Early One Morning (14 page)

‘You came all this way for me?’

She waved a hand airily to dismiss such a notion. ‘Good God, no. Several likely chaps up here.’

‘Still, an awful lot of effort to pick up a few leaflet writers.’

‘Hm.’ He tried to interpret the expression. Nothing. ‘There’s something else might tempt you. If all went well, you’d be commissioned. Second Lieutenant initially. And you know what that means.’

He certainly did. No more sergeant majors querying his choice of luggage for one thing.

‘What do you say?’

Williams took a big slug of beer and picked up the envelope. He rather liked the idea of any outfit that could sequester a pub at a moment’s notice. The fact they knew that he’d been a driver for hire in Dublin suggested something other than leaflets was on the agenda. He slurped the last of his beer and licked the foam from his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘why not?’

From: SOE LONDON

To: Captain Rose Miller

Interim report. Stations STS 51/STS 23b/STS 51a

William Charles Frederick GROVER-WILLIAMS

General List Officer 231189

Born 16 Jan 03

Racing driver with Bugatti

Joined RASC Feb 40 as driver No T/l 74143. While at 4th Liaison HQ RASC, Kinross (Bridge End Hotel) was selected for employment in commissioned rank with SOE (Second Lieutenant). Known as Vladimir Gatacre while training.

Initial training reports comment on his hard work and anxiety to do well, describe him as an efficient soldier who likes discipline, was fond of planning things and seeing that the plan was carried out meticulously. His training as a WT operator has been handicapped by his dislike of Morse and lack of confidence in learning it.

Further training has emphasised his loathing of signals but noted his extreme keenness on demolitions, which he considers his pet subject. He is described as a ‘very good all round man’ the ‘star turn of this party’. Keen, shrewd and popular; strong sense of humour in adversity. A real good fellow who might overdo it if allowed to. A resourceful individual who would probably work best on his own.

Now Acting Lieutenant

Currently at STS 61c: Beddington House Finishing School

BEDDINGTON, AUGUST 1941

T
HE LATE DUSK
was falling over the familiar scenery. Williams took two paces on to the asphalt of the old track and heard that terrible nerve-pinching screech of the superchargers, one which now reminded him, horribly, possibly unfairly, of the sirens attached to the Stuka dive-bombers to generate terror in the victims below. Was the Mercedes team trying to execute an early version of that terror? No, it was just a function of the blowers, surely.

The track was cracked and patchy now, part of it torn up as the farmer’s field was reclaimed for cereals, the grandstands stripped down to mere wooden skeletons, the Castrol and Esso signs faded and flapping, but he could still smell the sweet, cloying aroma, like burnt sugar, of the German fuel.

All changed now. The Duke moved to London to do his bit, having lost his domestic staff anyway—a million servants suddenly unyoked and put into uniform had meant running a stately home wasn’t quite the pleasure it had been—and the precious furniture and portraits had been put into storage while government oiks did whatever government oiks do. There were so many large country piles available it was no wonder that Special Operations Executive, the very name of which was meant to be top secret, was referred to by some of the instructors as Stately ’Omes of England.

Behind him in this particularly echoey shell of an ’Ome, Williams could hear the gramophone music. The FANYs, the girls who were essential to the functioning of the STSs, the Special Training Schools, had reappeared in long evening gowns after a day of cleaning, cooking and driving and an ad hoc party had developed, with tangos and foxtrots.

He wasn’t in the mood. And there was always the nagging thought that perhaps this was just another test, a check for sociability. Every detail was considered vital to success, and the sad fact was if you couldn’t pass muster on any aspect, one morning you simply weren’t at breakfast. Williams’ group had already lost one chap who hit the whisky a bit too hard in Arisaig, another two who had failed the interview with the psychologists and yet another who declared that loud bangs made him jump when they were planting the new plastic explosives. The rumour was they went to a cooling-off house somewhere deep in the Highlands where they stayed until their secrets no longer mattered. Now he was left with a perfume salesman, a travel courier, a debutante, a nurse, a banker from Coutt’s and a tailor.

