The Spy

by Marc Eden

  She looked lovingly at her son.

  “Mama, please. Please may we go?” asked the small child.

  “I am sorry, darling. Perhaps soon. Give Mother a kiss.” She dug in her purse and handed him Basil’s picture, the photo of his father. “Guess who this is,” she teased, her voice musical. Her son sat up, clutching it awkwardly. “Oh, we have been here a long time, haven’t we? You are right, dear. We need not be quiet any longer. You have been a very good little boy.”

  How could she leave him here?

  Invited to spend the night, she accepted. The needs of the guests came first, but they were either already gone, or leaving, and she went into what used to be her room and closed the door. Brian slept with her parents, and she had packing to do. Her room had not changed, and neither had their lives. She looked at the box radio, placed next to the bed by her mother, for her visit. From a distance, she could hear the whispering of the sea. Valerie listened. They went to bed with the chickens out here. She pulled the blackout curtains and set the alarm for 500 hours. Pre-dawn busses lay ahead. She clicked off the light, undressed, and got under the covers. The sheets, which had lain unused for months, smelled like dead bibles. In some terrible and sad way, the vicarage had reclaimed her again. Would she ever be free? They asked her to sleep in her own bed, but she didn’t have one anymore.

  In the dark, she thought back to her father’s bedroom, just down the hall; and to that secret cabinet, long ago. Thumbing through his prayer book, she had discovered a key, buried in its spine. Her parents, gone on holiday, had left her at home for the weekend. She had read the books, beginning with Frank Harris, devouring all five of his volumes. She read the other ones, too. Edward Crewe, she discovered, had tried to lock up evil. But in locking up evil, he had locked up truth. By protecting her from it, he had denied her the knowledge to know it; and she had torn it out of his cabinet with the furious and starving hands of her mind. The afternoon’s meeting with Hamilton came back to her. She had it within her; she was going to be somebody! The history books, he had said.

  Really?

  Valerie reached over, she turned on the radio. In coveralls, live from the floor of a factory, the fist of Vera Lynn was swinging at the nation, giving Hitler hell....

  Heute Deutschland, Morgen Die Ganze Welt!

  Clocks were ticking....

  Time passed. She kicked off the covers, as though ready for love. Her eyes had closed in sleep. At the edge of the vicarage, a limousine had arrived. Silver and black in the shadows, it trembled like a cat. Leaves were blowing, and the curtains moved. The programs changed. Music came on. Sinclair rolled over. There, from the nightstand, aglow in the darkness, sweet in their singing and brazen with mourning, the Second Welsh Fusiliers marched steadily past her bedside....

  Piping her to glory.

  II

  Scotland was hot!

  Commissioned before midnight, an officer now, Valerie Sinclair arrived in Edinburgh wearing her W.R.N.S. uniform as Hamilton had instructed. Rockets, missing the tracks, had exploded along the way, and she realized that Germany could still win the war.

  Adrift in the terminal on this Saturday afternoon, some kids were eating popcorn. They were stuffing it into their mouths while dropping a good portion of it, and some birds had got in somehow and were following them around. The trails of kids, popcorn, and birds had created a barrier in the middle of the platform which people were carefully sidestepping in order to get where they were going.

  The birds, keeping a sharp eye peeled for shoes, had accepted Sinclair into their midst and were sticking close to the smallest kid, who was holding behind the rest of them like an anchor. Dragging a sweater with one hand and spilling popcorn with the other, he was trying to tell the others up front that what he really wanted was a candy bar. Valerie, who had just decided to buy him one, suddenly jumped upon hearing the voice behind her, causing the birds to run out in all directions, like water leaving a drain.

  “Good journey, was it?” He picked up her bag.

  “Yes thank you, Commander.” The kids were getting away! She had hoped they would lead her to the vendor.

  As they walked through the station yard, Valerie trailing, he informed her of her new rank. “You’re a Lieutenant,” Hamilton said over his shoulder. “It came through this morning.”

  “I am?”

  Valerie caught him up.

