The Spy (8 page)

The two Brits approached. “Lieutenant Sinclair, Valerie, this is Pierre de Beck, Captain, Free French Forces—your partner on the mission.”

“How do you do?” Sinclair said.

The Captain, perceiving her to be extremely young, noticed she was wearing uniform of rate, not rank, which he attributed to some clever trick of Hamilton's. De Beck, smiling warmly, said “Avec plaisir.”

“
Enchante
”

The two spies shook hands.

“Pierre is from the area where you will be going,” Hamilton told her. “We are hoping, you see, that one of you will get through.”

“I am certain we both will,” said Pierre.

Now that she had met the man into whose hands Hamilton had placed her, she felt a renewal of purpose. De Beck spoke excellent English, though with an American accent, and he seemed to know what he was about. Valerie judged him to be in his late twenties, five feet ten, dark hair and eyes, and very good-looking. Stowing their gear, Hamilton and the girl got into the back of the car. De Beck proved an excellent driver, and Edinburgh soon disappeared into the Scottish hills. The Commander ordered conversation held to a minimum. It was thinking that he had to do.

With the air cooling in late afternoon they stopped at a hostelry to eat. Sinclair, glad to be free of the Dorothy Cafe, thoroughly enjoyed the courses, especially one that arrived at their table on a pewter platter, smoking and garlanded with sprigs. Bear meat—what else?—as must have been obvious to any hungry person. Valerie felt a reverence, for it seemed fitting—here on this eve of Achnacarry, as it were—to commemorate this primitive place with practically raw meat of its ancestors. Hamilton, respecting her strange grace but finally clearing his throat, started dishing it up. Sinclair licked her lips. Dabbing daintily with her napkin, she could see the furry monster in the flames, its great fanged jaws roaring at the moon.

“Like the veal, do you?”

Valerie nodded, she jabbed with her fork.

Hamilton ordered after-dinner drinks. Burning logs casting shadows on their faces, the men talked. Sinclair wasn't sure what was in the glass, but she slugged it down. Maybe it was malt. After two, she felt replete. Pierre, she learned, had fought at Dunkirk; both officers had seen battle together. Was that why Hamilton had selected him?

Valerie stared into the fire, warming her hands.

The fireplace made her sleepy; the car made her cold. Even in June, evenings were chilly in the Highlands. It was after dark when their car passed the depot. Seven miles on, de Beck pulled into Achnacarry Barracks. A black smudge covered the heavens and the lights were yellow, the way they are in camps. A soldier was waiting at the desk. The Commander hurried them through Reception. Once cleared, he turned to the Frenchman: “Breakfast is at 600 hours. Good night, Pierre. You know your billet.”

With the Frenchman gone, Hamilton escorted the girl to her quarters. At the door, he told her: “Your training starts in the morning. Remember, your time here is not to be wasted.” Having delivered her, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.

“Good night, sir.”

Sinclair entered the room and kicked off her shoes. She threw the switch and dropped her skirt. Off with her blouse, her panties and bra. Flapping out her blanket, she looked out the window. There was a clothesline. Men's underwear hung down into the humid night.

Stiff as iron.

It is something she hears: the snap of a lock, a loudspeaker... a language. It is something she listens to: drifting through the dark, welling up from the subterranean fountain of military life—the secret and violent hush of morning. Alerted by the yapping of the camp dogs, sopranos in pitch blackness, footsteps move along the corridor:

The Spy arrives before dawn.

Click
!

Ryan and the limousine hidden in thick woods beyond the security fence, her camera jammed! Unphotographed, the man without a face evaporated from her consciousness as explosive knocks on her door pulled her out of vanished dreams:

Into the hot, rising sun.

It was 530 hours.

She took a fast shower which helped her wake up, got dressed, and reported for breakfast. She was wearing a man's naval battle dress, which Hamilton had arranged. It was the smallest size the Commander had been able to find, and it had been waiting for her in her room.

The Commander was also waiting.

Pierre joined them. What a break for me, he thought. Throwing the girl a warm smile, he made sure that she got it. A Swordsman, he liked them young.

