Blue Madonna (10 page)

That sounded easy. The hard part was going to be finding our way from some remote field to the château. And then what would we do? Knock on the front door and ask if there were any Allied airmen hiding in the attic?

I settled back into the seat as the miles slipped by. The close-cropped emerald fields of the South Downs gave way to fog-draped hills and the scent of sea salt as we neared the coast. I thought of Diana—code-named Juliet—across the Channel, and wondered what SOE would have her do once the invasion was launched. Would she even be at the château? Or would she be out blowing something up, doing her bit, seeking that moment of truth when she'd be forgiven for surviving Dunkirk?

Or would she be dead?

It was war, I told myself. Lots of people would soon be dead. I sent silent prayers skyward, more of the deals I offered the Almighty on a regular basis.
Spare her. I'll be a better man, I'll take any punishment, but spare Diana.

More realistically, if we both have to die, let us live a little more. Love a little more. One more day, one more night.

It occurred to me that many men—German, English, French, American—had only one more night.

Chapter Twelve

The snarl of
aircraft woke me up. Despite my prayerful good intentions, I'd fallen asleep. I hoped God wouldn't hold a quick nap against me. Harding said we were nearing Tangmere Royal Air Force base, and our destination was a cottage on the outskirts that served to keep SOE types isolated for security reasons.

He turned down the last lane before the main airbase entrance. The cottage was a long two-story house, whitewashed and plain. Nondescript except for the Royal Military Police guards with Thompson submachine guns at the gate. Big Mike produced the appropriate papers, and they waved us through, letting the gate close behind us with a firm finality.

“Welcome! Good to see you all again.” Topper greeted us at the door, looking tan and fit in his battle dress, complete with lieutenant's pips. His hair was shorter, and sported far less pomade than the last time we'd met. His eyes remained dark pools of ruin. We shook hands like old pals and set aside the strange nature of this meeting.

“They have rooms for you both upstairs,” Topper said. “Your gear and weapons are already there. Not a bad spot for a last supper, eh?” He gestured to a large sitting room with a fire crackling in the hearth, a dining room beyond already set.

“In England, that is,” Kaz corrected him.

“Of course,” Topper said. “Drinks?” He headed to a small bar, at home as if he were lord of the manor.

“I'll take mine neat,” I said. “Like how this all worked out for you and Archie.”

“Sit down, Boyle,” Harding said, pouring himself a healthy dose of brandy. “That's not how I want this to go.” He took a chair near the fire, while I slumped onto a comfortable couch. Kaz and Topper took chairs opposite, crossing their legs and holding crystal tumblers as if they were at a London club. Topper had manners and a pleasing smile. He wasn't half mad like his father, but he was just as ruthless. I had to keep staring at his dark eyes to remind myself of that.

“Listen, Billy, and Lieutenant Kazimierz, of course,” Topper said, with a polite nod to Kaz. “I had nothing to do with this arrangement. I only learned about my father's part two days ago. I thought this was a normal assignment, if there is such a thing with SOE.” He took a swig of his drink, which made it hard to study his eyes, where lies lived out their brief lives.

“You weren't in contact with your father before that?” I asked.

“No, and Colonel Harding can confirm that,” Topper said. “I was at Wanborough House in Surrey, finishing up an explosives course. I went straight there from Italy after I got my orders.”

“He's right,” Harding said. “No reason for you three not to work together.”

“Still,” Topper said, raising his glass, “you have to hand it to the old man. Always looking for an angle, and often finding it.”

“Angles I can drink to,” I said, and did. It looked like we were stuck with each other.

“What happens next, now that we are confident we will not be going at each other's throats?” Kaz asked.

“You'll be briefed this evening by someone from SOE headquarters. I'm off to Southwick House in Portsmouth,” Harding said. “I'm joining Ike and will monitor your mission from there.”

We shook hands all around, Harding wise enough to forgo the usual platitudes. He knew the deal. We might see him again, we might not. Words did nothing to alter that basic reality.

“Well, boys, it's only us until Vera shows up,” Topper said, settling in with another whiskey.

“Who's Vera?” I asked.

“Vera Atkins, of the SOE French Section,” Topper said. “She's running this circus. Nice lady. A bit stiff-necked, but that gives one confidence, don't you think?”

“I'm not sure I have a lot of confidence in anything right now,” I said, wandering over to the bow window. The sky was clearing, and the wind barely stirred the leafy branches. Good invasion weather. “Like you supposedly being a demolitions expert, and finishing an explosives course two days ago.”