  “Better pay and privileges...hmmm?” He steered them around a group of Hindus, wrapped in white and thrusting up posters of Gandhi. Sinclair, interested in such things, wanted to stop and read the messages, which seemed to be printed backwards. Hamilton, muttering something about radicals, pulled her away. “Papers all signed. Looks better for the Record, you see...” What he didn’t tell her was, “In case you don’t come back.”

  Lieutenant Seymour had tracked down Bridley. James was going out of the country, no one knew where, but Seymour had managed to track him to his favorite bar, the El Flamingo, where Bridley was about to be flattened by an irate Irishman who had caught him wiring the urinal in the men’s room. Quickly measuring the situation, and sensing Bridle’s imminent doom, Seymour had swung first. The Irishman, being a fair chap, had flattened Seymour instead, whereupon Bridley had promptly come up with the requisite signature.

  Valerie Sinclair was approved.

  “By the way,” purred Hamilton, “Lieutenant Seymour sends you his warmest regards.”

  “He does? She liked Seymour. He had let her hold his gun.

  The Commander looked over the tops of heads. “Ah! De Beck!” Dressed in the rich blue of the Free French, her French counterpart was opening the door of their car. It was Hamilton who had selected this officer, known to him, and recommended by Commodore Blackstone.

  The two Brits approached. “Lieutenant Sinclair, Valerie, this is Pierre de Beck, Captain, Free French Forces—your partner on the mission.”

  “How do you do?” Sinclair said.

  The Captain, perceiving her to be extremely young, noticed she was wearing uniform of rate, not rank, which he attributed to some clever trick of Hamilton’s. De Beck, smiling warmly, said “Avec plaisir.”

  “Enchante”

  The two spies shook hands.

  “Pierre is from the area where you will be going,” Hamilton told her. “We are hoping, you see, that one of you will get through.”

  “I am certain we both will,” said Pierre.

  Now that she had met the man into whose hands Hamilton had placed her, she felt a renewal of purpose. De Beck spoke excellent English, though with an American accent, and he seemed to know what he was about. Valerie judged him to be in his late twenties, five feet ten, dark hair and eyes, and very good-looking. Stowing their gear, Hamilton and the girl got into the back of the car. De Beck proved an excellent driver, and Edinburgh soon disappeared into the Scottish hills. The Commander ordered conversation held to a minimum. It was thinking that he had to do.

  With the air cooling in late afternoon they stopped at a hostelry to eat. Sinclair, glad to be free of the Dorothy Cafe, thoroughly enjoyed the courses, especially one that arrived at their table on a pewter platter, smoking and garlanded with sprigs. Bear meat—what else?—as must have been obvious to any hungry person. Valerie felt a reverence, for it seemed fitting—here on this eve of Achnacarry, as it were—to commemorate this primitive place with practically raw meat of its ancestors. Hamilton, respecting her strange grace but finally clearing his throat, started dishing it up. Sinclair licked her lips. Dabbing daintily with her napkin, she could see the furry monster in the flames, its great fanged jaws roaring at the moon.

  “Like the veal, do you?”

  Valerie nodded, she jabbed with her fork.

  Hamilton ordered after-dinner drinks. Burning logs casting shadows on their faces, the men talked. Sinclair wasn’t sure what was in the glass, but she slugged it down. Maybe it was malt. After two, she felt replete. Pierre, she learned, had fought at Dunkirk; both officers had seen battle together. Was that why
Hamilton had selected him?

  Valerie stared into the fire, warming her hands.

  The fireplace made her sleepy; the car made her cold. Even in June, evenings were chilly in the Highlands. It was after dark when their car passed the depot. Seven miles on, de Beck pulled into Achnacarry Barracks. A black smudge covered the heavens and the lights were yellow, the way they are in camps. A soldier was waiting at the desk. The Commander hurried them through Reception. Once cleared, he turned to the Frenchman: “Breakfast is at 600 hours. Good night, Pierre. You know your billet.”

  With the Frenchman gone, Hamilton escorted the girl to her quarters. At the door, he told her: “Your training starts in the morning. Remember, your time here is not to be wasted.” Having delivered her, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.

  “Good night, sir.”