Breakfast was a fast affair. As they came out of the mess hall, they passed two American Rangers leaning up against a wall. “What'n the hell?” She was the first female ever. “We got
kids
now?” and he turned and spat tobacco juice onto the grass.

They reported to the firing range.

“Valerie,” said Hamilton, “this is Sergeant Llewellyn, a crack shot and a good Welshman! He will teach you how to handle a pistol, and how to kill a German at twenty yards. Actually, you will not be taking guns with you.” He pulled her aside. “As a French student you see, you would not be carrying one.” He released his grip. “Ready, Sergeant?”

“Aye, sir.” The Sergeant produced two guns: a German Luger and a Schmeisser machine-pistol, much preferred by the S. S. “Tiring either of these babies,” he pointed out, “is something you were not taught when you joined Naval Intelligence.” Commander Hamilton coughed politely, and Llewellyn made a mental note. Officially, Valerie Sinclair was not here. “This one,” said the Sergeant, “is the standard Luger automatic, .30 caliber—”

She observed.

“—nine bullets to the clip.” He slammed the clip home and handed it to her.

Valerie proved an exceptional pupil. Acquainted with guns, she gained an understanding of the powerful weapons quickly. Hamilton, hands behind his back, watched with interest. The Schmeisser proved to be the more difficult. “Yes,” said the Sergeant, finally, to the Commander, “I'd say a four-inch group at a hundred yards was respectable.”

Rifle practice followed: German guns and Allied. Valerie lay flat, propped on her elbows in the hot grass, her cheeks burning and her head ricocheting from the explosions.

“No no, lassie! Do what you did before.
Squeeze
the trigger!”

By noon, hands burned raw from the gun oil, the smell of the powder had her reeling.

“Come along, my dear, we will have a spot of lunch now.”

“Perhaps she's had enough for one day, sir,” offered the instructor.

“She is not here to be spared,” Hamilton snapped crisply. “She'll pull a full twelve hours, along with the men.”

Valerie appreciated the Sergeant's kindness and wished some of it would rub off on Hamilton. She turned towards him, trying to hide her bleeding hands.

“I know, I know,” he said gruffly, “but I want you back alive. Learning and talking about violence here, where we are safe, is entirely a different matter from being faced with it. If ever in that position, you may surprise yourself.”

They reached the mess hall and found a secluded corner.

Valerie's hand trembled as she tried to hold the fork. Hamilton, eating at his regular rate, said: “I speak from experience. On the Dieppe raid, code-named WEYMOUTH, I was an observer. All bloody hell broke loose when we landed. It was a very tight corner.”

“Yes, sir.” She could see the towering clouds of black smoke. “That was Number Four Commando, sir? Lord Lovat?”

“That's right. His orders were to knock out the German battery at Varengeville. The battery was utterly destroyed. A hundred and sixty four men took part in the raid. Fifty killed. The Germans lost three times that number. Pierre, you know, was wounded.”

She hadn't known that about Pierre.

“Yes, he was a bit more fortunate than the others. Went in with the Canadians, you see. Second Canadian Infantry, the six battalions that attacked Dieppe itself, caught it point-blank, nearly four thousand dead.”

“How awful,” she said. She waited.

Hamilton dabbed at his mouth.

“And the Navy, how many?”

“One destroyer, some landing craft, five hundred and fifty men killed.”

“All those men...” she said.

“No, by counting the German dead, we could measure their strength. That way, you see, we were able to know exactly what we'd be up against. Our recent landings in Normandy, of course, have been the result.” Hamilton finished his lunch. “Ready?”

“I met Lord Lovat....” she started to say.

“That's nice. Come meet the man who trained him.”

Walking back to the firing range, Valerie said, “You might have been killed.”

“I know how to take care of myself. I received the best possible training yet devised, right here at Commando Headquarters. After Dieppe, I volunteered for the Naval Commando Unit. Unfortunately, I pulled a leg muscle, shortened a tendon...you know. This special unit has to be A-one physically. I'd received training in police science before the war, so I ended up in Naval Intelligence.”

“I'm glad you pulled that leg muscle.”

“Some things are meant to be,” the Commander said, and he rousted Sergeant Llewellyn from his cigarette with a snap of the fingers.