“Billy, I
taught
the course. I've been blowing things up since I first ran with a jelly gang back in '38.”

“Jelly gang?” Kaz asked.

“Gelignite,” Topper answered. “A blasting gelatin. It's moldable and safe to handle. Perfect for blowing safes. Or bridges. Lovely stuff.”

“And the wireless?” I asked.

“Top of my class,” Topper said with a grin. “I can transmit at a fair rate. I'm a bit slower at coding and decoding, but that's not what matters. It's how long you're on the air.”

“Since the Germans can track your signal,” Kaz said.

“Yes. Bloody Jerries have it down to a science,” Topper said. “They tell me the average life expectancy of a wireless operator in France is six weeks. So let's be quick about this job, boys.”

“Can we trust you?” I asked, still staring out the window. “With our lives?”

“You can trust me to do my job,” Topper answered. “Can I trust you not to muck things up?” He sprang up and made for the drinks table, pouring himself another healthy dose.

I glanced at Kaz, who lifted one indifferent eyebrow and nodded. He was satisfied. I guess I had to be.

“Sure,” I said, lifting my glass in Topper's direction. “Here's to a good six-week run.”

“Confusion to our enemies,” Kaz offered.

“Here's to them that wish us well. All the rest can go to hell,” Topper responded, and we drained our glasses. “We'll have a grand time, wait and see.”

I almost believed him. I willed myself to believe it, but was jolted out of that fantasy by the crunch of tires on gravel and doors slamming. Moments later a woman entered the room, wearing a dark-blue skirt and jacket and carrying a briefcase.

“Vera!” Topper exclaimed, with an overabundance of enthusiasm. He was acting as the life of the party, which perhaps wasn't a bad way to deal with things the night before D-Day.

“Lieutenant Chapman, how are you? Not overdoing the liquor, are you? Parachuting with a hangover would be dreadful, I think.” One corner of her mouth went up, the briefest of smiles offered to Topper. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and had dark hair piled up and thin lips done in a slash of red lipstick. Her wary eyes studied Kaz and me in turn.

“Vera Atkins,” Topper said, kicking off the introductions.

“Pleased to meet you, Baron Kazimierz,” she said. Kaz did a little bow, ever the Continental aristocrat. “And you as well, Captain Boyle.”

“I'm of indeterminate rank at the moment, ma'am,” I said.

“Rank means little in this endeavor,” she said. “I understand you are acquainted with Diana Seaton? I saw her off in this very room. She and her two teammates.”

“You've had no further word?” I asked.

“No, not since Adrien was taken. Not counting that desperate note she sent, of course.”

“Do you disapprove?” Kaz asked.

“It was a risk, but Diana has a level head about her. I'm sure she didn't write it until the last moment. But if the aircraft had been shot down, the Germans might have made something of it. Still, it worked, and gave us an opportunity to send in a new wireless operator and move those fliers along. You want one in particular, so our interests coincide.” Vera unsnapped her briefcase, clearly eager to get on with business.

“How has Diana been?” I said. “Is there anything you can tell me? Is she safe?”

“Captain Boyle, no SOE operative in occupied France is safe. And neither will you be; have no illusions about that. It will be best for you to leave sentiment behind. Diana is in a dangerous spot, and we don't need romantic heroics from you making it any worse. I only accepted your participation in this mission since Diana knows both you and Baron Kazimierz by sight. She'll trust you immediately.”

“Why do you need two of us?” I asked. I didn't like being lectured, and enjoyed pointing out a flaw in her plan.

“Because it's likely one of you will be captured or killed before making contact,” she said. “And trust me, killed is preferable. The Germans will treat you as agents and interrogate you quite harshly. Before shooting you.”

“But we'll be in uniform,” I said, hoping it was simply a misunderstanding.

“Adolf's Commando Order, old boy,” Topper said. “In or out of uniform, he wants us all shot. After a spot of torture, of course, courtesy of the Gestapo.” Topper's forced bravado was beginning to wear thin, but it hardly mattered, given what Hitler had in mind for us.

“Okay, let's get to work,” I said, going for the brandy decanter.

“I'd suggest coffee, gentlemen,” Vera said. “A very large pot.”

