by Marc Eden
“Cameras...no?” Pierre was scraping guano off his boots.
“No. No minicameras or microfilm.” Any mechanical aids would be carried by the child, hidden in child things. “And no guns. The plans are simple. Their very simplicity, we feel, is your safeguard. In the unlikely event that you are suspected and searched—”
She was staring at the walls. They were wet, and oozing dark liquids. Blinking her eyelids, she took a picture of them.
“—just act French.” She hadn’t missed a beat.
He waited. Neither of the spies reacted.
“Right. Well now, Pierre, any information you feel you may have difficulty in remembering must be written in code, and placed in the heels of your boots...your French boots, you see? The code will be based on your directives issued at Castor. You’ve already received the ciphers.”
Valerie raised an eyebrow.
Pierre yawned.
“You see, Sinclair, Pierre does not have your advantage, your photographic memory—”
“That’s not his fault, Commander.” She was trying to make up, for last night. “I’m sure he has other abilities that are just as important.”
Photographic memory?
Pierre snapped awake! He had not known that about her! It would be covered at his final briefing.
“Your knowledge of yourselves is knowledge of each other,” Hamilton continued, throwing the Frenchman a glance. “I won’t be there to help you. That’s why we’re having this little get-together. Come over here, the two of you.” The Commander got up.
They approached, and stood together.
“Pierre has persistence, and fluency in languages. As I told you, Lieutenant, we were both on the Dieppe raid in 1942, although with different units, and he was at Dunkirk. Before that, in France, he fought for his life against German oppression. He is well able to defend himself and you too, Valerie, I assure you. Most importantly, he has had experience in killing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sinclair, you received your Operative’s training when you joined Naval Intelligence, and you were the best in your class.” That was for Pierre. “Enemy lines, however, are quite another matter. If you have to kill, you will have to kill with what you have. As for your remarkable memory—no thanks to the Navy, what?—well, sir, you were born with it.”
“Sir? thank you, sir.”
“Yes, well...Pierre? Your memory, old chap, is of a different order: Dunkirk and Dieppe. We expect this partnership to be formidable. Singly and together, you should both present a decent accounting of yourselves. Are there any questions?”
“I...”
“Yes, Valerie?”
“Suppose neither of us makes it. What would happen to...”
England?
Hamilton interrupted. De Beck present, her question was inappropriate.
“Good thinking, Sinclair.” It was as if he could feel chains. “Remember Achnacarry: ‘Selfconfidence is the backbone of courage!’ Well then, that covers it, I would think, but there may yet be something.”
Seymour was right, she could be unpredictable.
In MI.5’s plan to shape Sinclair into the persona which had survived the French girl’s corpse, Blackstone was leaving the enforcement to Hamilton. Pierre was French as was Valerie Marchaud. Stripped of their military skins, in France there should be nothing for the Germans to spot. The British had come up with a weapon for which the Nazis could not possibly have imagined a defense: a French girl who was a dead girl who was a camera that didn’t exist. Her partner was Pierre de Beck. Running a tight ship, David Hamilton would steer them through the shoals, each with separate instructions.
He would have to talk with her privately.
“The plan seems very straightforward, Commander,” said the girl. “The fact that Pierre’s parents live near where we’re going ashore is a great point in our favor. Supposing we had to try to find out where the French Underground was operating, with no help at all once we were there?”
Pierre finished it for her. “We would find ourselves in a cauldron of stew.” He turned to the Commander. “Dieppe, sir.”
It was on his agenda.
“Thank you, Pierre. Listen up, Sinclair. At our last briefing prior to the Dieppe raid—remember? I told you at Achnacarry—the entire operation was thoroughly explained: where we would land, our objectives, how we would return, et cetera. The raid was rehearsed eight times and yet, it was a bloody holocaust. It is obvious, you see, that our security was penetrated,” he paused, “by a German Operative. A bit too coincidental, don’t you know, that maximal forces should have been waiting for us. We do not want that to happen this time.”
