Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  ‘You know what lies beneath, madame?’

  ‘Your heart, Benoit.’

  ‘Exactement. My heart. That’s where the firing squad will aim. Just there.’

  ‘You mean the Germans? The Boches?’

  ‘The French, madame. These days we fight a war of our own.’

  ‘They say you’re in the resistance. They say you’ve killed two men. Is it true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who spread the rumour?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘They also say you want to kill me. And the people I live with. And that German friend of mine.’

  ‘The officer? With the car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would be a privilege, madame. And a pleasure. Is there much meat on that German lover of yours?’ He was examining his finger. ‘Would he look good if I took the knife to him? Would the flies feast on his eyeballs?’ He paused, struck by a sudden thought. ‘And does God speak German? Or only French?’

  ‘God is nowhere, Benoit. God is the sickest of jokes. God is the shortest cut to madness.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I believe nothing. Show me a priest who doesn’t believe you can buy your way to heaven. We are what we are, Benoit. We make our own hell here on earth. You can hunt on my property whenever you like. I simply ask that you use a gun.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s cleaner.’ She nodded down at the crusted wound in the animal’s flank. ‘How did you kill it in the end?’

  ‘With a knife, madame.’ He drew the bloodied finger across his neck. Another roll of the eyes.

  ‘Then use a gun.’

  ‘A gun is noisy.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You have my permission. But one animal at a time. Are we in agreement?’

  Hélène backed out of the room, leaving Benoit in silent contemplation of the deer. She left the main door open exactly as she found it and made her way through the thistles. She didn’t run. She didn’t even hurry. When she got to the road she turned left and retraced her steps through the village. There were people on the move now, all of them women, but they didn’t spare her a second glance. Within the hour, she was back in her own kitchen. It was still early but Malin had the coffee pot on.

  He asked where she’d been. She told him. Only when he’d poured the coffee and sat down at the big table did he enquire what had happened.

  ‘The matter has been settled, Malin.’ She gave his gnarled old hand a squeeze. ‘To my entire satisfaction.’

  21

  Billy was in Exeter by early evening. Ursula had accompanied him back from the house on the edge of the moor and the uniformed driver had dropped them in the heart of the city. The Royal Clarence Hotel overlooked the western end of the cathedral. The doors were open and Billy could hear the muted thunder of the organ as worshippers hurried in for evensong.

  Ursula told the driver to wait. Then she nodded up at the hotel.

  ‘We’re a little early,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think it’ll matter.’

  Billy had no idea why they’d come here. When he’d enquired in the car she’d simply said there was one last person he needed to meet. Billy got the impression that this was yet another part of the recruitment process but when he tried to press her for details she’d said very little. Now they stood at the reception desk among a swirl of guests. There were uniforms everywhere, no one lowlier than a full colonel, and many of the officers were accompanied by women who wouldn’t have been out of place in the pages of Tatler and Bystander. Everyone seemed to have a drink in hand and laughter bubbled from a bar down the corridor. Billy recognised the sense of slightly frenzied eagerness from his days on the stage. This might have been the launch of a new production, he thought. Back when the Bristol theatre was still open.

  Ursula had met someone she knew. The full-dress uniform told Billy he was a General. He stooped to kiss Ursula and then nodded towards the staircase that led to the upper floors. Billy caught mention of the word ‘Director’.

  ‘Room 328, Mr Angell.’ Ursula nodded towards the nearby stairs. Briefly, towards the end of the afternoon, she’d begun to use Billy’s Christian name. Now they were back on more formal terms.

  Billy followed her across the lobby. The buzz of conversation dimmed as they climbed the staircase. The hotel was plush, opulent, apparently untouched by the war. Billy stood aside for a waiter returning with a tray from one of the bedrooms upstairs. Three slices of beef and most of the vegetables on the plate hadn’t been touched. Unthinkable.

  Ursula tapped on the door of Room 328 and announced herself. Billy heard a voice from inside, male, softly authoritative.