She began with the basics of the plan. Tomorrow night Kaz and I would take off in a Lysander. Topper was going in a Stirling four-engine bomber, converted for clandestine missions. He'd be dropped over the landing zone along with equipment canisters containing arms and supplies. We'd carry our own gear and the wireless for safekeeping. If the landing field was secure, Topper would set off flares in a prearranged pattern once he heard the Lysander approach. If the area wasn't secure, well, then, goodbye, Topper.

“You'll land in the Forest of Dreux,” Vera said, running her finger over a swath of green north of the town. “Don't worry, it's not all trees. It's a large tract of land with fields and meadows, mostly used as pasture.”

“We won't come down on a herd of cows?” I asked.

“Not to worry, it's fairly deserted,” she said. “The Germans have requisitioned nearly all livestock, so it's not much used these days. You'll have the same pilot who did the last pickup there, so he knows the spot. Nice, soft meadow grass, a good landing field.”

She spread out photographs of the château. I glanced up as I heard sounds from outside; branches blew against the house as the wind increased. Fat raindrops began to splat against the windows as the sky darkened.

“What's our route to the château?” Kaz asked.

“Along this farmer's path,” Vera said, pointing to a thin line on the map. “Then around the village itself—not through it, mind you—until you come out on the main road to the south. Then in a mile or so, take this turnoff for the château.”

The pictures showed a three-story white stone structure with a slate-grey roof, spires at either end. The main building was long, with a gravel drive leading to the center. At either end, wings jutted out in opposite directions. To the rear of the property stood a parallel building, not as tall or fancy.

“That's the stables,” Vera said. “It's where the fliers are hidden. Diana and her courier are in the main building with the count.”

Diana was Juliet Bonvie, secretary to Count Alexandre Vasseur, an elderly gentleman who owned the château and a good deal of surrounding property. Her courier was Sonya Charlet, who worked as the count's estate manager. Sonya traveled frequently to collect rents and handle various business matters for Count Vasseur, which enabled her to keep in touch with the Resistance. Sonya was also English, but had grown up in Toulon, where her father managed a shipping business. Like Diana—Juliet, I reminded myself—she spoke French fluently.

Their local Resistance contact was Christine Latour, head librarian at the Dreux public library. She was the link to Commander Murat—another code name—who was the leader of the armed Resistance in that part of the Loire Valley, the
Maquis
, meaning the bush or the trees and thickets that hid the fighters from the Germans.

“If for some reason you can't get to the château, you'll need to approach Christine Latour at the library. Baron Kazimierz, with your language skills, that task falls to you,” Vera said, spreading out pictures of each of the women for us to study. “I'd advise obtaining civilian clothes if it comes to that.”

“Are there German troops in the area?” I asked.

“There's a large garrison in Chartres, about twenty miles south. There's a security detachment of about a hundred men in Dreux. But as you can see, Dreux is a main intersection. Troops are constantly moving through. If there's been Resistance activity, the Germans will be out in force.”

“They'll be mad as hornets soon enough,” Topper said. I could tell he'd never been stung by one.

“Those are all the major players, except for Major Gustav Zeller. He plays chess with the count,” Vera said, tossing a picture of a German officer onto the pile. He had close-cropped hair, fleshy cheeks, and a bemused expression.

“Which side is this count on?” Kaz asked, his brow wrinkled as he studied the major.

“Count Vasseur believes that French honor must be upheld. He offered his help freely and understands the consequences if the network is found out. He's not active, given his age, but his real value to us is the cover he provides for Noble.”

“Why does he play chess with a Nazi?” Topper asked. The rumble of distant thunder rolled against the walls.

“Zeller looked into the château as his headquarters,” Vera said. “He found better accommodations, but struck up a friendship with the count, as both of them are chess enthusiasts.”

“He'd have to play along, so as not to arouse the major's suspicions,” Topper said.

“And he does have his son to consider,” Vera said. “He was captured in 1940 and ultimately sent to a forced labor camp. Diana thinks the count is trying to cultivate Major Zeller in order to free him.”

“How could an ordinary German major accomplish that?” I asked.

“Because he's with the
Abwehr
. German counterintelligence. Your nemesis.”

With that cheery bit of news, Vera continued the briefing. The stables housed a few remaining horses and a dilapidated truck, not that there was any petrol for it. It was the cellar we were most interested in. It was an old root cellar which was accessed from stairs in the tackle room. Another door connected the root cellar to a secret chamber beneath the stables. The fliers were all hidden there, cramped but comfortable.