by Mara Timon
‘Glad to have been out of the plane too, miss. You have no idea how it stinks in there. Kerosene and petrol. Vomit and fear. Terrible.’ He rubbed a bandaged hand over his eyes.
‘There was a woman on the plane, pretty little thing. Green as you like the entire flight, but she weren’t the one to be sick. No, it were the lad from Liverpool.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘So we dropped. Halfway down, searchlights caught us.
‘The girl dropped first,’ Jones said, his eyes faraway.
‘Always,’ I murmured.
The instructors did it to spur on the men. And if it was more dangerous, at least it taught us to be self-reliant.
Jones stared at me and, finding the answer he sought, nodded.
‘She was almost to the ground before they started firing. The Scouse got it first, still in the air. Then the girl, caught up in her ropes. Me and the other lad, we got off a couple of shots but I’m guessing they didn’t want us dead, or we would be.’
It was the same thing I’d witnessed last March. We had been warned of the ambush, but not in time to abort the drop. The agents were killed, and it was a small miracle that we survived.
‘Who was the other man?’
‘Claude? Stocky man, about forty or so.’
I met Matthew’s questioning glance and shrugged.
‘Do you know Claude’s surname?’ I asked.
Jones looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘You wouldn’t understand, miss. We wasn’t s’posed to talk about ourselves. Claude weren’t his real Christian name.’
‘And what was yours?’ Matthew asked.
‘What? Told you. Bert Jones.’
‘Your codename?’
‘Oh, that. Ulysse, if you’ll believe it.’ His lips twisted. ‘Greek chap what went to war, then took twenty years to get home. A girl I sh— stepped out with liked her lit’ratcha.’
Jones’ voice had tightened as if he wondered how long it would take him to get home, and who would still be waiting.
‘Is Claude still alive?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Last I knew he was still in Fresnes.’
‘So he didn’t escape with you?’
‘No, it was just me an’ Marc an’ Robert.’
I’d trained with an operative called Robert. Would SOE use the same codename for different men?
‘Can you describe them?’
‘Which one?’
‘Both, Bert,’ Matthew answered.
‘Let’s see. Marc was tall and skinny, thick glasses. Bookish but a good laugh. His idea that we escape. He’d already worked it out, but couldn’t do it on his own, like. We talked, decided to keep it small. Just the three of us. The more what knows, the bigger chance Jerry’ll find out. Right?’
Matthew nodded. ‘How did you communicate?’
‘Hard not to. We was all in the same cell.’
‘And Robert? What did he look like?’
‘Robert looked like he’d stepped out of a bleedin’ Hollywood film. Dark hair, dark eyes. Like that Gone with the Wind bloke.’
I swallowed. Rhett Butler: we used to tease Robert that he looked like Rhett Butler. A cold certainty gripped me, knowing I was about to hear how another friend died.
‘Right, Bertie. Back to your capture,’ Matthew said. ‘Where did they take you?’
‘Avenue Foch. Fifth floor. Questioned me ten ways from Sunday, they did.’
‘You said nothing?’
‘Of course I bloody said nothing,’ he snarled. ‘What do you think I am?’
‘Better than they are, Mr Jones, and that’s all that matters,’ I murmured. ‘Please continue.’
Jones stared into his half-empty tea cup. ‘You have anything stronger than this?’
Matthew called for an aide to bring a bottle of Scotch. Jones reached for the bottle of Laphroaig with an appreciative smile which quickly turned horrified as the bottle began to slip through his bandaged hands. He looked at me, ashamed of his weakness. Gently pulling the bottle from his failing grip, I poured a generous serving into his teacup.
‘Thanks, miss,’ he mumbled as those mittens cradled the porcelain, carefully raising it to his lips.
As he slurped the Scotch, his eyes closed and he made a curious little sound, almost a whimper. Matthew looked down at him with pity. Jones put down the cup and stared out of the window. The sun was high and shimmered off the street below, but I didn’t think he saw that.
‘It were never the same twice,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it was one of them, sometimes more. Sometimes in French, sometimes English. Sometimes with fists. Sometimes with batons.’
