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  ‘I do know – yes. But please – listen… Nobody’s making you do anything you don’t want to do. Nobody could, could they… I’d like to persuade you to help us out, because if you won’t – well, frankly, it’d be – a considerable blow… But – is there some positive reason to be frightened, suddenly? And does Michel Prigent know about it?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. Only a few words I managed to get out just now when again he wouldn’t listen. Fact is, I haven’t spoken to him lately. Well, he hasn’t needed me, obviously. That’s partly why I suppose I’d been hoping I might be left alone now. Working with them as I do – under their noses—’

  ‘I can imagine.’ She’d cut in, stemming it again. ‘It would call for a very steady nerve.’

  ‘It may be my nerve’s run out. Worn out.’ He’d shivered. ‘I can’t pretend ever to have been – any kind of hero. But as a Frenchman – well, they more or less conscripted me, simply because I have a good command of their language. I used to teach it.’

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘One isn’t proud to be in their employ. Only – a matter of survival. And then Prigent propositioned me, as it were in the name of France—’

  ‘What you’ve been doing is surely in the interests of France!’

  He seemed more relaxed now, she thought. Blinking at her. A long pull at his cigarette… Then, through smoke: Are you French?’

  ‘What would you think?’

  ‘I only wondered. Something Prigent said… Anyway – you’d understand—’

  ‘It’s why I do what I do. Why I’m here.’

  ‘One – lacks courage, I suppose.’

  ‘The strongest nerves can wear thin, can’t they. And being worried for your daughter… Does she know you’re a Résistant?’

  ‘Oh – she’d be astounded!’

  ‘And proud?’

  Gazing at her: a faint smile twitching, then. ‘You flatter me. The extent of my – participation…’

  ‘What does she do for a living?’

  ‘Marie-Claude is a teacher – in the school where I used to work. But her subjects are mathematics and science – not my line at all.’

  Rosie was looking round for an ashtray. He scrambled up, fetched one from the window-sill.

  ‘Thanks. Look – this favour I was going to ask—’

  ‘Better you didn’t tell me. I truly don’t want—’

  ‘It’s all right. I’d trust you with the secret, I think – even if in the way you’re thinking now you might not trust yourself.’

  ‘But why should you?’

  ‘Instinct. As good a word for it as any. And it’s my job – part of it, anyway. Don’t you make your mind up about a person more or less instantly?’ She saw the watchful, assessing look: assessing the degree of bullshit… She shook her head. ‘I assure you, this would be simplicity itself. Also very important – far-reaching importance, it wouldn’t be forgotten – you know?’

  ‘What I know most clearly is I don’t want to come here again. When he called today – Prigent, I’m talking about—’

  ‘Don’t you trust him?’

  ‘No. Or like him. Tell you the truth, I never did.’

  ‘But you agreed to work with him?’

  ‘Well, one forgets, treats an old acquaintance as one would have liked the relationship to be.’ A shrug. ‘Pointless.’

  ‘I see. But anyway – luckily – to provide the information I want, you wouldn’t need to come here. Or anywhere else. Simply telephone him. And you could do it at night, rather than from your office. Is it an apartment you live in?’

  ‘A small terraced house, in the Rue d’Etang.’

  ‘If you’d do it – just this one favour – I think I could get you fifty thousand francs.’ She saw the flicker of surprise and interest: went on as if she hadn’t, ‘What’s more, the effort would be minimal. And your name would be on record afterwards – as I said. It’s not a little thing, this – and all I’m asking for is one telephone call – less than a minute, perhaps ten seconds.’

  ‘Some snooping first, presumably?’

  ‘I have reason to believe it’s information that passes routinely through your office.’

  ‘The telephone call would be to Prigent?’

  ‘Yes – but that’d be all – just that once.’

  ‘Could I not speak to you directly?’

  ‘Oh—’ she shrugged – ‘I’d sooner we worked through him, Micky. Only over the wire, after all, no actual contact?’

