Staying Alive Page 20

  Made perfect sense, she thought, reading it over. Jake would cope all right, of course he would. And she’d have her transceivers, even though she’d need to be on that beach to receive them. And might find herself distinctly busy around the 27th–29th.

  Head down now, and sweet dreams please, not nightmares. Just as well she hadn’t taken Benzedrine…

  * * *

  Saturday morning, then – a fairly late one, after a good night’s sleep with no ‘three a.m. sweats’, breakfast with Berthe and then a few routine chores. She’d memorised the salient points in Baker Street’s spiel, had them in her head for Jake when they met him at the Café des Beaux Arts at one o’clock. Jake kissed them both, making rather more of a fuss of Berthe than of Rosie, and Berthe then tactfully withdrew: ‘Telephone call that I’d forgotten, must make. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

  In other words whatever the café was offering this Saturday, which turned out to be bean soup followed if so desired by sliced sausage and onion. The place was quite full, there were a number of Germans in uniform and one pair in civilian clothes who had girls with them. Jake commented, ‘Les occupants quick enough to make ’emselves at home, eh?’

  ‘The girls look happy, I must say.’

  ‘Bound to. Invasions are always good for business. What came in, Suzie?’

  She’d nodded, told him in a tone she might have used if he’d asked her what she’d been up to lately – confidential, but mildly entertaining – ‘Twenty-ninth, Canet-Plage, subject to confirmation on the 27th and 28th. Any problems we have they want to hear of at once, up to the last minute. Hardball plans unchanged but it’s up to you to make any quote adjustments unquote necessitated by the Printemps debacle. And, the commandos will have my transceivers with them, and the three BCRA are to be conducted to a safe-house and on-routed to Marseille.’ A smile. ‘That’s the lot.’

  A nod and an easy smile: lunchtime gossip this, not war talk. ‘We’ll go over it later, Suzie.’

  ‘Berthe has a hair appointment at two.’

  ‘So she has. I’d forgotten that. And here she is…’

  ‘Apologies, Jean.’ Jake halfway to his feet, Berthe shaking her head as Rosie began to move, and murmuring, ‘So nice to see you, and sweet of you to ask us. Isn’t it cold, though!’

  ‘The tramontane.’ Pyrenean north wind, inducer of foul moods known as le cafard. ‘Anyway soup should warm us. You’re looking awfully well, Berthe.’

  His hand resting on hers for a moment: Rosie thinking she’d turned a little pink. Well, she had. Smiling, baring a lot of teeth, telling him she’d never felt better. It might be that a sparse diet was actually beneficial. Incidentally, wasn’t it thoughtful of Suzette to have brought the eggs and parsnips? Parsnip soup was one of her favourites, especially when combined with carrots; she’d be attending to that this evening. And so forth, with her eyes most of the time on Jake, and keeping the chatter going, while a German artillery major eating on his own was having difficulty keeping his eyes off her. Rosie recalling being told by an experienced SOE girl that on her first deployment joining a réseau in Paris, on her first day there her Organiser had taken her to lunch at one of the premier restaurants in order to accustom her to the proximity of Krauts. He’d advised, ‘When they’re all around you, try thinking of yourself as a collaborator.’

  She remarked when the major had left, ‘Made a hit there, Berthe.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’

  Jake commented, ‘Even Boches can show good taste.’ He added, ‘As well as bloody cheek.’

  After lunch they walked her to the hairdresser’s, Rosie having expressed interest in seeing where it was and getting something done about her awful mop some time – if it wasn’t too exorbitant. Leaving Berthe there, strolling on down Rue Romiquières, Jake said, ‘Awful mop, my foot. Make for the river, shall we?’

  Through Rue Romiquières into Pargaminières, by which time she’d taken his arm. No one would have guessed at their being enemies of the State: just promeneurs, like many others, while Jake in fact asked her to go over the contents of last night’s message again, and agreed she’d better be with the Canet-Plage reception party to take charge of her transceivers.

  ‘Any apology for not sending them in the drop?’

  ‘A hint of one – went so far as to use the word “regrettably”.’

