Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1 (37 page)

‘You've been to France, have you, Marjorie? And eaten all their terrible mucked about food, eh?'

‘No-o. But I know what I like. Good English food.'

‘Of course you do. And you know what they say?'

‘No. But I feel you're going to tell us.'

‘Kissing don't last – but cookery do.'

He looked from one to the other, and smiled his mischievous smile.

‘If cookery meant that much,' Marjorie remarked, with a look at Kate, ‘the French might have been able to put up a better resistance. But then perhaps their minds were on what they were going to have for dinner.'

‘
Touché
.' Scott laughed. ‘Perhaps that explains
our two countries' histories. The reason the French have always wanted to invade us was to teach us how to cook, and the reason why we were always trying to conquer them was because we couldn't stand – er – whatever this is meant to be.'

Scott raised his eyebrows expressively and put his unfinished food to one side.

‘I'd do anything for a plate of
moules marinières,'
he sighed. ‘So much so I might even have to be dropped back into France.'

The choice, however, was not Scott's. The decision as to what his next assignment was to be had already been made. On learning of his escape from France his mentor, Jack Ward, had immediately gone after him, lobbying his superiors to assign him to work for him in London. Finally, after much political manoeuvring, Jack got his way. Scott was informed of the decision and sent to Section H at Eden Park for what he gaily called ‘the briefest of briefings, so brief in fact that in future it might have to be re-named
sous-dessous
.' Part of the reason for the briefing was to show him a recent photograph of Diona de Donnet, with whom, it seemed, he was to be working.

‘Can't wait,' he told Cissie Lavington, who was at Eden Park supervising training for new recruits for a few days. ‘I say, though – what a stunner.'

Cissie looked over his shoulder, smiling proudly to herself as she remembered the person Poppy had once been.

‘Yes, she is rather, isn't she?'

Shortly after that Scott left Section H for London, and the Stanley Hotel.

*     *     *

When Poppy walked into the bar of the Stanley Hotel at a little before noon the following day, she had no idea whom she was supposed to be meeting, except that the person in question was supposedly on her side, and had left a message in her upstairs suite. It was perhaps because of this that she found herself hesitating by the door, trying to look as confident as possible, while feeling quite the opposite.

There was a group of people, some sitting, some standing drinking and idly talking, for all the world appearing to be the sort of people to be seen in any smart bar in any smart European hotel before the war. None of the men – which was almost shocking – happened to be in uniform. Instead they were sitting perfectly suited, and quite obviously rich, and equally at ease with the notion that they could indulge in cocktails and laughter; that while the world outside was one of sandbags, trenches and barbed wire, inside the reinforced-concrete walls of the grand hotel pleasure still reigned.

It made Poppy feel vaguely sick to see them all, to hear them talking and laughing as if they were entertaining each other in one of their many private houses, with a much scaled down hotel staff. Their glasses were obviously not being refilled quite as often as they might have liked, but, perhaps to make up for the slow service, there was much lighting of their expensive hand-made cigarettes, plucked at regular intervals from their gold-monogrammed cigarette cases.

Despite finding herself shocked by the scene in
front of her, and instinctively loathing every one of the people she was observing at the bar, Poppy carried on walking, elegant, sophisticated, her head in its immensely chic blue hat held high, her afternoon dress and coat – one of many manifestly newly fashionable costumes provided by Cissie Lavington's people – giving her ease of movement, as well as enhancing her new, chic walk: long strides, taken easily, eyes nonchalant, gloved hands holding her bucket bag, and her embroidered velvet gas mask case.

After all, there was no going back. Forward was the only way, even if she had little idea whom she was meant to be meeting. Finally a languid hand beckoned her over, and a handsome young man stood up to greet her.

‘Diona, over here, darling,' he drawled. ‘Late as usual, yet even more utterly gorgeous than ever. Come and meet the folks.'

Looking as bored as she could possibly manage, Poppy drifted across the bar to his side.

‘Hallo, darling.'