  ‘Come.’

  Ursula opened the door and Billy found himself in a spacious bedroom. It felt like a theatre set: the four-poster bed, the plush velvet armchairs, the ornate dressing table, and a glimpse of a huge enamel bath through the open door in the corner. The cathedral filled the view from the tall sash windows, the honeyed stonework glowing in the evening sunlight.

  A man in evening dress was standing in front of a full-length mirror, making adjustments to his white tie. He was Billy’s height, five foot ten. He was almost completely bald and, when he turned round and extended a hand in greeting, Billy warmed to the smile on his face. It was unforced, genuine. Late middle-aged, Billy thought. And in need of a good night’s sleep.

  ‘May I offer you a drink, young man?’ He nodded at a selection of bottles on a silver tray. ‘They seem to be spoiling me.’

  Billy asked for a brandy and ginger. Ursula, unbidden, sorted out the glasses. Gin and tonic for herself and their host, the brandy for Billy.

  ‘Is soda acceptable, Mr Angell?’ she enquired. ‘No ginger, I’m afraid.’

  Billy took the proffered glass. A cello stood in the corner of the room, propped against the chair from the dressing table. There was a score of some kind on the music stand beside the chair and Billy began to wonder about the milling guests downstairs.

  ‘How was the rehearsal, sir?’ Ursula passed the gin and tonic across.

  ‘Patchy, I’m afraid. We never meet as often as we should. Fingers crossed and let’s hope it works. Much like everything else, eh?’ He lifted the glass, eyeing Billy over the rim. ‘Here’s to Vivaldi. I just hope he’s not listening tonight.’

  Billy raised his glass. He knew nothing about Vivaldi but he liked this man’s sense of humour. Tam had it, too. These were definitely people used to taking risks.

  The three armchairs sat comfortably on the thick pile carpet. Once again Billy had been offered no name, no formal introduction, but ‘Director’ seemed more than fitting.

  ‘Miss Barton has told me a little about you, young man. We’re more than happy to have you on board.’

  Billy didn’t know what to say. Was this it? Were his RAF days over? And, if so, where was the paperwork? The endless formalities you might expect with a change of direction this abrupt? A week ago, he’d been bracing himself for a return to flying duties. Now he was out of uniform entirely.

  The man he chose to cast as the Director hadn’t finished. He was waving his glass in the air, a gesture that appeared to indicate the world across the Channel.

  ‘No one’s pretending an excursion like yours is going to be easy, young man, but we’ll do our best to take care of you. Tell me about Hamburg.’

  ‘Hamburg, sir?’ Billy blinked.

  ‘That last op. I understand things didn’t go well.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. They didn’t.’

  ‘But you coped?’

  ‘We got back, sir.’

  ‘In one piece?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘I think I understand. A very good friend of mine has a son in Bomber Command. Lancasters, like you. His father was in the trenches in the first war. Gazetted at Loos. Gassed on the Somme. Got himself the MC in Flanders. Busy old time. And you know what his son says? His son tells him they should have made a better job of the peace. Then all this no
nsense wouldn’t have been necessary. I suspect he’s got a point, though I’d blame the politicians.’ He paused. ‘Do you resent having to risk your life?’

  Billy stared at him. No one had ever asked him a question like that before.

  ‘I resent feeling so helpless,’ he said carefully. ‘I resent the fact that no one seems to have a choice anymore. Everything happens at the point of a gun. And that’s before you ever meet the enemy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he gestured towards the window. ‘Where we’re sending you will be dangerous. But you know that already, don’t you?’

  Billy shrugged. He said he’d no idea what awaited him. He’d been given a script and he was happy to play it the best way he could.

  Ursula was on her feet. A briefcase with two locks lay on the carpet beside the bed. She extracted a beige file and gave it to the Director. There were photographs inside. He selected two and handed them across to Billy.

