Grey Wolves (15 page)

Marc pondered the fate of U-9 as he switched on the radio. Had she been sunk on the approach to Lorient, delayed by mechanical problems, or just diverted to a different port? He’d probably never know, but he’d pass the message on to Paul in the morning, and Rosie or Boo would transmit the information to London later in the day.

As the valves warmed and the radio crackled to life, he took off his tie and shirt then ran a flannel under the cold tap. His feet ached and he could smell his own socks as he slumped on to his bed and slapped the flannel over his face. The icy water trickled down his chest as the solemn voice of the BBC French Service kicked in.

‘…
high command issued a statement saying that the invasion was unavoidable as a result of a sustained and unacceptable build-up of Russian forces along the border
…’

Marc shot up off the bed in shock.

‘…
With the German attack on Russia just a few hours old it is difficult to speculate on the success or failure of the endeavour. However, it is clear that the Reich has launched an unprecedented surprise operation against its former ally, involving thousands of aircraft and up to two million men.

‘
In Berlin, Adolf Hitler predicted that Russia’s back would be broken within three months. Prime Minister Churchill stated that Britain would do everything it could to assist Marshal Stalin and the people of Russia. The French service will be interrupting regular programs with special bulletins as the situation develops
.’

Drunks staggered and pissed in alleyways as Joel headed through moonlight into the entertainment district. After dropping the message off behind Mamba Noir, he walked a few hundred metres along the main drag to one of the all-night cafes where he could use his worker’s ration card.

He’d made friends with the elderly waitress, who always made sure there were recognisable chunks of meat in his soup and double the cheese that the other men got. But there was nothing she could do about the black bread, which was made from rough rye flour and widely believed to be adulterated with sawdust. Joel had no idea if that was true, but he would have died for a fresh-cooked baguette with butter melting inside.

It was a twenty-five-minute walk back to Alois’ place in Kerneval. Before setting off Joel decided to check out a couple of likely spots to see if PT was around and wanted to come home with him. He found him easily enough, slumped at the back of Le Petit Prince with too much drink under his skin.

Le Petit Prince was the roughest joint in a rough town. Floor awash in spit, cigarette ends and dried blood, windows boarded, mirrors smashed. It sold the cheapest beer, and the prostitutes lined up on the first-floor balcony were either too old or too young for Madame Mercier’s establishments.

‘Sit down, mate,’ PT said, then shouted towards a friend at the bar. ‘Get an extra beer in for my pal here.’

‘It’s midnight,’ Joel said. ‘You wanna walk home with me? You’ve gotta start work at seven tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow can kiss my arse,’ PT said. ‘Sit down, my feathered friend.’

Joel half smiled. He wouldn’t have minded if PT had wanted to walk home with him, but he really wanted to join in. At fourteen, staying out late and drinking seemed exciting, even in a dive like Le Petit Prince.

He settled in beside PT, who flicked off Joel’s attempt to pay for his own beer. A cheer went up as Gilles emerged from one of the rooms upstairs.

‘Ten francs well spent,’ he roared.

Joel looked up at the girls on the balcony. He’d never even kissed a girl, so the idea that he could have sex with any of them aroused, scared and disgusted him all at once.

‘Who have you got your eye on?’ Gilles shouted.

Joel pretended like he didn’t hear, but this wasn’t a good idea because Gilles was a mean drunk.

He leaned forwards and boomed in Joel’s ear. ‘I’m speaking to you, sonny.’

‘Nobody,’ Joel said nervously, as he looked down at his beer.

Gilles looked at PT. ‘Think your little brother’s ever done it with a girl?’

‘Not that I’ve seen,’ PT said.

Joel blushed as PT’s workmates jeered.

‘Little virgin,’ Gilles mocked. ‘You’re a working man now. Why not go up there and grab some fanny?’

‘One from the end,’ PT said, as he pointed up. ‘Reckon she’s only my age. Good tits, nice legs. You could do a lot worse.’

Joel blushed even more as he buried his face in his beer glass. He’d hoped PT would bail him out, not dig him in deeper.

Gilles shouted up. ‘Oi, one from the end, will you do us a good price on the young lad?’

When Joel looked up from his glass, the girl blew him a kiss. His face burned like the surface of the sun.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Gilles shouted, giving Joel a tug. ‘Go on up, she won’t bite you.’