“Not a chance,” murmured the Frenchman.
“Now I cannot impress this on you enough: do not be over confident. Make your moves with extreme caution and do not, whatever you do, cause any suspicion. Consider what I have said carefully, and ask whatever questions you think necessary.” Valerie could sense it; her question had breached security. The Commander had cut her off. “Pierre, are you sure you have nothing to add?”
“I do not think you have overlooked anything, sir,” replied the Frenchman.
“Very well then,” said Hamilton. “Tomorrow we will go to the motion picture studios at Elstree. They have French people there who are experts on clothes and cosmetics. They are also members of British Intelligence.” This wasn’t quite true: MI.5 insured their jobs. “Take the early train, Sinclair. I want you at Waterloo Station by 1200 hours. Pierre, see to the Rolls, will you, and you’ll join us for Elstree.”
De Beck nodded.
“Good. I can now tell you when. On Sunday night, you will meet me at the Polperro marina at 2100 hours. You should have no difficulty in locating me. Look for the motor launch.” Anxious to leave, the Frenchman was dusting off his trousers. “Clothes, shoes, and supplies will be issued aboard the submarine, along with the necessary identification papers. As for the remaining part of today, you may spend it at leisure—”
Valerie smiled.
“—other than code and rowing practice for you, Pierre.”
De Beck’s own smile fell, then brightened. There would be parties in London. Saturday evening, too.
“Lieutenant Sinclair?”
“Sir?”
“I want you to write two letters—to your family and your son—which you must hand to me tomorrow. They are just for the record, to be posted if you do not return.”
Valerie longed for fresh air: the bird-reek was getting to her.
“Tell them you have arrived in Southampton, and that you are finding the new training...interesting, just as you would, you see, had this been the case.” The Commander studied the shadowy walls of the cave, then brushed a tiny white feather from his sleeve. “‘A feather found is like Cupid’s compass, pointing ever to love,’” Hamilton revealed abruptly. “That, gentlemen, for whatever it is worth, comes straight from Emily Blackstone, your Commodore’s wife.” She had slipped him wise sayings, from time to time, to use with his agents. A postscript from the gods, the Commander hoped it would give them something to think about. The tiny feather fluttered to the floor. “Hmmm. Birds made quite a mess in here.”
“Sorry, sir!”
“It’s nothing, Sinclair. So, there you have it! Stay sober”—he raised an eyebrow—“and stay alert.” They would return separately to the hotel. “And not a word of this to anyone, Lieutenant. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I do now, sir.”
“Good show.” The Commander checked his watch. “Let’s pack it in then, shall we?” The two men walked out into the sunshine. Valerie watched them leave.
Pierre stopped, he examined his boots. He did not like birds, knowing they carried lice. “Commander, back there” he jerked his thumb, “what kind of birds?”
“What kind?”
Valerie came dashing out of the cave, she was holding a feather. The Navy man placed his hand affectionately on the French Captain’s shoulder. He winked.
“Shitty ones, old boy.”
“Go ahead,” said Eisenhower.
Lord Louis Mountbatten grabbed Bull Durham by the homs. “Delighted, yes...well! Indeed a pleasure to speak with you. It’s about this morning’s call from our Boss, you see—”
“Yours, or mine?”
“—asked me to clear up a few things for you. Seems there may have been some misunderstanding.”
Eisenhower waited. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s about the Weather Secretive, isn’t it?” Churchill had filled him in, his phone was still warm. “Care to tell me the real reason...for conning me out of it?”
The Con, steerage of a ship.
“Come now! A bit harsh on each other, aren’t we?” A Royal Navy man, Lord Louis disliked the American usage. “The entire matter can be explained, I assure you. You know about the mission, then, I presume?”
“I know about a mission, if that’s what you mean. I also know you needed our Weather Command to pull it off, and it looks to me like you really didn’t care how you got it.”
“I see....”