  ‘I’d imagine they were somehow let down. Anyway you can be pretty sure they’ll make certain of it this time.’

  ‘Unless the felucca or its boat came to grief.’

  ‘Sink us all, that, wouldn’t it. Suzie, I’d better give you an outline of Stage One – so you can at least think for yourself if something comes in and I’m not around. From my own immediate angle of course – “adjustments” if any – I need Déclan’s report on the St-Girons situation – late tomorrow, maybe – and Marc’s on the coastal side of it. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow too. Anyway – Fernier’s band, whether or not he’s still with it, is actually holed-up a dozen or more miles south-west of St-Girons now, and once we’ve got the commandos ashore that’s where Déclan will leave them and where they’ll stay while their CO, in care of Déclan, confers with an individual who’s familiar with the inside of the Noé prison camp. You asked about this, I remember – but the fact of his existence is as much as you need know. Déclan recruited him and there’s a pecuniary inducement, of course. So – they’ll be settling detail, timings of this and that – Michel Loubert’ll be in on it too. Day or two or even three. Basically, the plan involves maquisards covering the perimeters of the action and the line of withdrawal – lines plural actually – and the commandos penetrating and touch wood scoring.’

  ‘Withdrawing with their German, you mean.’

  ‘Germans, plural. At which stage we – Countryman – will come into it again, but – leave that for the moment, better limit ourselves to Stage One – the commandos’ transfer to St-Girons and then moving up to Montgazin. That was to have been covered by Fernier’s bunch; if they’re out of it, too bad – but wouldn’t be catastrophic, they’ll be replaced, that’s all. Déclan’ll be seeing Loubert as well as Fernier or Fernier’s deputy – today, I mean – and if it’s left them shorthanded or with other problems they’ll come up with a solution. Which I’ll go along with, unless it can be improved on, obviously. All right that far, Suzie?’

  ‘With maquisards forming a perimeter around Noé and covering more than one withdrawal route, you’re going to need plenty, aren’t you?’

  A nod. ‘May need reinforcing from elsewhere, as I said. Have all to volunteer, what’s more, may not be any picnic and there’s no point disguising that. There are also major rivalries between different Maquis groups, which doesn’t help.’

  ‘Is the lost weaponry no problem?’

  ‘Same answer, really. For the time being beg, borrow or steal – and in the longer term another parachutage.’

  ‘Their task – the maquisards’ – being to hold off intervention and/or pursuit, presumably.’

  ‘That’s about it. As you say, in some strength. The snag isn’t so much numbers per se as numbers with adequate military training – a problem we were aware of before, now somewhat exacerbated, and very little time to do anything much about it. Suzie, how d’you feel – carry on down to the river, or turn back up here?’

  ‘Up here’, she saw, meant up the Rue Valade. She shrugged. ‘Don’t mind. If you’re pressed for time—’

  ‘Quick look at the river from Place St-Pierre, then back?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Next thing, then – night of the 29th. Just off the cuff, subject to further thought, discussion and so forth… Déclan’s got his work cut out, he’s really the prime mover and he’ll be at it for – well, maybe a week, starting by getting our visitors away inland as smartly as it can be done. Incidentally, Baker Street’s confirmation on those two nights probably means that on the 27th they’ll confirm it’s on for the 29th, and on the 28th give us a time and location for the actual landi
ng. Felucca skipper being close enough by then to give at least an approximation of his landfall. He tells them, they tell us – and one item in your next transmission, Suzie, must be that he should put them ashore as soon after dark as possible – to give Déclan time to have them under cover before daylight on the 30th.’

  ‘Right. But confirmation coming in on the 28th – a Saturday, not a routine listening-out night – they’d stick to the 2300–0100, I suppose…’

  ‘You’re the authority on that. But yes, surely. Anyway – it’s a long haul for Déclan – on the 117, through Quillan and Foix. Precipitous here and there – you know, deep gorges and hairpin bends. But not a bad road, and if the landing’s gone smoothly the opposition won’t have been alerted as it was by your Lanc.’

  ‘Something to be said for beach landings.’

