Grey Wolves (16 page)

Henderson considered this for a few moments. ‘In the short term the invasion is a good thing because Hitler can’t wage large-scale wars against Britain and Russia at the same time. But in the long term, assuming Hitler wins, he’ll have Russian territory and manpower to draw on.’

‘And we’ll be screwed,’ Marc said.

Henderson rocked his head from side to side uncertainly. ‘If Hitler deals with Russia, he can turn all his forces around and focus on a full-scale invasion of Britain. It’s probably too late for this year, but by spring ’42 he could be ready to crush us.’

‘What about the Yanks?’ Marc asked.

‘Don’t hold your breath expecting them to come to our rescue,’ Henderson scoffed. ‘But there’s no point getting depressed about it. We’re talking about maybes stacked up on a hundred more maybes. All we can do is keep calm and focus on
our
jobs.’

*

Marc sat on a cart, catching the sunlight as the hazelnut-brown horse pulled him along Lorient’s main shopping street. Dot was an old nag who’d been walking the same route for years. She knew the way and only needed a tap to get her moving between stops.

Forty women and a couple of men queued outside the butcher’s. The window display was bare and their choice was between gristly sausages and minced lamb. Marc cut to the front of the queue and walked behind the counter to collect two huge sacks filled with joints of roasting pork, lamb cutlets and veal medallions.

He peeled off several hundred francs as a couple of shoppers tutted with disgust.

‘Mind your business or piss off,’ the butcher warned them, as his boy helped Marc carry the sacks out to the cart.

The next stop was a fishmonger. Fish wasn’t rationed, but the prices put it beyond the wallets of the people queuing for meat. Marc carefully stacked boxes of fish and crates of snapping lobsters into the cart, alongside the sacks of meat, two churns of milk and crates of fruit and vegetables.

He passed a sad-looking woman with two little kids and gave them each an apple. The Germans stopped the cart at a snap checkpoint. One man inspected Marc’s identity card while the other helped himself to a handful of strawberries. They didn’t dare take more, because Madame Mercier had half the town’s senior officers in her pocket.

The final stop before turning for home was a drinking trough at the end of the street. Dot always took a ten-minute break here and wouldn’t move on until she was ready. After a long drink, Marc gave her a strawberry as a treat before she dipped her head into a bucket filled with oats and apple cores.

‘You’ll rot her teeth,’ Paul said cheerfully.

The school on the opposite side of the street hadn’t been open in months, but local kids still congregated in the area, making it the perfect spot for the two boys to pass messages.

‘That’s information on movements from Joel and some stuff me and Henderson picked up at the club,’ Marc told Paul as he handed over some papers. ‘How have you been?’

‘Boo picked up that stinking cold I had last week. Old girl on the next farm sticks her nose in more than we’d like but we reckon she’s lonely. And the transmitter’s working fine since I repaired it.’

Marc handed over a small bag of meat. ‘Nice lamb chops,’ he explained. ‘
Madeline II
came in OK, so I expect your new radio will have arrived.’

Paul nodded. ‘Rosie got a message. She’s heading down to Kerneval to buy fish later and she’ll pick it up then if there are no Krauts around. Oh, and this came through for Henderson. It’s in his personal code.’

‘Oh he’ll love that,’ Marc smiled as he took the sheet of squared paper. ‘He
hates
decoding his own messages.’

*

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Henderson roared furiously, then stamped on the floor before remembering the two women in the apartment downstairs and lowering his voice. ‘What the buggery am I supposed to do with itching powder?’

Marc had been dozing, but sat up on his bed, rubbing one eye as Henderson waggled the sheet of squared paper in front of his face.

‘Read it,’ Henderson growled. ‘Just read what these deskbound morons have sent us.’

Marc took the paper. It was tissue thin, written in block capitals and full of crossings out and transcription errors where Henderson had decoded the message he’d been given by Paul.

Explosives in short supply, 1.5kg delivered. More next voyage, we hope. 18kg of itching powder, best used through local laundry. Has proved effective in Holland and brings German troops out in a severe rash when impregnated in clothes. Have discussed your access to U-boat repair facilities with experts. Please send all available information
on U-boat batteries, including detailed drawings, via
Madeline II
if possible
.

Marc tried to sound upbeat. ‘Mamba Noir sends tablecloths and staff uniforms out to the laundry. We could easily find out where the Germans have their clothes washed and get that powder put in.’