In previous meetings, and in friendlier days, he had noted Ike’s voice to be similar to that of Clark Gable. When it came to brawls in a Klondike saloon, Englishmen usually didn’t fare too well.
“That your view, is it?” Mountbatten loosened his tie. He could hear it, thunder was rumbling. “Would you feel better if I disclosed the entire matter to you, after the fact?”
“After what fact?”
Mountbatten, smiling through it, said: “I have an idea. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”
Two days ago, Eisenhower, quartered at Southwick, had turned the Allied Weather Command back over to the British. The meeting, in secret and curiously called, had been with Air Marshal Tedder, a close advisor, valuable to him in his difficult dealings with Montgomery. Ike recalled it; something odd in his manner—too much urgency when Whitehall’s man had handed him the pen. Still, Art Tedder’s logic had made sense: the R.A.F. would work better with its own suppliers.
By the next night, doubt had entered.
Ike had called Churchill. At Churchill’s request, Ike had just agreed to meet with Tedder again, this afternoon at Portsmouth. “Teddy will work it out,” the P.M. had suggested. Now, here was Mountbatten, all smiles and a mile wide, live on the line and trying to hogwash him.
“Okay,” Ike said. “Let’s take it from the top. What’s the code name of the mission?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Ike, in England, raised an eyebrow: “Wait a minute, what are you telling me? Something special?”
“Special? To British interests, yes.” The American Command was not in position to have MI.5’s access to the facts.
From Ike’s perspective, the cards on the other end did not appear to be the regular ones; more, Lord Louis seemed bothered by them. If a weak hand, he should try to get it on the table.
Mountbatten had called....
“Well, as far as I know,” Dwight Eisenhower said, “I’m supposed to be in charge here. Since you’re using the Armed Forces Weather Command to cover up the mission you don’t want to talk about, why don’t we start by your telling me exactly what kind of mission it is, that’s so god-awful important?”
“I would if I could, old boy, but I can’t, you see? It’s... something different, is all I can tell you.”
“ ‘Something different’? Look, I think it might be a good idea if you simply leveled with me. If you’re counting on me to go along with somebody’s colossal screw-up—” what else could it be? “—that is what you’re counting on, isn’t it? For me to understand your position, to work with you to straighten it out. That right?”
“Not right.” How much did he know? “The Prime Minister, indeed, is very concerned about all this—” Did he know about the girl? “—but I’m afraid it’s too late now for us to do much about it.”
“Meaning, I take it, that you think it’s none of my business.” After the signing on Wednesday, Tedder had met with Montgomery. “Tell me,” Ike said, “is this some deal between you and Montgomery?”
“Monty?”
“Monty. Because, if it is and I can find out”—this afternoon’s meeting—“you can kiss it good-bye!”
“Here now, Dwight, don’t be ridiculous!” Manners, man! “You know bloody well that we wouldn’t...”
“... wouldn’t what?”
Ordered to nudge Eisenhower into safe harbor, the Commodore was finding the decks awash; he had tacked into rough seas. “As I was saying”—veering into the American wind—“or rather, trying to say, right?” Mountbatten laughed; he was good-natured about it.
Ike could have liked him; there had been times. That all-night party last year with “Tug” Ismay, before the Roosevelt-Churchill meeting at Casablanca...
“Go on.”
“Fifteen previous missions,” Mountbatten said, “all with SOE, all with female agents, and you were the very first, outside of ourselves, to get a full report—”
In a lesser man, the voice would have carried censure.
“Yep. Thanks a million.”
“And?”
“I read them. I also know you stopped sending them after what happened to the Gladstone girl—” He had the dossiers in front of him. Bernstein had got them. “—six months ago, wasn’t it? And now you’ve got a new one?”
“Well, perhaps.” Lord Louis, at any cost, intended to protect her. His voice, coming through loud, now fading, vibration on the line. “You’ve brought in an outside Operative. Civilian, isn’t he? Your man in the trench coat? I can’t very well see how you could know about her, though—”
Ike grinned. “You’d be surprised what I know.”
