The Lavender Keeper (12 page)

‘Falling leaves on track, eh?’ the newspaper seller had said mischievously as he’d handed a newspaper over.

‘If only,’ the staff member replied. ‘No, the whole bloody signalling system’s down at Clapham Junction. Nothing gets in or out until that’s fixed.’

And as the man in uniform turned away, tucked his newspaper under an arm and flicked his cigarette, her new plan had slammed into place. Why on earth was she dabbling with a single track? If she laid her bomb at Clapham Junction’s signal box she could theoretically bring much of the rail network – heading into and out of the south coast, east and west – to a complete standstill. It would cause chaos.

The idea fizzed like champagne in her mind, making her feel dizzy with excitement. It was so obvious and yet she’d been too focused on the wording of the task –
choose one of three railway stations
– that she had restricted her thinking. Wasn’t this what the trainers had tried to instill in her during explosives training?
Think big!
they’d stressed.
Be creative! Look beyond the obvious!

The trainers had constantly reinforced to her that agents should seek ways to maximise the effect of their explosives. Make it count! Ensure it doesn’t just disrupt, but paralyses! These were all the catchphrases drummed into her while she learnt to use dynamite, set fuses and work with the new plastic explosives.

The plan began to shape. She could change her cover to someone from British Rail. She didn’t have to be in uniform. She could be an external specialist. But what? Lisette bought herself a small cake from a nearby café and carried it into the station proper. She walked as far down one of the platforms as she could and found a bench while she thought out a new plan of attack. Pigeons cooed above her in the lacy iron fretwork of the roof, their anxious flapping reminding her that precious
time was ticking away. They’d given her three days to complete her task. It was already day two, and after eleven a.m.

The first three tracks of the station were empty and sunlight suddenly filled the space as clouds parted. In spite of herself, she smiled; the sunshine made such a difference to the mood of the British. They had a preoccupation with the weather, always pining for summer, filling entire conversations with chat about an inclement day.

Her attention was caught by movement on the tracks. She watched as a rat, then another, hopped confidently up and down the tracks. Her interest was piqued. What if she posed as a consultant writing a report on the problems of rats chewing exposed electrical wiring, threatening the workings of the signals at Clapham Junction? She could say she was a representative of the Department of Health, or better still, of British Rail, just needing to see the signals room to assess the level of damage. If she could get that close, she could lay her fake bomb.

She’d heard of successful missions being achieved on far less. But time was her enemy. Once again she turned to poor Harriet. Her friend had had a special British Rail season ticket that allowed her free journeys, thanks to her father’s job. All of Harriet’s paperwork was still in the flat at Eccleston Bridge Road. If Lisette could play around with that ticket, she might just be able to pull it off.

She flung the rest of her cake towards the rats – they deserved it – and ran to the flat. Her heart hammering with terror as much as excited anticipation, she reminded herself that perhaps ninety per cent of a successful mission was confidence. Her hands shaking, she found what she was looking for, and rushed back to the hotel. She did what
every good Britisher would do in times of extreme anxiety and prepared a pot of tea. There was something lovely about the routine activity of putting the kettle on, warming the pot, spooning in the tea leaves, hearing the gurgle of boiled water as she poured it into the pot, and then the solitude of three minutes while the leaves steeped. Then there was the amber liquid itself, straining it before adding sugar and milk, and stirring. This made the process at least ten minutes of quiet ritual. By the end of it, staring at her steaming cup of tea, with no intention of drinking it, Lisette was heartened to realise that her pulse had definitely slowed. She was still nervous but she felt she had wrestled back under her control any potential to panic. Lisette recalled the training mantra: act out your part. Believe fully in your role. Look people directly in the eye. Speak briskly and with the courage to challenge anyone with assurance and a steady voice. Commit to it and once you do, don’t look back.

She could do it.

No. She
would
do it! Lisette walked out of the hotel with fresh purpose and searched for a bus that would get her to within striking range of Clapham Junction.