  ‘Well – touch wood. But this brings us to the three BCRA agents, which is an obvious job for young Marc, especially with his own BCRA background. He can take ’em in his van to one of the planques he used in his escape-line work, put ’em on a train in the morning – I’d guess from Narbonne. Won’t tell him yet – don’t want him briefing his safe-house friends days before it’s necessary. And last but far from least, Suzie, I think I’ll bring you along in a Mahossier, Jorisse gazo. Wouldn’t normally take one that distance out of town, I’d use the train, but I’ll find reason for it. One advantage being that we might return here by way of places from which you could (a) let Baker Street know the ball’s rolling – and/or whatever else – and (b) maybe stash one or both transceivers in locations you’d find handy.’

  ‘Beginning to sound like genius.’

  ‘Maybe has its merits. We’ll work on it. But now here’s another stroke of genius for you.’ Waiting for traffic, before crossing into Place St-Pierre, he had a hand on her arm as if he thought she needed to be restrained. She didn’t mind that: but postponed his change of subject by asking whether she shouldn’t have some notion of what was to follow Stage One.

  ‘The break-in and/or break-out, obviously, and while that’s happening we’re on the sidelines, but then what? I’m not asking for detail, but—’

  ‘No. All right… Déclan’s in the driving seat, and he’ll be in touch with me, or if anything should have happened to me, with you. But our main concern – after they’ve got him out – the ball we’ll have our eye on will be the number-one German – uh?’

  ‘Ulrich von Schleben, alias Schurmann.’

  ‘Very good, Suzie. And you might as well know Baker Street’s code-name for him is Gustave. He’s our concern, the others aren’t.’

  ‘Poor them.’

  ‘Not necessarily. For us anyway it hangs on whether von Schleben’s alive and in Déclan’s and Loubert’s hands. He’ll be in touch – Déclan will – and there you are. I’m a little hesitant in going further – you made rather a point of not wanting to know more than you need.’

  She’d nodded. ‘Only I wouldn’t want to find myself out on a limb without any of the answers, if you happened not to be around to provide them. And the closer we get to the action—’

  ‘Absolutely right – but if I wasn’t around, you’d get all you’d need from Déclan. He’d need you as much as you’d need him – and as you have confidence in each other – there you are, no problem.’

  ‘Touch wood. But yes, sure, Jake.’

  ‘You really should call me Jean.’

  ‘I know. Sorry.’

  ‘River’s looking gloomy, isn’t it.’

  ‘It’s the weather, not the river. Like the lochs in Scotland – dour as hell on a day like this, then the sky turns blue and they take your breath away… I interrupted, about Hardball, you were starting on something else?’

  He nodded, checking the time. ‘Start heading back, d’you think?’

  ‘OK.’ She took his arm again: exchange of smiles in so doing. A pair of gendarmes passing, eyes flickering over her then Jake, returning to her: then gone. Jake squeezing her arm inside his: ‘See those envious looks? Asking each other now “How’s that for cradle-snatching?”’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’

  ‘Green with blooming envy… Suzie, here it is. Your next listening-out night is Monday. I’d sooner you didn’t do it from Berthe’s, at any rate in this next week. As it happens, I’ll almost certainly have stuff for you to send, but in any case, even listening-out, we’ve alerted them to a pianist tinkling away right here in town, and for the time being let’s not remind them.’

  ‘So I’m on my bike again?’

  ‘Marc’s van. After last night’s performance, the safer we play it the better, and that means well out in the sticks. He’ll be here tomorrow, returning coastward Monday, I’ll have him pick you up on his way out of town – you plus bike and transceiver – midday? How about at the café where you and I met?’

  ‘Outside it, maybe. That’s Rue Tivoli, isn’t it… Look, close by there – Rue Sabatier, runs between the Grand Rond and the canal. There’s a stretch of greenery, more natural place to be dawdling around – if it rains and he’s late I can be sheltering under a tree, for instance.’