What the hell was he talking about?
Both men stopped; they were listening.
A third ear...it had taken over the phones, working faster than the eye could follow...pulling wires and rearranging circuits: magnetic current breathing curious from where another’s interest was running parallel—each man thinking it the other.
Something had entered...
Ike was hearing it—against a Kansas skyline, the creaking of the wagons. Mountbatten pausing, didn’t Ike hear it?—spilling over into the sea swell...the ghostly sound of a Corsican bell... trailing away now... into the wake of remembered time.
“You there?” Ike said.
Mountbatten stared at the phone: it was in his ears, the cloy of accusation. Ike tapped his receiver a few times, it seemed to have passed. Couldn’t possibly have been a tap, could it? No. Locked and secured downline, that possibility didn’t exist. Weather condition, from Ceylon probably. “Anybody on the damn line?”
“Hope so,” Mountbatten said, both voices clear. He had seen a picture, or thought he had, during the static. It was the man in the trench coat; face not remembered, in the black sky below marble stairwells; the day of blue rain streaming across Peredynia. He had sensed it, during the lull.
Eisenhower knew about the girl!
“Getting back,” voice in England was saying, “I think I would like some answers.”
Looking in on GOLDILOCKS, and searching for bears, what else had the faceless Informant told him? Could The Spy not be leading both sides into a goose chase?
“Yes, I suppose that you would. It isn’t as though we’ve been going ahead, you see, trying to hide something from you. Were that the case, it should have been clear to you that—”
“Bullshit!”
That was clear enough.
Mountbatten said: “I am not at all sure this is getting us anywhere, so why not have a go at it this way...?” Ike listened. “To begin with, I must say that I can vouch personally for the morality of this mission. Since it is my mission, you see, I stand personally responsible for it. Now, I readily admit that you were excluded. Moreover, I think it fair to tell you that you can probably count on that continuing to be the case, at least until after Sunday night.”
Ike made a not
e. He would be in Normandy. Mountbatten must have known. British Commanders had petitioned to change Army movements. Review had become necessary to reinstate American policy. Leaving tomorrow, spending the fourth with Bradley’s First Army, Ike would return on Tuesday night.
“For the moment,” Lord Louis said, “all I can say is that the real reason for this mission, to use your words, exists precisely in the fact that it is based in national self interest, the autonomous self interest of the Commonwealth, and that I cannot, and will not, divulge anything more than you already know, because you see, to do so would be to betray my own principles, as a man.”
“I understand that.”
“Well then! I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear it!” Mountbatten could relax. Churchill congratulated him; it was over his shoulder. He was smiling:
Buddha’s voice, in the rain.
“—should this prove to be the breach of trust it appears to be,” he was suddenly hearing, Bull Durham rearing from the ring, “then I think your ‘national self-interest’ may have to go by the board. Anything this important that’s done behind our back, my friend, does not support its own morality!”
Mountbatten switched on his desk fan: he needed air.
The Waterfall project was not being mentioned. Tightly protected in the most inaccessible reaches of British Naval Intelligence, it could not even be imagined. From Mountbatten’s point of view, indeed, from Churchill’s, the logic was simple....
It did not exist.
“See here,” Lord Louis said, “I have told you all I can.”
“Which is zilch.” Eyes sweeping the desk, Ike spotted the pack of Raleighs. Left by his Orderly, Colonel Tex Lee, he felt like smoking one. Tapping it out, he coughed: it was the weather. Wiping his mouth, the General continued, “Something’s fishier than hell.”
“Oh? Really?”
Lighter clicked. “Yes. Really. While I do not purport to speak for Tom, Dick, and Harry, I do speak for Kilroy”—G.I. Joe, soon to be on half the walls in France—“for Bradley, for Collins, and for the policies of President Roosevelt, who—”
“Good luck to him.”