Death Ray (6 page)

Jacques emerged from beneath the bonnet. ‘There is damp in the distributor,’ he announced. He held up the distributor cap as proof. ‘See! That’s why she wasn’t running properly.’ Jacques took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the inside of the cap, then the small rotor under the bonnet. ‘There. Perfect. Now try her again.’

The engine started first time.

‘What did I tell you? He’s a bloody marvel,’ Smithy said, beaming.

‘Where did you learn about engines, Jacques?’ I asked.

‘I’ve always been interested in them,’ he replied, cleaning his hands with his hanky. ‘And I’d just started studying engineering at university when France was invaded.’

‘Corporal Smith! You still here?’ We turned and saw Sergeant Walker leaning out of a window. ‘Stop yakking and go and fetch those supplies. This isn’t a ruddy holiday camp!’

Smithy lazily stiffened to attention and saluted, though it was more of a wave than a salute. ‘Yes, Sarge. Right away, Sarge. I’ll be there and back in a jiffy. Have those detonators for you by tea time.’

‘And tidy yourself up, man. I thought I told you to get your hair cut. You look a ruddy disgrace.’

Smithy waited until Walker disappeared back inside before muttering, ‘Flipping slave-driver. “Do this! Do that!” Walker loves barking orders. No peace for the wicked, that’s what my old man says. Still, better be off. Like I said to Jacques here when he arrived, if you need anything, just shout. I have contacts.’ He tapped the side of his crooked nose and winked. ‘There’s nothing I can’t lay my hands on for a favour or two. See you lads later.’ He slammed down the bonnet, jumped into the car and sped off.

Jacques sparked up a match and lit a cigarette while
watching
Smithy disappear at speed down the long gravel drive amid clouds of black exhaust fumes. ‘That engine needs a lot of work.’

‘So, how long have you and Amélie been here?’ Loki asked.

‘Too long.’

‘From what you said earlier about avoiding capture, it sounds like you were involved with the Resistance back home,’ I said.

Jacques ignored me.

Loki continued, ‘We were too. In Norway. We escaped—’

‘Enough!’ Jacques interrupted sharply. ‘You shouldn’t talk about such things.’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘What I don’t know, I can’t tell. Loose tongues cost lives. Remember that, and remember it well!’

‘Sorry,’ I said, a bit taken aback at Jacques’ abruptness. Feeling embarrassed, I peered at the trees surrounding Mulberry. ‘This place is in the middle of nowhere.’

Jacques puffed hard on his cigarette. ‘Yes, Finn. Take a good look around.’ He pointed to where the driveway disappeared into the trees. ‘Even the guards at the gate don’t know what we’re doing here. Apart from X, only Sergeant Walker, the brigadier, and Corporal Smith know everything.’

‘What about Mrs Saunders?’ Loki pointed out.

Jacques snorted, ‘Oh, yes, how could I forget her? And she dares to call herself a cook. Preposterous!’ He snorted again.

‘So we’re going to be training together,’ Loki said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Any idea where we’ll end up?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. Was Jacques pretending to know something we didn’t, or did he know for real?

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Your English is very good. How good is your French?’

I shrugged. ‘Not bad. Studied it at school like everyone else.’

‘Were you top of your class?’

Loki laughed. ‘God, no!’

Jacques looked unimpressed. ‘What about Freya?’

‘Her French is good. Better than ours,’ Loki replied. ‘She was nearly top of her class … once or twice. We can all speak pretty good German though. That was the one upside of living in a country occupied by the Nazis!’

‘You and Freya seem pretty close,’ Jacques said to my best friend.

Loki’s cheeks reddened. Jacques was right, of course. Loki was smitten with Freya. It had started back in Norway, and blossomed since we’d arrived in Britain. Jacques was clearly quick to pick up on such things. ‘Yes, we are,’ Loki replied defensively.

‘Interesting,’ Jacques said, thoughtfully. He took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ash away.

‘How did you and Amélie get recruited into Special Ops?’ I asked.

He stared straight ahead. ‘You ask too many questions,
Finn
. Let’s get things straight. I don’t ask you about your past, and you don’t ask me. That’s it.
Compris?
All that matters is the here and now. Stick to that and we’ll get along just fine.’