  One of the photographs showed a woman stepping onto a pavement. Against the passers-by she appeared tall. She had blonde hair, neatly arranged, and she was wearing a long winter coat. Her face, half turned towards the camera, suggested a woman in a hurry. Good features. A hint of sternness. Someone used to making her own way in life.

  ‘This is the woman at the chateau?’

  ‘Hélène Lafosse. Yes. Now look at the other one.’

  The second photograph was taken at a different location. Summer, this time. Among the women sitting on the terrace of the café was the same Hélène Lafosse. With her was a German officer. The camera angle didn’t offer much detail but the clue to the relationship was the expression on the woman’s face. The sternness, the sense of purpose, had gone. Her hand lay lightly on her companion’s forearm. She was laughing. She clearly enjoyed this man’s company.

  ‘This is her German friend?’

  ‘We think he’s her lover.’

  ‘And she doesn’t care who else knows?’

  ‘Obviously not. The man’s name is Klimt. He’s extremely well connected. He will offer Madame Lafosse a great deal of protection as well as a number of other things. Alas, Herr Klimt’s days may well be numbered. Which is why we’re having to be a little hasty. Opportunities like these are extremely rare, young man. Today is Wednesday. Within a week, we intend to have you in France. After that…’ he spread his hands wide, and smiled, ‘… bonne chance.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards, God willing, we get you out. Retrieve you safe and sound.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Miss Barton is still working on the details. Exits can be as tricky as entrances, as you doubtless know from your theatre days. Either way, we’re doing our best to keep you in one piece.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that, the war will be coming to a close.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘For all of us.’

  ‘But no more flying? No more bombing? No more RAF?’

  ‘No.’

  Billy nodded. He was trying to imagine what this new life of his would be like. He was, after all, a qualified Wireless Op.

  ‘Do I carry a radio? Keep in touch?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Keeping in touch?’

  ‘Having a radio of your own. There are ways and means, young man. I’m afraid you’ll have to trust us.’ The Director drained his glass, and then checked his watch. Time, he said with some regret, spares no man. Vivaldi awaited him downstairs. It had been a pleasure to make Billy’s acquaintance and he looked forward to meeting him again.

  They all stood up. The interview, if that’s what it had been, was evidently over. Then the Director was struck by a final thought.

  ‘I imagine you might want to say adieu to your mother.’ He turned away. ‘Miss Barton?’

  ‘It’s in hand, sir. Mr Angell will be coming up to London the day after tomorrow. Plenty of time to say his goodbyes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The Director was smiling. His handshake felt, to Billy, like a benediction. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Angell.’ He glanced at Ursula. ‘Agent Thesp? Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the operation?’

  ‘Aurore.’

  The uniformed driver was waiting beside the car outside the hotel. Ursula was catching a train back to London. She gave Billy another address, more central this time, and a travel warrant. The warrant was in two parts. The first would take him to Bath. The second, the following day, would bring him to London. A couple of days of intense training and then he should expect a late-night departure from an airfield on the south coast.

  ‘As far as your mother’s concerned, you’re still in the RAF,’ she said. ‘Do you mind awfully?’ The phrase sat uncomfortably with her German accent.

  Billy shook his head. ‘As long as I never see Hamburg again,’ he said.

  ‘That would be impossible, Mr Angell.’ She wasn’t smiling. ‘There’s nothing left of it.’

  Billy stared at her. The train’s guard had his whistle to his lips but something was bothering him.

  ‘Aurore?’ he enquired. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s French for ‘first light’. Operation Aurore. We’ll be using it on all communications.’

  *

  The uniformed driver took Billy back to Topsham. He sat in the car, trying to get his thoughts in order. What he’d seen of these new people in his life had deeply impressed him. They seemed to have found a space for themselves that he’d never dreamed existed. They played games with the enemy. Their armoury of weapons extended a great deal further than the blunt cosh of a two-ton cookie and a torrent of incendiary bombs. They sharpened their wits on each other and laughed a lot. Best of all, they seemed to have identified a talent in young Billy Angell that only Irene had found before. They trusted him. They thought he could do this new role justice. And on what felt the slightest of evidence they were prepared to spare him the rest of the war if he got it right. He smiled to himself. Operation Aurore. Agent Thesp.

