by David Gilman
‘Who is it?’ said the voice behind the door after Mitchell had rapped on the door with his knuckles.
‘Pascal Garon,’ he answered, his face close to the door so that no one else in the apartment block would hear.
‘I don’t know anybody by that name,’ came the reply.
‘I shared a cell with you in Saint-Audière. You needed a cigarette, remember?’
The door opened a crack and the unshaven face of Gerard Vincent checked his uninvited visitor as he pulled his trouser braces up over his dirty collarless shirt. It took only a moment for the black marketeer to grin broadly and open the door to usher Mitchell in. ‘It’s you. Who’d have believed it? I never thought you would ever come to Paris, much less visit me.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Did I tell you where I lived?’
‘You were grateful for me lighting that cigarette and said that if ever I needed anything to look you up.’
‘So I did, so I did.’
Mitchell stepped into the spacious apartment. Cans of food were stacked in one corner; men’ and women’s clothing lay in heaps across the various pieces of furniture. A pan of food bubbled on a small stove in the corner and beyond Mitchell saw there was a second room: a bedroom where women’s silk lingerie hung from a rail.
Gerard Vincent looked as grubby in his own apartment as he had in the wretched cell back in Saint-Audière. He moved quickly to the stove, gave whatever was in the pan a stir and switched off the gas beneath it. He shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t have enough to offer you.’
Mitchell glanced at the stacked cans of food.
‘They’re not for eating, they’re for selling. Can’t eat into my profits.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Vincent took a cigarette from a silver cigarette case, tapped it and scorched its end with an expensive-looking lighter. He smiled, making a show of it. ‘No need for a light socket now.’
‘I can see that,’ said Mitchell.
‘All right, I said I would help, but I didn’t say it would be free.’
Mitchell fingered some of the men’s clothing. ‘I can pay.’
Vincent spat a piece of loose tobacco. ‘What is it you need? You got a woman? I can get you silk stockings for three hundred francs.’ He gestured to where half a dozen crates were stacked. ‘Cognac, Armagnac. Champagne even. I should be living in a goddamned palace instead of a shithole like this, but it serves me well. No one notices. No one suspects. And if they did…’ He let the sentence hang, its intention plain enough.
‘Business is good, then.’
‘Good? The Occupation is the best thing that ever happened to us.’
‘Black-market food for your own people, that’s what you think is the best thing?’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, Pascal, are you a priest or something? This isn’t for the scum like me on the streets, this is for the brothels. My God, where have you been, country bumpkin?’ He laughed and picked up a silk négligée and let it run through his fingers. ‘The Nazis love our brothels. These SS types speak the language, treat the whores with respect – top-class whores, that is. Christ, the women even dye their hair black so they look different to their blond masters of the universe. That champagne over there, that’s for Le Chabanais, the silk and the brandy for Le Sphinx.’
‘One-Two-Two club on Rue de Provence,’ Mitchell said and saw his knowledge impressed the black marketeer.
‘All right, so you’re no bumpkin. You know your way around, eh?’
‘I’ve no interest in you, Vincent, other than what you can give me. I don’t talk about you; you don’t talk about me. This is business. I want three lots of French railway workers’ overalls and jackets. The grubbier the better.’
‘Uh-huh. I won’t ask why. Sizes?’
‘For me, and one man ten centimetres shorter and skinnier. The other a man near enough the same height as me, strong arms and chest.’
‘This isn’t a tailor’s shop, Pascal. I’ll give you what I have. What else? Papers? You need railway workers’ passes?’
‘No.’
‘All right.’ He gave Pascal a knowing look. ‘I know you’re not from around here. Knew it the first time I laid eyes on you, so if you need a foreign worker’s permit I’ve got a contact that can give me a Fremdenpass. You know they’re impossible to forge. The damned bright red cover with the German eagle on it is difficult enough but the paper, impossible, and it has cross screening and watermarks. Expensive, but worth every centime.’
‘No. I need a place to park a car. It has German Army plates on it.’
‘Christ, who are you? Look, if you’re thinking of thieving and butchering their cars for spare parts I might know someone but that’s too dangerous for me.’
‘The car’s not stolen. It’s a friend’s.’
‘Oh yeah. I bet. Clothes, passes, identity cards, all good. Cars with German Army plates.’ He winced.
‘I need somewhere out of sight for three days. No more. I’ll pay whatever you want.’
Vincent’s cigarette had become soggy from his wet lips. His eyes were half closed, not from the smoke but the calculation of how much he could squeeze from his old cellmate. ‘I have a lock-up. Near here. It’s in a back alley.’ Mitchell could almost hear him calculating what he might get out of Mitchell. ‘Fifty thousand francs.’
Part of Mitchell’s brain saw the value in English currency: 250 pounds was going to make a big dent in the cache of bank-notes that Ginny Lindhurst had arrived with for his Gideon circuit. ‘No. Twenty-five.’
‘I’ll do it for forty.’
‘You’ll do it for thirty.’
Vincent spat in his hand and extended it. Mitchell sealed the deal. ‘Where do I meet you?’ he asked.