I didn’t like Jacques’ manner – he was too dismissive of my attempts to get acquainted. ‘The way I see it,’ I said, wanting to make a point, ‘one day we will have to rely on each other, to trust each other with our lives. That might be hard if we don’t know one another very well.’

Jacques shook his head at me as if I were really annoying and stupid. I couldn’t make up my mind whether he was simply being unfriendly, whether he just had a lot on his mind, or whether he thought us ‘new recruits’ inexperienced amateurs unworthy of his attention. There was a pompous, arrogant air about him. Then again, I thought, maybe all Frenchmen were like that! Just as I was about to give up on him, he finally said something interesting.

‘I hear Freya has excellent radio skills. Is that right?’

‘Where did you hear that?’ said Loki.

‘Oh, a little bird told me.’

A little bird? What did he mean? Loki gave Jacques a long hard stare.

Max wandered out to join us. He nodded hello to me and smiled. Jacques flashed him a cold glance, tossed away his cigarette and briskly walked off back into Mulberry House, deliberately knocking shoulders with Max as he went, muttering something under his breath.

Max stared after him. ‘He’s hardly spoken to me since
I
arrived. He has a thing against Germans.
All Germans!
We’re not
all
the same, you know.’ His tone was bitter.

‘I don’t think he’s particularly fond of Norwegians either,’ Loki replied light-heartedly.

I guessed life had to be especially hard for Max. Anyone learning he was German would immediately feel deep distrust and dislike, possibly even hatred. On meeting Max that morning I’d felt all those things, albeit momentarily, but I’d quickly realized that if he was in Special Ops then he was on our side, and that had to make him all right.
Didn’t it?
Well, that’s what I’d told myself. ‘How come you’re part of all this?’ I asked, hoping my question didn’t get the same brush-off that Jacques had given me. ‘It is rather surprising – a German in Special Ops.’

‘I’m not the only one, Finn,’ Max revealed. ‘My family left Germany at the end of nineteen thirty-eight. Along with many others. Things got rather difficult for people like us. You ever heard of
Kristallnacht
?’

I shook my head.

‘In English it means
Night of Broken Glass
. That was the night our world changed, when we saw Herr Hitler’s true feelings about us Jews,’ Max said hatefully. ‘My family owned a bookshop in the old part of Düsseldorf. It was the ninth of November: after dark members of the Nazi Sturmabteilung – that’s Herr Hitler’s Storm Troopers – tried to destroy anything belonging to Jews. My parents’ shop had its windows smashed, and all their books were flung into the street and burned. But they counted themselves lucky. I think
had
they been there at the time, they would have been dealt with in the same way.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t be telling us all this?’ I said, recalling Jacques’ warning. ‘What we don’t know we can’t tell.’

He appeared unconcerned. In fact I got the impression he actually wanted to talk, as if it helped him in some way.

‘Why did it happen?’ Loki asked.

‘A German official in Paris was murdered by a Polish man, who just happened to be a Jew. It gave Herr Hitler the perfect excuse to seek revenge. But it was only the beginning.’

We strolled along the paths that wound around the house. At the back lay a small area of lawn, empty flower beds, some wooden sheds, one distinctly rotten looking, the others more or less brand new, and a brick stable block. ‘They keep the weapons and ammunition under lock and key in there,’ Max said, nodding towards the stables. The door bore an impressive padlock. ‘The practice range is that way,’ he added, pointing towards the woods. Then he laughed. ‘Jacques couldn’t hit a
bus
at more than ten yards. His eyesight’s terrible. Seen those thick glasses of his?’

‘What about you, Max?’ asked Loki.

‘I’m not bad. I can hit a target at fifty yards,’ he replied, suddenly adopting a slight swagger.

I said nothing but I felt a surge of confidence. Loki, Freya and I had grown up in a nation of hunters, where most kids belonged to one of the many rifle clubs.
Having
been taught by her father, Heimar, Freya was a crack shot and had won trophies back home to prove it. She could hit a target at four, maybe five hundred yards. Loki and I weren’t far behind her – a hundred or so yards less proficient, perhaps, but still clearly way ahead of Max and Jacques. ‘What about Amélie?’ I asked.

‘She can barely lift a rifle, let alone fire it straight. Although …’ He paused. ‘She’s not bad with a pistol. Pretty quick as a matter of fact. Quite impressive.’ Then, changing the subject, he said, ‘Before you arrived, I heard Walker and the brigadier talking about your escape from Norway. Did you really steal a German seaplane and fly her to Scotland?’

