose for her to have the men’s full names spilling from her lips.

  Mitchell pointed to each man in turn and used only their Christian names. Laforge half stood and bobbed as Mitchell named him: ‘Reynard.’ Chaval stood to his full height again and nodded, locking his dark eyes on the pale girl: ‘Victor.’

  Bucard understood what Mitchell was doing. He pushed back his chair. ‘I am Henri.’

  Mitchell pointed to Drossier. ‘Camille.’ Who nodded.

  Finally, he indicated Maillé, who bent his head to his plate as he mopped up the yolk. ‘Nicolas.’

  ‘Mam’selle,’ said the mechanic. He ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘Better eat Madame’s breakfast. You look as though you need feeding up.’

  The men grinned. Ginny felt the blood creeping up her neck but spoke quickly to hide her embarrassment. ‘Nicolas, it looks as though you have already eaten mine. I see your trouser belt is on its last hole.’

  Bucard spluttered as Maillé’s mouth fell open in shock. Drossier gave him a friendly slap across the back of his head. ‘She’s right. You were snorting like the horse last night. You need to lose some weight.’

  The men murmured their pleasure at seeing the usually belligerent Maillé meet his match. Mitchell smiled and held out her chair. ‘I think you will fit in very well, Thérèse.’

  Madame Gaétan slid some eggs on to her plate. ‘And for you, my dear, there are more if you want them.’

  Laforge was about to protest but Madame shot a look at him. Defeated, he ran a finger around the plate and scooped up what little yolk was left.

  *

  After breakfast, Mitchell walked with Ginny past the château’s barns to find a quiet corner in the run-down walled gardens. They settled on an old bench and for a moment he studied the young woman who was prepared to risk her life with him. Back in England, if he’d seen this plain but fresh-faced girl he would have thought her a kindergarten teacher. She appeared naïve and at times hesitant, but he knew that if she had passed through the rigorous training then both Colonel Beaumont and Major Knight must be confident in her ability. She fumbled for a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head as she placed one between her lips. He wondered whether she would ever wear make-up to try and make herself look less plain because it was no secret that German soldiers were more likely to let an attractive woman through their checkpoints without too much fuss. He reached for a box of matches
and lit her cigarette.

  ‘You don’t smoke?’ she asked.

  ‘I packed it in. Decided I didn’t want to be dependent on them. Nothing worse than craving a cigarette.’

  As he watched her exhale, a touch of a smile crinkled the corner of her mouth. ‘It was the thing to do when I was an undergraduate. Almost an obligation.’

  Mitchell stopped himself from asking her which university she had attended. The next question would be to query what degree she had taken, one thing would lead to another and pretty soon he would know where she was born, who her parents were, where she lived and whether she had ever fallen in love. He had no desire to know anything about the girl who might soon be dead, quite possibly because of his own actions. The life expectancy of a wireless operator was estimated to be six weeks.

  She caught his stare and wondered whether he doubted her ability. ‘I know I look a little on the frail side, obviously, but I am quite strong, you know. And I’m a more than a decent shot. I came first in pistol shooting on my course.’

  ‘Well, that’s a long way better than me,’ said Mitchell, giving her a reassuring smile.

  ‘What I’m saying, Pascal, is that I don’t have any qualms about using a gun if I have to. Just because I’m a girl.’

  ‘I have always believed it is better to avoid trouble if at all possible, but I know how circumstances can inflict violence on us. It can happen quickly and when you least expect it.’

  She shrugged and, raising her face to the sun’s rays, blew more smoke towards the blue sky. ‘I do hope the weather stays good,’ she said. ‘I could do with a spot of colour on my face. Make me look less like I’ve crawled out of a crypt.’

  Mitchell studied her a moment longer. She had ignored his comment about potential violence. Was that deliberate? Despite her declaration that she was a crack shot, shooting at cardboard targets was not the same as facing down a man intent on killing. He realized he was analysing her and that wasn’t his prerogative with someone trained and sent by SOE or MI6, but his life might depend on this slightly built young woman and perhaps she or one of her instructors had been careless. ‘You could draw attention to yourself if you have a packet of cigarettes in public. Women aren’t permitted to buy tobacco and they don’t get a tobacco ration.’

  ‘Not sure anyone mentioned that.’ She looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘Training course was a bit of a rush. Well, then.’ She slipped a couple of cigarettes out of the packet. ‘For later,’ she said. And handed him the packet.

  ‘London sent enough money to keep us going for a long time. There’s a change of plan, Thérèse. I am going to send you ahead of me to Paris.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. This was unexpected. Colonel Beaumont had instructed her to go to Paris with Pascal Garon as his wireless operator and secure a place to transmit on her schedule. But then, everything changed in the field. That had been drummed into her. Adaptability was the key to being selected. ‘All right. You tell me what it is you want me to do and I’ll do it.’ She smiled and ground out the cigarette.

  ‘Are you aware the powers that be believe there to be a leak over here?’

  ‘I’m not sure that was spelt out. I was told the operator in Paris had not transmitted according to his schedule.’

  ‘Well, there’s a leak somewhere. As far as I’m concerned I don’t trust anyone here until they prove themselves and even then I shall be looking over my shoulder. Monsieur Gaétan has sent a man ahead of us to Paris to find a safe house. Rather than go where they suggest I’m sending you to an apartment that I am familiar with.’

