The Best of Our Spies (20 page)

‘Really? Do you think I am stupid?’

‘Some of the methods I will use are not pleasant I can assure you. What does it matter if you tell me now or later?’

It matters a lot, she thought. Everything I’ve been taught, both here and in Germany.

Hold out for as long as possible.

Give others a chance to escape. That is what they’ll be looking for.

Even one hour can make a difference.

‘You know I won’t tell you.’

Focus on something else. Maybe an object in the room, or an activity you remember like a bike ride or visiting an exhibition.

Listen carefully to their questions. They will reveal how much they don’t know.

Use delaying tactics: ask them to repeat a question or have a coughing fit.

Try to avoid losing your temper, no matter what the provocation.

Do not appear shocked at anything they say or do, no matter how upsetting.

‘Remove your clothes.’

‘Pardon?’ She knew from the tone of her voice that she sounded shocked, which she knew she was not meant to do.

‘I said, remove your clothes.’

The woman was holding a large cane, the kind normally seen in gardens. She decided to think about the Tuileries Gardens in Paris which she had visited the day she first went to the German Embassy. Nathalie removed her cardigan and shoes and pulled her dress over her head, taking care to brush her hair back into place with her hands. The stockings followed. The cold bit into her now. The floor was uneven concrete, covered in sharp bits of grit.

‘Everything.’

The cane was being waved menacingly in front of her. She removed the rest of her underwear.

‘Legs apart, put your hands behind your back.’

The woman went behind her and tied up her hands.

For what must have been an hour the woman walked in circles around her: sometimes very close, other times further away. Every so often she would ask:

‘Are you ready to tell me yet?’

Nathalie would not reply.

Another hour. One more hour, they’ll be happy with that.

Once you go beyond an hour, every minute is a bonus.

Buy time, it is your most precious commodity.

The sound of heavy footsteps could be heard coming towards the room and then men’s voices outside the door.

‘Shall I let them in or do you want to tell me? It’s very easy, either for you to tell me or for me to let them in.’

One word, what does it matter?

In any case, surely she would not bring the men into the room. There had to be limits. She’d been subjected to something like this in Germany and even they hadn’t gone that far. One of the instructors had felt her breasts during a mock interrogation. But she was fully clothed then. He seemed more embarrassed than she was. He even apologised afterwards.

The woman walked over, towering above her. She held the top of the cane under her chin. It was rough and nicked her chin.

‘You tell me the code and they don’t come in and you can get dressed. You have held out for longer than we expected. We will be pleased.’

Nathalie was on the verge of breaking. Nervously she shook her head.

‘Are you sure?’ The woman looked surprised.

The woman drew the tip of the cane down her neck, between her breasts and between her legs, holding it there. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and her face and neck reddening. The nick on her chin had started to bleed and she could feel a trickle of blood running down her neck.

‘One last chance? I don’t want to have to bring them in. Please tell me.’

Nathalie spat at her in the face.

The woman did not flinch. No expression crossed her face as a small line of spit rolled down her left cheek. She leaned close to Nathalie and whispered in her ear.

‘They are not good men, you know. They can be animals. I never expected we’d have to bring them in. The code-word?’

She stepped back, waiting for Nathalie to spit again. Still no response.

‘Come in,’ she called out. Nathalie could detect a nervous reluctance in her voice.

Two men she had never seen before entered the room. One of them much younger than her, the other much older. She had to stand there while they circled her, speaking in a language she did not recognise.

Until then the room had been chilly and she had been shivering. Now she was burning hot and could feel the perspiration trickling down her back. The men were inspecting her as if she was an animal at market and they, prospective buyers.

‘Tell me the word and they will leave now.’ The woman sounded exasperated, even unsettled. Nathalie stayed silent.

‘Shall I leave you on your own with them or do you want to tell me the code-word?’

Nathalie said nothing, defiant but also too terrified to speak. She could feel a leather-gloved hand run down the length of her back, move over her bound hands and rest at the base of her spine. The young man stood inches in front of her, slowly looking her up and down, more down than up, a cold smile on his face as he slowly licked his lips. He placed a cold hand on her chin, lifted it up and with the other hand ran his fingers through her hair. She could feel the rough hem of his coat brushing against the inside of her thigh.

The older man now had both of his hands against the back of her thighs, very slowly moving them to the inside of her legs and upwards. She could feel his breath, hot and damp against the back of her neck. Behind the young man, she could see the woman, who was beginning to look agitated.

If he moves his hands any higher up, I’m telling her the code-word. This is impossible.

The gloved hands lingered at the very top of her thighs. The younger man was now standing directly against her, their bodies touching. His face was so close to hers that it was impossible for her to focus properly on him. She could feel the shape of his body.

‘Don’t tell her,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want you to tell her the code-word. I am enjoying this.’ He stepped back an inch or two to allow enough space for his ice cold hands to run up and down the front of her body, his sharp fingernails scratching her.

‘The code-word?’ The woman had moved to the rear of the room, as if she didn’t want to see too much of what was going on. Her voice appeared to be shaking.

The younger man smiled and shook his head. ‘Don’t tell her,’ he whispered again.

She said nothing.

His hands were now cupping her breasts. She was close to breaking point.

‘Even ...’ she started to speak.

‘Even what?’ said the woman.

She hesitated.
Even the Germans don’t behave like this
was what she had been about to say.

‘Even ... if this goes on for another day, I won’t say anything.’

The older man had now placed his gloved hands round her neck. At first, the touch was very light and he was almost stroking her. But very slowly, the grip tightened. At the same time, the younger man had taken her nipples between his bony fingers; playing with them at first and then pinching them hard. She could feel the tears streaming down her cheeks.

