A Treachery of Spies

by Scott, Manda

  SOE, F-Section, April 1944: General Charles de Gaulle takes command of all Free French Forces. SOE remains under the command of the Ministry of Economic Warfare and thus, ultimately, of Churchill. British officers in command of French networks continue to take orders from London.

  Maquis in the northern Jura request arms to defend against increasing Milice and German assaults. Fourteen canisters are sent – half to the Lornier network, half to Troubadour, which lies to the south, but is considered more reliable.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SAINT-CYBARD

  15 April 1944

  AMÉLIE FABRON, AGENT of the Allied forces, would have been – is – an exceptional hunter. Sophie Destivelle, recently qualified nurse and unwelcome assistant to François Duval, is not.

  She fires, and misses a target a six-year-old could hit. The men of Kramme’s hunting party contrive not to notice. The only other woman present, Luce Moreau – Madame Andreu’s striking younger sister – laughs aloud.

  Earlier in the afternoon, as they swept with dogs across the fields, Mademoiselle Moreau took two hares with two shots, effortlessly. She is loathsome. Already, Sophie is planning how to kill her. She would denounce her as a Résistante, but nobody would believe her: the Moreau family are the very epitome of collaborators. Mind you, the same could be said of Sophie. And the Patron.

  A week has passed since she landed. It is six days since she delivered the Milice chief’s twins, and four since Kramme sent her a dress of burgundy silk that matches her scarf. The invitation to join him for a day’s hunting arrived a day after that.

  Sophie wanted to turn it down, but the Patron would not let her. So she is here, under the tall, broad trees with the last of the morning’s rain drizzling from the leaves and the sky above blue and the scent of moss and forest so strong you could weave ropes from it, or shackles, or plastique …

  Her weapon is a Mauser K98 and she loves it. All those weeks on the firing ranges in Scotland and Surrey trained her body to become as one with the stock, the barrel, the beautiful action of the bolt. The effort of not-merging has left her with a crippling headache. Her fingers twitch with the urge to strip it down, build it up again, turn, and fire, fire, fire until all the smiling Boche are dead.

  Instead, she takes another shot that clips the edge of the oak that is her target, and wrestles badly with the bolt. Kramme takes it gently from her, chambers the next round and reloads her magazine. He is charm personified.

  ‘Do not be downhearted. Mademoiselle Moreau herself was not so good a shot when first we brought her here. We shall make of you the best markswoman in France, I swear it. You are discomfited by the stares of the others. You will do better if we step away from them. Here, let me show you.’

  He takes her elbow and steers her away from the group towards a notional gap between two grandfather trees, where the undergrowth parts slowly and has to be swept aside, to crash back in place when they have passed. On the other side, they are still in earshot, at least if she were to shout. He lets go of her arm. They walk together along a narrow path between the trees.

  Kramme is different here: still perfectly pleasant, but blunter, while the knife-edge on which she walks could not be sharper. Here, even lies have to taste like the truth. ‘Have you the invasion date?’

  ‘No. I would have told you already.’

  ‘And yet you came back.’

  ‘You killed two of their people. They sent me to replace them. I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Did you know I was here?’

  ‘Of course. In London, they are terrified of you. They use your name to scare the trainees. Learn this, or Kramme will skin you alive. They think every other Frenchman in England is your agent.’

  He laughs at this, and allows himself to preen a little, but not so much that his eyes ever leave her face. He reads others for a living and his ambition is dwarfed only by his suspicion. She stares at him, and does not smile. He laughs again and pats her arm. ‘Well done. I am proud of you.’

  She hears Laurence Vaughan-Thomas in her head so loudly that she thinks the whole wood must hear it echo from her ears.

  He will believe in you because he wants to.

  He will. He does. He must, must, must.

  Tilting his head, Kramme asks, ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘You are asking me? I’m a nurse. I will do what I am told to do, but nobody has told me to do anything yet. They don’t trust me yet: not here, not in London. There is a radio I use to send messages. I can tell you where it is.’

