Early One Morning (19 page)

Virginia checked the wardrobe. Empty but for a feather boa and some kind of black corset. And a whip. She flung back the shutters, but the window was barred, heavy substantial rods of iron set close together.

She heard footsteps and low voices in the hall and sat down quickly on the edge of the bed, trying to compose herself. Don’t look scared, they’d said. Any weakness—

‘Ah. Miss Laurent. If that is your name. Welcome.’ She looked up and the fleshy face beamed at her. ‘I am Sturmbannführer Keppler of the Sicherheitsdienst. This—’ he indicated the tall handsome man next to him, ‘is my colleague Obersturmführer Neumann.’

Neumann glared at her, and she was shocked to see such hatred coming from such beautiful blue eyes.

‘I apologise for the unusual surroundings,’ continued Keppler, ‘but you have arrived outside office hours.’

‘My name is Yolande—’

‘Stop it,’ barked Neumann in heavily accented English, making her start. ‘Do not insult our intelligence. Your name is nothing of the sort.’ He pulled up a chair and sat astride it. ‘You have a training name, a code name and a cover name. And a real name.’ He waited for this to sink in. She was beginning to shake slightly. Above them a bed began to move rhythmically, unmistakably, as the business of the house went on as usual. ‘You think you are the first spy to come here?’

There was moaning now, a woman. She tried to figure out if it was French or English moaning before she realised she was being ridiculous. Or perhaps it was the best thing to do, to keep concentrating on the absurdities.

Neumann sensed her drifting and shouted: ‘Spy! What a disgusting occupation for a woman. Beneath the lowest, disease-infected whores in this place. Spies. You know what we do to spies? Do you? What fun we can have?’

Her throat was dry but she managed to say: ‘My name is Yolande Laurent, I work at—’

The blow took her by surprise, spinning her half off the bed and bringing tears to her eyes. She pushed herself back up, sniffed and said, ‘My name is—’

The second blow threw her to the floor and she stayed there, waiting for the stinging and throbbing to subside, coughing as she tried to catch her breath.

‘Neumann,’ said Keppler calmly. ‘That’s enough. Get out.’

‘I—’

‘Out. Go and enjoy yourself somewhere else.’

Then she knew what this was. Even as she rubbed at the burning patch on the side of her face, she heard the voices of the instructors at Beddington break through the shock and the terror. Expect the brutal young interrogator and the kindly older one. Except kindly wasn’t a word she would apply to those piggy eyes in a jowly face. But that was the routine they were running through, for sure. Her spirits lifted a notch. Knowledge was control.

‘I know what you are thinking. That old bad-man, good-man routine.’ Keppler smiled weakly at her, and she felt the little knot of courage dissipate. ‘Sorry. We are both bad men as far as you are concerned. Neumann, you know, was the son of a concierge in Hamburg. All those comings and goings. Grew up spying on people. And with a dislike of the rich, privileged Jews who looked down on his mother. Just think how he felt when he was given the chance to be paid for getting his own back on such people. Me? Born in Austria but joined the German police force, even though they ridiculed my accent. I was a detective in Karlsruhe before I joined the party in 1935. So, I suppose my methods are more traditional than Neumann’s. But the fact is, we both want our questions answered …’ He helped her from the floor on to the bed, and she composed herself.

‘My name is …’

‘Please,’ he barked at her, raising his hand, causing her to flinch. He dropped it to his side. ‘Please. If you can’t say anything else, don’t say anything at all.’

Keppler began to pace and allowed a warm glow of satisfaction to fill his belly. This was something he enjoyed, showing his colleagues that, although he knew their more extreme methods had their place, his ten years as a cop had taught him there were less invasive ways. The salted food/no water trick, for instance. It took a little longer than the current favourite of dunking spies in scalding and freezing baths and holding them under till they nearly drowned, but it had an elegance such crude brutality lacked. A man dying of thirst can be most eloquent when a glass of water is just out of his reach.

‘The Hotel Victoria in Northumberland Avenue.’

She looked up at him.

