One Shot Kill (10 page)

‘These
have
to be genuine,’ the younger Hughes said.

‘Have to be,’ the older Hughes agreed. ‘We know that the Germans have been testing a pilotless flying bomb in the Baltic under the codename FZG-76. The maps in your notebook show the trajectories of test bombs.’

The younger Hughes tapped one of the hanging prints. ‘You see here? This map shows the trajectory of a dozen test flights and where they landed. Now, if you look at a later page you see the map from a more recent batch of tests. The flying bombs plotted here end up much closer to the intended target, because they’re gradually refining the guidance technology.

‘The Danish resistance has tuned into radio tracking signals sent by test bombs as they fly, giving us maps similar to these. But this notebook gives us far more detailed information on how the bomb’s navigation system is constructed, and on how the system has been refined during the development process. There’s also information about the bomb’s launch and propulsion systems which is entirely new to me.’

‘But you’ve only just seen these drawings,’ Henderson said. ‘What if you start trying this stuff in your laboratory and none of it works?’

The Hughes brothers both shook their heads.

‘This is full of things that make you say,
My god, why didn’t I think of that?
’ the younger brother explained. ‘The drawing on page six gives details of how the pilotless bomb gauges distance flown. The system is ingenious, and you only have to look at it to see that it’s an extremely valuable scientific idea.’

‘Can we take these photographs back to London?’ the older Hughes asked.

‘With my compliments,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s important that you don’t reveal the source of this intelligence, because it would compromise my agents working in France. But you both have
Most Secret
clearance.’

The Hughes brothers laughed as they began excitedly unpegging a set of photographs from the drying lines.

‘We shan’t get much sleep for the next few nights,’ Hughes younger said. ‘This is
extraordinary
.’

‘Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me,’ Henderson said. ‘I hope you have a safe return flight. Unfortunately I have urgent matters to attend to.’

Henderson rushed out and bumped into Paul and Marc, who’d been listening outside the door.

‘Good job with the photographs,’ Henderson told the boys as he headed towards the radio shack. ‘The intelligence appears to be good. Depending on the transmission sked, we should hopefully be able to get that information back to Ghost’s people in Paris by this evening.’

‘So Rosie can go back to the west and get Edith?’ Marc asked.

‘If she’s not dead already,’ Henderson said bluntly. ‘And now we know that there really is a bunker laboratory where French scientists are developing German secret weapons, I suppose our next job is to find some way to put it out of action.’

*

The Paris resistance had set Rosie up with a one-room apartment four storeys above a wine merchant’s shop. The first night she slept like the dead, but after that she’d been kept awake by nightmares. The parachute landing and the shootout at Madame Lisle’s house had been traumatic, but it was hauling Edith’s comatose body about that plagued her subconscious.

Every trip outside posed the risk of encountering a checkpoint or a detailed document inspection, so Rosie followed protocol and stayed in her room. There was no radio, but there were shelves of books and a delivery boy came by every morning with fresh bread, a bottle of milk and enough food to keep her going.

By the third night, the four walls and the smell of cigar smoke creeping up from the apartment below were doing Rosie’s head in. She sat with the window open staring at stars. It was after curfew and Paris seemed eerily quiet until two cars approached.

A chill shot through Rosie as they stopped outside. Eight black Mercedes doors opened near simultaneously, spilling a mix of German army and Paris police on to the pavement and cobbles.

Rosie felt lucky not to have been asleep. She kicked out a loose piece of skirting, grabbed the pistol hidden behind, then put it down on the end of the bed as she pulled a dress over her head and slid her feet into sandals. These were part of a new wardrobe to replace her combat boots and the ill-fitting dress she’d bought from Justin’s mum.

There was no fire escape, so Rosie’s pre-planned escape route was up to the fifth floor and out over the roof. The men were stomping up the stairs as she tucked her gun into a small leather bag and opened the door, but as she peeked into the hallway there were several shouts followed by men kicking a door two floors below.

Nobody went higher than the second floor, so Rosie backed into her room. Within seconds there were shouts as two men were dragged from the apartment. Rosie walked back to her window and saw the first young man getting pulled into the street, dressed only in his undershorts.