His voice was no much more than a whisper, as if speaking the words forced him to relive it.
My friend Dominique had been interred at Avenue Foch for weeks before Jérôme got her out. She was a woman, and tiny. She must have endured that, and worse. How had she survived it? I looked away, desperate to get that image out of my mind.
‘Did you see anyone you knew while you were there?’ Matthew asked.
‘They threw Claude and me in a cell with another Englishman. But after the first few hours, we just ignored him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he kept trying to get us to say things.’
‘Things?’
‘Like where we were from, where we trained, an’ what we were supposed to do. Who else we knew. Same bollocks yer asking, matter o’ fact. Claude played with him for a while, making up outrageous stories, but then he got bored.’
‘Who was this man? Do you remember his name?’
‘Called hisself Peter Fearson, but I think he made that up.’
‘Why?’
‘If you was a traitor, would you want people to know yer real name?’
Jones tried to rub his eyes, but the bandages got in the way. He stared at them as if wondering how they’d got there.
‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t.’ Matthew wrote down the name; we’d run it past Baker Street later. ‘When were you transferred?’
‘Lemme check my diary,’ Jones said.
He’d been through a lot and was clearly exhausted. His manners, on display for my benefit, were slipping.
‘Roughly?’
‘Spring, I reckon. The flowers were blooming. Little yellow ones.’
‘Daffodils?’ I asked. ‘Tell me about Fresnes, Mr Jones.’
‘Lovely parties. Champers . . .’
‘Mr Jones, please don’t waste my time.’
He shrugged. ‘As I said, three of us in a cell. Me an’ Marc an’ Robert.’
‘Where was Claude? Strange you wouldn’t have included your mate.’
Jones shrugged again. ‘Didn’t see him much inside. In a different cell, mebbe a different section.’
‘Did they question you again? In Fresnes?’ I asked.
‘Did they, hell!’ he snorted. ‘Same questions as Avenue Foch. Methods a bit worse.’
His shoulders hunched and his arms crossed his body. His actions seemed unconscious and when he caught my eyes on him, he looked away. He picked up the delicate china in those awful mitts and drained the rest of the cup.
It was the words he didn’t say that made me believe him.
‘Such as?’ Matthew asked.
‘Such as things not fit for a lady’s ears.’
He didn’t expect me to press him. In lieu of words, or sympathy, I refilled Jones’s cup and tried to keep my mind from conjuring images of what my captured friends would also have had to endure.
‘Fair enough,’ Matthew said. ‘We’ll discuss that later. Tell me how you escaped.’
‘Bloody brilliant. Marc was working in the laundry. The officers had him do their cleaning as well. He started to pilfer bits of their uniforms. Plan was for him to nick three – we put them on and walk out.’
‘Did it work?’ I was fascinated by the simplicity of it.
‘Too bloody right it did. Sorry, miss. We didn’t have papers, but reckoned we’d be able to meet up with the local Resistance an’ they’d help out.’
; ‘Did they?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t get far before we were stopped. I was in the bushes having a piss – sorry, miss – when a couple of Germans stopped to see if we needed a ride. Me, I stayed hid and watched. They saw that the uniforms were a bit mixed. Marc, he tried to brazen it out. Didn’t speak a word of German, but there are French gaolers, y’see. He was a good bloke, Marc was. Robert, he panicked an’ ran. Got shot in the back. The others, they dragged Marc back to Fresnes.’
Shot in the back. Not Robert, it couldn’t be. He was always at the head of the pack, but watched out for the stragglers. He wouldn’t have run; running would have confirmed his guilt. He knew that. So why the devil would he do that? What would make him do that?
‘So Robert is dead,’ I asked, the effort to keep my voice steady.
‘Yes, miss. Checked him myself after they left.’
‘Then what?’ Matthew asked.
‘Didn’t bloody wait for them to come back. Scampered out of there right fast, I did.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jones.’