  ‘All right. Rue Sabatier under the trees, twelve noon. Then as to where he takes you, how about somewhere north of St-Pons-de-Thomières – climbs steeply there, little place called Brassac for instance—’

  ‘I’ll check on the map. St-Pons I remember though, last Sunday, we held straight on, the route to Béziers, which was a mistake of course—’

  ‘Say that again. Our young friend’s mind must have been wandering. Best in fact to turn north before that junction – straight up into country that’s actually mountainous – not straight by any means, but —’

  ‘He can drop me and push on, and I’ll bike back on Tuesday. What about the stuff you want sent?’

  ‘I’ll bring it to Berthe’s, Monday morning. I’ll have had Déclan’s report as well as Marc’s by then. That’s about all there’ll be, as far as one can see at this moment. And I think it’s about all I need plague you with. Got over the shock of last night’s road-block, I hope, slept all right?’

  ‘Like an old dog.’

  ‘Some little old dog.’ He’d laughed. ‘Sevenoaks didn’t keep you waiting too long?’

  ‘Long enough that I was getting a little frantic.’

  ‘Tomorrow, enjoy your day of rest. Two full nights and the day between. If I were you I’d take it very easy.’

  ‘I will. Wash my smalls and oil the bike… Will you be seeing Déclan when he’s back, or just – communicating?’

  ‘Seeing – probably Sunday evening. Why?’

  ‘I’d like to get a battery to him for charging. He’s presented me with one that was Wiggy’s, I’ll switch to that now. Mine still has life in it, but after a couple more trips including this one with Marc—’

  ‘I’ll collect it from you on Monday, give it to him either Wednesday or Thursday. Wednesday probably for Déclan and see Marc Thursday. Tomorrow week you’ll have your spares with their own batteries in any case, and—’

  He’d jerked her to a halt. ‘Look out.’

  A car coming very fast out of the road that joined this one from the right: coming very fast although it was a gazo, and taking the corner – this way, into Rue Valade and towards the river – on two screaming tyres – a Renault, dark-coloured, with that high sweep of mudguards – all out of nowhere so fast she didn’t see the pursuing Citroen until it was taking the same corner and the Renault out of control had cannoned off the corner and gone over on its side, crumpled metal instead of rubber doing the screaming now, also showering sparks. She’d heard shots and a man had either jumped or been flung into the road, was running – doubled, baboon-like – for the church steps, the Citroen skidding to a halt, two men out of it with pistols in their hands and the runner had been hit, gone sprawling on his face, the man who’d shot him – soft hat, trench coat, no prizes for any guesswork there – blundering after him, pistol in one hand and with the other waving shocked bystanders out of his way, sna
rling at them in that ugly language while his partner dragged another body out of the smashed and smoking Renault, which if it had been petrol-powered would surely have been in flames. This second victim was just a boy, and was alive she thought, although the one leaving a trail of blood on the damp roadway as his assassin dragged him to the Citroen probably was not. They were slinging both of them inside, booting a trailing leg in so the door would shut. Bystanders including Jake with an arm round Rosie watching motionless and speechless as the car reversed to the corner, turned, drove off – through Place Anatole France then right into Rue des Lois.

  Women were giving tongue now. And an old man hobbling on two sticks called in a high tone, ‘Heroes of the Resistance!’ Jake nodded to him: ‘If they’re lucky, grandpère, dead ones.’

  * * *

  Rosie said, ‘Gave one thought, that incident. How I happened to recall it as clearly as I do – or think I do. Really quite early in one’s field career, you know, to have seen that man shot down, his blood on the road and the people just snarled at, waved aside – as if the swine considered themselves justified, in the right, even entitled to be made way for while they did it. And all of us just standing aside, watching. Me included. My reaction – I can still feel it – mixture of astonishment and pure hate. That such creatures shared the earth with us, even presented themselves as part of the human race. I know I tried to express this to Jake when we were on our way again, and his comment was simply “Why we’re here, isn’t it. What it’s about. At least, far as I’m concerned.” That simple – dare say because he’d been at it long enough that it didn’t have the impact it had on me, but on top of that – occurred to me then, still does after sixty years – surprise that one’s feelings did not include any great sense of – well, personal insecurity. Fright. One was seething, loathing, but for some reason not quaking.’