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  ‘Yes.’ She nodded quickly. ‘That’s essential. Several days’ notice – and time meanwhile to work it out. It’ll be a night thing, anyway.’

  ‘Night thing…’He picked a shred of tobacco off this tongue. ‘Yes, it would have to be. Beyond that, however – well, we’ll put our heads together. And obviously we’ll use the red brigade… But – any practical ideas? The château’s surrounded by open park-land, for instance – perimeter fencing, and big iron gates with a guard on them – one might anticipate they’d reinforce that—’

  ‘Yes. The guard’s always reinforced, substantially. But nobody’s asking you to assault the place, Guido. It’ll be done from the air – RAF. That’s one reason we have to have advance notice, to give them time to set it up. But – Pathfinders to light the place up – d’you know what I mean by Pathfinders?’

  ‘Flare-dropping aircraft.’

  ‘Right. Mosquitoes or Halifaxes. They come in low, illuminate the target for bombers right behind them.’

  ‘So what d’you want of us?’

  ‘Your men in ambush. Not too close – but all around, in the lanes and fields. It’s for you to work out, you’re the soldier. Might arrange to block the road approaches, at the last minute? There’ll be panic – evacuation in all directions – wouldn’t you expect?’

  ‘Like cutting a cornfield. Catch the vermin as they scoot out.’

  Nodding, stubbing out his cigarette-end. Low-voiced then, glancing up – keeping it quiet so Brigitte wouldn’t hear… ‘Better no shooting, maybe. When it starts, anyway, before they know we’re there. Just throats to cut…’

  Chapter 6

  The château was a pretentious-looking structure of grey stone with conical-roofed towers at each corner and rectangular ones as well; the central façade with what was obviously the main entrance in it was recessed between two of those. Exceptionally tall chimneys looked as if they’d been added – or heightened, anyway – as afterthoughts: the general effect was more Germanic, she thought, than French. The RAF might improve it, in fact. She’d caught her first sight of chimneys and towers over treetops from some distance up the road coming south from Châteauneuf; then as instructed by Lannuzel she’d turned right at this road junction and almost immediately found herself passing the entrance gates.

  Pedalling by slowly. No sign of any sentries or guards. But the gates were shut and chained, and there was a gatehouse; there’d doubtless be Boches inside it. Distance to the house from here about a kilometre: you’d hardly see it once all the trees were in full leaf. She rode on until she was out of sight of the gatehouse, then swerved in to the roadside and stopped with one foot on the grass bank – ready to push off and be pedalling on, minding her own business…

  Only two roads to block, she thought. With farm vehicles, or whatever they could get hold of. Heavily laden farm carts, maybe. There’d be plenty of cover amongst these trees – other side of the road, the forest side, to her left as she stood now – and deeper inside the park were clumps of shrubs of some kind, might be rhododendrons. Cover inside there too, therefore. But they wouldn’t want to be too close to the target. She imagined the bombers – or rather the Pathfinders – as coming from the north, over Châteauneuf-du-Faou and picking up the looping pattern of the Aulne. As long as there was a moon…

  Looking at the château again – about to move on, conscious of having no time to waste – but visualizing it as it might be on the night: flames bursting out of those very large windows, the roof erupting, towers collapsing and crashing through – and confusion, panic… Remembering Lannuzel’s murmur of ‘Throats to cut’, and the glitter of excitement in his eyes. Although he’d given it more thought by the time she’d left; walking down to the gate together they’d agreed there’d have to be guns used, also maybe the bazookas he was asking for, to knock out whatever transport they might have. Not a bad idea, to immobilize them in there: not every bomb would hit the château itself.

  Leave it to him, she thought. Pushing off now, getting going. This road would take her through the village of Laz – forest all the way, this stage of it – then after another ten kilometres or so to a larger place called Coray, where she’d turn right on to the road for Quimper – where she had a dental appointment now, for roughly two-thirty.

  * * *

  A woman had answered the phone, and Rosie had asked to speak to Michel Prigent personally. Lannuzel still there at the table, listening, his eyes fixed on her.