It is perfectly possible to withstand physical torture
, they had told her.

You will be amazed at how much pain the human body can withstand.

The important thing to remember is that it is not in their interests to harm you. You will be of no use to them then.

She wasn’t so sure, but it was at this point that she realised: the British would surely not expect someone like me to be able to withstand all this? If it goes on any longer then they will surely start to get suspicious. They will wonder how I was able to withstand all this.

‘Ploughshares!’ she spat the word out and at the same time drove her knee sharply into the younger man’s groin. He crumpled to floor in agony, while the older man tightened his grip on her neck, so that he was almost choking her.

‘Stop!’ the woman cried out. ‘It’s over. Go now.’

The older man reluctantly released his grip.

The younger man slowly hauled himself up, one hand clutching his groin.

She had moved a few paces away from him now, but he lashed out at her with his fist, which she just managed to avoid.

‘I said, stop!’ shouted the woman. ‘Enough,’ she said to the men. ‘You can leave now.’

The younger one in front of her looked disappointed. The older one allowed his hands to move down from her neck and brush against her breasts, holding them there for a moment.

‘I said, that’s enough. Go!’ The woman sounded angry.

As the men left the room, she turned to Nathalie, avoiding looking at her directly. She looked shaken.

‘We did not expect you to last that long. You did well. Get dressed now.’

Once she was dressed the man in the beret came into the room to put the blindfold back on.

She reckoned that having held out so well in the interrogations was the reason she was being allowed home for Christmas.

ooo000ooo

She had been dropped off at the flat in the early afternoon of Christmas Eve. Owen, she had been told, would be home by four.

It was a strange sensation, arriving home at a place that she had never truly regarded as such. The flat was still and cold, if anything it felt colder inside than out. She walked around the empty rooms, not even bothering to put the lights on. She glanced at the noisy kitchen clock. Ten to two. Another two hours before he’s home. And that sensation again, the unaccountable feeling of actually looking forward to seeing Owen that had taken her by shock when she first felt it and which surprised and disconcerted her now.

In the lounge she picked up their wedding photo from a shelf. When she’d first seen it she thought they looked like two strangers, randomly placed next to each other. Owen seemed to be standing in the light, his face beaming proudly. She was very slightly in the shadow and just that bit further away from him than you would expect.

In the photograph he looked little more than a teenager, young even for his years. But next to the wedding photograph was one that she hadn’t seen before, taken in Hyde Park as the leaves of autumn swirled around them. A passing Canadian officer had obligingly taken the picture and there they were: faces pressed together, both smiling, both in the light. No longer strangers

Is it me who has changed – or him?

She carried on walking around the flat.

Just visiting, she thought. Just passing through. Always, just passing through.

The place was meticulous, as she would have expected. Owen was always tidier than her. In the bedroom she noticed her slippers neatly arranged at the foot of the bed. She kicked off her shoes, the sound of them clattering against the skirting board echoing through the flat. Still wearing her coat, she slumped into an armchair.

It was only then that she realised quite how exhausted she was. The past two months had taken her by surprise. As it was she had been busy enough with the quantity of information that Owen was bringing home. He thought he was being careful: arriving home that much earlier and then sitting at the table with his maps and charts while she cooked dinner. It was so easy to come behind him, kiss him on the neck, playfully cover his eyes with her hands and look at the chart. You could learn a lot that way. Occasionally he would ask her help with a word or phrase, never telling her what it was to do with, but she would look at it with far more attention than it needed so that she could take in as much information as possible. It might just be the odd word, but it all counted and the messages that she was getting back from that horrible little Belgian told her that the people in Paris were delighted.

And then in November Owen had come home to say that Captain Archibald wanted her to meet a lady. So the three of them went to a hotel behind Marylebone High Street where they were joined by a lady who spoke fluent French, but was not French. She had never worked out where she came from.

They were sat in a small annexe of the lounge, out of earshot of anyone else. The lady introduced herself as Nicole and gestured for Nathalie to join her on her sofa.

‘We think that you can be of help to us,’ the lady had said. ‘Would you be willing to help in the cause of the liberation of France by returning there? It would not be without danger.’

Nathalie looked towards Owen, who smiled and nodded his head. She remembered that he looked terrified.

The woman continued to speak very fast and very softly in an educated accent. ‘Because of the nature of his work, your husband is aware of our interest. It is important that he knows what is going on, to an extent. You would have his support, but it has to be your decision. We would train you and then you would be flown to France. You would work with your countrymen out there.

‘If you indicate your agreement now, Nathalie, then we will proceed. If not, then this meeting has never taken place. But we do need to know now.’

And that was that. Would she be interested? She had looked towards Owen, who appeared overwhelmed. She asked him what he thought and he said nothing, but nodded weakly.

Just a week later she was somewhere in Lincolnshire. She actually had no idea precisely where she was and couldn’t even be sure that it was Lincolnshire. She had feigned sleep as they drove up the Great North Road and after some three hours noticed the dark mass of a cathedral rising high in the distance, after which the car headed east. Not long after that a coach passed them going in the other direction with ‘Lincoln’ on its destination board. At that point Nicole had drawn the curtains in the back of the car (‘
so you can get some rest
’) and they arrived at the destination an hour later. From the position of the moon and the stars, she could tell that they had continued north east, so she was assuming she was still in Lincolnshire. The Germans had made her study enough of those wretched maps of the United Kingdom for her to have a reasonable sense of where she was.

Apart from the instructors, she was the only one in the isolated farmhouse. The house was set at the bottom of a large hill and surrounded by woods. It was quiet, apart from the constant drone of planes, especially at night. From what she could make out, they were mostly bombers – Lancasters as far as she could tell, dozens of them at a time, flying low and south.