Cold Harbour (18 page)

“How horrible,” she said, deeply shocked.

“That’s what it’s like over there, Genevieve. Let me tell you how the Gestapo operate.”

“I know,” she told him. “I’ve seen Craig’s fingernails.”

“You know how they break women agents down? No hot irons, no whips, no pincers. Multiple rape. They take turns, one after another, then they take turns again. Revolting, yes, but appallingly effective.”

Remembering Anne-Marie, Genevieve said, “Oh, yes, I can imagine only too well.”

“Damn my big mouth!” Hare glanced at her, genuine concern on his face. “I was forgetting your sister.”

“You know about that?”

“Oh, yes, Munro explained. He felt it best I should know the full background.”

She found a Gitane. “I’ll just have to soldier on, I suppose.”

“Not quite the right phrase for a flight officer.”

“A what?” Genevieve asked, the lighter flaring in her hand.

“All women agents going into the field are sent as officers of one sort or another. Frenchwomen are usually commissioned into the Corps Auxiliaire Feminin. A lot of the English girls officially join the Nursing Yeomanry.”

“The FANY?”

“That’s right, but Munro likes to keep a tighter hold than that. As I understand it, you were commissioned as a flight officer in the WAAF yesterday. Actually, RAF blue will suit your colouring if you ever get a chance to put the uniform on.”

“He didn’t say a word to me about this.”

“Munro?” Hare shrugged. “A devious old dog, but there’s method in his madness. In the first place, being a commissioned officer is supposed to help you if you fall into enemy hands.”

“And in the second?”

“It gives him personal control over you. Disobey an order in wartime and you could be shot.”

“I sometimes think there was never any other time,” she said.

“I know the feeling well.”

The door opened and Craig came in. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Hare said. “We’re on time.” He turned to Genevieve. “I’d go below if I were you. Try and catch a little sleep. Use my cabin.”

“All right, I think I will.”

She left them there, negotiated the heaving deck and went down to his tiny cabin. The bunk was so small that she could hardly stretch out on it and she lay there, knees up, staring at the ceiling. So much had happened and it was all whirling around in her head and yet, in spite of that, she drifted into sleep after a few minutes.

OFF THE COAST
of Finisterre it was still foggy in patches, the moon breaking out from behind a cloud occasionally. The
Lili Marlene
eased in towards the shore, her
silencers on. The crew were at battle stations, manning the guns fore and aft and Hare had a pistol in its holster ready on his hip.

Langsdorff had the helm and Hare and Craig surveyed the shore with nightglasses. Genevieve waited behind, René at her shoulder. There was a sudden pinpoint of light dead ahead.

“There they are,” Hare said. “Perfect.” He put a hand on Langsdorff’s shoulder. “Nice and easy now. Dead slow.”

The pier at Grosnez loomed out of the darkness about them, a tall, skeletal structure, waves booming hollowly underneath, splashing around the great rusting iron pilings. They bumped against the lower jetty and some of the crew were instantly over the side with lines. She noticed Schmidt down there on the deck, a Schmeisser machine pistol at the ready.

There was a light at the top of the pier and a voice called in French, “Is that you?”

“Grand Pierre,” Craig said. “Let’s move it.”

She and René went ahead, Craig followed with Hare. On the jetty, she turned to look back to the deck. Schmidt smiled up at her. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down, lovely one.”

Craig moved close. “Present for you.” He gave her a Walther and a spare clip. “Stick those in your pocket. No girl should be without one.”

“Not in these parts,” Hare said and put an arm about her. “You take care now.”

Craig turned to René. “Bring her back in one piece or I’ll have your balls.”

René shrugged. “If anything happens to Mamselle Genevieve, it happens to me also, Major.”

Craig said calmly. “Okay, angel, up you go. The greatest performance of your career. As they say in show business, break a leg.”

She turned quickly, almost in tears, and went up the steps to the upper level, René following. There was a truck at the end of the pier, shapes moving in the darkness and then a man stepped out to confront them. She had never seen a more villainous looking individual in her life. He wore a cloth cap, dirty old moleskin jacket and leggings and a collarless shirt. The three-day stubble on his chin didn’t help, nor the scar on his right cheek.