‘Interviewed there by a Major. Didn’t give his name. Am I right? That was your recruitment into SOE. From there, a month or so of observation, to check you were the “right sort”, fitness training at Arisaig Commando School. Then on to Guildford for tradecraft or Ringway for parachute training or vice versa. Finished at … Beaulieu? No, Beddington probably. Kept in holding house at Farnham. Orchard Court near Baker Street just before dispatch. Do they still have Parks the butler there? So English. Even the spies have butlers. Let’s see, who would have been dispatching officer? Vera Atkins perhaps? Bodington? Miller? No matter, always the same drill—check you are French down to your fingertips.’

He reached out and snatched her hand before she had a chance to hold back and admired her nails. ‘Very nice. So. You see, as my friend suggested, there is little we don’t know.’

‘My name is Yolande—’ she began weakly.

‘Your name is not important. Look, how do you think we know all these details? We have Arthur Lock, an Englishman, a hero to half the misguided Resistance, a loyal worker to us. We have at least three other SOE agents helping us. Five radio operators transmitting back under our guidance. The only reason we don’t arrest every damn one of you is that you would send in another lot. This way, we get to keep you under observation until we are good and ready to haul you in. It’s a game, Miss whoever you are. And we are winning. Your choice is to talk to me, or spend some time with Neumann.’

The woman upstairs was panting now, loud exhalations building to a theatrical climax.

‘And if I tell you to go to hell?’ she said with a bravery she tried to summon up from her twitching insides.

‘Ha.’ Keppler threw the brown envelope on the bed next to her. He waited until her eyes flicked down to the small package. ‘From your jacket lining. What I believe you call your L pill. Cyanide, isn’t it? Fast and painless. At least—that’s what they tell you. I wonder how they know. Who has come back to say—“actually, old chap, hardly hurt at all”. But if you want to find out, be my guest. I won’t try to stop you. Another drop of agents is due next full moon. I can wait for them.’

As the panting became faster she reached out for the envelope, her hand hovering over it. The L pill. All of them had listened solemnly while they were told when and where and how to use it. Better to die silent, like a good Englishwoman.

She flipped open the envelope and took the pill in her fingertips, wondering if the poison was already seeping through into her bloodstream. She looked straight at Keppler, trying to calm the howling within, so she at least looked defiant, opened her mouth as wide as she would at the dentist and tossed the cyanide to the back of her throat. He didn’t so much as blink.

Her dry throat tried to swallow, get the pill down, to let it take her before she changed her mind. But her body had already decided for her. Virginia’s oesophagus had crushed itself flat, refusing to accept the deadly parcel. As she gulped and gulped, pushing the tiny tablet to the back of her throat, the retching reflex kicked in and she began to choke and cough.

Her eyes felt as if they were bursting out of her head and a metal band closed on her temples. She leaned over the bed and watched the half-dissolved pill slide off her tongue and onto the carpet.

God, had she taken enough into her bloodstream? Or was she going to live after all, because suddenly, irrationally, looking at the small, effervescing white disc, she wanted to live more than ever and hated herself for it.

Keppler picked up the harmless, saliva-covered piece of chalk, smiled, and popped it into his own mouth. ‘Well done. A good try. But you don’t want to die, do you? It would be such a waste of a young life.’

She began to cry just as the woman overhead orgasmed with a ridiculous flamboyance, the hideous loveless sound filling Virginia’s brain to the exclusion of all else.

PARIS, MARCH
–
APRIL 1942

R
OBERT EXITED THE
Metro at Raspaill, having stayed on past Montparnasse when he saw the amount of gendarme activity on the platform. A couple of greasy-haired
zazous
, the long-haired, jazz-loving youths, were being roughed up and, as a spin-off, papers demanded from random passers-by. Not that he had anything to worry about, strictly speaking, but like most people he had no desire deliberately to expose himself to the whim of the police, especially when their gander was up after the insolence of the
zazous.

He emerged out on to the street, his breath coming in clouds as he walked across the frost-crisped grass of the Montparnasse cemetery. Spring was a long time coming. Many months had passed since the message from Beatrice, so long he was beginning to think it was a hoax, until this cryptic message arrived to send him back to Montparnasse for the first time in over a year.

His route took him through the cemetery, past the fluttering notices pinned to the trees warning about cooking cats—the cemeteries had become a favourite hunting ground for the contents of feline stews—and past benches with their ‘Forbidden to Jews’ plaques and into Avenue du Maine, slowly making his way north to rue de Vaugirard.