‘Bring it tonight,’ said Vincent. ‘Meet me on the corner two hours before curfew. And the money.’
‘Half now, half when I pick it up.’
‘All right.’
‘And I want the clothes today.’
‘Take them now. I have them. Shall we say eight thousand?’
‘Shall we say five?’
‘We shall.’ Vincent grinned knowing that he was still making a decent profit.
Mitchell pulled out a wad of cash and began counting it on to the table. ‘One more thing. I need a German Army uniform.’
47
Mitchell and Ginny reached the train station at Vincennes. A short walk brought them to Gaétan’s house, which sat nestled down a country lane. The patrician had already summoned Chaval, Drossier, Laforge and Maillé. The gamekeeper Edmond ushered Mitchell and Ginny through the ornate iron gates of the modest manoir and as their feet crunched across the gravel Madame Gaétan opened the front door and beckoned them in. She hugged Ginny.
‘My dear child, I did not expect to see you so soon. How pleased I am. Come in, Thérèse, come in,’ she fussed. Mitchell was given a welcoming smile. Madame Gaétan looked more sophisticated in this edge-of-city house than she did playing the role of the country wife. Gone was the apron and the odour of cooking, now she wore well-cut clothes, jewellery and make-up.
She led them through to an orangery at the rear of the house which, Mitchell noted, was in as much need of upkeep and repair as the house in Norvé.
‘Darling, Colonel Garon and Mademoiselle Thérèse are here.’ She closed the door leaving the gathered men.
Gaétan stood up and greeted Mitchell; then Chaval gripped his hand, a broad grin breaking surface behind his beard. ‘Pascal, good to see you again.’
‘At last,’ said Laforge. ‘We thought you’d forgotten us.’
‘He only wants us when he needs us,’ moaned Maillé. ‘Hello, colonel. Living well in the city?’
‘Getting by, Maillé. Good to hear you’re as cheerful as ever.’
The men laughed, their spirits clearly lifted by seeing Mitchell again.
‘He’s been even worse since we were holed up waiting for some action,’ said Drossier. ‘Good to see you again, Pascal. You too, mademoiselle.’
&nb
sp; ‘Thank you,’ said Ginny.
‘Come and sit next to me,’ said Chaval. ‘I bathed this morning.’ He grinned. ‘Unlike these,’ he said, nodding towards the men.
She returned his smile and joined him on the faded couch.
‘Very well,’ said Gaétan, ‘tell us what is happening, colonel.’
Mitchell quickly outlined the news from London and what was required.
‘And for this, you need my help?’ said the patrician. ‘The Norvé circuit is not active here, as you well know, so I’m assuming that you will be in charge of the operation.’
‘I need whatever knowledge you can give me and I also need to move the men quickly across the city without raising suspicion. My proposal is twofold. We split into two teams. One will destroy the railway lines beyond the city suburbs, the other the rail-yard turntable. There must be more than sixty big locomotives in those sheds and they need to be turned to run into Germany. Once we have blown the tracks the Germans would send out their heavy-lifting locomotives to repair them, but they can’t if the turntable is out of action. The operation will effectively isolate the train and the retooling machinery for the bombing run and wreak havoc with the German supply trains trying to leave Paris for months to come.’
‘Then this is going to be credited to your Gideon circuit,’ said Gaétan.
‘Setting up the circuit here in Paris was one of my main objectives,’ he answered, adding diplomatically, ‘but I turn to you for assistance in these matters.’ No civilian could be coerced to do as Mitchell wished, they had to be persuaded, and now that he was finally setting up the circuit in Paris he had no desire to cause affront to the patrician.
‘It seems, colonel, that you have been given a great deal of authority here. You are to find and rescue a German traitor, set up a new resistance cell bypassing our own efforts in Norvé, and yet you still seek our help. My circuit has few enough men. I cannot bring them into the city away from their families. If any of them are apprehended then the Norvé circuit would cease to exist.’
It was obvious Gaétan felt he was being excluded from direct involvement in the operation.
‘If you have any local men here that you can trust I will use them, if not then I would ask you to let me use Edmond on one of the teams. That will ensure that you are included in the attack and that London will know we have worked together to help save innocent lives.’ Mitchell wanted the man who had followed Chaval into the city to be in on the attack. Mitchell was uncertain whether he was the source of the leak but reasoned that if he were, he wouldn’t risk being killed.
‘And where is the other Englishman? Is he a part of this operation?’
‘Regrettably, he is not. He died during the operation to find the man we were looking for.’
Gaétan showed no sign of being affected by Peter Thompson’s death. ‘Then have you found the German scientist?’
‘No,’ Mitchell lied. There was no need for anyone else to know that within days Alfred Korte would be on a plane for England.
‘It seems to me, colonel, that you are behaving in a reckless manner and gambling with men’s lives.’
‘It’s a gamble whether any of us will survive but I would not place my men’s lives in jeopardy unless it was essential.’ He glanced at the men around him. ‘And if anyone who has come this far with me wishes to go no further than so be it.’
Chaval grunted. ‘No one else would have them, Pascal,’ he said, looking at the grinning men. ‘Besides, now that you’ve told us about the mission I’d have to kill anyone who said they wanted to walk.’