  ‘I know where all the radios are. We monitor their transmissions. Can you really not fire that thing? There’s a pigeon on the oak at the bend in the path. It’s a good hundred paces but if the English taught you anyth— Ah. We will have to pretend I did that.’

  Thoughtful, he walks through the trees to gather up the bounty, leaving her with the rifle. When he turns back, she is aiming at his heart. Alexandre died with eight shots to the chest. When they walked into the wood, she had only five in the magazine and she has just used one of these to kill the pigeon, so just four left, but even one would be enough, and so very easy.

  Laurence again: There may be times when you have the perfect opportunity to kill him.

  ‘Sophie?’ Kramme stands very still. He has ceased to smile. She thinks this may be the one moment in their joint existence when he is more afraid of her than she is of him.

  But she has seen what happens to a town where an officer is shot, particularly one who is a favourite of the Führer. The Boche know no restraint. The Patron would die slowly, simply for being here, and Daniel, René, JJ, Raymond, Madame Fayette and her beautiful boys … all those who had ever been associated with Nurse Sophie Destivelle.

  Besides, there will come a time when this man’s death might change the course of the war and that time is not yet.

  I am the Wild Card.

  I can wait.

  This is my truth.

  With a dry, almost English, smile, she salutes, reverses the stock and offers it to him. For one fractional moment he remains frozen and she thinks he might order her arrest. Then, relaxing, he laughs and salutes her. ‘Ah, little fierce cat, it is good that you have come back. We shall enjoy each other, I think.’ He removes the magazine and the rounds in the chamber before he hands the gun back. He is a careful, careful man.

  She says, ‘They picked me up at the drop point, eight of them. I don’t know all of the names, but Raymond Viv—’

  ‘Stop.’

  His hand is across her mouth, lightly. ‘You cannot do this. If I know their names, I will act differently around them.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You walk on thin ice, ma belle. As you said, they are suspicious, these people, and they will do things to you that are beyond thinking if they believe you a traitor. Do not tell me names; I don’t want any of the small mice. I want the one who leads. Give him to me, and we shall take them all. I shall protect you then.’

  ‘I don’t know him. He does it by the book, as they say.’

  ‘The book …?’

  ‘The instruction book. Sleep in a different place each night. Only talk to those whom you absolutely trust. Use dead drops and signals, no personal connections. Take no risks that cannot be avoided.’ Most of this is true. Kramme drinks it in as if she has offered him the keys to Churchill’s heart.

  ‘It is true, then: others have said this but I did not wholly believe them, even …’ He lets it drift. Amongst civilized company, he does not speak of the pain he inflicts on others. His gaze grows distant. ‘He is a fox, this one. But with your help, we shall take him. Until then, you will be everything they want of you.’

  ‘But that’s what I’m telling you. They have asked nothing of me. Nothing! They had me tap out one message, but I think it was just a test. I’m not even sure they do much, here. They watch the trains and send details of what travelled where back to London. It’s pathetic.’

  ‘It’s the kind of detail that wins wars,
ma belle. Many routes go through Saint-Cybard, east and west.’ He is laughing at her, and not, at the same time. ‘Is that really all they have asked you to do?’

  She flings out her hands. ‘I listen to the BBC. I give out pills for sick old women who want to fawn all over the doctor and I wrap bandages round young men’s hands so they are not sent to the east. The only true bit of nursing I did was delivering Madame Andreu’s children.’

  ‘Who thrive. For which they thank you.’ He pushes away from the tree. ‘You are bored. I can see that. But you must win their trust and if boredom is the price, it will pay for itself in the end.’

  Is that it? Does he not want more? Tentatively, she says, ‘I will have to do things – listen on the radio, call in drops, maybe even go on a jaunt.’

  ‘A jaunt? Is that what they call it when they kill men doing their duty?’ He smacks his balled fist against the tree trunk. In so many ways, he is the mirror of Laurence Vaughan-Thomas; only, his hair is less blond. Turning back, he says, ‘This is war. Do what you must. I want their Patron and I want you in place when they have news of the invasion. Nothing else matters. In the meantime, you will watch and listen and tell me what you can, when you can. Nobody will think it strange that we speak: you are, after all, acting out your role as a nurse.’

