Night Sky (34 page)

What had his mother done? What sin could be so terrible? He heard himself ask, ‘What sin? What sin?’ and Father Ignatius shook his head gently and said, ‘It is better that you do not ask, my son.’ ‘But why doesn’t she come?’ ‘She doesn’t choose to, Paul, and it’s better that she doesn’t.’ ‘But Father Francis told me she was dead.’ ‘Well, she is in a way, Paul.’ ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand!’ ‘It is not for us to understand, my son, we must accept God’s will – and with love in our hearts.’

I don’t understand. I never have. Why doesn’t she come to me? What has she done that is so terrible? Why did she beat me?
Why does she hate me so?

I don’t understand.

German efficiency was enough to drive anyone mad, with its rigid structures, its unyielding demands and its inevitable duplications. But it did mean everything got written down.

It was all there in the files. Every operation against the escape line which operated from Brussels. There was tons of it, much of it irrelevant, but Vasson wasn’t complaining, although it took hours to sort out what was useful and what wasn’t.

Generally, reports to be seen by senior officers were far too optimistic and evasive to be useful. Much better were the situation reports with limited circulation. Names, places, hypotheses, action to be taken … it was all there.

Gradually Vasson built up a picture. The airmen got themselves to a farm or whatever, presumably having buried their parachutes and any other evidence of where they had landed. The farmer harboured them, or quickly passed them on to someone who would. Then, as soon as could be arranged, they were picked up by the organisation proper. How were they transported? Impossible to say, but for the longer parts of the journey it was certainly by train. Several of the couriers arrested so far were young girls. Vasson could imagine them: innocent-looking, charming, pretty enough to distract if necessary. Yes, the system must work well.

The couriers were probably changed at Brussels and again at Paris and maybe a third time on the way down to the Spanish border. He wondered how careful they were: whether or not the couriers actually met and knew each other or whether they operated a cut-off system whereby the airmen were taken to a park bench by one courier and left there for ten minutes before the next came to pick them up.

He looked up the interrogation reports. Some of those arrested had talked, but they appeared to be small fry – collectors or minor couriers. None of them had known the names of the main couriers, those who must be in touch with the central organisers. Other hadn’t talked even when they were about to die. Extraordinary how little value people put on their own lives.

The infiltration operations mounted so far had been amateurish – and that was putting it kindly. The SD had sent two of its men into the Belgian countryside dressed as Canadian airmen. They were found four days later, dead. It was no surprise to Vasson; the two men probably spoke English with a German accent and didn’t know what maple syrup was. The line must have an interrogation centre somewhere, where airmen’s credentials were checked. Well, even if they hadn’t they certainly would now, after that little fiasco.

Another time a Belgian-born SD agent had infiltrated the line as a courier, had sprung his trap far too soon and managed to catch only two people. The agent had then run like hell out of Brussels and was never seen again. An amateur.

One operation had been quite successful, however. Twenty arrests were made. But Vasson couldn’t find the details; the report was marked: Refer to Luftwaffe Intelligence. He must ask about that.

He looked at the current situation report: there appeared to be only two leads at present; a young girl, the sister of a girl in custody, plus an older woman whose address had been found in the apartment of a minor courier. Both women had gone to ground. Nothing about this surprised Vasson: the Gestapo had probably gone straight round to their homes in full view of all the neighbours and waited for them to return. Subtlety and patience were not the Germans’ strong points.

He noted the names of all the suspects to date and took brief details of addresses, possible roles in the line, and probable leads. It didn’t add up to much. In their usual blundering way the Germans had fouled up everything that might have been worth pursuing.

Vasson went back to Mueller’s office. Mueller was his liaison man: quite senior, a colonel in the SD. For some reason Vasson didn’t understand, here in Belgium escaping airmen came under the Nazi security service or Luftwaffe Intelligence, and not the secret police.

Mueller was pale and fat, rather like a large slug. He looked as though he had indigestion; from time to time he unhappily patted his obscene stomach which pressed relentlessly against the field grey cloth of his uniform. ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Have you seen everything you need to see?’