  Sinclair entered the room and kicked off her shoes. She threw the switch and dropped her skirt. Off with her blouse, her panties and bra. Flapping out her blanket, she looked out the window. There was a clothesline. Men’s underwear hung down into the humid night.

  Stiff as iron.

  It is something she hears: the snap of a lock, a loudspeaker... a language. It is something she listens to: drifting through the dark, welling up from the subterranean fountain of military life—the secret and violent hush of morning. Alerted by the yapping of the camp dogs, sopranos in pitch blackness, footsteps move along the corridor:

  The Spy arrives before dawn.

  Click!

  Ryan and the limousine hidden in thick woods beyond the security fence, her camera jammed! Unphotographed, the man without a face evaporated from her consciousness as explosive knocks on her door pulled her out of vanished dreams:

  Into the hot, rising sun.

  It was 530 hours.

  She took a fast shower which helped her wake up, got dressed, and reported for breakfast. She was wearing a man’s naval battle dress, which Hamilton had arranged. It was the smallest size the Commander had been able to find, and it had been waiting for her in her room.

  The Commander was also waiting.

  Pierre joined them. What a break for me, he thought. Throwing the girl a warm smile, he made sure that she got it. A Swordsman, he liked them young.

  Breakfast was a fast affair. As they came out of the mess hall, they passed two American Rangers leaning up against a wall. “What’n the hell?” She was the first female ever. “We got kids now?” and he turned and spat tobacco juice onto the grass.

  They reported to the firing range.

  “Valerie,” said Hamilton, “this is Sergeant Llewellyn, a crack shot and a good Welshman! He will teach you how to handle a pistol, and how to kill a German at twenty yards. Actually, you will not be taking guns with you.” He pulled her aside. “As a French student you see, you would not be carrying one.” He released his grip. “Ready, Sergeant?”

  “Aye, sir.” The Sergeant produced two guns: a German Luger and a Schmeisser machine-pistol, much preferred by the S. S. “Tiring either of these babies,” he pointed out, “is something you were not taught when you joined Naval Intelligence.” Commander Hamilton coughed politely, and Llewellyn made a mental note. Officially, Valerie Sinclair was not here. “This one,” said the Sergeant, “is the standard Luger automatic, .30 caliber—”

  She observed.

  “—nine bullets to the clip.” He slammed the clip home and handed it to her.

  Valerie proved an exceptional pupil. Acquainted with guns, she gained an understanding of the powerful weapons quickly. Hamilton, hands behind his back, watched with interest. The Schmeisser proved to be the more difficult. “Yes,” said the Sergeant, finally, to the Commander, “I’d say a four-inch group at a hundred yards was respectable.”

  Rifle practice followed: German guns and Allied. Valerie lay flat, propped on her elbows in the hot grass, her cheeks burning and her head ricocheting from the explosions.

  “No no, lassie! Do what you did before. Squeeze the trigger!”

  By noon, hands burned raw from the gun oil, the smell of the powder had her reeling.

  “Come along, my dear, we will have a spot of lunch now.”

  “Perhaps she’s had enough for one day, sir,” offered the instructor.

  “She is not here to be spared,” Hamilton snapped crisply. “She’ll pull a full twelve hours, along with the men.”

  Valerie appreciated the Sergeant’s kindness and wished some of it would rub off on Hamilton. She turned towards him, trying to hide her bleeding hands.

  “I know, I know,” he said gruffly, “but I want you back alive. Learning and talking about violence here, where we are safe, is entirely a different matter from being faced with it. If ever in that position, you may surprise yourself.”

  They reached the mess hall and found a secluded corner.

  Valerie’s hand trembled as she tried to hold the fork. Hamilton, eating at his regular rate, said: “I speak from experience. On the Dieppe raid, code-named WEYMOUTH, I was an observer. All bloody hell broke loose when we landed. It was a very tight corner.”

  “Yes, sir.” She could see the towering clouds of black smoke. “That was Number Four Commando, sir? Lord Lovat?”

  “That’s right. His orders were to knock out the German battery at Varengeville. The battery was utterly destroyed. A hundred and sixty four men took part in the raid. Fifty killed. The Germans lost three times that number. Pierre, you know, was wounded.”

