Cold Harbour (13 page)

“Only one more individual to be noted with particular care.” The photo wasn’t nice. A young SS officer with very fair hair, narrow eyes, a generally vicious look to him that wasn’t at all pleasant. “Captain Hans Reichslinger. He’s Priem’s assistant.”

“Nasty,” Genevieve said.

“An animal.” René spat into the fire.

“Strange,” she said. “He doesn’t look Priem’s sort.”

“And what sort would that be?” Craig demanded.

René said, “Priem despises him and shows it.”

Craig picked up a large brown envelope and handed it to her. “You’ll find background information on every individual you’re likely to run into in there. Study it as if your life depends on it, because it does.”

There was a knock at the door and Julie looked in. “The hairdresser is here.”

“Good,” Craig said. “We’ll carry on later.” As Genevieve started to move away, he added, “Before you go—just one more picture. Chief architect of the Atlantic Wall defence system. The man you’ll be playing hostess to this weekend at Château de Voincourt.”

He placed, very carefully on the table in front of her, a photo of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. She stood there, staring down at it in astonishment and Munro stood up and crossed to her, his papers in his left hand.

“So you see, my dear Genevieve, I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that what you could accomplish for us this weekend might very well affect the course of the entire war.”

THE HAIRDRESSER WAS
a small, rather dapper, middle-aged man with black hair and white sideboards called Michael, and Julie obviously knew him quite well.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Remarkable—really quite remarkable,” when he first saw Genevieve.

He opened a scuffed brown suitcase that was filled with all sorts of things, make-up mostly, and took out a cardboard folder.

“I’ve studied the file, but this is even better than I’d hoped.” He removed his beige cord jacket, took out a comb and a cut-throat razor from the suitcase. “Let’s get started then.”

“You couldn’t be in better hands,” Julie told her as she covered her shoulders with a towel. “Michael was senior makeup man at Elstree Film Studios for years.”

“Quite right,” he said, stroking the comb through her hair. “I was with Sir Alexander Korda and I worked on Mr. Charles Laughton when he did Henry the Eighth. Now there was a job, I can tell you. Took hours, every morning. Of course, at my age you have to take life a little easier. I run a theatre in Falmouth now. Different show every week. We get plenty of sailors in, being a naval base, which is nice.”

As she watched in the mirror, she changed into Anne-Marie minute-by-minute. Not just the hair, that was easy, although he knew exactly what he was doing. There was the shade of lipstick, the rouge he carefully put on her cheeks, the mascara on the eyelashes and the perfume, Chanel No. 5, one that Genevieve never used herself.

The complete transformation took him about an hour and a half. When he had finished he nodded, obviously satisfied.

“Beautiful, though I do say it myself.” He took out a small make-up case in Moroccan leather. “Everything you need in there, dear. Remember to put plenty on. That’ll be your biggest problem. You’ll skimp it because you’re not the sort who uses much make-up, I can see that.” He snapped the case shut and patted Julie’s cheek. “Must fly. I’ve got a show tonight.”

The door closed behind him. Genevieve sat looking at herself.
Me and yet not me,
she thought.

Julie offered her a cigarette. “Have a Gitane.” She began
to refuse and Julie said, “Anne-Marie would. You’ll have to get used to the idea.”

Genevieve took the cigarette and the light which she was offering her and coughed as the smoke caught the back of her throat.

“Good,” Julie said. “Now go and show yourself to Craig. He’s in the basement, at the shooting range, waiting for you.”

THE DOOR TO
the cellar was next to the green baize one that led to the kitchen and when she opened it, she could hear the sound of shooting. The firing range had been made out of two cellars, part of one wall having been removed. The far end was brilliantly lit to reveal a row of cardboard figures resembling German soldiers against sandbags. Craig Osbourne was standing at a table loading a revolver, several other weapons laid out before him. He heard her approach, glanced over his shoulder casually, then froze.

“Good God!”

“Which obviously means I’ll do.”

His face was quite pale. “Yes, I think you could say that. It’s quite astonishing. Still.” He snapped the revolver shut. “You say you’ve never done any shooting before?”

“I fired an air rifle once at a funfair.”

He smiled. “Nothing like starting from scratch. I’m not going to try and do more than explain the two handguns you’re most likely to come across and how you should fire them.”

“From as close as possible, isn’t that what you said?”

“You think it’s easy, like in some cowboy film? Okay, let’s see what you can do.” He gave her the revolver. “Not too far, only fifteen yards. Aim for the middle target. All you do is squeeze the trigger.”

It was very heavy, which surprised her, but her hand fitted round the butt quite easily. And then there was the challenge, of course, to show him what she could do. She extended her arm, closed one eye, squinted along the barrel, pulled the trigger and missed completely.

“It’s always a shock the first time,” he said. “You don’t think it’s possible. I mean, how could you miss a man who is standing that close. Oh, and keep both eyes open.”

He turned, dropping into a crouch, the revolver extended, taking no apparent aim that she could see, firing very rapidly. As the echoes died away, she saw a neat pattern of four holes in the heart of the middle target. He stayed there for a moment, full of power and control, a kind of efficient deadly weapon. When he turned to look at her, she saw only the killer in the grey eyes.

“Now that would take some considerable practice.” He placed the revolver down and picked up two other guns. “The Luger and the Walther are both automatic pistols and used a great deal by the German Army. I’ll show you how to load them and how to shoot them. There isn’t much more I can do in the time. I mean, this sort of thing isn’t your cup of tea, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Genevieve said calmly.

He spent twenty minutes patiently showing her how to load a cartridge clip, how to ram it home and how to cock the gun for firing. Only when she had proved that she could do that did he take her forward to the other end of the range.