He might have been a criminal or someone involved with the resistance, but as he only looked about eighteen Rosie thought it most likely that he’d been hiding out to avoid compulsory labour service in Germany.

The second person dragged out was more boy than man and looked slightly comical in baggy pyjamas. Despite small stature he roared abuse and landed a punch as a policeman tried shoving him into the car. This wasn’t a wise move, because within seconds he’d been knocked down and had three cops laying into him.

‘Traitor scum,’ a woman shouted from a second-floor window. ‘They’re good boys. How can you betray your own people?’

The volley of words was followed by the contents of a piss pot. Rosie was amused, but backed off from the window in case they thought it had come from her.

As the policemen shook urine off their cloaks, two Germans charged back inside. Rosie heard a loud scream as the woman who’d thrown the pot – presumably the one who’d been sheltering the two young men – was bundled down the staircase.

Halfway down she managed to kick at another door. ‘Don’t think I don’t know who told ’em, you fat old dog,’ she shouted.

Rosie caught first sight of the woman as she came out on to the pavement. She was old enough to be the grandmother of the two men she’d been sheltering, but this didn’t stop the largest of the Germans swinging his baton full force into her ribcage. Then a couple of the piss-soaked policemen took their revenge, stomping the elderly woman as she balled up on the ground.

It was sickening and Rosie backed away from the window with her fists bunched. But it was also a reminder of why she was here, and that people like Eugene were dying for a good reason.

Rosie woke with a start four hours later. Someone was thumping on her door, and her first thought was Germans. But two double knocks and a single was the safe signal and she opened the door bleary eyed, assuming that her delivery boy had arrived early.

In fact it was Maxine Clere. Rosie had known Maxine before she’d become the legendary Paris resistance leader known as Ghost. Two years living under constant threat of arrest had made Maxine thinner and greyer, but she was still six feet tall and beautiful.

Ghost’s resistance circuit was the largest in France, centred on Paris but with operatives as far north as the Channel coast. While Eugene’s circuit in Lorient was one of many smashed by the Gestapo, Maxine’s much larger operation had seen many members arrested, but tight security meant it had stayed intact.

The core of this success lay in the fact that Maxine had made her ‘Ghost’ persona so elusive that even senior members of her own circuit had never met her, and some even questioned her existence.

Rosie wanted to say something momentous and congratulate Maxine on building up a resistance circuit that had saved the lives of hundreds of airmen and done untold damage to German operations. But she was drowsy and could only manage a rather dumb, ‘You’re up early.’

‘Irregular hours,’ Maxine said warmly, as she pulled Rosie into a hug. ‘Sometimes I hardly know if it’s night or day.’

‘I never expected to see you personally,’ Rosie said. ‘The legendary Ghost.’

Maxine laughed. ‘You can stop that bullshit! The enigmatic reputation is useful, but my importance is overestimated. If a Gestapo sniper shot me dead right now, my circuit would barely miss a beat.’

Perhaps this was true, but Rosie was too tactful to mention that the Gestapo would be far more likely to torture Maxine than to assassinate her.

‘Have you heard from Britain?’ Rosie asked.

‘All good things,’ Maxine said brightly. ‘The notebook is a document of extraordinary intelligence value. Much too valuable to be part of any Gestapo trap.’

Rosie gasped with relief as she sat back on her bed. The risks she’d taken weren’t in vain and Edith wasn’t in the hands of German stooges.

‘I should travel back to the west as soon as possible,’ Rosie said. ‘I have no idea how Edith’s doing and the way I disappeared in the dead of night must have seemed rude.’

‘They’ll understand,’ Maxine said, as she pulled an envelope from her tatty handbag.

‘Blank identity documents. There are no photographs of Edith anywhere on file, so there’s a miniature camera, squares of photographic paper and developing chemicals. Most importantly of all, six vials of penicillin.’

‘Was it easy to get hold of?’ Rosie asked.

‘We get it in air drops of American medical kits,’ Maxine explained. ‘We use it to blackmail Germans stricken with gonorrhoea. Penicillin is the only cure, and they’ll do anything not to have to go home to their wives and explain their giant, swollen balls.’