Weeks of training had grown into months, with delays as various experts were found to fill in the gaps in their instruction—one so-called explosives expert had managed to blow his hand off, leaving a large vacancy in the ranks—as parachute courses were hastily arranged at Ringway, new safe houses brought on line.

All the time Williams was expecting a hand on his shoulder, a quiet word from Sykes or Fairburn or one of the other instructors as they finally figured out what was buried deep, deep in his psyche. Yes, he liked the action. Demolition was even fun. Whereas the others in the group seemed driven by a desire to single-handedly liberate France and harass Germans, Williams had just one real aim, an ambition burning so bright everything else was a mere silhouette in comparison. To see Eve again.

Just to be able to do that he had lost three quarters of a stone, could strip and reassemble everything from a Sten to a Schmeisser in total darkness, knew from two old Shanghai policemen the fastest way to kill an opponent, how to derail an express train and survive in hostile country, foraging off the land for weeks on end and the simplest way to blow up a bridge. He only hoped Eve could somehow sense he was moving heaven and quite a lot of earth to get back to her.

Then he heard the soft sound, just hovering across the breeze. A sob. He walked out into the darkness and, over to his left, saw her sitting in front of a once well-pruned bush, now growing wild for want of a gardener.

Virginia Thorpe looked up and quickly dried her eyes. A waft of her Chanel perfume drifted across to him. It was not his favourite scent.

‘Hello? Another one who thinks it’s a vulgar charade in there? Or are you frightened you won’t be able to control yourself with such gorgeous creatures?’ Virginia Thorpe—or at least that was the name she used—was the deb of the party. She was beautiful in a languorous, sinuous way, but also, he was sure, a fearful snob. Being high and mighty enough to look down on the exceptionally well bred FANYs was certainly quite an achievement.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I just needed some air and … well, it gets to you sometimes, doesn’t it? I saw you standing there and didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed so lost in your own thoughts. So I just crept by.’

‘I didn’t even hear you. Nice quiet approach,’ he said approvingly. ‘Didn’t hear so much as a twig snap.’

‘Perfected when you have two older brothers. Spying on them got me where I am today.’

‘Where are you today?’

She stood up. ‘Cigarette?’

‘Thanks.’ He took a Craven A from her and lit them both.

Williams hesitated for a moment before confessing, ‘I raced here once.’

‘Raced what?’ asked Virginia.

‘A Bugatti.’ Careful, man, he told himself, no good trying to impress this one. ‘A car’ would have done, but something made him rise to her bait.

‘Really?’ Just a hint of being impressed. ‘Did you win?’

‘No. The Germans did.’

She laughed, a deep throaty sound. ‘Not very encouraging.’

‘Why are you doing this, Virginia? I’m sure the FANY would have you like a shot. There’s no need to risk your neck with all this derring-do.’

‘Derring-do? That’s a quaint expression for it. You boys all think you are Richard Hannay or Sandy Arbuthnot don’t you? Isn’t that the appeal?’

In the gloom she could almost pass for Eve, albeit an Eve of ten years ago. More refined and polished, with a confidence his wife didn’t acquire until relatively late, and the thought made him ache for the real thing even more. But finally he said; ‘I’m an Eric Ambler man myself.’ The music stopped and there was a burst of applause. ‘We’d best go back. Be marked down for not playing the game.’

‘I don’t think this is a team players’ game, Gatacre. Do you?’

For once he gave an honest answer. ‘Right now, I’m not sure what kind of game it is.’

They came for him at three that morning. Two big chaps he hadn’t seen before and never wished to again. It began with a shock of iced water in the face and an involuntary inhalation, which made his sinuses feel as if they were on fire. While he was still choking the blows began, one to the head and an expert one to his testicles which seemed to open up a tap, so that his strength drained from every limb. Rubber legged and confused he was dragged out and down the corridor, a third man appearing to poke him in the kidneys with a stick as they went.

Dragged downstairs he found himself in a room he never knew existed, some kind of wine cellar perhaps, the walls thick and damp, oozing a ‘don’t bother screaming, nobody can hear you’ solidity, where he was tied roughly into a chair by the green-uniformed thugs.

Name.

Use your code name. The one on your papers. Charles Lelong.

What do you do?

Electrical engineer.