‘She might if you pay extra,’ another of PT’s workmates shouted, to roars of laughter.

Joel half smiled, but saw a way out. ‘I’ve only got a couple of francs.’

PT peeled out two fives. ‘Take it if you want to.’

Joel reluctantly stood up and took PT’s money. The girl was making
come on up
gestures and gently cupping one of her breasts.

‘Go on, my son,’ Gilles shouted.

The place wasn’t packed, but it was busy. A few men at surrounding tables had also worked out what was going on and cheered Joel on as he walked towards the staircase. Sweat poured down his face as watching eyes bored into him.

Then he was at the bottom of the stairs. The girl was waiting at the top, but a greasy-looking man blocked his path. Joel hoped he was going to send him away for being too young or something, but he was there to take money.

‘Three francs for the room. Then you pay the girl for whatever you want her to do.’

Joel’s hands were tense and he’d scrunched PT’s five-franc notes into sweaty little balls. He flattened one out and was about to hand it over when he looked up at the girl again and wondered what he was supposed to do when he got up to the room.

Thinking he was going to spew, Joel spun around and made a run for the door, almost knocking over a barman with a tray of glasses. Bursting into fresh air he doubled over and retched, but nothing came out. As he straightened up, he could hear laughter and shouts of
Get back here
, and
Chicken
.

Joel had never felt so embarrassed. He took three quick steps before realising he was going the wrong way, then turned and headed towards the main bridge out of town.

He’d only gone thirty paces when PT shouted after him. ‘Wait up, mate. I’ll walk home with you.’

Joel didn’t slow down, so PT had to jog to catch up.

‘You forgot your tin,’ PT said.

Joel stuck the can of bread under his arm, but scowled down at the cobbles and kept quiet.

‘They’re just messing,’ PT said. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’

‘Well
you
could have stood up for me,’ Joel finally said, stopping as they turned into an alleyway. ‘Here’s your ten francs. Now go back to your mates.’

PT refused to take the money. ‘I feel bad. I saw your eyes going up her skirt. I wasn’t being shitty. I thought you
wanted
to go up there.’

‘I kind of did,’ Joel admitted. ‘But with all those guys pressuring me … And that Gilles is a dick.’

‘He’s all right, covers my back at work,’ PT said. ‘But he’s been drinking since half seven.’

‘I feel like such a prat,’ Joel said, as he started walking again.

PT tried thinking of something to make Joel feel better. ‘Probably for the best, anyway. Guy I know slept with a bunch of whores in Morocco when I was a cabin boy. He got all these sores. His dick looked like a corn on the cob.’

Joel laughed half-heartedly. ‘Really?’

‘The toilet was right next to our bunks. Whenever he took a piss he’d be screaming blue murder.’

‘So did you ever pay for sex?’

‘Me?’ PT scoffed, as they turned a corner. ‘Look at this beautiful face. I don’t have to pay for it.’

‘I’ll tell Rosie that,’ Joel said, starting to relax a little.

But he didn’t get much of a chance before two men cut off their route out of the alleyway. PT recognised the red-bearded man he’d won thirty-two francs from earlier on. This part of Lorient was a warren of little alleyways and it wouldn’t have been hard to spot PT leaving the Le Petit Prince and run on ahead.

‘Where’s your big mate now?’ red beard laughed, as he brandished a stuck. ‘Don’t think baby brother’s gonna be much help.’

‘Get out of my face, old man,’ PT said. ‘I told you not to bet. It’s your own fault.’

Red beard’s companion was heavily built. ‘Give us your money and there’s no need for anyone to get hurt.’

‘What are you, hired muscle?’ PT laughed. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you give me your money and then you won’t get hurt?’

‘Can’t talk your way out of this one, con merchant,’ red beard said. He then made a loud
OOOF
as PT kicked him in the balls.

While the old man staggered about clutching his nuts, PT swung a punch at the big thug. The thug staggered back, surprised by strength that came from combat training as much as raw physical power. But it was no knockout blow.

When the shock wore off, the big man lunged and got an arm around PT’s neck. Joel saved him by smashing the can of bread down on the thug’s head. PT’s next punch hit his temple and knocked him cold.

As the big man tripped backwards and crashed into a doorway, PT expertly launched a roundhouse kick, knocking the old man to the ground as his false teeth spun out across the cobbles.