“Grand Pierre?” René called.

Genevieve put a hand in her right-hand pocket to find the Walther. “This can’t be our man,” she whispered urgently to René, so thrown that she spoke in English.

Scarface paused a yard or so away and smiled. “Terribly sorry to disappoint you, old girl,” he said in the most stunningly beautiful Oxford accent, “but if it’s Grand Pierre you’re looking for, then I’m your man.”

Behind him, a dozen or so more moved out of the darkness carrying rifles and Sten guns. They stood there, staring at her, not saying a word.

She whispered to Grand Pierre, “I don’t know what they do to the Germans, but they certainly frighten me.”

“Yes, they are rather splendid, aren’t they?” He clapped his hands. “Come on, you rat-pack,” he called in very fluent French. “Let’s get moving and watch your language. We have a lady with us remember.”

THE TRUCK WAS
what was known as a gazogene, operated by gas generated by a charcoal-burning stove in the rear. Grand Pierre’s men had left a mile back along the
road and he was driving quite fast, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

She said, “What if we run into a German patrol?”

“A German what?” He really did smell awful at such close quarters.

“Patrol,” she said.

“Not round here. They only move about when they have to. That means during the day and in strength. Anyone out tonight within fifteen miles of here and I’d know it, believe me.”

She could have laughed out loud because the whole thing was so beautifully macabre. “You’ve really got it organised then?”

“You always sounded rather delectable on the phone. Nice to be able to put a face to you,” he said. “Ever get up to Oxford at all?”

“No.”

“Norfolk?”

“I’m afraid not.”

They came over the brow of a hill and at the same moment, the clouds parted to reveal the moon again. In its light she could see the line of the railway track in the valley below, the cluster of houses that was St. Maurice.

“Pity,” he said. “I used to shoot a lot up there. Near Sandringham where the King has his country estate. Lovely place.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not really. Pretend I do, just to keep me going. I mean, what would I do without all this lot? Smell me. Beautiful, isn’t it? Talk about back to nature.”

“What did you do before?”

“The war, you mean? Taught English Literature at a rather second-rate public school.”

“You enjoy doing this sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes, scouting for boys and all that. The worst sores in life are caused by crumpled rose leaves, not thorns, Miss Trevaunce, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m not even sure I understand.”

“That’s exactly what my pupils used to say.” They were entering the village now and he started to slow. “Goods yard coming up.”

They turned in between massive gate posts, rattled across a cobbled yard to the house in the corner. The truck braked to a halt. A door opened, someone peered out. René scrambled down. Genevieve followed.

“Thanks very much,” she said.

“We aim to please.” Grand Pierre smiled down at her. “Crumpled rose leaves. You think about it.”

He drove away and she turned and followed René inside.

SHE SAT IN
front of the mirror in the small bedroom, Anne-Marie’s suitcases on the bed, handbag open, her papers on the bed beside it. There was her French identity card, the German
Ausweis,
ration cards, a driving licence. She carefully applied mascara and the door opened as Madame Dubois entered. She was a small, dark-complexioned woman with a careworn face and wore a shabby grey dress. There were holes in her stockings and her shoes looked ready to fall to pieces.

She didn’t approve, Genevieve could see that, and her lips set in a thin line as she took in the finery displayed on the bed. The navy blue suit from Paris with the pleated skirt, the silk stockings, the oyster satin blouse.

Remembering who she was supposed to be, Genevieve said sharply, “Another time, knock first. What do you want?”

Madame Dubois shrugged defensively. “The train, Mamselle. It has just come in. My husband sent me to tell you.”

“Good. Tell René to fetch the car. I’ll be down soon.”

She withdrew. Genevieve applied a little lipstick, hesitated, then put on some more, remembering what Michael, the hairdresser, had said at Cold Harbour. She dressed quickly—underwear, stockings, slip, blouse, skirt—all Anne-Marie’s. As she put on each item, it was as if she removed another layer of herself.