  ‘Contact with you – yes. But – I’m sorry, no more involvement of any kind with Prigent.’

  ‘It’s a date, or dates, you’d be giving us. Literally a few seconds’ work – for fifty thousand francs?’

  ‘The money would of course be welcome. It would solve some problems. Things my daughter needs, in particular.’ He paused, stubbing his cigarette out; it must have been burning his fingers, there was so little left of it. ‘But it’s not the crucial thing. I’ll be honest with you – the crucial thing’s not to wake in the night with one’s heart going so fast and violently that – God, it’s indescribable…’ Leaning forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped together, white-knuckled… ‘Do you know what terror’s like?’

  She nodded. Bringing her pack of Gaullois out again. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  ‘Well.’ A shrug. ‘But – you’re young, strong—’

  ‘A lot of us know what it’s like. Thousands of us – men and women of all ages and descriptions… Here.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘When the war’s won, Micky – can’t be more than a year or so now, there has to be an invasion soon – we’ll come into our own, then. Stop being frightened, start being – that word again – proud… Thousands of us, including you and me.’ The match flared: she leant forward to his cupped hands. Sitting back again then. ‘What we’re working for. What you want too, I’m sure. Especially as a man who has been working for the Boches – which is how a lot of people – including Prigent maybe – might see it?’

  He’d glanced at her momentarily, and nodded. Taking the point, for sure. Placing the spent match carefully in the glass dish on the sofa’s arm, then.

  ‘Could I not telephone you directly?’

  Expelling smoke… ‘One problem is I’ll be spending most days and some nights out of the house where I live. You might have someone answering your call who not only knows nothing about anything, but mustn’t, either.’

  ‘If I left a message to call me back? I’m never out in the evenings. Well – no more than once in a whole month, say. I’d ask for Zoé, and if you weren’t there I’d say please ask her to call Micky. Nothing else, I wouldn’t utter another word.’

  She shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t know anyone called Zoé, and I’ve no intention of burdening you – or anyone else – with my real name. The object being – what you said – not to wake screaming in the night.’

  ‘But you know my name?’

  ‘As it happens. In the course of planning this operation—’

  ‘From Prigent, you’d know it. And you say not me or anyone else, but you’d burden him?’

  ‘What makes you think so? I’ll be ringing him – probably every day at a set time – for any news he may have had from you.’ She gestured: ‘If you’re prepared to help.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you telephone directly to me?’

  She thought about it. Having felt in the last minute or two that the ice was cracking: and very much aware that there was no way she’d manage without his help.

  ‘You see—’ speaking again before she could – ‘I’m not going to telephone Prigent. I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it.’

  Looking a bit pleased with himself. For having put his foot down so firmly, she supposed. Fine: let him feel good. She made herself sound hesitant: ‘What if I called you and Marie-Claude answered? Or a cleaning woman – or—’

  ‘I don’t have one. Cleaning woman – good heavens, what next… But – I said, I’m v
ery rarely out at night. If Marie-Claude did take your call I’d grab it from her, that’s all.’

  ‘What’ll you tell her about this Zoé person who keeps telephoning? Some woman who’s taken a shine to you?’

  ‘I might let her assume – something of that nature.’

  ‘But—’ smiling at him – ‘a girl you never see? Only receive curt telephone calls from?’

  ‘Marie-Claude is not to know whom I may meet during the day. Or at weekends even. She has her own life, her own young friends, colleagues from the teaching profession—’

  ‘I’d call you François, would I?’

  ‘I suppose…’

  ‘Or Monsieur le Guen?’

  ‘François would seem more natural.’

  ‘I suppose it would.’ She nodded. ‘All right.’

