MATT HELM: The War Years (17 page)

I reflected upon the implications of this information.  We all knew that, sooner or later, we had to carry the ground war to France.  From what Mac had said, it would happen sometime within the next few weeks and, I assumed, close to Cherbourg.  I was, by now, so used to operating in the blind that I was unaccustomed to - not to mention uncomfortable - being told so much, especially information as sensitive as this.

Mac seemed to read my mind.  With a thin smile, he said, "I thought you'd appreciate being privy to high-level strategies for a change."  The smile disappeared.  "You and Frank will be the only field agents aware of the scope of the mission, or it's importance.  Assuming of course, that somebody else doesn't leak the information.  We are going to have to use some of British Intelligence's people on this one."

I groaned inwardly.  These interdepartmental missions had a habit of turning into disasters and the loss of Gene and Derek a few months before still left a bad taste in my mouth.

Mac saw my expression and said quietly, "We have no choice, Eric.  The operation is too large for our limited resources."

"Yes, Sir.  Ours but to do or die, and so forth.  Okay, what do we do and who do we do it to?"

"We are going to take out two - and, wherever possible, three - levels of command in a single night.  Frank will be in charge of our people and you, with your superior command of French and German, will be in charge of BI's people.  You and Frank, with my limited input, will have a week to develop a plan of attack before you make rendezvous with your contact in France.  Your targets - at least currently - are in the folder you have.  Depending on how long it takes before you're given the go-ahead, some of the names may change due to transfers or leaves, but the position is the target, regardless of its current occupant.  Any questions?"

That was his usual ending to a briefing, so I gave him mine.

"No, Sir," I said.

Chapter 20

The first time I saw her was at a dinner party, which I'd been instructed to attend in order to make contact with her.  From the photo I had seen, she was almost unrecognizable, but it was Yvette, all right - expensive furs, cocktail dress and hairdo notwithstanding.  I started to walk over and introduce myself when I saw her lift her left hand casually and gracefully to brush the long dark hair back from her ear.  She wasn't looking at me, not even facing my way, and the movement was wholly natural; but I hadn't forgotten those grim months of training before they sent me out, and I knew the gesture was meant for me.  I was seeing the sign we had that meant
: I'll get in touch with you later.  Stand by.

I'd almost broken the basic rule that had been drilled into all of us, never to recognize anybody anywhere.  The stand-by signal meant business.  It meant:
Wipe that silly smile off your face, Buster, before you louse up the works.  You don't know me, you fool.
  The problem was that she was
supposed
to know me.  I was impersonating a Prussian nobleman and the cover story was that she had met me in Paris last Christmas and we would discover each other again at the party, but apparently something had changed.

I wandered around for a while, trying not to get involved in any extensive conversations.  I did attract some attention, as Prussian Counts were not as numerous in Cherbourg as they were in Paris - a fact that had been counted on to get me an invitation to the party.

Eventually, the unwitting hostess - I forget her name - came toward me with Yvette in tow and introduced us.  "Count Haufman, may I present Mademoiselle Devereaux?  She has been dying to meet you."

Yvette extended her hand with a graciousness that made me want to click my heels, bow low, and raise her fingers to my lips - which I was supposed to do, of course, and did - and might have otherwise forgotten.  This royalty business takes some practice.  Her little finger moved very slightly in my grasp, in a certain way.  It was the recognition signal, the one that asserted authority and demanded obedience.

I'd been expecting that.  I looked straight into her eyes, not responding with the correct answering signal, which I knew perfectly, but instead returning the same signal, overriding hers.  Her eyes narrowed very slightly, and she took back her hand.  You get so you can recognize them, something that betrays them to one who knows.  Even bathed and shampooed and perfumed, girdled and nyloned, Yvette had it.  I could see it and recognize it because I had it myself.

The photograph I'd seen had depicted a rather scrawny young girl with short-cropped hair and a dirty face, someone this lovely young woman in front of me would have disdained to notice.

"Charmed to meet you, Mademoiselle," I said.  Which was the literal truth.

"No, the honor is mine, Count Haufman," she replied.  "We are so glad to welcome you here in our little city."  I doubted it.

"Colonel, please," I said.   I was, of course, in dress uniform.  "The titles are so passé these days, are they not?  And I appreciate your hospitality."

"Then you must call me Charlene."

"I will be happy to, if you will call me Rolf."

This was not just politeness, of course.  It was the normal cloak and dagger games so loved by the intelligence people.  I wasn't so sure that two people first introduced to each other would get so quickly to first names, but the identification routine had been based upon us having met before, though briefly.  Fortunately we got no untoward glances from our hostess.

We took care of the obligatory pleasantries, in French of course.  There was a trace of mockery in her dark eyes as she allowed herself to be led away by the hostess to meet someone else.  I was struck by the color of her eyes, not blue, not green, but somewhere in between and very pale.  They were the shade you sometimes see in the ocean where the water is shallow enough to mute the normal blue.  I watched appreciatively as she walked away, swaying just a little more than necessary in her finery.

