Madeleine's War (21 page)

Other members were getting restive, and he went quickly on.

“I conclude by saying this, Mr. Speaker. His Majesty's Government will not oppose the lifting of restrictions on the reporting of today's debate. I agree—the government agrees—we should stand ready to live with the bad news as well as the good, provided we don't
wallow
in the bad. But in this case the press should note the successes of SC2 as well as its failures. I do assure the House that, but for the misinformation we were able to feed the Gestapo over the past weeks, via those penetrated circuits, the Resistance by the Germans in and around the beaches of Normandy would have been far stiffer.”

In the press gallery the reporters were preparing to leave. This was a rare day for them, with the fourteen-day rule lifted.

“So there need be no vote tonight, Mr. Speaker, but I have one other thing to add.”

The reporters sat down again.

“I can report to the House that General Frank Grieves, the co-opted member of the war cabinet, who has had responsibility for SC2, is being relieved of his post. He is to be replaced by Lieutenant General Christopher Crichton, with immediate effect.”

THAT NIGHT I DID SOMETHING
I had never done before. I don't mean that I took a whisky to bed, along with all that day's newspapers, in an effort to catch up on the invasion news, and tire myself out in the process
so that I could sleep. And I don't mean that I helped myself to another whisky, and several cigarettes, when sleep wouldn't come. I was still smoking too much.

I mean that I invited Zola on to the bed, in Madeleine's place, so that it didn't seem so empty.

He was missing her, too—I could tell. He made a show of sniffing the places where she used to leave her shoes, her bag, her wash things in the bathroom.

I lay on my back and rested my hand on his fur, feeling the beat of his heart and hearing the sound of his breathing. He had never been allowed on the bed before and couldn't believe his luck.

From time to time, now, when I lit a cigarette, I took two out of my cigarette case without thinking. That had been my habit before she left, lighting two cigarettes at the same time. When I did that, and realised what I had done, my tonsils seemed to swell in my throat, I swallowed, and my stomach formed itself into a solid something.

The invasion news was good, up to a point. There was still fierce fighting inland from the beaches where the troops had landed, but when you looked at the map, the narrow strip of land which the Allies had captured was such a very small part of France and a good way—hundreds of miles—from where Madeleine was. Or had been when she had sent her last interrupted message.

I held the newspaper map in front of me and stroked Zola. What was happening in France away from the fighting? Understandably, perhaps, the papers had nothing to say about that. Had there been any uprisings among the French? Our own agents might have kept us informed, some of the time, but their job now—those who hadn't been compromised—was to help with sabotage, to keep as many German forces as possible from converging on Normandy.

From all that, I could conclude nothing about Madeleine's fate.

I put down the paper.

It had been several days now since we had heard from her. Other agents had reported in during that time, though by no means all. It began to seem that quite a few of them had been rounded up as news of the invasion spread. Maybe the Gestapo had been keeping them under surveillance, in case they revealed details of the invasion plans. But once our troops had landed, there had been no point in leaving them in place.

Had that happened to Madeleine? She had seemed to be doing so well,
but perhaps she had been spotted days before and was discreetly followed. And then…? Had she used her cyanide pill?

There is nothing worse than not knowing. On the other hand, no news is…not the worst news.

Zola turned his head and licked my hand.

I took my hand away.

I didn't feel like playing.

THE WINDOW IN MY OFFICE WAS
as ugly as a window could be. The glass panes were held in place by stark strips of flat metal welded together in oblongs. There were no curtains and just one pane, hinged at the top, which opened to let in air. It did, however, have a wide sill and that is where Zola found it comfortable to perch himself.

Since I had allowed him on to the bed at home, I had taken to bringing Zola into the office. No one seemed to mind—in fact, he quickly made friends with everyone—and I couldn't bring myself to leave him in Hamilton Place. We had still heard nothing from Madeleine, and it was now more than ten weeks since her interrupted message.

I had the Lagonda back after its kicking, but no will to use it and no petrol for it anyway. I'd persuaded my doctor to give me some sleeping pills and I was probably still drinking more whisky than was good for me. I wasn't going to pieces—nothing like that, I'm not the type—but I missed Madeleine and feared for her. I spent as little time in the flat as possible. I went to the theatre or cinema most nights just to keep my mind off her. I had also bought her one or two pieces of jewellery to spoil her with if and when she reappeared, and to cheer myself up.

Madeleine had got the better of me in Scotland. She was able and a quick thinker. Maybe she had broken off in mid-message to escape and had contacted the ratline that ran down the Atlantic coast. Could that mean she was, even now, on her way back home? If so, she wouldn't be able to make contact and her journey would take time. That part of France was still under German control—that too could explain her silence.

But we were now well on into August. If she
had
found a ratline she
should be home sometime very soon. And I couldn't get the thought of that suicide pill out of my mind.