Why aren’t you in Germany working for the Reich?

I repair factories after bom— after terrorism raids.

Twenty minutes of mouths shouting so close to him he could feel the warm spittle spraying him and he was back to his bed. Someone had thoughtfully changed the damp sheets and pillowcase. He smiled and snuggled down. Bet the Geheime Staatspolizei didn’t do that. All in all, didn’t go too badly, he felt.

Thirty minutes later they were back, rougher. No water in the face this time, just a yank on his hair and he was on the floor. Back to the same room. This time he could see blood on the floor. Was it real blood? It had the sickly claret-coloured sheen of actual arterial contents. More questions, but of a less general nature. Who are your friends in Paris? Who is Robert Benoist? Jean-Pierre Wimille? Where is your wife? And guns, pistols pressed against the side of his head, held under his nose, the terrifying twin SS lightning bolts and the SD patches inches from his eyes.

By the third time, his head was completely clogged. He wanted to sleep, to feel those sheets again, to just tell them everything and get it over with, but his tongue wouldn’t let him. To his horror he realised they had almost won. Even though he simply gave his false identity over and over again, he had let a small chink in, had toyed with the possibility of compromise, failure, treachery. That was how it worked. Needle away until almost involuntarily the survival centres of the brain do what they have to do. He tried to shut down his higher levels, to think about something else to mask the shouting. So loud, so piercing.

Then he had it. He focused on engine noises, the distinctive signature of all the cars he had known. He let them sing in his head, the deep throb of the Alfa, the scream of the early Mercedes, the strange ripping sound of the Bugatti, on and on they went, a cavalcade of the most cacophonous vehicles ever built, filling the room and his skull to the exclusion of all else.

Eventually, somewhere near dawn, they threw him back into bed and left him, shaking and sweating, wondering how much worse the genuine article could be. And how much weaker he would be when the time came.

Williams managed two hours of fitful, anxious sleep before the soft voice of his room-mate in his ear told him it was time for breakfast. Blearily, feeling faintly ashamed of his performance, even though his weaknesses and betrayals were all in his head, he lined up for eggs with the others. The queue was chatting and joking as usual, occasionally looking to him for a comment, but he felt dizzy and disoriented. Then he saw Virginia looking alabaster pale, her eyes shrunken, a dark crescent newly arrived under each one. They caught each other’s stare and both knew. She winked first, the conspiratorial contact of fellow sufferers.

Five days and two more nocturnal interrogations later, his temples throbbing from a mild hangover, he watched Virginia doggedly swim length after length of the Beddington pool, a mock Greco-Roman temple, complete with columns, busts, and mildly erotic mosaics.

He went down on his haunches as she came in for the turn. ‘Where did you learn to swim like that?’

She smoothly executed the change of direction and said over her shoulder. ‘At home. In a pool much like this one, actually.’

On her return she said: ‘Come in.’

‘I can’t swim.’

She laughed as her arms knifed into the water. They knew from parachute training that lakes make good navigational aids in a drop zone. So good, in fact, that the over-enthusiastic pilot might send you straight down into one. He had managed to avoid the inflatable dinghy training drop.

‘I’ll teach you.’

‘Vladimir Gatacre?’ the voice boomed off the tiles and he found himself springing up to almost attention. One of the gnarled instructors, this one a whippet-thin man in his fifties, strode over. ‘Get your kit off, Sir. Time to earn your water wings.’

He looked down at Virginia. ‘Sorry, looks like I’m already spoken for.’

After a month at Beddington there was little that could surprise Williams or his colleagues. One afternoon, following a particularly good lunch of what turned out to be wood pigeon, he was invited to the Carrington suite in the west wing. When he arrived he hesitated outside. The Sergeant reading the
Express
newspaper opposite with its usual grim headlines (‘Miners’ strike in Kent. Leningrad under siege.’) looked up.

‘It’s OK, sir. No boxing gloves this time.’

The last time he had burst into a room during an exercise a large red glove had landed on his temple, warning him always to check who is lurking behind a door. Williams, despite the Sergeant’s assurances (the new motto ‘Trust nobody’, echoed in his brain during most waking hours), knocked.

‘Come in,’ said a muffled female voice.