A few foolish feeble buds were showing on the plane trees, but for the most part it could still be deepest January. It was as if Paris was hibernating. The dark mornings, thanks to the switch to Berlin time, the power cuts, the blackout, it felt like living in a city of perpetual twilight, its spark permanently dimmed. Not even the news of the Americans entering the conflict had brightened the coldest months or brought a glimmer of cheer to Christmas.

Now he was at the small series of dead-end alleys, the
impasses
, that ran off rue de Vaugirard, and he could feel eyes staring at him from the long, grey queues that had formed outside the butchers’ shops as he glanced down each cul-de-sac, looking for his rendezvous. The lines didn’t move, except perhaps to contract and expand slightly, like a human concertina, as gossip and rumour and innuendo flowed back and forth.

The Café Cuisse was a long, dingy corridor of a place down the last
impasse
, its presence signalled by a shabby sign of a happy butcher. Robert waited outside the entrance for a second, peering into the gloom, then entered. The smell hit him immediately, the metallic, coppery tang of blood. A few of the regular clients were at the bar, manfully sipping what passed for coffee and washing it down with rough brandy. All wore large leather aprons, stained with red blots of accumulated equine blood, and wicked-looking knives hanging from the belts that were slung under their ample guts.

One of them eyed Robert cautiously and, apparently satisfied, went back to his drink. It was a good place for a meet. Given the choice of hanging round the Coupole or Select or taking your chances with surly cleaver-carrying horse butchers who were the main clients of the local cafés, most Germans and their stooges would opt for the former.

The proprietor gave Robert a coffee without his asking and indicated towards the rear, where, past the chipped and scuffed furniture, a lone figure sat reading a newspaper, the pages held out, obscuring his face.

The first Williams knew of Robert’s presence in the café was when the little yellow flame sprouted at the bottom of his
Figaro
, quickly spreading like a brown stain up the spine, and he had to leap to his feet and stamp out the conflagration.

Robert watched the performance with a bemused grin, leaving Williams almost too exasperated even to offer a greeting to his old friend. He held out his arms and Robert fell into them and Williams thumped his back until he felt his ribs would crack under the onslaught. He pushed Will away, and put his hands on his shoulders, marvelling at the physical change, the muscular, honed figure before him.

‘What?’ asked Robert. ‘You expected me to say all that “Giraffe Has A Long Neck” shit?’ He pulled out a chair and sat.

Williams hesitated and joined in the laughter, which drew a few sidelong glances from the counter. Such expressions were rare these days, as if joy were a culpable offence.

‘Good to see you, Will. How long have you been back?’

Williams sat down, gave his coffee a stir, even though there was no sugar to be had for it, and hesitated before telling the truth: ‘Four months.’

‘Four … you’ve been here four months? And you didn’t contact Eve?’ Robert felt a bolt of anger as Williams shook his head. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’

Williams leant forward and lowered his voice while increasing its intensity. ‘I am a pestilence, Robert. A plague. A vile disease. I can wipe out whole families, whole villages, just by my presence. Just talking to you puts you at risk.’

‘But—’

Williams raised a hand to silence him. ‘I had to get it right, Robert. I had to know which days you could order alcohol, that pastries are only available Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, get used to the ration books, know that only Germans can drive on Sunday. You’ve no longer noticed all the changes, you’ve come in so gradually. But it’s a minefield for a new arrival. Ordering a
café au lait
can be fatal.’ Robert nodded. He knew there was no milk around that month. A stranger might not. And such a blunder might draw the attention of a V-Mann of the collaborationist rue Laurent Gestapo, or the real thing.

‘So, where’ve you been?’

‘The Citroën factory. Remember Bernard the mechanic? Foreman. Got me on the assembly line for six weeks. Thanks to him all the bearings on the tank turrets go out with caccolube grease on them …’

‘Caccolube?’

‘It contains carborundum powder. The turrets work well for a few weeks, maybe months, well enough that nobody suspects sabotage, then one day …’

Robert slapped the table with joy at the thought of a Panzer tank seizing up in the heat of battle, jammed solid as a Russian tank battalion appeared over the ridge of the Steppes.