Maurice Buckmaster sat behind his desk at Baker Street and sighed softly as he regarded the file before him. He felt the full weight of his role as head of the Special Operation Executive’s French Section settle uncomfortably on his shoulders. Staring out from the file was a photograph of a young woman whose serious expression did nothing to disguise her brunette beauty. Most of the recruits had at least given some semblance of a smile in their file photos, but not this one. Her gaze seemed to look too deeply, and he found her stare vaguely unnerving.

It was as though she was challenging him, daring him to say yes to a ridiculously dangerous mission – for anyone, let alone a slip of a girl … a former waitress. He reminded himself that all his female agents were formidable, regardless of their backgrounds. He had to take his hat off to Jepson. The man certainly had a knack for picking out women with extraordinary reserves of courage and creativity. Most managed to stay one step ahead of the Gestapo, informants,
French militia, collaborators, hunger, injury, accidents, disease.

He drew a deep silent breath. Could he send this elfin creature into the loneliest, most audacious mission SOE had dreamt up thus far?

She’d carried out her trial mission with such dash and daring that he and Vera were still a little lost for words. They’d designed the test to ensure she moved around a city with ease using her wits and stamina. They had wanted her to disrupt railway security on one of the tracks, but Lisette Forester had tackled the entire signal station at Clapham Junction – far more audacious, but infinitely more effective. It had the potential to create widespread chaos across the whole southern rail network.

Lisette had performed her role brilliantly. She had smooth-talked the Clapham Junction station manager into allowing her onto the tracks, where she spent the best part of two hours going through the motions of checking wiring before moving closer to the signals box. By then, her minders had lost interest in her and she was able to lay her fake package. No damage was noted, she had assured the staff, and thanked them for their cooperation. She had left Battersea on foot, crossed the river and melted away into the hustle and bustle of Greater London without a hiccup. Her suitability as an agent could not be denied.

Her daring and fortitude made Buckmaster almost envious. There were so many times when he wished he could return to active service, but it was forbidden. Since the spring of 1941, after retreating with his unit to Dunkirk, he’d been posted back to Britain and absorbed into F-Section of SOE, charged with building an organisation that would carry out acts of sabotage, work closely with the growing French Resistance
movement, and create a vital information network that would allow clandestine communication between London and France. His experience qualified him well, but nothing could have prepared him to send dozens of brave individuals to work essentially alone and undercover, knowing that half would likely never return.

And this year had been vicious for SOE. For every good piece of information collected, it felt as though there was even more bad news. They had been bleeding agents, with a devastating number of brave men and women sold out by double-crossers or simply discovered by Abwehr and Gestapo work. Those agents – his people, his responsibility – were rotting in prisons being tortured, starved or otherwise helped along to difficult deaths. And he thought of the German generals, taken prisoner during the course of the war and living a luxurious life at Trent Park in England – everything provided: gracious surrounds, waiting staff, decent food … hot tea even. He glanced at the cup that Vera Atkins had placed nearby.

It was that same imprisoned group of generals that had brought about this meeting. He had to know more before he could commit to this mission. It was so vague, so dependent on so many others – if he signed off on this plan, the beautiful woman with the sorrowful gaze would have few supporters, if any, to count upon.

He sat back, regarding the other men in his office; Boddington must have sensed his unease because he noticed his deputy push his round glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose and clear his throat as he glanced at Captain Jepson.

‘She’s very young for such a mature task,’ Boddington remarked.

It was everyone’s unspoken thought.

‘Most of the female operatives are young,’ Jepson said. ‘But you can’t deny that she’s hard to ignore. We’re relying on this, and she has what it takes to charm, I can assure you. She would make a fine operative. Mentally she’s one of the strongest recruits I’ve put forward, and the trainers attest to her invulnerability to strenuous activities and pain. But the mission you have in mind for her makes use of few of these new skills. What you need is what Lark brought to us from day one, and it’s a whole new dimension to what most of our agents offer.’

‘Her French nature,’ Buckmaster finished.

‘Yes, sir,’ Jepson agreed. ‘She spent the first seventeen years of her life in France. What can I say? She’s French to her core, even though she does her best to hide it.’