I studied the progress of the invading forces with keen interest. The German retreat had at last begun. Having taken Caen and the Cherbourg peninsula, our forces had pressed south, past Rennes towards Nantes. For a short time they were very close to where Madeleine had been, but now, heading east, they were only sixty miles from Paris. Eisenhower had felt confident enough to transfer his headquarters from the south of England to France.

None of us had liked the flying bombs that had suddenly materialised over London, and the hurried evacuation of women and children that had followed. We had all relished the news of the attempt on Hitler's life. Maybe there would be other attempts before long, one of which would be more successful.

I had an added interest in the progress down the Atlantic coast, of course, but that was stalled for the moment while the push on Paris went ahead. We were still getting messages from circuits in the east of France that hadn't been penetrated, but the situation on the ground appeared chaotic at best. There were isolated pockets of German resistance—in Brest, for instance, the westernmost tip of the Brittany coast—that were cut off from other German forces. The Allies left the German outposts where they were, since they could do little damage and fighting them would have risked lives unnecessarily and held up the main thrust.

The Atlantic coast was simply not a priority any more.

In the wake of D-Day we were—thankfully—busier than ever in SC2. Our duties were now slightly different in that—

The door to my office opened and G. put her ahead around the edge.

“Meeting upstairs,
now
. And before you ask: I don't know what it's about. Shall I look after Zola?”

Hearing his name, he perked up.

“Come on,” G. said, patting her thigh. He leapt down from the windowsill and followed her.

“Tart!” I said softly, smiling.

Upstairs, in the conference room, Hilary was already there, along with Christopher Crichton, his—our—new boss. The handover that had been announced in Parliament had only just occurred—the invasion had occupied every moment of everyone's time.

Penny was in the room already, together with all the other section heads.

Everyone sat down.

Crichton was a tall man with a long neck and long fingers, some of them stained brown from the cigarettes he smoked constantly. He lit one now and didn't offer them round. He was in uniform with a shiny Sam Browne leather belt cutting diagonally across his chest.

Arranging his cigarette packet and an ashtray neatly in front of him, he sniffed and tapped some ash from his cigarette into the ashtray.

“This morning I attended a war cabinet meeting,” he said without preliminaries and looking around without smiling. “Bad news, I am afraid.” He cleared his throat and looked at Hilary. “Following the debate—or should I say debacle—in the House of Commons the other week, Hilary here and I had worked out a plan that was designed to do two things. It was decided, firstly, that someone from here—someone senior—should go to France, find out about everything that has happened to our agents, and if possible discover one or more of them alive, and so go some way towards rescuing SC2's reputation.”

He looked at me.

“You, Matt. It was you we were going to send.”

This was news. It had crossed my mind, after the fiasco of the Gestapo's penetration of SC2 had been revealed, that I might be dismissed, and maybe Hilary too. We had played some part in reversing the setback but…the army is a curious animal and you never could predict quite what would happen, who would take the rap.

I returned Crichton's gaze.

“But not now?”

He nodded, finishing his cigarette.

“No. It turns out that we have as many opponents among our Allies as among our enemies. MI6 say they have had enough of our antics and ‘games,' as they put it, and, as the older, more established service, they have petitioned the cabinet to support their view that they have enough experienced people on the ground in France to do what we were going to do. And, they say, they are more used to operating undercover than we are—”

As I went to interrupt, he waved me down. “
And
, in addition to them, the foreign secretary said that he had been approached by de Gaulle's people—de Gaulle in person, I should say—more or less demanding that SC2 be banned from France. De Gaulle is about to move to France himself and he has his own agenda, as you know. But in this case, what with MI6 making the fuss they are making, the French argument fell on fertile ground.” He grunted. “Ground is the right word, I'm afraid. We've been grounded.”

“But…but…” I stumbled. “Are we just going to leave our agents to their own devices, make no attempt to rescue them, or even find out what happened to them? What will Parliament make of
that
?”

“You're not listening, Matt,” said Hilary briskly from across the table.
“We
are not going looking, but MI6
is.”

“You really think that's going to happen?” I cried. “They don't know our people, they have no idea how they behave or operate, how they think. It…it's madness!”

Crichton fixed me with a look. “All of what you say is true, Matt, or true enough…but it's beside the point.” He sighed. “Since D-Day the war has moved on. Remember that speech of Churchill's, in November forty-two, about the battle in North Africa not being the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning?”

He didn't wait for the answer.

“D-Day was the beginning of the end, and people—people everywhere but especially in Whitehall—are starting to think about life after the war, and are positioning themselves accordingly. What this manoeuvre of MI6 is all about is controlling the memory of the war, so that when the story comes to be told, MI6 wears all the haloes and SC2 is remembered as…well, as the ugly also-ran.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his lips with it.

“I am afraid I didn't see it coming. I'm too new in this job; I was too busy familiarizing myself with the details here, to play politics. MI6 took advantage of that, to come up with this flanker. That's how cabinet works, sometimes.”

He half turned to Penny but still addressed the table, “Don't put this in the minutes, but SC2 has been well and truly fucked.”

