Early One Morning (20 page)

‘Same with the wheels, with ball bearings …’

They both chuckled. ‘What now?’

‘Now I need help. Now I need a truck.
Ausweiss.
Petrol.’

‘Petrol, leave that to Maurice …’

‘Maurice?’

‘Maurice. And
Ausweissen.
He has his methods.’ A thought suddenly came to Robert. ‘Do you have a radio?’

Williams shook his head. ‘No, nor a big flag with “Secret Agent—Come and Get Me” on it.’

Robert furrowed his brow, and Williams thought that the older he got the more hawk-like he became. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the best way to get caught is to start broadcasting your position to the world.’ Williams smiled ruefully. ‘Besides, my Morse is diabolical. We’ll use cut-outs.’ The system of couriers with limited knowledge of all parties was by no means water-tight, but it was far less damaging if a messenger was caught—he or she could only take so many down with him. ‘You have a cigarette?’

‘Don’t you?’ Robert asked disappointed. ‘You didn’t bring any across?’

‘Yes. But too good to smoke in public. If you catch my drift.’

Robert offered him one of the
tabac national
cigarettes, appreciating that smoking real tobacco might also attract the curious. They lit up.

‘I’m using letter drops and couriers to communicate with England. That way if the link is blown, we should be buffeted. So, what chance of a lorry of some description?’

‘I can get you a truck. But I’ll have to drive it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the better driver should take the wheel.’

Williams laughed softly. ‘I thought we’d settled that.’

‘We did. I won.’

‘Thirteen years ago, old man. Anyway, you told me I was the victor.’

‘I was being kind. And less of the old man - you aren’t a boy any longer. We toss for it, then. Agreed?’ Williams nodded. He was surprised by the excitement in Robert’s voice. He’d been expecting an uphill struggle to get him involved. ‘What are we doing?’ Robert asked eagerly.

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Good.’

‘What about Wimille?’

‘You got any money?’

‘Around two million Francs.’

‘Then he’ll play. You know Jean-Pierre. He’s a cash-on-delivery boy. One more thing.’

‘What?’

‘I told Eve I had a meeting. I suspected the message was from you. She’s in the rue Weber apartment.’

Williams felt his head swirl at the thought. For four months he had kept the whole idea of seeing Eve sealed in a corner of his brain, like a trunk in the attic, full of anticipated pleasures, but not to be opened. Not yet. Now it burst the stays, spilling its contents into his cerebrum and a mixture of love and terror almost overwhelmed him. Even before he realised it he was starting to rise from the seat, drawn to her, to the thought of her. Robert, ever practical, pushed him back down.

‘Are your papers in order?’

Williams nodded. Robert removed his arm.

‘Then go to her. She’s still the most beautiful woman in Paris.’

Now he hesitated, fearing the magnitude of the task, the rediscovery of each other, that was before him.

‘Before I take your place,’ his friend added.

Williams stood, squeezed Robert on the shoulder and said, ‘I’ll be in touch about the … things we need.’

‘Sure. But get this one right first, eh? She’s missed you.’

‘Me too,’ Williams replied flatly.

Robert laughed and punched him on the arm. ‘I would practise saying that a few times on the way over. Now go.’

After Williams had left Robert smoked another bitter cigarette, trying to work out what he had in mind. Dangerous. Not like racing cars then? How many people had been claimed by that during his time at Delage and Bugatti? Soon, the Germans would have been in France for two years. In that time they had gone from tourists and ‘very correct’ to an occupying army whose real role had become very apparent—to strip France of men and goods and redirect them to the Reich. He stubbed out the cigarette. The thought had been circling in his head throughout the harsh winter—it was time to do something about it.

Hans Keppler strode across to the window of his office on Avenue Foch and looked down on the broad double-carriageway thoroughfare. The chestnut and plane trees finally looked as if they were going to make an effort to pretend it was spring after all. The roads were quiet, just the odd charcoal-burning car chugging asthmatically by or a smoother Citroën Light 15 arriving or departing the courtyards at numbers 72, 82 and 84 that the SD had requisitioned. He was at 82 in the best office in the entire complex, he felt. Dominated by a huge chandelier, with an Aubusson carpet and ormalu desk, it was elegant and civilised, even if the business he carried out wasn’t always.