  ‘If it’s to make an appointment, Madame—’

  ‘It is, but I also have an enquiry to make about a mutual friend. If he could spare me a few moments?’

  ‘Who shall I say—?’

  ‘Just tell him Zoé. It’s probably the only name he’ll have been given by this friend.’

  ‘Zoé. Very well…’

  Slightly icy. Prigent’s wife, she wondered? Then she heard voices in the background, and he came to the phone.

  ‘Michel Prigent speaking. I did receive a message, Mam’selle, that you might be asking for an appointment. Are you actually in pain at this moment?’

  ‘Well – off and on…’

  ‘Have to see what we can do, then. Fortunate that I’m working this Saturday, I don’t always… Do you know where I am in Quimper?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ They’d shown her on a street-map, in St James’. ‘And I’d hope to get there about two-thirty. The other thing, though – it’s coincidental, but am I right in thinking that “Micky”, as he likes to be called, may also be seeing you this afternoon?’

  She’d used the code-name because telephone lines weren’t secure; and the Germans would surely recognize the name le Guen. Prigent now following suit: ‘Old Micky… Why, yes, here we are… It was he who recommended you to me, wasn’t it? He and I were at school together – back in the Dark Ages. He probably told you? But yes, two forty-five. My wife made this appointment – the name’s virtually illegible… I’ll fit you in before him if I can: even if it means he’ll have to wait a little.’

  ‘I’ll be there as close to two-thirty as I can.’

  She’d hung up. Prigent would have rung ‘Micky’ then, told him he’d had a cancellation and would be glad to see him at that time if he could make it.

  * * *

  She wondered if Ben would have stayed up in London.

  Probably not. She couldn’t imagine him spending much time propping up bars on his own. He’d have had his mysterious interview and gone back down to Portsmouth, she guessed.

  If you left a man on his own for – well, a year, say – or a few months – having refused to marry him – could you reasonably expect him to live like a monk? If he was as attractive and full of life as Ben was – and with a war on, all that?

  Second question: would it matter?

  Answer to the first one: yes and no.

  And to the second: yes. But – as long as there was no serious involvement… Wouldn’t applaud it, exactly, but – there was a war on. And one had declined to marry him. Because of the war, her job and his job – and having had one husband killed already…

  Another ‘but’, though, in answer to that second question – it definitely would matter – a lot – if it was that Stack woman who got her claws in – if he was crazy enough to let that happen.

  Most men would. She thought Ben wouldn’t. She knew – because he’d had to admit it after she’d caught him out in some deliberate vagueness – that he and Joan Stack had been lovers – a couple of years ago, before she herself had known him. In fact she’d been married then, to Johnny: in whose fidelity one couldn’t trust for more than ten minutes, once he was out of sight.

  Her mother had been very keen on Johnny. And did not approve of Ben. Summed up her judgement, well enough. Rosie had introduced him to the old bitch when he’d had a few days’ leave, just after Christmas, and they’d spent it at home in Buckinghamshire, not in her mother’s small house but in the manor itself as guest of her uncle Bertie – who’d lived on one lung since being caught in Ger
man gas in 1918. Ben had got on well with him; had had something to celebrate, too – a DSC, the award of which had been announced only that week. Her mother was a bitch, though. Rosie hadn’t realized it until after her father had died and they’d returned to live in England. Before that either she’d been too young to notice, or Papa – whom she’d adored – had kept his wife in control.

  Ben had been marvellous, anyway, putting up with her bad manners. Was marvellous… It was a weird thought, in present circumstances, that if things had gone as planned she’d have been with him now. Would have been for nearly twenty-four hours, by this time: with two nights and a day still to go. Originally the plan had been to meet at the flat around midday: she’d told him over the telephone last weekend, ‘Don’t be late’, and his answer had been, ‘Don’t keep me waiting at the door!’ In both their minds had been the certainty that they’d be in bed within minutes of his getting there. Then on Monday, the last time they’d spoken, he’d said he couldn’t make it until about mid-afternoon – because of some interview he was having.