  ‘And am I to meet someone there?’

  ‘No, the apartment has been empty for a while. It’s on the top floor of a four-storey building. There’s a skylight in the roof and on the far side of the building is a fire escape should anything ever go wrong. It was a place I used before I escaped from Paris.’ He waited for her reaction. She reached the obvious conclusion.

  ‘And so there must be someone else living there now,’ she said.

  ‘No. It was owned by a great-aunt of mine. She died more than twenty-five years ago. I used to visit her during the last war when I got leave. She was a bit of a mad hatter but she took a shine to me in my English officer’s uniform. She left it to me in her will. I lived there before I met my wife and I hid there before I got out. If anyone asks, you have rented the apartment from a salesman you met in Lyon.’

  She took it all in and nodded. ‘Give me the key and address and I will make my way into Paris and wait for you.’

  ‘The key is pushed behind the front-door frame. You need a hair clip or a penknife to get it out.’

  ‘All right. How will I get to Paris without you?’

  ‘By train. It’s the least problematic.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Top floor, apartment eight, Rue de Loret, Ninth Arrondissement.’

  She nodded.

  ‘There’s a cheese shop on the ground floor and there used to be food shops up and down the street. I don’t know what’s left there now. Once you are in the apartment look across the street. There’s a bar. The front window has a broken blind. If it is dropped down then go to the owner, he’s a Corsican and sometime brothel owner in the rooms at the back. If the blind is down it will mean I have telephoned him because something important has cropped up or there’s danger. He owes me a debt that he knows he can never repay and I trust him. I’m going to instruct Chaval to do the same. We will need a means of communication.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Take a trolleybus or vélo taxi from the station. It will be a few days until I can join you. Familiarize yourself until I get there. On the third day and every day afterwards until I arrive, go to the Café La Pointe Saint-Eustache at eleven. Don’t stay any longer than fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most. If trouble comes your way there’s an exit through the kitchen that leads to an alley. That will take you to a main street and plenty of narrow passageways between the buildings. You would have a chance to run from there. If things go very badly wrong then I can’t help you. You’re on your own.’

  Ginny smiled bravely. ‘I know.’

  26

  The patrician looked over the edge of his reading spectacles and lowered the previous week’s edition of the newspaper as Mitchell entered his library.

  ‘When I am in Paris how do I contact you?’ said Mitchell.

  The old man permitted the intrusion without comment. After a moment’s consideration, he gestured Mitchell to sit in the chair opposite. ‘I will give you a telephone number for our house in Vincennes, several miles south-east of the city. We move there in spring and spend summer there. I will need you to telephone me every three days as a minimum. Otherwise, I cannot move my men in time to help you. Edmond will be able to use his gamekeeper’s pass when we are at Vincennes and he will lead the men to support you, but I will not risk their lives needlessly.’

  ‘Understood. And we speak plainly on the telephone? What if they are listening on your line?’

  ‘Last winter was one of the worst we have had. You will say you are the plumber and you are checking on the state of our boiler. Tradesmen these days… God knows they can be a nuisance, those that haven’t been sent to Germany that is; the rest need work but who has money to pay them? You can offer to come to the house and check it. That way we can meet. We do not think they listen, but we must exercise caution. Not so?’ Gaétan poured them both some cognac. ‘It allows us to stay in touch with what is happening in the city. My wife helps run a charity for orphans, and there are many of them. Too many, but her work is convenient in that she hears gossip. There are still the well-to-do in the city. Not everyone fled when Paris was occupied, and many of these people socialize with the Germans. It’s how we piece together information.’

  ‘She runs a risk getting too close to them,’ said Mitchell, unable to erase the thought that if there was a weakness in the Gaétan circuit it might be staring him in the face.

  ‘She is determined,�
�� said the patrician. ‘And it allows us the freedom to travel from here to Vincennes without raising suspicion. It is where all of this started for me.’

  Mitchell sipped his cognac. Better to let the old man talk and give information without being prompted.

  ‘The British Military Mission was based there and I was contacted by them before France fell. I served France in the first war and I agreed to work with London and pledged my allegiance to de Gaulle. Everything my wife and I have done since the jackboots echoed down the Champs-Élysées has been to see them driven out.’ He paused, ran a finger around the edge of the glass. ‘I hope I live to see it.’

  Mitchell studied him. ‘There’s also the risk that your contact with the Germans casts suspicion on you. Your wife has already told us of her fear of reprisals once the Nazis are defeated.’

  ‘And it is then that we turn to those we help,’ said Gaétan. ‘We would need protection from the likes of you, colonel, and the people we both serve in London.’

  Mitchell swallowed the last of the cognac. ‘I and my men have been here too long,’ he said. ‘Let’s take Thérèse to the station and then we’ll leave.’

  ‘You’re not going to Paris with her?’

  ‘No. There’s something else I have to do, as you well know.’

  Gaétan frowned and sighed. ‘I had hoped you were not going to press me on the matter of the other Englishman.’

  ‘Then your hopes are dashed. But first, the girl.’

  The Frenchman seemed resigned to Mitchell’s insistence on being told about the missing agent, Guy Neuville. ‘Colonel, I agree about Mademoiselle Fernay, but we must exercise caution. Yet another trip to the station might arouse the authorities’ suspicion. How many guests can a man have staying with him all the way out here?’