Gunnery instruction went better. They gave her some salve for her hands and a pot of cold water to cool them. In late afternoon, the guns were put aside for a simulation on how to cut throats.

“What a ghastly business,” the girl remarked.

“Business is business, my dear. But we've run our course for the moment, have we, Llewellyn? Good! Almost time for supper. Ah, here comes Pierre!”

The Frenchman, who had been running refresher courses elsewhere and who had been chatting with the Sergeant, now approached them. “How are you feeling?” he said to the girl.

“Aching all over,” Hamilton replied, “but she's not going to admit it. Both of you meet me in the dining room at 1900 hours.” Valerie nodded. She had moved to one side, and was limbering up.

Out of her earshot the Frenchman confided: “Sergeant Llewellyn has just been telling me what an excellent pupil she's been.”

Hamilton lit a cigarette.

“You know, Commander, when you first told me that a girl would be with me on this mission, I had my doubts. I thought another man might have been better.”

“They don't come any better,” snapped Hamilton. “She's fluent in French, and has a lot of heart.”

“I'll say, said Pierre, eyes glued to her bosom. Valerie caught his look and turned to the Commander.

“Feeling better? Good! Now we must give you time for a soak in the bath.”

What bath?

Sinclair relaxed in the shower, wondering what to wear at supper. She'd packed the red dancing dress, along with a pale blue suit, and had planned to wear the dress. She had also brought her turquoise Egyptian gown. It reminded her of Cleopatra. Well, she would leave it in the valise. The blue suit, too. She stared down, dismayed at what was in front of her: big boobs were such a bother! She had finished her shower and was just drying off when there came a knock at the door.

“Yes? Who is it?” she shouted through the steam.

“The orderly, Lieutenant. I have your uniform.”

“My uniform? Oh, yes. Would you put it on the cot, please?”

She heard him do it, the door closing behind him.

Dropping the towel she rushed naked into the room, her eyes fastening on the two wavy gold rings, the precise cut of the cloth, the skirt, the eight gold buttons on the coat. With a squeal of delight, she tried on the hat, her fingers running over the embroidered laurel leaves.

Screw the dress!

She got into the uniform quickly, hoping it would fit. It did, perfectly. She stood in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, and blushing, staring at the woman she had dreamt herself to be:

An Officer, and a Lady.

She sat down, dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex, and applied her makeup. Brushing her hair, she suddenly stopped. She leaned closer to the glass. For a long moment, Lieutenant Valerie Sinclair studied the sombre image in the mirror. Then, ever so slowly, she grinned....

“Smashing!” she said.

David Hamilton was waiting for her at the entrance to the dining room. “None the worse for wear, I see. And your new uniform, hmmm?” He stood back and admired it.

“Yes, sir. That hot shower did the trick,” she acknowledged, “and thank you for the—”

Hamilton nodded.

“—uniform.” Her hands hurt like hell.

De Beck joined them in the dining room, complimenting Valerie on her appearance, as well as on her commission. Privately, he wished the Commander was miles away. It had been a long time since he'd met a girl who attracted him this much. A
Lieutenant
, to boot. And to think...

They would soon be alone together in France.

In the annals of the British Empire, reported by Rudyard, the dawn comes up like thunder; but at Achnacarry Castle it wasn't thunder that men had to deal with on a morning—but death. To Valerie Sinclair, death was something that happened to somebody else.

This position was soon to change.

By lunch of the second day, she had learned how to kill with the knife and how to use the rifle butt as a weapon. In the afternoon, the carotid, how to break the nose, how to snap the human neck—the most vulnerable part of the skull—and what nerves to crush...German, of course. By twilight, how to puncture his heart. By supper, how to rupture his spleen.

It was dark, and exhaustion blazed in her brain.

In the dining room, the men seemed to be enjoying the evening meal. Hamilton helped her to cut the meat, because of her hands. Valerie waited until Pierre finished, and when he left, she said: “I'm not at all sure I could bring myself to kill anyone, unless, of course, I
had
to.” She thought of the teachings of her father, and now she might be called upon to take a human life. In running from death, she had run towards it.