He heard Arthur Lock cough and was reminded of just how base some of the activities were.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Personal shit,’ said Lock, and sneered, ‘I love you so much, darling. Kiss little Jimmy for me. Most of their women are probably kissing big Jimmy next door.’

Keppler drummed his fingers on the window sill. ‘Show her.’

‘Laurent?’

‘Yes. Show her how much we know. Tell me how she reacts. You know what I need from her.’

‘Pleasure.’

The enthusiasm with which Lock ensnared his fellow countrymen left even Keppler with a sense of disquiet. He had no illusions about how Lock would act if ever it became expedient to switch sides. The man had deserted even before France fell, taking with him the mess funds. He had popped up as Major Lock of MI9 helping downed airmen in late 1940, while also helping himself to escape line funds. When discovered he had contacted the SD at Lille and betrayed everyone, including his young bride and her family. Having paused only to pawn their jewels, he was taken to Keppler to see if he could be of any use.

‘After you’ve finished with Yolande Laurent get down to the Champs Elysées cafés. I have reports of English being spoken. Pump the waiters for all you can. Take some marks with you.’

Lock nodded and made his way to the door.

‘Oh, and Lock.’

‘Yes, Sturmbannführer?’

‘And make sure you account for every last one of those marks. In writing.’

‘Of course, Sturmbannführer,’ Lock said innocently.

The Germans had made Virginia relatively comfortable on the fifth floor. Her cell was small, but they had managed to squeeze in a bed and a desk and chair, a selection of books in French and some basic toiletries. She was allowed to use a sitting room during the day, and had even been offered dinners out, which she had, of course, refused.

Since the night when she had tried to swallow what she had thought was an L pill, they had treated her with surprising civility. She knew this wasn’t always the case. She glimpsed other prisoners who bore marks of beatings, heard both men and women sobbing in the night, lay awake listening to the distant shouts and screams of interrogation, of the slamming of doors and the angry bark of guards. Not for her, though. Not yet.

In a strange way she wished it would hurry up and happen. Waiting made it worse. The day would come when she was tested and she needed to know how she would react, whether the training in any way helped her to face up to what was in store. The longer they delayed, the more some part of her began to hope that it would never happen, that it would all turn out OK in the end, as if this were an Angela Brazil novel. That stupidly optimistic part of her brain was, she knew, slowly corroding her resolve, weakening her.

Lock knocked on the door but entered without waiting for a reply. Instinctively she shuffled back on the bed, away from this reptilian creature. He smiled and sat, placing a pile of documents on her desk and then ignoring them.

‘How are you, Yolande?’

‘Please, get to the point.’

‘You’re his now, you know. Keppler’s.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Once he knew you couldn’t go through with killing yourself.’

‘It was chalk.’

‘That wasn’t the point, was it? We now all know your desire to live is stronger than your sense of duty.’

She glared at him but he just smiled back in his oily way. Lock was a creature she just couldn’t place, as if he was some strange new species brought back by an expedition and was yet to be classified. He looked English, he sounded English but some basic part of him was missing. The humanity, she decided. ‘That is rather rich, coming from you, Lock.’

‘Me? I’ve never made any bones about who I look out for. Your lot come over here with all this noble cause claptrap and the moment they tickle your toes, you roll over.’

‘Nonsense.’

Lock tapped the stack of documents. ‘Do you know what these are?’

‘Your memoirs?’

‘Not quite.’

He handed a sheet across and she cast an eye over it. It was a letter, a personal letter, from a husband to a wife or sweetheart. ‘Very touching.’

‘It will be flown out on tonight’s Lysander. All of this will be. It just so happens that, in return for safe passage, the flight controller lets Keppler read the mail.’

He let this sink in.

‘All the mail. All the requests for arms, radio operators, maps, advice … all of it. Everything passes through the SD before it reaches London.’

Virginia shook her head in disbelief. The rules they had been taught at Beddington and Beaulieu with such certainty no longer seemed to apply. Was such a sordid arrangement worth it? Compromising security in order to get agents in and out without harm, agents who may be put at risk by the very action that secures their safe passage? Her head started to spin.