Buckmaster nodded. ‘And now you’re going to tell me that it’s actually her German nature that makes her more valuable than any other agent.’ He didn’t successfully mask his sarcasm.

Jepson gave a brief dry smile. ‘No, Colonel. I’m going to tell you that it’s her half-German parentage, her German birth certificate and her brilliant fluency with the language that makes this whole mad plan sound … well, frankly feasible.’

‘We couldn’t risk anyone else in such a situation,’ Boddington concurred.

‘She can rely wholly on a background of truth,’ Jepson pressed. ‘I’m not supporting the mission, sir. I’ll leave that to Bourne-Patterson to work out.’ He glanced over at the silent Head of Planning. ‘But I think this is an unique opportunity. She has the potential to get right under the skin of our enemy.’

‘Thank you, Captain Jepson. We’ll take it from here.’

‘Sir,’ Jepson said, standing and nodding at Boddington and Bourne-Patterson. He looked to Buckmaster and hesitated, as
though he wanted to add something, but then turned and left the room.

Buckmaster said nothing for a few moments, steepling his fingers and considering what he’d heard. Then he looked at Boddington. ‘So, give me a summary of what we know.’

Boddington referred to his notes. ‘The recordings from Trent Park make interesting listening – the German generals are surprisingly candid in their remarks. Clearly it hasn’t occurred to them that we might be listening to their every word. A few weeks ago talk of this fellow Markus Kilian began. The details are sketchy, sir, but his father was a Prussian war hero. He comes from a wealthy, admired family in Bavaria. Kilian is a thoroughbred and a blue blood.’

‘Age?’ Buckmaster asked.

Boddington flicked over a page. ‘Can’t be sure, sir, but we think early forties – young for a colonel.’

‘I don’t understand why this fellow is important,’ Buckmaster said. ‘Bring me up to speed.’

‘From what we can tell, Colonel Kilian is something of a success story in the Wehrmacht, having caught the attention of Hitler.’

‘Probably because he represents everything Hitler isn’t,’ Buckmaster said wryly.

‘Quite,’ Boddington agreed. ‘Kilian’s early mentor was von Tresckow. He came from a similar background, and served under him – it’s how Kilian came to the direct notice of Hitler. We’ve gathered that Kilian had deep misgivings about waging war, believing initially that Germany could never prevail, especially if the Americans were persuaded to join the Allies. We know now that von Choltitz went so far as to tip off the political resisters in Germany about the sweep into France, but
what we didn’t know until recently was that it was very likely Kilian who provided the link between von Choltitz and the underground. Kilian, despite his Establishment background, has a way about him, sir.’

‘A way about him?’

‘Yes, sir. An easy manner with the common man. His command showed great success, even when other units began to fail against the Red Army.’

‘And so now you’re going to tell me how this gallant, lofty war hero of the German Wehrmacht has fallen from grace?’

‘Indeed, sir. He was one of the few who defied the Commissar Order from Hitler last year, which proclaimed that any government officials identified within the captured Red Army would be instantly shot. This, of course, defied POW protocol, but most followed because they didn’t want accusations of treason levelled at them. A few, like von Tresckow and Kilian, refused.’ Boddington looked up from his notes. ‘It seems Kilian was defiant in other ways too. For instance, he point-blank refused to order his men to execute women and children in any context. He had heavyweight protection obviously, in the likes of von Tresckow, Canaris, even von Choltitz. However, that defiance earned him a call back to Germany and he was demoted to a desk position, working within the Abwehr. For an admired soldier like Kilian, it must have been a blow.’

Boddington sighed. ‘Anyway, he’s been working as part of the intelligence-gathering machine – damn good at it too, by all accounts – but seemingly rotting in an outpost far from Berlin and the action—’

‘All right,’ Buckmaster said, placing his hands either side of Lark’s photograph. ‘How is it that he comes to fall beneath the gaze of F-Section?’

‘Well, sir,’ Boddington said. ‘Kilian has been brought under the wing of Rear Admiral Canaris, who we now know is privately appalled by the Nazi regime and its tactics. Even our own division has benefitted from some of the information he has permitted to “let slip” into political networks that resist the German war machine.’