I glanced around quickly, back where I was watching myself every second to see how I was going over in the part I was playing, where every word I spoke could be my death warrant.  I was no longer working my facial muscles automatically; the manual control center had taken over.  I signaled for a smile and it came.  I thought it was pretty good.  I'd always been a fair poker player as a boy, and I'd learned something about acting later, with my life at stake.

I had a couple of drinks, happy to find good scotch at the bar, engaged in a few polite conversations, both in German and French, and was wondering what the hell to do next when I felt someone take my arm.  The musical voice I heard earlier said, "You look so bored, Rolf.  Let's walk out on the balcony and get some fresh air."

I let her lead me outside, to the far wall.  It was perfect springtime weather, although it appeared we were the only ones enjoying it.  The balcony - actually a second-floor patio - was large enough for a small party and we were far enough from the doorway to talk in private.

Her voice changed, becoming harder, although she continued to speak in French - I knew she spoke perfect English, but it was not the place for that language, even away from the crowd.  I don't know whether she was being professional or just enjoyed the small advantage it gave here.  My French was not nearly as good as my German, which was in keeping with my cover.

"I don't work for you," she spat.

I could play that game as well.  "Not normally, you don't.  But for the next two weeks or so, you will do as you're told.  You can't give orders without knowing the whole situation, and that's
my
job" - well, mine and Frank's, but she didn't know that.  I waited a minute, but she swallowed her next retort and remained silent.

Having made my point, I could afford to be magnanimous.  In English, I continued, "Look, I didn't mean to be so abrupt.  I didn't ask for this job, British Intelligence gave it to me, and we're going to have to work together for a little while.  Why don't we just relax and enjoy it?"  It wasn't totally a lie.  BI had given the job to someone, who gave it to Mac, who gave it to me - and Frank.

She looked around quickly, although it was obvious that no one was within hearing distance of us.  "Careful," she warned.

"It's okay, so long as we keep our voices down and smile a little.  My French isn't that good, and we don't have much time.  I don't want to misunderstand you or miss something critical."

"Very well," she agreed.

"Now, what's with the change in plan?  You were supposed to recognize me from last Christmas."

"I know, but we had a new officer assigned as second-in-command to Colonel Kiersten, one who knows me."

"So?"

"He's here at the party.  He was also with me at a party last Christmas, not in Paris, but in Marseille."

I had never been in Marseille, but I knew that it was on the Southern coast, about as far away from Paris as you can get and still be in France.  "Good thinking.  It's a good thing I haven't had a chance to tell that story to anyone.  Which one is he?"

"The tall blond Colonel.  His name is Franz Heinrich.  The shorter, dark one is Colonel Kiersten."

"I know Kiersten from his picture.  I'll pass the word about Heinrich.  Anything else I need to know?"

"No, there are no other changes in command.  Have you brought any new orders?"

She used the word
brought
deliberately, putting me in my place neatly, without leaving me room to object.  I smiled wryly and she smiled back and we were friends - sort of.

"No, I didn't
bring
any new orders.  I'm just here in case new orders are necessary and to help you out with Kiersten when the time comes, should you be out of position."  I looked at her appraisingly.  She was holding up well, but there were the telltale lines around the eyes and mouth and the look in the eyes that I had seen more often than I'd like.  It was the far look, the knowing look of a young person forced to grow up too fast, to witness - and engage in - horrifying acts and events that normally would be alien to someone of such tender years.  I'd seen eighteen-year-old kids with thirty-year-old eyes after a few months in combat.  I used to look at myself in the mirror to see if I had that same look, but I couldn't tell.  I think there was something left out of me, or I was born several hundred years too late.  I was born for this kind of work, unlike most young people of my generation.

Yvette, however, had a slightly different look.  The one that comes from too much partying, too many men and too much humiliation.  She had been in the field too long, forced to endure too much, and it showed to someone who knows.  I'm not criticizing - I felt very sorry for her.  The worst assignments aren't the ones requiring you to do something nasty; the worst assignments are the ones demanding that you
be
something nasty, for weeks and months at a time.  I knew the humiliation she must feel, seeing herself through the eyes of her fellow countrymen.

I'd seen her dossier, the parts that didn't include classified details, and knew that she had been a debutante in Paris before the war and had joined the Resistance after her father had been killed by the Germans.  Somehow, Mac had recruited her, trained her, and sent her back into France as a double agent.  British Intelligence thought she was working for them - which she was - but she also performed certain tasks for Mac.  For the past two years she had been, to put it bluntly, a high-class French whore; the plaything of high-ranking German officers.  What the supercilious dowagers and finger-pointing hypocrites didn't know was that, during that time, the information she had passed on to BI had saved countless lives.  What even BI didn't know was that she was also responsible for nine touches, four of which she had accomplished herself.  The others were set up by her for other agents.

She was acting in both capacities in Cherbourg.  She was our pipeline into the German command structure here and was also under instructions to take out Colonel Kiersten if she was in position to do so.  My secondary job was to provide her with a backup if the signal went up when she didn't have access to him.

In a way, she reminded me of Tina and a small pang of regret hit me as I remembered our week in London.  We had made some tentative plans to meet later on, if we had the chance, and some definite plans to meet in Paris after the war.