Marc recoiled as Henderson reared up. ‘I want explosives to blow stuff up with,’ he said furiously. ‘We’re not going to defeat Hitler by making people itchy.’

‘Do you want me ask a few questions about the laundry or not?’

‘I suppose,’ Henderson said.

‘And is 1.5 kilos of explosive enough to do what you want at the train depot?’

‘No,’ Henderson said. ‘But we’ve got 2kg that I brought over. We can make up a dozen or so medium-sized charges. If we get them in the right spots we can do some damage, but we won’t have a stick of explosive left over for emergencies or special targets.’

‘When would we do it?’ Marc asked.

‘Tonight’s as good as any other night,’ Henderson said. ‘A small but successful raid would boost morale amongst good men like Nicolas and Alois, and I want the pen-pushers in London to see what units like ours are capable of achieving if we’re properly resourced.’

‘How many on the raid?’

‘Four or five,’ Henderson said. ‘You and me, maybe Edith as a scout and one or two others.’

‘Joel and PT?’ Marc suggested.

Henderson shook his head. ‘You’d have to take those two out of work, which would raise suspicion. Better to use fishermen, who’ll be in port at that time of night. Alois and Nicolas are a bit old, but those two lads who work on the boat with Troy have been a big help with smuggling operations.’

‘Nicolas’ grandsons, Michel and Olivier,’ Marc said. ‘But isn’t it a risk bringing them in on something like this?’

‘It is,’ Henderson said. ‘But there’s an old expression: give a man a fish and he’ll eat, teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for ever. The locals seem to have learned what we taught them about security well enough. The next step is teaching them to stand on their own two feet.’

‘But how will we get a team together by tonight?’ Marc asked. ‘Won’t we be better off with more preparation?’

‘It’s swings and roundabouts,’ Henderson explained. ‘The more you scout the area, the greater the chance of being seen. The more notice you give your operatives, the more chance there is for tongues to flap or people to get a dose of nerves.

‘I took a walk up to the engine yard on my day off last week. There’s a chain-link fence that’s easily cut and a French watchman who never leaves his shed. The nearest German presence is at the roadblocks on the edge of town and in the next station down the line over a kilometre in the other direction. By the time they hear the explosions and come running, we’ll be long gone.’

It was a twenty-minute bike ride from the peasant cottage Rosie shared with Paul and Boo to the fishing wharf at Kerneval. The groups knew as little about one another’s activities as they could get away with, so as Rosie stood under a dilapidated roof watching her fish being wrapped in newspaper, she had no idea that an agent had hosed down in this exact spot the night before.

With the parcel of fish in the basket between the handlebars, Rosie pedalled uphill, passing two streets before turning right. The sun was hot, but the breeze made it bearable. She’d spent so much of the last month cooped up in the little cottage sending radio messages back and forth that it was good to feel her heart pumping.

When she reached number twenty-five she took a quick glance around before raising the latch on the side gate, leaning her bike next to a couple of metal dustbins and walking into the back yard.

There was a woman pegging out washing a couple of gardens down, so Rosie dipped her head below the level of the fence as she headed towards the outhouse. The stench made her gag as she opened the creaking door. The facilities comprised a broad plank with a hole in, directly over an open sewer pipe that ran downhill to the harbour.

She sent a dozen bluebottles into the air as she grabbed a key hanging from a rusty water pipe. After using it in the back door, Rosie was surprised to find herself in a bright open space, lit through large skylights. There were stacks of blank and unfinished canvases resting against the walls, most depicting the same woman in a variety of nude poses as she rested on the purple chaise at the far end of the room.

The radio she’d come for was in a leather case, stacked alongside bags and boxes of equipment that had been delivered by
Madeline II
and the trawler
Istanbul
the day before. The case was smaller than expected and a tug on the handle revealed that it was only half the weight of their current set.

Rosie should have picked it up and left immediately, but she was fascinated by the canvases and began flipping through.

‘The artist was an Austrian Jew,’ PT said. ‘Fled here, then went off to America.’

Rosie spun around with her hands clutched to her chest. ‘Bloody hell, you scared the daylights out of me!’

‘He didn’t get time to pick up any of his paintings,’ PT explained. ‘But he left a key with Alois’ daughter and we’re pretty sure he won’t be back any time soon.’