‘So you have to realise, being the stubborn one won’t do you any favours. Not when everybody else is busy cutting a deal with old Hans. He never asks anything unreasonable, you know.’

‘What does he want?’

‘First of all, a list of who you trained with.’

She laughed. ‘Well, that won’t do him any good. We all used false names. I have no idea who these people were.’

Lock took the time to roll himself a cigarette and look up at her occasionally. ‘You know that’s not true.’

‘Do I?’

‘You were trained with the same people for what? Six months? Eight? People aren’t watertight. They leak. Little snippets at a time, perhaps, but it all comes out eventually. Now, I know you don’t know where they are now, don’t know where or why they were sent across. That’s his job. Keppler’s. All we need is the list and …’

‘And what?’

Lock scooped up his documents, retrieved the letter from her and opened the door.

‘And you get to keep those lovely nails for a while longer.’

The door closed and Virginia swung her feet on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the clumsy threat. A terrible feeling of hopelessness descended on her, a cloud of despair that everything, all the training, the sleepless nights, the fear she battled every single waking moment, everything had been a complete waste of time. Outfoxed and outflanked, sold up the river by men like Lock and the Lysander organiser. Hopeless. She closed her eyes and felt a hot tear roll out on to her cheek. Hopeless.

Williams pulled Eve closer to him, squeezing the breath from her lungs, as if he was trying to envelop her.

‘Careful,’ she gasped. ‘I’m thinner than when you left.’

The air was thick and swirling, as if the apartment were about to erupt into an electrical storm. Questions and suspicions and apologies and recriminations and love and lust jostled with each other for pole position, the detritus of a long separation. Williams was aware of emotions locked behind enormous gates on both sides, frightened that to open them even a crack would sweep them away under a torrent.

Then, finally, they spoke in unison.

‘I’m sorry.’ A moment’s pause and then the first carefree laugh.

‘You first,’ said Eve.

‘I should have stayed.’

‘I should have gone with you.’

‘Does that make us even?’ he asked.

‘I think it does.’

There was a war going on outside he reminded himself. He was in an enemy-occupied city. The Gestapo or the SD might be searching for him even now. They were certainly arresting other agents, tightening their grip on the city. Yet he couldn’t make any of it register, take hold. All that mattered was the room and the woman in front of him.

He pulled her down on to the bed, and she unbuttoned his shirt and began to sniff at his chest. ‘What’s all this?’

‘What?’

‘This.’ She prodded his pectorals and felt her finger bounce back.

It was a moment before he realised she was referring to a physique changed and hardened by assault courses and push-ups and old colonial hands who liked nothing more than giving their men a 5 a.m. run. ‘That? I think it’s called muscle.’

She sniffed at his chest again and prodded, marvelling at the elastic skin, springy again after losing the adipose layer that had slowly accumulated underneath in their years together. ‘I think I like it.’

‘Why do you keep doing that?’

‘What?’

‘Sniffing me.’

Eve pulled herself up level with his eyes and he smiled into her face, thinner, it was true, but then so was what Robert said. As far he was concerned—maybe both were concerned—she was still the most beautiful woman in Paris.

‘I want to know where you’ve been.’

He laughed and pulled her head to his neck and said very softly: ‘Don’t worry about where I’ve been. Worry about what we are going to do.’

Eve sat up, shook her head and shuffled back to work on his belt buckle. ‘I know exactly what I’m going to do, Mister Williams.’

It took Maurice six weeks to find a decent truck with adequate documentation and a supply of petrol. He seemed pleased to see Williams, keen enough to help, but there was always a bill, always expenses. To Maurice, Resistance was a business like any other.

Meanwhile supplies came in. Sten guns, two Thomsons, pistols, some plastic explosive and timers. More money, always welcome. The team grew, much against Williams’ better judgement, but picking up parachute drops needed organisation. A few of Robert’s old farmworkers, Jean-Pierre Wimille, Thérèse Lethias, an old friend of the Benoist family, all helped with the clandestine activity.