Cold Harbour (26 page)

As the
Lili Marlene
left Cold Harbour, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was arriving at Château de Voincourt and Genevieve waited at the top of the steps to welcome him with her aunt and Ziemke and his staff, Max Priem among them.

The convoy was surprisingly small considering the importance of the visitor. Three cars and four military policemen on motor cycles. Rommel was in an open Mercedes, a short, stocky man in leather greatcoat, a white scarf loosely knotted at his neck, the famous desert goggles he affected, pushed up above the peak of his cap. Genevieve watched him salute and shake hands with General Ziemke and Seilheimer, the SS Brigadier, and then Ziemke introduced her aunt. A moment later it was Genevieve’s turn.

His French was excellent. “An honour, Mademoiselle.” He looked straight into her eyes as if sizing her up and she was conscious of the power, the enormous drive. He inclined his head, raised her hand to his lips.

They moved into the hall. Hortense said to Ziemke, “We’ll leave you now, General. You have important matters to discuss, I don’t doubt. Field Marshal—we meet again this evening, I believe?”

“I look forward to it, Countess.” Rommel saluted courteously.

As they went up the stairs, Genevieve said, “In 1942, certain sections of the great British public were asked to name their choice as the most outstanding General around. Most of them chose our friend down there.”

“Now you know why,” Hortense said. “I want to talk to you, but not inside. The old summerhouse in fifteen minutes.”

She went to her room. When Genevieve opened her door, Maresa was just finishing making the bed. “I’m going for a walk,” Genevieve said. “Find me something warm to wear. There’s a nip in the air.”

Maresa went to the wardrobe and produced a hunting jacket with a fur collar. “Will this do, Mamselle?”

“I think so.” The girl was very pale, her eyes sunk into their sockets a little. Genevieve said, “You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

“Oh, Mamselle, I’m so frightened.”

“So am I,” Genevieve told her, “but I will do what I have to and so will you.”

She held her firmly by the shoulders for a moment. Maresa nodded wearily. “Yes, Mamselle.”

“Good,” Genevieve said. “You can lay out the white evening dress. I’ll wear that tonight.”

She left her there, looking thoroughly miserable, and went out.

IT WAS PLEASANT
in the garden with a hint of spring in the air, green grass under the trees, the sun filtering through in odd patterns, turning the leaves to gold. An unexpected moment of peace. She went through an archway in the grey stone wall and found Hortense sitting on the edge of the fountain, the white summerhouse behind her. There was green moss on its walls, a couple of windows were broken.

“I used to be happy here,” Genevieve said. “When we were very small you would give us tea in the summerhouse.”

“Everything passes.”

“I know. It’s very sad.”

“Give me a cigarette,” Hortense said. “I think I prefer it in decay. That moss, for instance. Dark green on white. It creates an atmosphere that wasn’t here before. A sense of things lost.”

“Philosophy in your old age?”

There was a gleam of amusement in her aunt’s eyes. “Stop me if it happens again.” One of the prowler guards passed a few yards away, a machine pistol slung from his shoulder, an Alsatian straining on a steel chain. “You heard what happened last night?”

“I saw it.”

“A bad business. Philippe Gamelin from the village. He’s been poaching the estate for years. I asked Ziemke to go easy on him, but he insists they must make an example in the interests of future security.”

“What will they do to him?”

“Oh, he’ll be sentenced to some labour camp, I suppose.” She shivered in distaste. “Life becomes daily more unpleasant. I wish to God the Allies would hurry up and make this landing we’ve all been promised for so long. Still—what about tonight? You know exactly what you are about?”

“I think so.”

“Not think, child. You must know.” Hortense shaded her eyes and looked up to the front of the house and the Rose Room. “From your balcony to the terrace is what? Twenty feet? You are certain you can manage it?”

“Since I was ten years of age,” Genevieve assured her. “And in the dark. The brickwork beside the pillar stands out like the steps in a ladder.”

“Very well. The ball is supposed to commence at seven. They don’t want to be too late as Rommel is driving to Paris overnight. I shall come down just before eight. I suggest you slip away to your room as soon after that as you can.”

“Maresa has arranged to meet Eric here in the summerhouse at eight.”