‘Oh yes!’ Rosie gasped. ‘I only saw her for a few minutes the night we arrived, but I thought the girl in the paintings looked familiar. Paul would absolutely love it in here, with the easel and the blank canvases.’

‘So do I get a hug or what?’ PT asked.

Rosie laughed, then they hugged tightly and started to kiss. They hadn’t seen each other for almost a month.

‘God I’ve
missed
you,’ PT said, as he grabbed Rosie’s bum and pushed her against the back of the chaise. ‘Thinking about you is the only thing that’s keeping me sane.’

Rosie opened her mouth to let PT’s tongue in, but she wasn’t keen on his stubbly beard and the whiff of alcohol in his sweat.

‘Shouldn’t you be working?’ Rosie asked, as she pushed PT back gently.

PT looked thin and his eyes seemed desperate. ‘I can’t get you out of my head,’ he said, as he wiped the slobber off his cheek on to the cuff of his shirt. ‘I knew you were coming here to pick up the radio today. I
had
to see you.’

‘You’ve lost weight,’ Rosie said.

‘It’s the job,’ PT said. ‘Twelve-hour shifts on the roof of that bunker in the sun. It’s so boring. After an hour your legs and your back hurt from shovelling concrete and you’ve still got eleven more to go. One day we were working near the edge. All the skin on my back was blistered up with sunburn and I just thought,
if I jump off and go head first into the dockside I’ll never have to do this again
. It may sound crazy, but I was really considering it.’

‘Poor you,’ Rosie said sympathetically. ‘It’s boring working the transmitter all day with Boo, but it’s not as bad as all that.’

‘I’ll have to speak to Henderson about it, or something,’ PT said, but he cheered up when Rosie moved in close and started kissing him again.

As they snogged, Rosie backed on to the chaise. She grabbed PT’s bum, as he squeezed her breast.

‘I really love you, Rosie,’ PT said.

Rosie was touched by the emotion in PT’s voice. ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘It’s maddening, knowing you’re so near but not being allowed to see you.’

PT started pushing his hand up Rosie’s skirt. She let him get away with it because the kiss was amazing and she didn’t want it to stop, but she pulled him back when he tugged on her knickers.

‘Don’t spoil this,’ she begged, but he pushed her hand away and started dragging the knickers down her thighs. ‘Stop it, now!’

‘Come on,’ PT said softly as he nuzzled Rosie’s earlobe. ‘I’ll be really gentle. I know you didn’t like it last time, but if you relax it’ll be a hundred times better than any kiss.’

As Rosie pushed PT’s head away, he made another lunge at her knickers. She pushed his arm back, but this time he kept tugging.

‘I need to have you,’ PT said.

He still had the emotion in his voice, but now there was anger too. The stretched elastic dug painfully into Rosie’s thigh. She brought her free leg around and pushed PT gently, but when he still didn’t take the hint she gave him a shove.

PT put his hand out to save himself, but his palm missed the edge of the chaise and he rolled off, banging his elbow on the paint-spattered floorboards. Rosie shot to her feet and pulled up her underwear.

‘Why did you have ruin it?’ she said, with a slight sob in her voice.

PT clutched his elbow as he sat up. ‘It’s what men and women do.’

‘I’m not ready for that,’ Rosie said. ‘It
really
hurt when you tried before and you
swore
that you wouldn’t try and make me again.’

‘How can you not be ready?’ PT said, dismissing the idea with his hand. ‘You’re a
beautiful
young woman. You think God would have given you that sweet little body if you weren’t ready?’

‘It’s not up for debate,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m fourteen and you’re just dirty.’

‘You’re acting like a little girl,’ PT shouted, as he stamped the floor and pointed accusingly at Rosie. ‘Well I’m sixteen, OK? Girls are no good. I need a
woman
.’

‘A woman is someone you cherish,’ Rosie shouted back. ‘What you’re after is a whore.’

‘There’s a war on. For all we know a bomb will come out of the sky tomorrow and kill us both,’ PT said. ‘You’ll be dead, and you won’t even have lived.’

‘AAARGH!’ Rosie screamed, as she put her hands over her ears in frustration. ‘I can’t believe I said I loved you. You treat me like one of your con tricks: tell me what you think I want to hear and try scoring a jackpot.’