  ‘The doctor is jealous of you.’

  ‘And so he should be.’ Kramme is pleased about that. ‘But we should return to him before he feels the need to call me out for threatening your honour. The Führer doesn’t approve of duels, certainly not with Frenchmen.’ Cheered by his own humour, he leads her back to the main body. There, handing the pigeon to the hound-keeper, he says, ‘I think we have hunted enough for one day. Let us return to the hotel. The ladies, I’m sure, will wish to make use of the facilities before dinner.’

  ‘Have you a beau, Mademoiselle Sophie? It is hard to imagine one so beautiful must languish in solitude.’

  They are in the Hôtel Cinqfeuilles, Kramme’s base in Saint-Cybard. For good reason was this place fêted throughout the Franche-Comté before the Boche took it over. The private dining room is oak panelled, ostentatious without being tasteless, roomy without being too big to heat. The fire in the grate is big and bright. The wine is warm and sweet and strong. The chandeliers catch handfuls of mellow firelight and shower them across the room, sparkling off buttons and medals, rings, necklaces, the bright shine of an eye.

  It is nearly nine o’clock. The officers have changed from hunting grey to SS dress uniform and you have to hand it to the Boche, they know how to make a man look good. As he was at the hunt, Kramme is friendly, attentive, charming. He monopolizes Sophie Destivelle, which annoys both the Patron and Luce Moreau, a state of events that, as the wine flows, Sophie finds increasingly congenial.

  She relaxes more in his presence, and he, likewise, opens up to her, telling her of his life. He was a lawyer once, not particularly fashionable, but young, hungry, sharply competent. His successful prosecution of a prominent Jewish journalist won the eye of the Führer and his star rose ever after in the party’s firmament.

  As they progress from the first course to the second, she finds that he has a greatly loved daughter of three years (named Eva, naturally), and an infant son, whose arrival six months ago coincided with the death of his dearly missed wife. For this reason, he is in awe of all women who take the risk of bearing children, and deeply grateful to those who help new mothers to live through the ordeal.

  He is seeking a replacement to share his life, his success, his children, but will not sully Clara’s memory with anyone substandard. All this, Sophie has learned as they eat.

  And now for his question, to which he already knows at least one answer: he was present when Alexandre was shot. He is supposed to be on her side. But then again, he is supposed not to be. She has had three glasses of wine, which is two and a half more than she has drunk at one sitting any time in the past twelve months. She is mellow. She is probably going to die. She hates everyone else equally: all of them.

  She looks up. ‘In Paris, there was someone, yes.’

  If the Patron could wrest her from her seat and throw her from the room, he would do so; this she reads in the angles of his back.

  ‘Was?’ Kramme asks. His eyes signal caution. He, too, thinks they are on dangerous territory.

  She answers, ‘He was killed – assassinated, really.’ The whole table is listening. To left and right conversation has stalled.

  ‘Assassinated?’ asks the SD officer who sits beside the Patron. ‘By whom?’

  ‘You have heard of the équipes de tueurs? They hunt down men – and women – who are too friendly with those they hate.’

  All eyes are on her. The Patron’s larynx is in spasm: up and down. Softly, Kramme says, ‘They hunt, in fact, those who are friends of the Reich.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They killed him, your beau?’

  ‘His name was Eduard. Eduard Dourant. They cut his throat.’

  Rudi Schäfer, the albino SD, leans across. ‘But it could have been bandits, robbers, thieves. They operate in every city at any time, not just in war.’

  ‘I wish it were so, but they left their mark.’

  Obersturmbannführer Schäfer is an intelligence officer. Even had he not been introduced as such, it would be obvious. His pale gaze is like a searchlight, but finer, more intense. Twice, he has cornered Sophie. Twice, she has stepped aside from his probing.

  Now, he asks, ‘And what was this mark that they left, Mademoiselle Sophie?’