ST
.
GEORGE
'
S CHURCH IN WHITFIELD STREET
looked very pretty. There were so many flowers they almost obscured the altar, flowers being one of the few things that weren't rationed. Sunshine sliced in through the stained-glass window of the south transept, throwing bright red and purple patches on to the stone floor. The stained glass reminded me of Madeleine, the way she stood out, whatever the company. The organ was playing softly a tune I didn't recognise, though it sounded like Bach.

I had a good seat, about three pews back, on the groom's side. Alistair Prior was already in his place, in what looked like a brand-new light grey
suit—not a completely perfect fit but then a lot of tailors were fighting in France. He had a large white carnation with green trimmings in his buttonhole. He waved to me as I sat down.

The timing had worked out well for him. We were now at D-Day plus two and a half months. Being pregnant had not suited Viv, so Alistair had told me; she had been ill for a few weeks early on and the wedding had been postponed twice.

But here we all were at last, minutes away from their tying the knot. I was pleased for them, of course, but Alistair's marriage brought home my anxiety for Madeleine.

The music changed, increasing in tempo. Guests were now streaming in. Although I was in a pew near the front, I was seated at the end of the row, away from the main aisle, so I felt fairly safe in taking out my newspaper, to kill time. In any case there was news that I wanted to reread. I opened my copy of
The Times
to page 4, where the war news was concentrated.

A second invasion, in the south of France, between Marseilles and Nice, had begun a few days before. I wanted to check on progress. And Toulouse had been liberated by partisans, with other risings taking place in the Massif Central.

“That news is several days old, you know.”

I looked up and to my left.

A small, pudgy man had sat down next to me. He was wearing a sports jacket, with a multicoloured sweater under it, a dark blue shirt, and corduroy trousers, dark green. He didn't look as though he had changed for the wedding.

Seeing me eyeing his clothes, he said, “I came straight from the office—I work with Alistair at the BBC and I'm on shift. I could get away only at the last minute.”

I nodded.

He went on. “I recognise you—you're Mystic Matt, right?” He smiled.

“Guilty.”

He held out his hand. “Martin Vallois. I work in the French news section of the Beeb.”

We shook hands.

I tapped the paper. “I suppose it takes correspondents a little while to find a phone, to phone their copy through.”

He nodded. “Yes, transmitters are too bulky to carry around. And in
any case, it's not always clear what is happening.” He pointed to the paper. “Even partisans exaggerate. Toulouse isn't completely taken yet, not from what I hear.”

“What else do you hear that's not in the papers yet?”

The organ music changed again.

The bride's mother arrived. She kissed Alistair and sat down.

“The Germans are withdrawing east, mainly via Dijon, before our troops in the north meet up with our troops from the south and cut them off. And there are three pockets of strong resistance on the coast—”

“You mean the Atlantic coast?”

He nodded. “The Germans had—still have—three U-boat bases, at Brest, St. Nazaire, and La Pallice, that's near La Rochelle. They are holding out at all three places. The Allies can't get in and the Germans can't get out. They may still be planning a U-boat offensive.”

Just then, the organ music changed again, and everyone stood up.

The bride had arrived.

Vivien came into view, resplendent in her white dress, its train held up by two page boys in powder-green.

I felt a slight twinge as I saw her draw level with Alistair. The music had faded, the vicar was speaking, welcoming us and inviting us to witness Vivien and Alistair's joining in holy matrimony.

Then we were launched into the first hymn. I joined in absently.

In the normal course of things, I enjoyed a good singsong but not just then. What Martin Vallois had told me occupied my mind.

It was now getting on for thirteen weeks since Madeleine had been heard from—I was obsessive about that sort of detail. It wasn't quite out of the question for her still to turn up, but Vallois had raised a new possibility.

When she had last been heard from, she was near St. Nazaire. What if she had been captured by Germans and held there, only for St. Nazaire to be cut off, isolated by the Allies? If that had happened, she couldn't have been taken back to Germany to be executed. The small garrison of Germans in St. Nazaire might be keeping her alive, as part of the bargaining that would surely take place later in the war, when they would have to surrender.

Or was that wishful thinking? It was improbable but…

When I had entered the church my hopes for Madeleine had been fading. Indeed, I had been planning to pray for her during the service. But now, all of a sudden, and thanks to Martin Vallois, I had new cause for
optimism. It was a long shot, but it was something, though at the same time it unsettled me. Was I doing enough for Madeleine? Was it enough just to sit in London behind a desk?

The service ended and we all straggled slowly out of the church, held up by the bridal party, which was keen to pose for photos. When I eventually reached the top step, outside the main door, and was looking down on Alistair and Viv, both of them covered in a dusting of confetti, I suddenly noticed G. on the edge of the pavement. Odd. What was she doing here? She didn't know either the bride or the groom, so far as I was aware.

As I thought this, she saw me, her face lit up, and she beckoned me towards her. There was an urgency in her manner. I fought my way through the crush and crossed to where she was standing.