‘I think so.’ Vasson sat down, though he had not been invited to do so. Mueller would not object. Mueller, for all his arrogance and impatience, was not a problem: he was a realistic man. He wanted results and he’d made it clear he was prepared to pay for them. Vasson’s anger at being put in the seedy hotel was forgotten when Mueller had agreed to all his requests.

Vasson said, ‘But there is one thing. An operation involving Luftwaffe Intelligence. The report’s not in the file.’

‘Ah yes. That was a joint operation. Extremely successful. For a week or so we operated a loop in the escape line.’

‘A loop?’

Mueller looked patronisingly at Vasson. ‘Ah? You do not know? No, why should you. We invented the idea!’ His fat face crinkled up in what Vasson realised was a smile. ‘A loop is an extra link in the escape chain which the organisers do not realise is there and which we create to extract intelligence. We pretend we are Resistance interrogators who must check the bona fides of the airmen. We ask them to tell us everything about their units and operations so we can check the facts with London.’ He shrugged. ‘It works every time. During this last operation they told us everything … Most useful for the Luftwaffe and most useful for us too; we got several good descriptions of the people harbouring airmen. We made a number of arrests.’

Twenty to be precise. But, Vasson thought, they can never use that one again, not with this line anyway.

‘One more thing,’ Vasson said. ‘Is the line in direct communication with Britain? Can they actually check the airmen’s identities by radio?’

‘We believe not. At one time we picked up clandestine radio transmissions from this area, but no longer … We must have got the operator.’

‘So they have no contact …’

‘But they have back-up from London; a department of the British Ministry of Defence, called MI9, sends them money regularly, and probably arms too. The British have a name for the line – they call it Meteor.’

‘Meteor …’

Mueller sat upright and looked impatient again. ‘Now! We have provided you with cash, we have provided you with information; what else do you require, may I ask?’

‘A work permit in the name of Paul Lebrun. My occupation should be given as Engineer and the place of employment as some engineering works in, say Lyons. Then in brackets it should say: On secondment duties to Wehrmacht.’

‘You want to say you’re working for the Wehrmacht?’

‘That’s right. I’ll also need a special travel permit which allows me frequent journeys between my base in Lyons and the occupied territories.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now!’ Mueller said disparagingly, ‘How exactly do you propose to bring off this amazing success that I am told you will achieve?’

‘I don’t know.’

Mueller’s face showed uncertainty: he wasn’t sure if Vasson was purposely misleading him or just being difficult. ‘I suggest you inform me when you
do
have a plan.’

‘Certainly. But for a few days I want to get to know the city and feel my way around.’

Mueller eyed him suspiciously. ‘You will not start anything without informing me, will you, Lebrun?’

‘No.’

As Vasson left, Mueller repeated, ‘And you have no plan at all?’

Vasson shrugged. ‘In good time. You didn’t give me many leads …’

Mueller nodded abruptly. ‘Please report back in two days.’

Vasson hurried out, thinking: Like hell! He would report only when he was ready, and even then he wouldn’t tell Mueller a damn thing about what he was doing. The Germans would only foul it up. Anyway he loved to have it all to himself; he hated to share it until the last possible moment.

His plan was the same as always: he had it all worked out. But this time it would take longer, he realised that there were so many people involved, so many contacts to make. Yes, it would take time … But he didn’t mind; it added to the challenge and the excitement.

This one would be the best one yet, he felt it in his bones. This would be his greatest triumph.

F
ALMOUTH.
A
T LEAST
it
should
be. Since the first invasion scare all the railway signs had been removed, so one had to use timetables and guesswork to decide your location. Smithe-Webb stepped off the train, sniffed the sharp, salty Cornish air and thought how wonderfully refreshing it was after the smoke and grime of London.