She wasn’t afraid as she pulled on her jacket and checked herself in the mirror, simply coldly excited. The truth was that she really did look rather good and she knew it. She snapped the suitcase shut, draped the caped greatcoat of blue worsted over her shoulders and went out.

She found Henri Dubois in the kitchen with his wife. He was a small, sallow-faced man, very ordinary looking, the last person one would have imagined to want to involve himself in such a business.

“René is bringing the car now, Mamselle.”

She took the silver and onyx lighter from her handbag and selected a Gitane. “Bring down my bags.”

“Oui, Mamselle.”

He went out. She lit the cigarette and walked to the window, aware of the woman’s eyes on her, hostile, disapproving, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except the job in hand.

The Rolls-Royce emerged from one of the goods sheds and drove up to the door to meet her. René got out and she opened the door. He stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at her impassively, wearing chauffeur’s uniform now. He opened the car door for her without a word and she got into the rear seat.

Dubois appeared with the suitcases. He placed them in the boot, then came round to the window as René got behind the wheel. “You will convey my respects to the Countess, Mamselle?”

Genevieve didn’t reply, simply wound up the window and tapped René on the shoulder. As they drove out of the yard, she was aware of his eyes in the driving mirror, watching her, a touch of fear in them again.

“And now it really does begin,” she thought, leaned back filled with restless excitement, and took out another Gitane.

AS THEY DROVE
on, the countryside became increasingly familiar, green fields and forest, the mountains on her left capped with snow, the river gleaming in the early morning sun in the valley below. A shepherd in sheepskin jacket moved his flock across the hillside above.

“The hills of childhood, René. Nothing changes.”

“Or everything, Mamselle.”

He was right, of course. She held her coat around her for it was rather cold. They moved down towards a small village, a place she remembered well called Pougeot.

She leaned forward. “When we were children, you used to stop the car here at a café in the square so that we could have ice cream. Old Danton and his daughter ran the place. Is he still there?”

“He was shot last year for what the Boche called terrorist activities. His daughter is in prison in Amiens. The property was confiscated then sold. Comboult bought it.”

“Papa Comboult? But I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple. Like so many, he works with them, trades with them and in the process makes his fortune.
They feed on the flesh of France, people like him. As I said, Mamselle, everything changes.”

There were women working in the fields and as they went through the village itself, she found the streets strangely deserted. “Not many people about.”

“Most able-bodied men have been shipped off to labour camps in Germany. The women run the farms. They’d have even taken an old dog like me, one eye and all, if it had not been for the Countess.”

“And she could not do anything for the others?”

“What she can, she does, Mamselle, but in France these days, most things are difficult. This you will find out for yourself very soon now.”

They came round a bend in the road and became immediately aware of a black Mercedes on the grass verge. The bonnet was raised and a German soldier worked on the engine. An officer stood beside him smoking a cigarette.

“God in heaven, it’s Reichslinger,” René said as the officer turned and raised a hand. “What shall I do?”

“Stop, of course,” Genevieve said calmly.

“She has nothing but contempt for this one, Mamselle, and shows it.”

“And he tries all the harder?”

“Exactly.”

“Good. Let’s see how we get on then, shall we?”

SHE OPENED HER
handbag, took out the Walther Craig had given her and slipped it into her right-hand pocket. The car slid to a halt and she wound down the window as Reichslinger approached.

He was exactly like his photo. Fair hair, narrow eyes beneath the peaked cap, a generally vicious look to him,
and the uniform, with the SS runes on the collar, did nothing for him at all.

He smiled, contriving to look even more unpleasant than ever. “Mademoiselle Trevaunce. My luck is good,” he said in French.

“Is it?” Genevieve enquired coldly.

He gestured towards the car. “The fuel pump is giving trouble and this fool of a driver is apparently unable to do anything about it.”

“So?” she enquired.

“Under the circumstances I must beg a lift from you.”

She let it hang there for a moment, made him wait, his sallow cheeks flushing slowly, then said, “The master race being masterful? What can I say except yes.”

She leaned back and wound up the window. He hurried round to the other side, scrambled in beside her and René drove away.