Feeling faint, I moved to the window. Several storeys below, the daily routine of a country not actively at war continued. Cars moved up and down the streets, men strode in and out of the gates, briefcases in hand. England seemed outside time – another reality. Or maybe Lisbon was the dream. How could Robert be dead? He deserved better than a bullet in the back.
‘You met the Resistance then, Bertie?’ Matthew asked.
Jones nodded. ‘Had to lose the uniform so stole a shirt an’ trousers off a line. Knocked on a door and asked for help. Took a chance an’ got lucky. The lass what opened the door was connected. Passed me over to one bloke, then another. Then they put me on a boat. Thought the next time I touched ground it’d be Portsmouth.’ His voice was grim.
I took a small sip of tea and topped the cup up with a splash of Scotch.
‘And then?’
‘It were night. Quarter moon. Enough light to see, but mebbe not enough to be seen. They gave me an inflatable. Told me to row towards the sub. Lads on the boat, they threw me a rope an’ helped me inside. Always hated boats. Don’t fancy the waves.’
He raised his cup, smelled the fumes, and put it back down.
‘They gave me dry clothes. ’Splained that we’d dive to get away from shore then cruise on the surface. Faster, you see.’ Jones bit his lip. ‘Weren’t long after that. Coupla hours, mebbe? I’m on the bridge and the radio operator sounds a warning. “Dive!” the captain says. No one talks but everyone moves. Orders are whispered. But intense, you know? The officers all pool together, talkin’ too low for me to hear.
‘“Another sub,” one of them tells me. The radio officer is real pale, like. Pulls off his headphones and looks scared. Kid couldn’t have been eighteen.’
His voice came in gasps, as if by increasing his speed he could outpace the torpedo.
‘“Hang on!” someone yelled, and I did. Boat shook an’ shuddered. Threw me against a table. The other blokes, they’re hanging on. I don’t know – mebbe it wasn’t their first time. The captain yells down the ’phone. Someone hands me a Mae West an’ I strap it on. Then a blast slams me against a wall. I smell smoke, fight my way up the steps. Some hands pull me back, some push forward. I touch something so hot it burns, but the water on the floors is rising. Fast.’ His voice was desperate. ‘Next thing, I’m in the water, holdin’ on to a crate. I try to climb up on it but it won’t let me. Keeps dropping me off. More hands pull at me, my legs. They want the crate too, but I kick them away. I have to, miss.’ He looked at me, his eyes tortured by the ghosts of the other sailors. ‘Or I’d be dead, too.’
He stared into the empty cup and repeated, his voice desolate: ‘I had to – I don’t know how to swim.’ Tears coursed down his ruined face.
I looked at Matthew, unsure how to proceed. He looked equally lost. With no better idea, I refilled Jones’s mug and poured another dram into my own.
‘Hung on until my feet touched bottom,’ he mumbled. ‘Bloody cursed name. Bloody Buckmaster. Bloody war. Should have stayed in Shoreditch.’
Not unkindly I pointed out, ‘Ulysses made it home, Mr Jones. It just took longer than anticipated.’
‘Yeah, miss. Twenty fuckin’ years.’
*
‘I believe him.’
On the other side of his desk, Matthew scribbled notes in Jones’s file. A large brandy sat untouched in front of me; his was already half empty. He paused, tapping the end of his pen against his teeth. His eyes narrowed at me before he spoke.
‘Something struck you,’ he said. ‘When Jones spoke of his escape from Fresnes.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Lisbet, I remember when you were born.’ He looked at me over the top of his glasses. ‘I have seen you grow into a very clever young woman. Do you really think I don’t know you?’
He was right. He knew my tells as well as I knew his. But if there was no point in lying to him, equally there was no point in telling him the full truth.
‘The man shot during the escape. Robert. I trained with him.’
‘Was he the sort to run?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no. But everything is different when you’re looking down the business end of a gun.’
He hummed a response and jotted more notes in Jones’s file.
‘What will you do with him?’
‘Who? Bertie?’ He looked up, surprised. ‘I should pass him on to your lot, but I rather think he’s been through enough. I’ll arrange his chariot back to Baker Street. Let Buckmaster deal with him.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, closing my eyes.