It was a Walther she was using now with a Carswell silencer on the end, specially developed by SOE for silent killing. When fired, it made only a strange coughing sound.

They stopped a yard from the targets. “Close to your man,” he said, “but not too close in case he tries to grab you, remember that.”

“All right.”

“Now hold it waist-high, shoulders square, and squeeze, don’t pull.”

She closed her eyes when she fired, in spite of herself, and when she opened them again, saw that she’d shot the target in the stomach.

“Very good,” Craig Osbourne said. “Didn’t I tell you it was easy as long as you stand close enough? Now, do it again.”

SHE SPENT THE
late afternoon and early evening going over those background notes again and again until she really felt she knew her facts about all those people, then went to join René for another long session in the library.

Afterwards, there was dinner in the kitchen with Craig, Munro and René and Julie’s cooking was superb. They had steak and kidney pudding, roast potatoes and cabbage and an apple pie to follow. There was also wine on the table, a very good red Burgundy, although even that didn’t bring Craig out of himself. He seemed moody and preoccupied and the atmosphere was strained.

“A superbly traditional English meal.” Munro kissed Julie on the cheek. “What a sacrifice for a French woman.” He turned to Craig. “I think I’ll take a walk down to the pub. Care to join me?”

“I don’t think so,” Craig said.

“Suit yourself, dear boy. How about you, René? Fancy a drink?”

“Always,
mon Général.”
René laughed and they went out together.

Julie said, “I’ll bring coffee up to the Blue Room. Craig, show Genevieve the way.”

It was a pleasant sitting room next to the library with comfortable furniture and a fire burning and there was a rather nice grand piano.

Genevieve lifted the lid, fitting the rod under carefully. There had been a time when this was what she had wanted to do more than anything else in the world, but then life rarely came out the way one expected it.

She started to play a Chopin prelude, deep, slow, crashing chords in the bass and the infinitely sweet crying of death at the top. Julie had come in with the tray and put it down by the fire and Craig came forward and leaned on the end of the piano, watching Genevieve.

His eyes were questioning as she started to play “Claire de Lune,” beautifully, achingly sad. She played well—better, she told herself, than she had done in a long time. When she finished and looked up, he had gone. She hesitated, put the lid down and went after him.

SHE COULD SEE
him at the bottom of the steps on the terrace in the dark, smoking. She moved down and leaned against the parapet.

“You were good,” he said.

“As long as I stand close enough?” Genevieve asked.

“All right,” he said. “So I’ve given you a hard time, but that’s how it’s got to be. You don’t know what it’s like over there.”

“What do you want, absolution?” she said. “I’ve got to go, you said so yourself. There’s no choice, because there is no one else. It’s not your fault. You’re just an instrument.”

He got to his feet and threw the cigarette end down. It rolled into the gravel and glowed red. “We’ve a full day
tomorrow,” he said. “You’ve to see Munro again in the morning. Time for bed.”

“I’ll be in soon.” She reached for his sleeve. “And thanks for acting like a human being for once.”

His voice, when he replied, was strange. “Don’t be kind to me now, not now. We haven’t finished with you yet.”

He turned and went inside quickly.

THEY CAME FOR
her in the night. It was a rude awakening. A flashlight in her eyes, the bedclothes thrown back and then she was pulled upright.

“You are Anne-Marie Trevaunce?” a voice demanded harshly in French.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” She was thoroughly angry, tried to get up and received a slap across the face.

“You are Anne-Marie Trevaunce? Answer me.”

And then she realised that both of them, the shadowy figures just beyond the circle of light, were in German uniform and the reason for the whole nightmare struck her.

“Yes, I’m Anne-Marie Trevaunce,” she said in French. “What do you want?”

“That’s better—much better. Now, put your robe on and come with us.”

“
YOU ARE ANNE-MARIE
Trevaunce?”

It must have been the twentieth time they had put that question to her as she sat at the table in the library, blinded by the hard, white lights which they turned into her face.

“Yes,” she said wearily. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“And you live at Château de Voincourt with your aunt?”

“Yes.”

“Your maid, Maresa. Tell me about her family.”

She took a deep breath. “Her mother is a widow and has a small farm about ten miles from the Château. She works it with one of her sons, Jean, who is a bit simple. Maresa has another brother called Pierre who is a corporal in a French tank regiment. He’s working in a labour camp in Alderney in the Channel Islands.”

“And General Ziemke—tell me about him.”

“I’ve told you about him—all about him, at least four times.”

“Tell me again,” the voice said patiently.

SUDDENLY, IT WAS
over. Someone walked across to the door, and switched the main light on. There were two of them, as she had thought, and in German uniform. Craig Osbourne was standing by the fire lighting a cigarette.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Very funny,” she said.

“You can go to bed now.” She turned to the door and he called, “Oh, Genevieve?”

She turned to face him again. “Yes?” she said wearily.

There was a heavy silence, they looked at each other. She’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

“Try not to do that over there, won’t you?” he said calmly.

In the morning, it seemed like a nightmare. Something which had never happened. One of the most frightening things about it had been the mingling of personalities that she had begun to feel. The constant insistence that she
was
Anne-Marie Trevaunce was something that she’d almost come to believe herself during the moments of most intense strain.

She sat at the window, smoking a Gitane, coughing a little less now and gradually it grew lighter and the first orange-yellow of the sun slipped up amongst the pale trees and glinted on the lake down there in the hollow.

What happened next was impulse. She found an old towelling robe hanging behind the bathroom door, put it on and went out. The hall was silent and deserted when she went down the main stairway, but there were kitchen noises somewhere at the rear of the house, Julie’s voice raised in song, muffled and indistinct beyond the green baize door.