  Please God, keep that tarty Joan creature away from him?

  He liked her – Rosie knew it – although at this stage in a reproving sort of way, for having done the dirty on his old mate.

  It should be enough to keep him away from her, she thought. He was extremely loyal to his friends. As long as he didn’t start feeling sorry for her. That could be fatal. Remembering another girl – name of Solange…

  Oh, bloody hell! Roadblock ahead…

  Nothing to be scared of, she told herself quickly. Nuisance-value maybe – in that any serious delay might foul things up in Quimper – if Prigent had ‘Micky’ there to meet her and he couldn’t wait. He worked as a clerk in the Kommandatur, obviously couldn’t take unlimited time off – even for dentistry.

  Maybe he wouldn’t be working on a Saturday. Prigent might be summoning him from home. But she thought the Germans in those places did work six days a week.

  She’d dismounted – as had half a dozen other women cyclists ahead of her, all faced with the problem of getting papers out while also wheeling bicycles. Some might also have black-market goods in their baskets, which they’d be trying to hide. If you were caught black-marketing by French police you might do a day or two in gaol, but if Boches were involved or the gendarmes were required to hand you over to them you could find yourself being held as a hostage; then if there was an assassination or sabotage – nothing you’d had anything to do with or even knowledge of – you could end up against a wall.

  The only incriminating item Rosie had on her was Lannuzel’s shopping-list. And they’d only find that if they searched her.

  Which they would not. Papers being OK – no reason to.

  Touch wood. Take a fair amount of explaining, that list.

  How many times had she passed through checks like this one, she wondered. Thirty times? Fifty? Out of what had become virtually habit she began taking longer, slower breaths, to slow her heartbeat.

  Think of Ben.

  He would not let himself get mixed up with that woman. Not only because of recent events – her cheating on Bob Stack – but also because she, Rosie, was here in France. She knew the thought of it made his skin crawl; especially after one of his former colleagues in the naval intelligence department had mentioned to him that the average life of an SOE pianist in the field was six weeks. That had really thrown him: despite her having pointed out that she’d already been in twice and come out twice, unscathed.

  Almost unscathed. Ben knew all about the nightmares.

  The women ahead of her were shuffling forward again, getting into line to file through where gendarmes and a grossly fat plain-clothes man – nationality uncertain – were checking papers.

  Ben wouldn’t let her down. Ever. Not in any circumstances.

  Lise’s voice, an echo in her brain: ‘It’s good, is it? The real thing – like I have?’

  It was – and that was a marvellous thing to know. Not just hope – know.

  ‘Papers?’

  ‘Yes. Here.’ Handing them over; then waiting patiently while the gendarme scanned them. He had no reason – thank God – to suspect they’d been forged in a grey stucco-fronted house on the Kingston by-pass.

  * * *

  In Quimper she found the Parc St Matthieu, then Rue Salonique, turned right into Rue de l’Argonne. Left then, and up to the next intersection: still seeing in her mind’s eye a batch of the hideously familiar red-and-black posters, announcements of ‘executions’ carried out, pasted to the wall of a swastika-draped building back there.

  Murderers. Sickening, sadistic anti-Christs. She could see a group of young ones on that next corner: louts in grey-green uniforms loafing on this weekend afternoon, gawping at passers-by. At her now, some of them, as she slanted around the corner into Rue de l’Yser. It led to a cemetery, but Prigent’s house and surgery was about halfway along. She heard guffaws behind her – rich Teutonic humour, no doubt, out of those brutish minds.

  Come-uppance coming soon, boys…

  She dismounted, padlocked her bike to a gatepost, brushed herself off before she rang the bell. She was holding a handkerchief to her cheek when the door opened and a pink-faced girl in a white overall coat peered down at her.

  ‘Yes, Madame?’

  No wedding ring. Not Madame Prigent.

  ‘I have an appointment. It’s mademoiselle, actually.’