The first time I saw Robert was outside the red bricks of the manor house that Special Operations had taken over. His face was turned into the sun, too good looking for his own good, but without the arrogance that usually accompanied a pretty face. He was an athlete – a leader. At the front of the pack, maybe not always the first, but near enough. What had happened to that man? What made him turn his back and run? I knew I’d never know the answer, but that wouldn’t stop me mourning my friend.
Matthew glanced at a clock and closed the file.
‘Finish your drink, old girl. Looks like you could use it.’
‘Expecting someone else?’
‘Not at all.’
He flicked an imaginary dust mote from his sleeve, and glanced at a file on the corner of his desk, lying beside the one I’d brought in earlier.
I didn’t want to go home; I didn’t want to be by myself, with only my ghosts for company. I grasped at excuses.
‘Anything interesting?’
A vertical line formed above his aquiline nose as he decided how much he could share with me. He moved to the window, clasping his hands behind him as he studied the German embassy across the road. The sun silhouetted him, granting him a halo that I knew he didn’t deserve. His shoulders tensed when he turned back to me and asked:
‘What do you know of wolfram?’
Chapter Twenty
I
rritated at myself for not being as connected to the Portuguese scene as I’d thought, I hedged.
‘I don’t think I’ve met him yet.’
Matthew shook his head, not quite disappointed. ‘Tungsten?’
My mental catalogue yielded the same results.
‘Sorry.’
He sat back in the chair. ‘It’s not a who, old girl. A what.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s a metal, non-ferrous, with a very high density and a ridiculously high melting point.’
Half of that sentence flew completely over my head, but I understood enough to hazard a guess:
‘Weapons?’
‘Put it in a shell head to harden it and it cuts through armour like butter. Our Teutonic adversaries have used it in anti-tank and anti-aircraft rounds for years.’
I tried to concentrate on what Matthew was saying, but chemistry and metallurgy, neither a strong suit of mine, were battling against my dead friend�
�s Rhett Butler smile.
‘Portugal produces most of Europe’s wolfram. Spain has deposits as well, but produces maybe a tenth of what’s done here. Despite our best efforts, Salazar sends a ready supply to Germany each month.’
‘Can’t we out-buy the Germans?’
‘It’s not like we’re not trying. Hell, Lisbet, even the Yanks are trying. We’re rationed. They appear not to be. Portugal shipped Jerry about six hundred tons last year. No reason to believe they’re cutting that this year.’
‘How much do we import?’ He pursed his lips and I winced. ‘Rather a lot less than six hundred tons? Can’t we complain?’
Matthew tapped the folder. ‘Copies of the letters sent to Salazar and his monkeys. Enough complaints to outmatch your mother. This one smacks of a naïveté that should be outlawed. It asks –’ his voice took on a mincing tone – ‘“whether the smuggling is done with the full knowledge and approval of the government”. Bloody moron. Of course it is! Nothing happens here without Salazar’s approval!’
One word snagged in my mind. ‘Smuggling?’
Other images crashed through my mind: lorries unloaded at night; barrels transferred to a ship. Chemistry turned to mathematics: how many barrels passed through the quay that night? How many other quays conducted similar operations? How often?
‘Oh yes. What the Portuguese don’t officially export, they do so unofficially. Portugal is a small country with a big coastline. We have men monitoring the traffic in and out of the mines. In and out of the warehouses. But for every quay and inlet we watch, how many more are active? We can’t monitor everything, and our complaints fall on deaf ears.
‘Do you know what these men report, Lisbet?’ His voice lowered. Matthew was never one to scream. He didn’t need to; the soft vicious tone was far more effective. ‘The warehouses aren’t sealed. The double locks Salazar promises don’t materialise or are left open. Some are guarded, some aren’t. Lorries frequent the warehouses, with men hiding their cargo under sheepskin and blankets.’
He had described the activity I’d witnessed on the way back from Sagres perfectly. Another piece of the puzzle was beginning to emerge.
Matthew began to pace, anger and frustration emanating off his lean body. His words tumbled over themselves.