She kissed Scott Meynell on the cheek and as she did so, and straightened up, she realised she was kissing the cheek of someone with whom she was going to have the pleasure of working. His dark eyes gave nothing away, thank God, and his languid manner was impeccable. What he was unable to hide, however, was his huge appeal.

Less than ten miles away in the East End, a covered truck was hurrying to a scene of some devastation. Mines had been parachuted from German bombers. Two had exploded, causing
massive damage, but happily for the surrounding neighbourhood some had failed to work, and now lay half buried in craters outside the buildings they had been intended to destroy.

In the front of the small truck, Robert Maddox was seated beside the head of his department, Lieutenant-Commander Edward Fanshaw, a large man with the beaming face of the ideal welcoming host, and as much experience as Robert in dismantling land mines. In other words, as he kept saying with a great guffaw, ‘None.'

‘Look – I know it's all been theory so far, Bob,' he was saying, as they went over and over their anticipated protocol. ‘And granted we know about as much about the magnetic trigger as we know about knitting, but I would say we are agreed our theory's pretty sound, aren't we?'

‘I would say so, sir,' Robert replied. ‘Anyway, sooner or later one has to put theory to the test, otherwise it remains just that – theory.'

‘Quite so,' his superior went on, lighting a cigarette while keeping an eye on the road in front and driving expertly for a few yards with only one hand. He blew out some smoke and stared at the road ahead, regaining the driving wheel with his cigarette still held expertly between his fingers. ‘The first time, they always say, is the worst time, and I dare say we will both find that out very soon. You have to give it to Jerry – he's damned ingenious when it comes to inventing new ways to keep us on our toes. I only hope our boffins are working as hard for us. It's what's coming, isn't it, boffins' wars. First the cavalry goes, then it'll be the foot soldier—'

They both knew Fanshaw was waffling on in the high hope of keeping both their minds off the ordeal ahead.

‘Sir.'

Robert saw they were approaching an area that had been both cleared and cordoned off. Several police had been posted on the perimeter alongside a squad of armed soldiers.

‘Jolly good, everyone, stand back!' the bearded Fanshaw boomed as he jumped down from the lorry, followed at once by Robert. ‘The cavalry's here!'

After an exchange of salutes, the duty officer pointed out the first mine, which was stuck at an angle with its nose well into the ground.

‘The device was ticking when first discovered, so we're informed, Commander,' the officer informed Fanshaw. ‘But when we got here it had gone silent.'

‘Hear that, Bob?' Fanshaw called over his shoulder to Robert. ‘Matches what we reckoned. The self-destruct worked on a delay clock.'

‘And we won't know when it stopped until we take the thing out, I'm afraid, sir.'

‘Which means we'd better get the old skates on, eh?' Fanshaw beamed.

‘We'll need a wall of decent sandbags, Captain,' Robert said to the army officer. ‘At a good safe distance from the device – couple of hundred feet should do it provided the wall's thick enough – and if you could possibly have your chaps dig a trench behind the bags as well?'

The officer nodded and went off to instruct his men.

‘Good.' Fanshaw glanced briefly at Robert, before returning to stare at the mine. ‘Now then – first thing is, make the bugger safe.'

‘Without restarting the clock.'

‘Without restarting the clock,' the commander reiterated, after which he cleared his throat, folded his arms and stood back to watch the soldiers preparing the defences. ‘First thing?'

‘Unscrew the ring closing the fuse aperture.'

‘Next we find the fuse and yank it out.'

‘Maybe not a yank, sir. Perhaps a little pull with a length of cord might be more the thing.'

‘Figure of speech, man,' Fanshaw laughed.
‘Façon de parler
.'

‘Yes, sir. So once the fuse is attached we then – we
yank
it out—'

‘Good man!' Fanshaw roared with laughter. ‘That's the ticket! We yank the bugger out and then explode the device from our hidey-hole! Nothing to it, eh? When you break it down like that! Nothing to it at all!'

While the soldiers dug the trench and built a solid defence of sandbags, Robert and his commander strolled the streets smoking cigarettes as if they were out on a Sunday afternoon taking the air. They talked about this and that, but no more about the mine, not until they were in place by the deadly, silent device in a crater that could in a few moments be doubling as their mutual grave.