‘Yes. A Heinkel 115. Our fathers are pilots,’ I replied, and then swallowed hard before correcting myself, ‘At least my father was a pilot.’

Max nodded. ‘I’m sorry. What did he fly?’

‘Spitfire.’

‘Where did he—?’

‘Not sure,’ I interrupted, looking up at the sky. ‘Maybe even right up there. I’ve not seen the official report.’

‘I’d love to learn to fly,’ said Max enthusiastically. He peered upwards too. ‘Up there you must feel truly free.
Phantastisch!
’

‘Jacques seems to know something about what we’re training for and where we’ll be going once we’re ready,’ said Loki.

Max nodded vigorously. ‘I think he knows a great deal. Walker and the brigadier are keeping, erm … how
do
the English say …
tight-lipped
. I’ve been trying to work it out. Jacques spends much time inside the brigadier’s office. And Corporal Smith sometimes drives them both somewhere he tells me is very
hush-hush
. They’re often gone for hours. Once they didn’t even return until the next day. But Corporal Smith won’t tell me where he takes them. I’ve even tried bribing him! I’ve also seen Walker clutching maps of northern France. That’s where Jacques and Amélie come from. A town called Rochefort. I think it’s a few miles from the coast.’

‘Well, that probably explains why Jacques just asked us if we could speak French,’ I said.

Max raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems I may be right. I’d put my money on us all heading off to France. To do what, though?’ He looked thoughtful a moment. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. We might end up all going our separate ways, you back to Norway, Jacques and Amélie back to France, and as for me, well God knows where they’ll send me.’

‘Where would you
like
to be sent?’ Loki asked.

‘Berlin would be good. Wouldn’t mind having a go at Herr Hitler.’ He formed a pistol shape with his fingers. ‘Pop, pop, and the war’s over. Easy as that!’

We laughed. ‘You’d be famous,’ I said.

‘No, Finn, seriously, I think X has big plans for us. And unfortunately I think whatever the mission is, Jacques is going to be in charge.’ Max grimaced. ‘And that gives me a bad feeling inside. A
very
bad feeling.’

LIFE AT MULBERRY
House quickly settled into a routine and the long days gradually blurred into weeks of intense activity. Discipline was strict. Sergeant Walker insisted we ran every morning before breakfast, taking us on increasingly lengthy forays into the forest. ‘Good for blowing the cobwebs away!’ he’d yell at us over his shoulder as he set an exhausting pace along narrow paths. These dawn runs turned out to be the only times we ventured beyond the grounds of the house – except for Jacques’ secretive trips with the brigadier. And we never spoke to anyone else despite frequently seeing convoys of trucks on the roads and stumbling across platoons of soldiers marching across the heath. Mulberry House, we realized, was very isolated.

Our lessons were a strange mix. One afternoon Walker taught us how to make impressions of keys using matchboxes filled with plasticine, then fashion duplicates by filing down strips of zinc. And I was flabbergasted at how easy it proved to pick simple locks with bent wire. In the evenings we had French lessons. Jacques and Amélie took part too, our teacher insisting that we practise with them. I paired up with Amélie and was soon glad: she showed great patience and gave me loads of encouragement every time I struggled to find
the
right words. Our teacher, Madame Dupuis, an elderly woman with jet-black hair tied in a tight bun and hideous-looking varicose veins, taught us with an unnerving sense of urgency. Was that because we had much to learn, or was it because we had very little time? When questioned, she refused to say, but her expression suggested both!

We also learned about different identity papers, and the special permits needed to travel in occupied countries. It seemed Max was right about our first mission because much emphasis was placed on the latest intelligence received from occupied France.

There was a lot to take in and my brain ached from it all. We worked hard – except Jacques. He frequently lost concentration and spent much of the day either gazing blankly out of the dining-room window or doodling. During one of our short breaks I took a look at what he’d scribbled. His artistic efforts struck me as strange. The paper on his desk was filled with towers and boxes and what looked like wires strung between them. And then there were dish-like objects from which emerged long zigzagging lines. ‘What are these?’ I asked him when he returned from the lavatory. ‘And what does this mean?’ I added, pointing to the numerous repetitions of the phrase
Rayon de la mort
he’d scrawled down the margin of the page.