‘So Kilian has found another kindred spirit, you’re saying?’

‘Well, there are many, of course, who privately believe that Hitler is marching Germany to a place that many, certainly many rational men, are not willing to go. While Kilian is not against Germany’s war effort – he’s a loyal soldier – we believe he is very much averse to the Nazi cause and might be one of those who would help to bring it down from within.’

Buckmaster remembered his eleven o’clock appointment. He had ten minutes up his sleeve. ‘Canaris is taking Kilian out of exile in Germany and into Paris – we know this for sure?’

‘Our agent, Prosper, in Paris has confirmed this, sir.’

Buckmaster turned to Bourne-Patterson, the architect of this bold plan. ‘So we’re going to throw this young woman into the path of Kilian … and what? See what happens?’

The head of planning blinked. ‘It’s audacious and certainly unlike our traditional undercover operations, but it has to be worth a try. This man, if all we understand is correct, will be bristling with resentment. Plus Paris is hardly a hotbed of combat, so he’s going to have time on his hands. And he’s single.’ Bourne-Patterson shrugged with a smile. ‘Perhaps an upfront yet
softer
approach will give us access to Canaris, von Tresckow … perhaps even into the Gestapo through the Abwehr. We may be able to assist with an assassination of Hitler if it comes to it. Lark’s role will be to get close enough to the architects to keep us briefed, or if all goes exceptionally
well, she may even act as a conduit between Berlin and London.’

‘If, if, if …’ Buckmaster said. No one replied. ‘Boddington?’

‘I agree with Captain Jepson. Lark is German but she is also French, and she has the best cover of all of our agents. All we can do is put her into a situation where she can learn.’

‘Who is going to support her? Who on earth can stay close enough to get the information relayed? Please don’t tell me we’re now expecting her to smuggle in a wireless to the French headquarters of the German Reich!’

Bourne-Patterson gave a tight smile that bore no amusement. ‘No, sir. But Roger’s come up with a couple of ideas.’

Roger. Codename for Francis Cammaerts, one of their most successful agents, who had created a formidable circuit of resistance fighters in the south of France from Grenoble to Nice. Roger had set up a highly active network of resisters known as Jockey, and London listened when Roger offered ideas.

Buckmaster’s gaze narrowed.

‘The first plan is for Lark to make use of Prosper’s wireless operator. It’s risky but it could work. The second idea involves one of the maquisards we know as Faucille. He would escort Lark from the south, which gives her a better shot at quietly entering Paris and integrating.’

‘Ah yes,’ Buckmaster replied. Faucille – the Sickle. He’d heard only good things about the fearless French resister.

‘He’s a tough nut by all accounts,’ Bourne-Patterson continued, ‘but he’s brilliant at what he does. Very high
risk-taker
, yet he minimises potential repercussions. He would be the best choice for our girl. But will he agree? It would mean him leaving the south and heading north with her.’

Buckmaster looked doubtful. ‘He’s one of the best smugglers in the Resistance, so if anyone can get Lark from south to north, he can. Roger is best placed to make that all happen. Is he ready to meet Lark?’ Already it sounded like the mission would go ahead.

‘Yes, sir. Roger’s in the Luberon area. It will have to be a special drop into Provence. She’ll leave in three days. Calm weather is forecast and it’s full moon, so the conditions are perfect. Roger will meet her the following evening and we anticipate Faucille will take her from there. She’ll link up with Prosper near Paris. We then have to wait until she can work out a way to make contact with Kilian.’

‘And even then it’s in the lap of the gods,’ Buckmaster finished. He took a breath, held it, looked around at his colleagues’ expectant expressions, checked his watch and gave a sigh. ‘I agree. We have to try. Our little Lark flies the nest at the end of the week. Make sure she has the opportunity to see her folks in Farnborough too,’ he added. ‘Insist on it.’

Lisette warmed her fingers around the porcelain cup filled with rich, sweetened milky coffee. Her grandmother – who insisted upon being called Granny – was chattering away: Lisette looked too thin, she shouldn’t live alone, she wasn’t dressed warmly enough for this miserable drizzly weather that England did so well.