  Settle for that, she thought. For the time being. If it upsets Prigent, too bad. ‘Micky’ was indispensable, whereas Prigent was a supernumerary, beyond this point. The truth of it was that if Micky had demanded twice that amount of money – it was the equivalent of about £250 – she’d have had to agree to it. Count Jules would provide it. He was banker, had accepted this arrangement in his talks with the Organizer from the Nantes réseau. It was a system SOE were applying wherever there was a well-heeled local on the team who’d agree to it, finding it advantageous usually from his own point of view, effectively transferring currency to a safer haven. It saved agents having to carry dangerously large sums of cash around more often than they had to. In the present case, Count Jules was to advance whatever funds were needed, and Baker Street would deposit the equivalent in sterling in his name in a London bank account.

  She asked Micky, ‘Shall I bring the money to your house?’

  ‘Perhaps a lunchtime meeting. Either at the house or at a café. The Café Providence is one I often use. D’you know where that is?

  ‘There’s a Parc de la Providence, isn’t there?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Very well. I’ll make my first call to you on Monday night. The money’ll take a few days, perhaps even a week or so. And by that time I’ll try to have a better way of keeping in touch than telephoning.’

  ‘What other way might there be?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. But telephone operators have been known to listen in – haven’t they?’

  Staring at her: that queasy look again. He wasn’t a difficult man to frighten. He’d moistened his lips: ‘One should be – guarded, then.’

  ‘Very guarded. Give me the number, anyway. And Monday night, I’ll call… I’m so glad you’re going to do this for us, François.’

  ‘You make it so – logical. Inevitable, almost. When you walked in here – frankly, I had no intention—’

  ‘I know – and I’m grateful for the change of heart. Others will be too – believe me, you won’t regret it.’ She crushed out her second cigarette not much more than half smoked. ‘But now listen. Here’s what we want…’

  Chapter 7

  She’d come into Quimper on the road from Coray – from the east – and would be taking the more direct route back to St Michel-du-Faou now, via Pleyben, but she still made a circuitous departure – eastward as if for Coray again but turning due north after a few kilometres into a country lane that crossed the Odet river and came out on the Briec road about five kilometres north of town, having covered about ten. With no reason to expect a tail, but every reason to ensure she didn’t have one – or to know about it, if she did.

  From here to Briec, say seven kilometres. Then about the same to Pleyben, and from there to St Michel another eight – via country lanes, that bit, and with darkness setting in. Thirty-five kilometres, say: should make it by six, Henri Peucat’s supper time.

  Encode Lannuzel’s shopping-list then, and bung it off to London. Out into the sticks by gazo, maybe. Otherwise, early tomorrow.

  ‘Micky’ had left the surgery ahead of her. He’d been glad to hurry back to his duties, and when he was out of the way she’d been able to spend a few minutes in conclave with Michel Prigent – code-name for this operation, ‘Cyprien’. He had to be near enough the same age as le Guen, but looked ten years younger. Dark – and sleek, well fed, barbered and manicured. Successful dentist to a ‘T’: but hard-eyed, she guessed ruthless. He made no attempt to disguise his contempt for his old school-friend. ‘In a bit of a state, isn’t he?’

  She’d nodded. ‘Seems to think his employers might have suspicions of him.’

  ‘He has one advantage. Neither the Boches nor anyone else is likely to take him very seriously.’

  ‘I take him seriously. He’s indispensable, in this operation.’

  ‘Trevarez. Yes – in that particular context, I suppose…’

  ‘They’ve told you about it, then.’

  ‘I told them about him.’

  ‘Of course. Your old schoolmate, you recruited him… I’ll be keeping in touch with him directly, by the way, won’t have to trouble you again in this way.’

  ‘It wouldn’t trouble me in the least.’

  ‘What I would be grateful for is if you’d keep an eye on him for us. And let me know if – well, if anything untoward—’

  ‘Untoward?’

  ‘You’d hear as soon as anyone, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’d hope to. But I’d guess he’s as likely to throw his hand in as to fall foul of the Boches. Precisely why he’s developed this aversion to working with me, or aversion to me personally, I don’t know… Would I be right in guessing it’s as a result of his persuasion that you’re electing to deal with him direct?’

  ‘It makes sense, that’s all. The information I need will come from him – touch wood – so why not?’