“Well, whatever her charms, I wouldn’t count on her holding him for more than twenty minutes,” Hortense said. “Chantal will be waiting in your room to give you any assistance you need.”

“If everything works, I should be in the library, take my pictures and out again inside ten minutes,” Genevieve said. “Back downstairs at the ball by eight-thirty, the safe locked behind me and nothing missing and no one will know a thing about it.”

“Except us,” Hortense said with a cold smile, “and that, my love, I find eminently satisfying.”

IT WAS JUST
before six, the light fading as the
Lili Marlene
sailed boldly in towards the deserted pier at Grosnez. There was a slight mist, but the sea was calm and the Kriegsmarine ensign hung limply from the jackstaff. Langsdorff was at the wheel and Hare checked the shore with glasses.

“Yes, there they are.” He laughed softly. “Now there’s
cheek for you. He’s brought two vehicles. Looks like a Kubelwagen and a black sedan and they’re in uniform.

He passed the glasses to Craig who focused them on the pier. There were three men in German Army uniforms standing by the Kubelwagen. Grand Pierre leaned against it, smoking a cigarette.

“He’s got style, this one, you have to admit that,” Craig said. “I’d better go below and change.”

He left the wheelhouse and Hare said to Langsdorff, “Dead slow.”

He went down to the deck where the crew were already at battle stations, all guns manned, and went below. When he went into the tiny cabin, Craig was buttoning the tunic of the Waffen-SS uniform.

Hare lit a cigarette. “You feel okay about this?”

Craig said, “In all those books I read in my teens, the hero always went back for the girl. It kind of programmed my thinking. Doesn’t really leave me with much choice.” He was ready now, a belted Walther at his waist, the silver SS buckle gleaming. He put on his cap. “Will I do?”

“Who in the hell from a military policeman on the road to a gate guard is going to query you in uniform like that?” Hare said and led the way out.

As they coasted in to the lower jetty, Grand Pierre came down the steps to meet them, as disreputable as usual. He smiled, “Good heavens, takes me back to costume parties when I was at Oxford. You do look dashing, Osbourne.”

“I want to make one thing clear,” Craig said. “This one’s a private affair. We’ve come for the girl on our own initiative.”

“Save it, old son. Julie Legrande managed to put me in the picture. To be honest, my people weren’t too keen to get involved. I mean, the life of one young woman, British agent or otherwise, is of little importance to them. They’re
used to a rather high body count that includes their own families on occasion. Still I do have certain powers of persuasion. I’ve got you a rather nice Mercedes and a Kubelwagen with three of my lads in uniform to escort you. Nice touch that. They’ll peel off when you get to the Château.”

Craig said, “You’re going to hang around?”

“Why, yes, up there in the woods with some of my rascals. Does the boat stay?”

Hare turned to Langsdorff. “Some sort of engine repair, I think?”

Langsdorff nodded. “Dark soon, anyway, Herr Kapitän.”

“God knows when we’ll get back,” Craig said.

“We’ll be here.” Hare smiled.

The crew waited silently. Craig gave them a punctilious salute. “Men,” he said in English. “It’s been an honour to serve with you.”

Those on deck sprang to attention. Only Schmidt replied. “Good luck, guvnor. Walk all over the bastards.”

They went up the steps to the upper level and approached the cars. Grand Pierre said in French to the three in German Army uniform, “Right, you rogues, look after him. If you cock it up, don’t come back.”

They grinned and got in the Kubelwagen. Craig slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes.

Grand Pierre said, “Take care now. Off you go. It’s a ball they’re having tonight, by the way. Sounds fun. Wish I could join you, but I don’t have my dinner jacket with me.”

The Kubelwagen moved away and Craig switched on the ignition of the Mercedes and followed, Grand Pierre growing smaller in the driving mirror, disappearing altogether as he started up the hill.

THE DRESS WAS
really beautiful, some sort of white silk jersey material that was more than flattering. Maresa helped Genevieve into it then placed a towel round her shoulders as she sat down to finish making-up.

“Have you seen René today?” Genevieve asked her casually.

“I don’t think so, Mamselle. He wasn’t in the servants’ hall for his evening meal. Shall I send someone to look for him?”

“No, it’s not important. You’ve got enough to think about. You know what you have to do? You’re sure?”

“Meet Eric in the summerhouse at eight and keep him there as long as I can.”