‘Here’s your money,’ PT said, peeling notes from a fat money clip. ‘Thirty-two, minus one franc you won on the first bet makes thirty-one.’

He bent forwards and stuffed the notes in red beard’s shirt pocket, then cheekily flicked the end of his nose.

‘Happy now, you old shit?’ PT said.

He looked back as he strolled off, pumped with bravado. Joel inspected the can of bread and saw that it had a big dent. He realised PT was drunk, but still didn’t understand the mixture of generosity and nastiness.

‘Are you OK?’ Joel asked. ‘We’d better get out of here sharpish. If the patrol turns up they’ll give us a week in the cells, minimum.’

‘Nobody calls me a con merchant,’ PT said bitterly, as they walked briskly away from the scene. ‘Con merchants rob old ladies and water down booze. What I do is an art. I’m a con
artist
.’

Henderson stood by the apartment window in vest and underpants stirring his morning coffee. He’d switched the radio on and opened the curtains to let the sun in but Marc was still fast asleep. He always slept the same way, sprawled in all directions with limbs hanging over the sides. Henderson took the hot metal spoon out of his mug, crept up to the bed and dabbed it mischievously against the top of Marc’s hand.

The thirteen-year-old sprang up like a cat, rolling over, sheets flying about.

‘Morning, sweet pea,’ Henderson said, smiling at Marc’s sulking face.

‘You burned me,’ Marc complained, though an examination of his skin showed nothing but a tiny egg-shaped blotch. ‘I’m so knackered. What time is it?’

‘Quarter to seven,’ Henderson said.

Marc walked barefoot into Henderson’s room and took a long piss into his chamberpot.

‘Coffee?’ Henderson asked. ‘It’s from Mamba Noir.’

‘Yeah, seeing as it’s decent,’ Marc said.

Henderson handed Marc a mug as he came through the doorway rubbing his eyes. ‘You can get some sleep this afternoon, but the chef needs his grub and Boo needs her messages to encode.’

‘I know,’ Marc said. ‘I’ve got a message to pass on from Joel as well.’

‘I’m hoping plenty of equipment came in via
Madeline II
yesterday,’ Henderson said. ‘I asked for a good quantity of plastic explosives. All the U-boat supplies come in by train. If we can hit the main engine yard outside of town I think we could slow things right down.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Marc said, as he looked along the open front of the kitchen dresser for some breakfast options.

Mamba Noir’s nightly leftovers were fought over by the staff, but Henderson had pulled off a coup. Marc took a plate and filled it with a piece of fresh river salmon, slightly stale chunks of baguette, butter, tomatoes and a slice of cream gateau topped with tinned orange segments. It was only as he sat on his bed eating that his mind tuned in to the voice on the radio.

‘What are they saying about Russia?’ Marc asked.

Henderson shrugged as he used his teaspoon to attack the other half of the salmon. ‘Germany says it’s going well, Russia says they’re defending bravely and advancing into German territory in some areas. But it’s all propaganda. It’ll take days for anything like the truth to emerge.’

‘Do you think it’ll be a German walkover, like France last summer?’

‘Russia’s a big old lump to bite off,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s thirty times bigger than France, so it won’t be quick, but the Russian military is a real mess. We had a defector two years ago when I was with the Espionage Research Unit …’

‘What’s a defector?’ Marc asked.

‘Someone who comes over to your side,’ Henderson explained. ‘Usually someone important. He was a military attaché, Red Navy admiral. Stalin had launched massive purges against his top commanders. Sending them off to camps in Siberia or putting a bullet through their heads.’

‘Why?’

‘Paranoia mostly,’ Henderson said. ‘Mixed with a healthy dose of communist dogma about privileged elites. The point was, the admiral was terrified that his head was next on the chopping block. I met him at a conference, smuggled him back to Britain. He gave us a lot of useful intelligence, he’d even brought plans for Russian torpedoes. The designs were top-notch, but he said the service was a shambles. The most experienced units had been gutted of all the best commanders. Nobody was doing their jobs because it only took one wrong move to get a bullet through the head. The Red Army and Soviet Air Force are apparently just the same.’

‘So the Germans are gonna win?’ Marc said.

‘I’d lay my shilling on it,’ Henderson said.

‘What does that mean for Britain?’