It
was
Falmouth: there was a naval staff car outside the station, waiting to take him to Helford. The Major settled back in his seat and admired the rolling green countryside. He only wished he could get away from London more often. But his department of MI9 was based at the War Office in Whitehall and he hardly got away at all.

In his year at MI9 he’d heard a few whispers about Helford and the naval unit there – but nothing very definite. It was a clandestine outfit, and, although he’d guessed that they went over to what was known as the Other Side, he’d heard little else. He’d had few dealings with the Navy: almost all the Allied servicemen stranded in Europe – his customers, as he called them – were airmen and soldiers.

But since MI9 had asked for the Navy’s help, Smithe-Webb had been finding out a bit more. The DDOD(I), the head of the Navy’s Irregular Operations Division, had told him a bit about the Helford operations and, what was more important, had promised to help. He had, however, suggested that the major go down to Helford and talk to someone who knew the Other Side well, someone who could advise him on the practical problems his people were likely to meet. The inference was clear: the Navy could manage their end of the operation all right, but could MI9 control
theirs
?

Smithe-Webb took the point; that was why he was here.

After half an hour the road descended steeply towards the dull glint of water visible in the distance. They passed through a picturesque village and came to the banks of a wide river. The car stopped and Smithe-Webb got out. A launch with two ratings was waiting at the jetty and, as soon as he had climbed in, it set off towards a cluster of vessels moored in the main stream of the river. There was a large three-masted yacht which had a number of dinghies tied to it – some kind of mother ship perhaps; then, moored around it, four or five largish fishing boats. Most of them were painted regulation grey, but one had a strange combination of colours. Her superstructure and most of her topsides were grey, but her aft end was bright scarlet with some kind of pattern on it. There were several men standing in a small boat, painting the scarlet with grey. The launch made a neat semi-circle and approached the many-coloured boat. As they drew near Smithe-Webb saw the shadow of a name on the stern. It read:
Marie-Claire. Brest
.

The launch came alongside and a rating threw a line to someone on deck. Smithe-Webb looked up and stared in amazement. The fellow was a sight: unshaven, dirty and dressed like a fisherman. If they were playing at pirates, Smithe-Webb thought, they certainly looked the part.

Smithe-Webb put a foot up on the rubbing strake and hoisted himself over the gunwale onto the deck. He looked expectantly at the piratical figure, but after making fast the launch’s painter the fellow sauntered off down the deck.

Suddenly there was a voice from behind. ‘Good morning!’

Smithe-Webb turned and was met by a pair of penetrating blue eyes and an outstretched hand. Like the other fellow, this chap looked a mess: his clothing was shabby and oil-stained, he had two days’ growth of beard, and, if the major wasn’t mistaken, his breath reeked of alcohol. Smithe-Webb asked uncertainly, ‘Er – Lieutenant Ashley?’

‘Yes, I’m Ashley. But, if it doesn’t seem impolite, who on earth are you?’

Richard Ashley smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude, but we’ve just got back and … we’re not at our best. Come and have a cup of something. I’m not sure what we can offer you …’

‘Not to worry,’ said Smithe-Webb hastily. ‘Don’t want to put you out or anything.’

‘No, no. Must find you something, This is after all a ship of His Majesty’s Navy and traditions must be upheld …’ He laughed and Smithe-Webb saw that, despite the smiling mouth, the face was strained and drawn.

Smithe-Webb followed Ashley down the deck. He noticed that two men were grafting a plank of wood into a gap in the gunwale and that the deckhouse was riddled with bullet holes. Ashley turned and caught his gaze. ‘We were badly straffed. One dead and two wounded. We’ve never been caught like that before.’ He led the way into the deckhouse and indicated that Smithe-Webb should take a seat. ‘That’s the problem with going down to the Bay: it’s fine once you’re there, looking like any other old fishing boat, but it’s an awful long way there and back. We get some air cover on the way out, but …’ He smiled thinly. ‘… well, it’s awfully lonely on the way home.’ He reached down into a locker and pulled out a bottle of cognac. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like a glass of this delicious brew?’