  ‘Before they killed him, they cut out his tongue.’

  ‘Dieu! Do not say such a thing!’ This from Madame Andreu’s raven-haired sister. ‘Say at least that he was dead first.’

  ‘Their note said not, but I like to think maybe he was. It would be hard, I think, to cut out the tongue of a living man without causing a great deal of disturbance.’

  ‘Is this the reason you left Paris?’ Kramme asks.

  She nods. ‘I did not go immediately; my life was there, my work, my training as a nurse. But yes, in the end that was the reason. My uncle said that in Saint-Cybard, life was much more civilized and I have found it so.’

  Kramme’s laugh is more thoughtful than reassuring. ‘We have no teams of killers roaming the streets, I promise you. But then we are, shall we say, perhaps more humane than our colleagues at the Avenue Foch. We support those who support us, and in turn, we have more supporters. Thus everyone wins. No man – or woman,’ – he raises his glass to Sophie – ‘need ever lose her pride or her honour. We do not come here to undermine your nation’s self-respect, but to sustain it. And so I propose a toast: to Saint-Cybard and the future of France.’

  They toast. She drinks. The Patron raises a toast to the Führer, Monsieur Andreu to Germany, Schäfer to the defence of liberty that is taking place on the Eastern Front; the eradication of the Slavic races, who, really, have been genetically proven to be less than human.

  Nobody mentions Jules Cloutier, a guard at the Peugeot factory who was denounced as a Maquis by his cousin’s husband three days ago and whose body was dumped on the steps of the town hall last night.

  Sophie made herself walk past. Her medical training listed the injuries, and their order: fingernails and then toenails ripped out; short bones and then long bones shattered; skin flayed from ribs; gelded. This last was what upset the men most, as it was meant to. She was surprised at how deeply it affected her.

  She lay awake all through the night, fearing sleep, and the dreams it might bring, wondering if Cloutier had been sacrificed to divert attention from her: a victim who knew nothing, and could say nothing, whose only crime was being on guard duty at a factory on the night of a recent Maquis raid. She thinks of Raymond Vivier, whose name Kramme now has, and has to drink, or she will be sick.

  Kramme catches her eye and raises his glass in a private toast. Dessert comes, and then coffee – real coffee – and Cognac is served, and cigars, and long black cigarettes, and there is a moment�
�s hilarity while a photographer is summoned and photographs taken – they will be in colour. Really, have you never seen a colour photograph? But you must see this, the prints will be here in less than a week, you will adore them – and even now, the women are not banished, but invited to the side of the blisteringly hot fire. When was she last truly warm?

  They discuss the early parts of the war as if it were a day or two ago, and the obstacles to German victory minor irritations. They consider the ways by which Kramme may make the life of all in Saint-Cybard easier in the time they have left before peace is restored. Top of his list is the eradication – he uses Schäfer’s word – of the minor inconvenience of the Resistance. He is working on it. He has high hopes for his success. In the meantime, they should turn the talk to better things, to the afternoon’s hunt, to the improvement in Mademoiselle Sophie’s shooting, to how he will make of her the best shot in France. He raises his glass to her. She laughs, and drinks in his name and it is not forced, and everyone knows it.

  And here’s the reality: in Kramme’s company she is warm, when everywhere else, winter still chills the air, and she is fed better than she has ever been in her life, drinks wine she could never aspire to, travels in cars she might in other circumstances have seen passing on the street.

  In the past hours, she has discussed world politics, the science of antibiotics and where it might go, art, theatre – and music. Kramme himself prefers Beethoven to jazz, but he does not consider the latter to be dissolute and would be happy to dance to it had the Führer not banned all such things.

  No man, in England or in France, has treated her with such respect. And while Kramme plainly pays her court, he has not yet touched her except to lift her hand and kiss it. Tonight, tentatively he helps her to fasten her coat as they leave.

  ‘Au revoir, beautiful woman. I shall look forward to our reunion.’

  ‘And I, Sturmbannführer Kramme.’