  ‘Well…’ A shrug of the heavy shoulders. ‘How do I let you know – if I hear he’s in trouble?’

  ‘I’ll call you if I have reason to think he might be. It would only be if there were a breakdown in communication between us. I’d be calling about my appointment; if you had no news of him, your receptionist might say you’ll call me back.’

  ‘But as I’d have no number at which to call you—’

  ‘You couldn’t – right. But you wouldn’t need to. If you did have news for me, you’d have told your receptionist to bring you to the telephone there and then.’

  ‘All right.’ The smooth smile again. ‘All right, Zoé.’

  He didn’t like her, she realized. Fair enough – she wasn’t mad about him. Which he’d have sensed, of course – also perhaps anticipated, since relations between SIS and SOE were often not exactly warm. That plus his being cut out of her business with le Guen, whom he’d seen hitherto as his stooge.

  Too bad. But another thing she didn’t like was that he knew about Trevarez. It probably couldn’t have been helped: he’d have had to have known about it in order to have produced le Guen in the first place – doubtless at the instigation of his bosses in St James’. Anyway, he could now be left out of it: while all le Guen had to do was keep his eyes open for an order to deploy a company of infantry to the environs of the Château de Trevarez, probably over a weekend, and pass on the date or dates of that deployment. He’d confirmed this afternoon that such orders – from General Dollman’s 7th Army Headquarters – did pass through the Kommandantur’s general office, had to do so because troops required for any such purposes in the Montagnes Noires area would invariably be drawn from the Quimper garrison.

  Le Guen had asked her, ‘Some kind of Maquis action, is it?’

  She’d shown surprise. ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘Well – they say that those parts are crawling with them.’

  ‘Why don’t they do something about it, then?’

  ‘Choose their time, I suppose. Perhaps they don’t have the forces here they’d need. So much ground to cover – eh? Also they prefer to use French troops against Maquis, don’t they – Milice or LVF?’

  Milice were paramilitaries originating in the Petainist south, before the Boches marched in there as well; the
y’d spread all over, since. And LVF were Légion Volontaires Français – brackets Contre le Bolshevisme, close brackets… What had done the trick with le Guen though, she thought in retrospect, had been that he’d found her sympathetic, the low-key touch of blackmail, how much better he’d look in the long run if he had a record as a secret Résistant – and last but perhaps not least the little matter of fifty thousand francs.

  She quite liked him – in a limited sort of way. Understood him and felt sorry for him, anyway. Imagining him as she guessed he’d have been at school with Prigent, for instance: physically rather feeble, probably getting knocked about a bit; hopeless at games, but a bit of a swot. All right, a bit of a drip. And you could imagine Prigent showing him the same contempt to which he’d reverted now. Recruiting him, jumping at the chance of having an agent right there in the Kommandantur, he’d have turned on the charm: old copains like ourselves should pull together, François old fellow…

  Then resumption of bullying tactics. Prigent might be less clever than he thought he was, she suspected.

  * * *

  She was in St Michel soon after six, and Peucat opened the door to her. No scent of brandy. She’d asked him at breakfast, incidentally, how he seemed to have plenty when it was in such short supply – even cafés having certain days on which they couldn’t sell it – and he’d told her that some patients preferred to pay in kind, and Timo Achard on the corner – the one who’d directed her to this house – was convinced he’d saved his wife’s life a few years ago, thus felt a lifelong obligation to him.

  ‘Exhausted again, Suzanne?’

  ‘Slightly… Key of the garage, please?’

  An armoured troop-carrier came rumbling from the left, up Rue des Champs Verts, its yellow headlights washing the nondescript house-fronts. Audibly slowing as it approached: but only to swing around this corner into the Place de l’Eglise. Peucat had come out on to the pavement and pushed the door shut behind him, to shut in the light from the hall. It had been dark for about half an hour and there was already a waning, flattened moon up there, in and out of cloud. It looked and felt like rain coming, with a moon so watery it could have been its own reflection in a puddle.