  ‘I ask pardon, Mam’selle.’ Careful smile: somewhat wooden-faced, in fact. Standing back to let her in, and pointing with her blonde head: ‘Please…’

  A narrow hall, and off it the usual kind of waiting-room: cheap furniture, a couple of framed diplomas, a window to the street and two other doors. The girl passed her, opened one of them and put her head in: ‘The two-thirty appointment – Mam’selle Zoé?’

  Two forty-nine now. From that inside room, a waft of some kind of antiseptic and a hissing of running water, and a male voice – just a few quiet words. The blonde backed out, shutting that door and crossing to the other one.

  ‘If you please.’ Holding it open. ‘Monsieur Prigent hopes not to keep you waiting very long. But this is Monsieur le Guen.’

  ‘Ah. Ah, well…’

  Pushing himself up: from a hard chair, although there was a comfortable-looking sofa he could have been sitting on. ‘Mam’selle Zoé, I presume!’ Jocular: but it was forced; there was nervous tension in every movement. He was about fifty, with sparse grey hair, little grey moustache, narrow shoulders in a brown jacket that didn’t fit. Maroon pullover, white shirt, frayed black tie. Rosie shook a cold, bony hand. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’ Glancing at the girl again: ‘Will Monsieur Prigent be joining us?’

  ‘Not for the moment.’ Slight surprise – as at a silly question. ‘He has a patient…’

  ‘I’ll need to see him before I leave, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course.’ Obviously she knew this had nothing to do with dentistry. Pointing. ‘If you’d press that bell – it rings on my desk.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  She left them. More than a touch Germanic, Rosie thought. She sat down, on the sofa. ‘Micky’ seemed undecided for a moment, then pulled the chair further out and turned it more or less to face her. Keeping his distance: still with that tense, scared look. What she knew from her briefing in St James’ – apart from the fact that his name was François le Guen and that he’d recently been recruited as a sub-agent by Michel Prigent – was that before the Occupation he’d taught German in some lycée, and that it was his knowledge of the language that had qualified him for his present job in the Kommandantur. Also that his wife had left him several years ago, that he had a son in a forced labour camp in Germany and a daughter who lived with him here in Quimper.

  She took out her cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Thank you. If you can spare one.’

  ‘Oh – I think so…’

  ‘Well.’ Searching for match
es. ‘One’s ration doesn’t go far. In fact—’ he’d found them, was fumbling one out – ‘if one can’t afford the unrationed variety—’

  ‘Thank you.’ He’d lit hers: she watched him putting the match to his own, managing it only with difficulty because of the visible trembling of his hands.

  Scared of her? Or of life in general?

  ‘Have you been told what I’m here to ask of you?’

  ‘No. Prigent summoned me, that’s all. And I told him – not on the telephone, I couldn’t, that’s one of the impossible things about it, on the telephone right there in the general office I can only say yes, I’ll come if I can – meaning if my employers allow it. Well – Saturday, so – but I can’t argue—’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’ Shaking her head slowly, looking sympathetic, trying to stem the flow. ‘Better if he called you at home, I’d have thought. I’m sorry, it was my fault this afternoon, turning up at such short notice.’

  ‘That hadn’t anything to do with it. And I wouldn’t want him calling me at home – if he got my daughter on the line, next thing you know she’d be caught up in it… But I’ve tried to tell him – he’s always too busy to listen – the fact is I simply want him to leave me alone, from now on. If they aren’t suspicious already they soon will be, I have a lot of worries, and—’

  ‘Micky—’ It was a ridiculous name for him. Micky Mouse … Prigent’s little joke? – ‘I don’t want to embarrass you – but if money’s one of those worries—’

  ‘It’s not. He – Prigent – well, to a limited extent, he—’

  ‘– takes care of it. All right. I don’t want to embarrass you. I was only thinking that this is an extra job we’re asking you to take on, so it might be no more than fair to – recognize that financially.’

  ‘The problem is less money than – than—’ he was developing a slight impediment – ‘than having anything to d-do with it at all. I’m sorry to say this, but – but I’ve had enough. More than enough. I’m – all right, I ad-admit it, I’m f-frightened. Not just for myself either, but for my daughter, they don’t d-discriminate, you know, you know how they work, these swine—’