Gaétan tapped a cigarette on the table and lit it. He plumed the smoke, pausing in thought. ‘There is a fundamental flaw in your plan. You say we are to help save hundreds of people when the bombs fall; well, when the Germans discover sabotage there will be massive reprisals and they will increase their round-ups and deportations. Perhaps it is better to die quickly under British bombs.’
‘Chaval, do we still have those rats we packed with explosives at Norvé?’
‘Yes, but they will be nowhere near enough to do what you’re asking.’
‘Rats?’ said Gaétan.
‘Yes,’ said Mitchell. ‘Gutted and packed with plastique. They’re used for diversionary tactics but they can blow a train track apart. We’ll plant some where the Germans will find them. And we’ll use the plastic explosive that came in on the Lysander. It’s easily identified as British and we’ll ensure some of it fails to go off. That will hopefully convince the Germans that there’s a British sabotage team at work.’ He looked at the group. ‘It’s the best we can do.’
Gaétan relented. ‘Very well. I can be of some help. Edmond is at your disposal. I have a contact with a senior official at Gaz de Paris. Their vans are allowed free access across the city and surrounding suburbs. I will arrange the use of two vans. They will be brought and left near here. When do we do this?’
‘Tomorrow night. Vincennes is our jump-off point. I would prefer that my men stay here until we are ready to go. Is that possible?’
Gaétan nodded. ‘There are outhouses, but they must stay out of sight.’
‘Of course. All right, let me explain where we will stop the train to give the bombers a clear run at it,’ said Mitchell, pulling out a folded map. He spread it across the tabletop as the men and Ginny gathered around. ‘We can blow the tracks, here,’ he said, his finger tracing the map. ‘Twenty-odd kilometres east of the city. Forest on the left of the track, River Marne on the right. We isolate the train before it gets to these suburbs, Saint-Thibault-des-Vignes and Lagny. That gives the bombers clear sight and we avoid civilian casualties. Explosives here, and here. Then the train can’t go forward or back. It’ll be a stationary target or the engine will derail. Either way, it’s an easy target for the RAF.’
‘There’ll be anti-aircraft guns on flatbeds. Do we try and attack those?’ said Laforge.
‘No. Lay the charges, set the timers and then run. We’re too exposed. We’re not there for a gunfight.’
‘We should kill as many of the bastards as we can,’ said Maillé.
‘Enough of them will die in the raid,’ Mitchell said. ‘We can’t afford to take on superior numbers. Chaval, you go with Edmond and Laforge and blow the tracks. Drossier and Maillé, you will be with me in the rail yard.’
‘And where will I be?’ said Ginny.
The men looked at her in surprise. They had not considered her as a combatant.
‘We need you to be at your radio in case we fail,’ said Mitchell.
‘And if you are all killed or captured then I wouldn’t know till the Gestapo break down my door. I won’t need to be sending any signals at all because we will have to stop the train by a given time, a time given to London before tomorrow. That’s the only transmission of any importance.’
‘Mademoiselle Thérèse is correct,’ said Gaétan. ‘If this is to be successful it has to be executed with precision.’
She looked from Chaval to Laforge. ‘And while Victor and Reynard are with Edmond planting the explosives I can be a useful lookout. An extra pair of eyes.’
‘She has a point,’ said Chaval.
Mitchell took a moment to decide. If everything went wrong on the operation then Ginny Lindhurst would most likely be abandoned to her own resources in the city. The young woman had proved her worth already. He reasoned she had a better chance of survival in the countryside rather than accompanying him to the railway yards.
‘You travel with Victor,’ he said with a nod towards Chaval, praying he would not regret his decision.
48
Time codes, which would mean nothing should any German wireless intercepts be in place using captured ciphers, were sent through to MI6 in London. Bomber Command would strike at the co-ordinate sent by Mitchell while he disabled the locomotive turntable at the marshalling yards. Gaétan arranged two Gaz de Paris vans and by late the following night the two groups formed up in the courtyard at Vincennes. Mitchell had changed from hi
s city clothes into the railway worker’s overalls, jacket and cap. Ginny and the men gathered in one of the outhouses and once Maillé and Drossier had tried on and fitted their overalls they squatted around a tarpaulin with the others where half a dozen dead rats were laid out. Next to them lay thirty 1½-lb charges of plastique. Mitchell had given Chaval’s group ten blocks of it with pencil detonators. He would need twice that amount of plastique to destroy the heavy-duty turntable. He gathered four of the blocks as the others watched and packed them neatly together to make one large charge. He looked at Maillé and Drossier. ‘Watch and then do as I do.’ Pressing the malleable explosive rectangles together exactly as he had been taught on his training course, he made a long and perfect cube of explosive. ‘We need to disguise these main charges so I had Thérèse cut up an old kit bag and sew it into four small satchels.’ He pushed the block he had made into one of the sewed pockets. He held up a handful of brass pencil timers. ‘Colour coded. These are for a half-hour detonation. They’re accurate up to a few minutes each side of that. Crush the copper end – this releases a chemical that burns through a wire inside. When you’ve done that pull out this safety strip, all right?’