Rosie giggled at the thought, but her mood darkened when she thought of Edith.

‘I just hope Edith’s still alive when I get there,’ Rosie said.

‘There’s a train in three hours. I assume you’re happy to return?’

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You’ve been through a tough few days,’ Maxine said. ‘There’ll be no black mark against you if you say no, but I’d like you to take this operation to the next phase. You’re only sixteen, but you’ve been well trained by Henderson and you can operate a radio independently.’

Rosie looked curious. ‘What’s this next phase?’

‘We need information about the bunker,’ Maxine said. ‘I can provide a camera and film. We need to know the layout, the security arrangements, the number of men on guard, the number of scientists in the bunker, the location of the laboratory. I expect others will be sent in to help you, but to begin it will be down to you and any locals you feel able to trust.’

‘I suppose we can now say Joseph and Doctor Blanc’s loyalty is beyond question,’ Rosie said. ‘They’d probably be willing to help.’

Maxine nodded. ‘A doctor is likely to be well connected. But just because she’s on our side, doesn’t mean she’s discreet. And you’ve got to make it clear that you’re the boss, no matter
what
your age and gender.’

‘What’s the longer term aim?’ Rosie asked.

‘That depends what you find out and on subsequent decisions taken in London. The bunker could be bombed and destroyed. If it’s heavily reinforced, it may have to be sabotaged from the ground, or mined for information if we can get someone on the inside.’

‘Right,’ Rosie said, as she interlocked her fingers. ‘There’s a lot of decisions to make.’

‘Only one to begin with,’ Maxine said. ‘Are you up for this or not?’

Rosie had dropped into Lorient with an unglamorous mission to help train members of Eugene’s resistance circuit and act as a back-up radio operator. Maxine was offering something a lot meatier.

Part of Rosie wanted to take the easy route and head back to Britain. But she’d always felt that she had to work harder than the boys on campus to prove her worth, and even then she still found herself being pushed into traditionally female roles. This was her chance to put nursing courses and back-up radio operator jobs behind her and prove that she could take command as well as any man.

‘It’s what I’ve trained for,’ Rosie said determinedly. ‘I’ve already made connections in the area and if I don’t take the risks, someone else has to.’

*

The Nazis kept Paris railway stations under close watch, but the Ghost circuit had good connections amongst railway workers.

Rosie made her five-hour train journey in first class. She carried nothing but clothes and toiletries, which made her much less stressed than when she’d gone in the opposite direction a few days earlier.

A young German officer with three missing fingers flirted until mercifully he left the train at Laval. On arrival in Rennes Rosie showed her immaculately counterfeited documents to a Gendarme manning the end-of-the platform checkpoint. Then she walked to a cafe two streets away and sipped vile acorn coffee until the stoker from her train dropped a bag under her table, then disappeared before she could even say
thanks
.

It was twelve kilometres to the house where she’d left Edith and the only way out was on foot. Luckily it was dry without being too warm, and despite aching feet Rosie burst into a run as the elegant house came into view. Was Edith dead or alive?

Rosie tugged on the doorbell, but nobody answered. After a circuit of the house, she forced the same small side window she’d escaped through a few nights earlier. Her landing on the drawing-room floor was painful and she clutched a palm as she raced upstairs.

Edith was alive, but still unconscious. Some of her bruises had turned from red to grey, but the infected wounds down her leg looked worse. Her temperature was high and both ankles were puffed up.

Rosie sat at the bottom of the stairs rubbing her aching feet as Joseph’s buggy pulled up outside. He gave her a hug and apparently bore no grudge over the way she’d disappeared, or the fact that she’d broken into his house.

‘I half expected you not to be there when I woke,’ Joseph said. ‘You looked wary when my mother showed you the dossier.’

Rosie helped him carry baskets of freshly-pulled potatoes and carrots into the kitchen.

‘Edith looks much the same,’ Rosie said.

Joseph shook his head. ‘I’ve been trying to force feed her using a stomach tube, but she brings most of it straight back up. And if she’s not eating, she can only get weaker. The worst of the infection is in her legs. We’re close to the point where the only option will be to have a surgeon amputate them, but I doubt she’s strong enough to survive the operation.’