  She hadn’t known that about Pierre.

  “Yes, he was a bit more fortunate than the others. Went in with the Canadians, you see. Second Canadian Infantry, the six battalions that attacked Dieppe itself, caught it point-blank, nearly four thousand dead.”

  “How awful,” she said. She waited.

  Hamilton dabbed at his mouth.

  “And the Navy, how many?”

  “One destroyer, some landing craft, five hundred and fifty men killed.”

  “All those men...” she said.

  “No, by counting the German dead, we could measure their strength. That way, you see, we were able to know exactly what we’d be up against. Our recent landings in Normandy, of course, have been the result.” Hamilton finished his lunch. “Ready?”

  “I met Lord Lovat....” she started to say.

  “That’s nice. Come meet the man who trained him.”

  Walking back to the firing range, Valerie said, “You might have been killed.”

  “I know how to take care of myself. I received the best possible training yet devised, right here at Commando Headquarters. After Dieppe, I volunteered for the Naval Commando Unit. Unfortunately, I pulled a leg muscle, shortened a tendon...you know. This special unit has to be A-one physically. I’d received training in police science before the war, so I ended up in Naval Intelligence.”

  “I’m glad you pulled that leg muscle.”

  “Some things are meant to be,” the Commander said, and he rousted Sergeant Llewellyn from his cigarette with a snap of the fingers.

  Gunnery instruction went better. They gave her some salve for her hands and a pot of cold water to cool them. In late afternoon, the guns were put aside for a simulation on how to cut throats.

  “What a ghastly business,” the girl remarked.

  “Business is business, my dear. But we’ve run our course for the moment, have we, Llewellyn? Good! Almost time for supper. Ah, here comes Pierre!”

  The Frenchman, who had been running refresher courses elsewhere and who had been chatting with the Sergeant, now approached them. “How are you feeling?” he said to the girl.

  “Aching all over,” Hamilton replied, “but she’s not going to admit it. Both of you meet me in the dining room at 1900 hours.” Valerie nodded. She had moved to one side, and was limbering up.

  Out of her earshot the Frenchman confided: “Sergeant Llewellyn has just been telling me what an excellent pupil she’s been.”

  Hamilton lit a cigarette.

  “You know, Commander, when you first t
old me that a girl would be with me on this mission, I had my doubts. I thought another man might have been better.”

  “They don’t come any better,” snapped Hamilton. “She’s fluent in French, and has a lot of heart.”

  “I’ll say, said Pierre, eyes glued to her bosom. Valerie caught his look and turned to the Commander.

  “Feeling better? Good! Now we must give you time for a soak in the bath.”

  What bath?

  Sinclair relaxed in the shower, wondering what to wear at supper. She’d packed the red dancing dress, along with a pale blue suit, and had planned to wear the dress. She had also brought her turquoise Egyptian gown. It reminded her of Cleopatra. Well, she would leave it in the valise. The blue suit, too. She stared down, dismayed at what was in front of her: big boobs were such a bother! She had finished her shower and was just drying off when there came a knock at the door.

  “Yes? Who is it?” she shouted through the steam.

  “The orderly, Lieutenant. I have your uniform.”

  “My uniform? Oh, yes. Would you put it on the cot, please?”

  She heard him do it, the door closing behind him.

  Dropping the towel she rushed naked into the room, her eyes fastening on the two wavy gold rings, the precise cut of the cloth, the skirt, the eight gold buttons on the coat. With a squeal of delight, she tried on the hat, her fingers running over the embroidered laurel leaves.

  Screw the dress!

  She got into the uniform quickly, hoping it would fit. It did, perfectly. She stood in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, and blushing, staring at the woman she had dreamt herself to be:

  An Officer, and a Lady.

  She sat down, dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex, and applied her makeup. Brushing her hair, she suddenly stopped. She leaned closer to the glass. For a long moment, Lieutenant Valerie Sinclair studied the sombre image in the mirror. Then, ever so slowly, she grinned....

  “Smashing!” she said.

  David Hamilton was waiting for her at the entrance to the dining room. “None the worse for wear, I see. And your new uniform, hmmm?” He stood back and admired it.