“Which means at least twenty minutes,” Genevieve said. “Anything less is no good.” She patted the girl’s cheek. “Don’t look so worried, Maresa. A joke we’re playing on the General, that’s all.”

The girl didn’t believe it, Genevieve could see, not that it mattered. She picked up her evening bag, smiled reassuringly and went out.

THE BALL WAS
being held in the Long Gallery and they had really made an effort, there was no doubt about that. When Genevieve went in, everyone seemed to be there already. The chandeliers gleamed, there were flowers and a small orchestra played a Strauss waltz. There was no sign of Rommel, but General Ziemke was standing with Seilheimer and his wife. When he saw Genevieve, he excused himself and crossed the floor, the dancers moving out of his way.

“Your aunt?” he said anxiously. “She is coming down? There is nothing wrong?”

“Not as far as I know. What about the Field Marshal?”

“He was here a moment ago, but was called away for a phone call from Berlin. The Führer himself, apparently.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “We have many people here that you know. The Comboults for instance.”

There they were on the opposite side of the room. Maurice Comboult, Papa Comboult to his workers, with his wife and daughter. Five vineyards, two canning factories and another manufacturing agricultural machinery. The richest man in the district, growing even richer out of collaborating with the Germans. Genevieve barely swallowed her anger.

Field Marshal Rommel appeared in the doorway, Priem beside him and Ziemke said, “Excuse me for a moment.”

The young Lieutenant of the night before, the one who was such an excellent dancer, approached, and asked her for the next waltz. He was as good as ever and when the music stopped, offered to fetch her a glass of champagne.

She stood by a pillar, waiting for Hortense to appear and Priem said from behind, “I would not have thought any improvement possible, but you look especially beautiful tonight.”

“That’s nice,” she said and found that she meant it.

The band began to play another waltz, he took her in his arms without a word and they started to dance. Behind him, she could see her Lieutenant watching reproachfully, a glass of champagne in each hand.

The music seemed to go on for ever and there was an air of total unreality to everything, sounds muted as if under water. There was just the two of them, the rest clockwork figures only. The waltz came to an end finally, there was some sporadic clapping. No sign of Rommel now, but Ziemke was there and beckoned to Priem who excused himself and left.

It was at that moment that Hortense chose to make her entrance. Her face was like sculptured marble, her beautiful red-gold hair piled high on her head. Her gown of midnight blue velvet swept the floor, a perfect contrast to that live hair and those liquid eyes.

Conversation died as people turned to look and Ziemke hurried along the length of the gallery to meet her, bowing over her hand. Then he gave her his arm and escorted her to the far end where a group of Louis Quatorze chairs had been strategically placed.

Genevieve glanced at her watch. It was exactly five minutes to eight and as the orchestra struck up again, she moved back through the crowd, opened the door to the music room, and slipped inside.

She had intended it as a short cut to the hall and instead, received the shock of her life for Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was seated in a chair by the piano smoking a cigar.

“
AH, IT IS
you, Mademoiselle.” He stood up. “Had enough already?”

“A headache only,” she said, her heart pounding and unthinkingly ran a hand across the piano keys.

“Ah, you play, how charming,” Rommel said.

“Only a little.”

She sat down, because it seemed the natural thing to do and started to play “Claire de Lune.” It made her think of Craig, that evening at Cold Harbour. Rommel leaned back in the chair, a look of intense pleasure on his face.

It was fate that saved her, for suddenly the door opened and Max Priem appeared. “Oh, there you are, sir. The telephone again, I’m afraid, Paris this time.”

“You see, Mamselle? They will not leave me in peace.”
Rommel smiled charmingly. “Later, perhaps, we may continue?”

“Of course,” Genevieve told him.

He went out. Priem smiled briefly at her and went after him. She hurried across to the other door, let herself out into the hall and went up the great stairway quickly.

CHANTAL WAS WAITING
when she entered the bedroom, black sweater and a pair of dark slacks laid out on the bed. “You’re late,” she scolded.

“Never mind that now. Just get me out of this dress.”

She got the zip down, that magnificent white creation slipped to the floor and Genevieve stepped into the slacks and pulled the sweater over her head. She slipped the silver and onyx cigarette case into one pocket with the key, a torch in the other, and turned.