‘Who wants first in?' Fanshaw asked, smiling with assumed delight. ‘Or should we toss for it? Might be more fair – although since I'm older I really think the honour should be mine!'

They both laughed over-appreciatively at Fanshaw's play on words despite the fact that it really wasn't very funny.

‘I've got pretty nimble digits, sir,' Robert said. ‘In fact I've always been described, in my family, as a born fiddler.'

For a second Robert's mind went to his family, to his mother and sister, sitting by the fire, listening to the radio, long before any talk of war, everyone happy and relaxed.

‘Yes, but I'm older—'

‘You're a family man, sir. I'm a bachelor. I believe it's my honour, really.'

‘Righto, lad. Off you go then – and good luck.'

Commander Fanshaw flattened himself on the ground, watching every move as with rock steady hands Robert began work on the three-inch ring that locked the fuse aperture. It took him twenty-five minutes to get it loose and fully unscrewed.

‘Aperture open, sir,' he whispered to his commander, allowing the sweat that was running off his brow to do just that.

‘My turn, Maddox,' Fanshaw muttered. ‘But if we've done our homework all right—'

There followed as long and as deadly a silence as Robert hoped ever to experience as his companion carefully probed for the all-important fuse.

‘Which believe it or not, Bob, we bloody well have!' Fanshaw suddenly exclaimed under his breath. ‘Think I might have snaffled the weasel. Give us that damn string, will you?'

Moments later Commander Fanshaw had the cord attached to the fuse. He very slowly glanced
round at Robert and Robert was reassured to see his superior was also sweating.

‘You're going to have to do that yanking, Bob,' he whispered. ‘My hands are soaking.'

Slowly and carefully he transferred the end of the cord into Robert's fingers, taking care that neither of them jogged it, even a quarter of an inch.

Feeling the shape of the aperture with a finger of his free hand, Robert sensed that since the fuse seemed to lie at the base of a perfectly symmetrical tube its removal should be a straightforward procedure, provided his hand remained rock steady so that the fuse did not rattle or bang against the side of the holding tube.

Holding his breath he began carefully and as slowly as he could to pull the cord holding the fuse.

‘It won't move, sir,' he whispered. ‘It seems to be locked.'

‘Can't be. Can't possibly be. They had to put the fuse in from the top of the aperture. So there's no way they could lock it in place. It would have to be locked from the bottom, unless there's another holding ring inside.'

‘There isn't. I felt with a finger. The tube's completely smooth now we have the holding ring out of the way.'

‘Then it can't be locked. I'll bet on it. Want me to try?'

‘No sir. Thank you. No – no, I'm going to give it a much harder tug.'

‘Give it a bloody good yank, Bob. It's probably just stuck.'

‘I think you should go behind the barricades, sir.'

‘Wouldn't hear of it. Now get on, man, I'm dying for a drink.'

‘Me too,' Robert smiled. ‘I can just see that first pint.'

‘Pint be blowed. Mine's a very large pink 'un. Off you go.'

Robert, still holding the cord, managed with one finger of his free hand to wipe away the river of sweat that was blinding him. Then, taking another deep breath and half closing his eyes in anticipation of the explosion, he pulled twice as hard as he had been pulling before.

In a second there it was, lying on the ground at the end of the length of cord, looking as innocent as a cigar on a dinner table – the fuse.

‘Good show, Bob,' Fanshaw whispered. ‘Except that means I'm paying.'

‘I suppose we should really have done the yanking from back there,' Robert remarked, nodding backwards to the sandbagged trench. ‘Except I don't think we'd have got it to move from there.'

‘Certainly not. In circs like these, one has to live over the shop. Now then – we need to plant some explosive here – get back – and blow Jerry's little present to pieces.'

Having made sure everyone was well out of the danger zone, Robert and Fanshaw drew the fuse wire back to the trench and taking full cover fired the detonator. There was a massive explosion as the mine burst into a hundred thousand fragments, causing a rain of metal to fall about the site.