  They were in Topsham now. The driver dropped him by the river. Billy waited until he’d gone and then slipped into the telephone box. He’d done the sums in his head in the back of the car. According to the charges displayed behind the reception desk, a double room at the Royal Clarence Hotel would be his for seven pounds and twelve shillings. He still had £46 from Ralph’s money. After next week, his life would be in the hands of the gods. These weren’t the odds he’d face during a normal operational tour. These weren’t risks he could calculate and try and come to terms with. This, in every sense of the word, was the unknown. Dimly he understood that he might get captured. Interrogated. Tortured. Shot. On the other hand he might deliver the performance of his life and return scot-free. He might even learn the language, stay in France forever and play the role for keeps. He simply didn’t know.

  He found the coins for the call and dialled the number of the Palmview from memory. When Don answered he asked him whether he had a proper suit. Don said he could borrow one. Why?

  ‘Because we’re having a night out tomorrow.’ Billy was gazing at a raft of ducks drifting on the tide. ‘All you have to do is say yes.’

  22

  Hélène spotted Agnès on the path that led to the woods. It was mid-evening, perfect for a ride. The last of the sunset threw the oncoming trees into silhouette and the warm air was thick with midges.

  Hélène dismounted and tethered Valmy to a nearby sapling. She’d been trying to have a conversation with Agnès all day but she’d refused to come out of her room, refused to talk, refused to discuss any of the questions Hélène wanted answered. Now, to her visible irritation, the girl had no choice in the matter.

  Hélène wanted to know about Benoit. Where had Agnès got her information? Who had told her that the man had anything to do with any resistance network? Where did this fairy tale come from?

  Agnès wouldn’t meet her gaze. She’d been worrying her spots. The lower part of her face was scarlet and angry.

/>   ‘We don’t tell anyone anything,’ she said.

  ‘So why all the stories about Benoit?’

  ‘That was different. He was going to kill us.’

  ‘And were the stories about him true?’

  Agnès didn’t answer. Hélène put the question again. Agnès shook her head, tried to step past. Hélène blocked her path, then lost her temper and pushed her roughly to the ground. The girl’s bulk cushioned the fall. She lay on her back in the long grass beside the path, her face dark with anger. Hélène straddled her, pinning her shoulders with her knees. Above them loomed the horse.

  ‘What else have you lied about?’

  ‘I don’t lie. I never lie.’

  ‘So explain about Benoit.’

  ‘Benoit’s dangerous.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Again, no answer. Hélène bent low.

  ‘Have you met this man? Just tell me. Otherwise I’m going to hurt you.’

  ‘You’re hurting me already.’

  ‘This is nothing, I promise you.’

  Agnès stared up at her. Hélène recognised something new in her eyes. Fear.

  ‘Do you know Benoit?’ Hélène asked. ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you borrowed my radio.’

  ‘You mean you met him in the woods? That afternoon when I sent the message?’

  ‘Yes. I came down to find you just in case you needed help. That’s where you said you’d be.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I met this man. He was coming up from the lake. He said his name was Benoit. He had a crossbow. And he was very drunk.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Agnès didn’t want to say. Hélène asked the question again. Then slapped her hard. The horse flinched, whinnied, pawed the ground. There were tears in Agnès’ eye.

  ‘He raped me,’ she turned her face away. ‘Twice.’

  *

  Hélène took her back to the chateau. She’d return for the horse later. Agnès was crying now and Hélène began to suspect that this story of hers was true. She had it on the best authority that Agnès had done something brave, or perhaps foolhardy, for a réseau in Lille. Evangelina had told her in the note that arrived with Agnès. She remembered the phrase she’d used, the exact words. This girl carries a price on her head. Please look after her. Please treat her like a child of your own. A child of my own, Hélène thought. If only.