Night Sky (48 page)

Her face was a mixture of relief and uncertainty. ‘Yes. That would be nice.’

He forced himself to smile at her and then turned hurriedly away. Anything to keep the bitch happy. Anything to keep her quiet until after tomorrow. God! The things he had to do. But it would be worth it, he was sure of that.

It was a spectacular morning, the light as bright and clear as glass. Though it was still winter it was just warm enough to sit at a pavement table without feeling the cold. Vasson turned his face to the sun and thought that he’d never felt as good as he did today.

He ordered a second pastis and looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. His pulse quickened and he felt a delicious sense of anticipation.

It was almost the best part, the anticipation.

Anne-Marie was the first. She walked along the pavement towards him, her head down, her expression serious. She always looked serious. Well, today she really had something to worry about! The thought amused him and he had to lower his head to hide a smile.

She saw him and, giving a slight wave, weaved her way through the tables towards him.

As she sat down he asked, ‘Everything fixed?’

She nodded.

He smiled brilliantly. ‘Excellent! Now what would you like to drink? Pernod? Coffee? Yes? Then coffee it shall be!’

She was watching him, trying to gauge his mood. He smiled at her, elated. She said, ‘You’re very happy today.’

‘Yes! Well, something’s happened!’

‘What?’

He held up his hand. ‘All in good time! All in good time!’

She smiled thinly, but her eyes were serious, questioning. She was a bit wary, he decided. Nothing to worry about though, he could deal with her all right.

Stupid bitch. He smiled at her again. ‘It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ She looked around nervously.

‘What’s the matter?’

She said quickly, ‘Oh nothing. I’m just a bit jumpy today, I don’t know why.’

Vasson eyed her sharply and wondered if she’d guessed something after all. She couldn’t see Mueller and his men, of course: they were well hidden in a florist’s shop across the street. And Vasson himself had given nothing away. He decided, finally, that she was just the nervous type.

Patrice, the number two in the organisation, was next. He was a doctor, one of the types who worked with the poor and the needy. His halo was so bright it was almost dazzling. Vasson watched him approach with satisfaction. Two down and one to go.

The doctor drew up a chair. Vasson said smoothly, ‘My dear fellow, a glass of something? A Pernod?’

The doctor smiled kindly and said, ‘No, thank you so much. Just a coffee.’

‘Oh, but I did so want us to have a drink together!’

The doctor and Anne-Marie exchanged glances. Vasson realised he was pushing it. He said quickly, ‘It’s just that we hardly ever see each other and it’s good to drink with one’s friends.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Another time, really.’

At last the leader, Guy, came. Vasson spotted him while he was still some distance away on the other side of the street. The man walked casually but with infinite caution, missing nothing. A wily man – a worthy opponent.

The leader arrived at the table and, taking a last look round, sat down.

Vasson beamed at him. ‘Now I hope I have a customer for a drink! How about it? A pastis? A cognac?’

Guy eyed him and said quietly, ‘No, let’s have a drink after we have discussed our business. What, exactly, have you to tell us?’

A cool one, Vasson thought, a cool one. ‘Ah!’ He raised a finger and smiled. ‘Good news, very good news.’

‘But I thought there was something worrying you?’

‘
Yes
, there is that too.’ Vasson tried to look suitably serious. ‘But to be precise it’s something that should be worrying
you
.’

A nice little joke, that.

Out of the corner of his eye Vasson saw Mueller and his men coming out of the florist’s shop. Only a minute left, then.

A look of concern had come into Guy’s eyes and he said, ‘What exactly is the problem? Spit it out!’

‘The problem is that the Boches are on to you!’

The three of them froze, their eyes fastened on Vasson, waiting for him to go on. Vasson raised his eyebrows and shrugged mysteriously.

They exchanged glances, then stared back at Vasson, a mixture of uncertainty and cold horror growing on their faces.

Vasson looked past them to where Mueller and the men in black leather raincoats were making their way through the outer ring of tables. Then, just before the Germans arrived, Vasson smiled.

The two men realised almost simultaneously. They jumped to their feet and looked desperately around them. Anne-Marie was still staring stupidly across the table.

The men saw the black leather raincoats and froze like animals gauging the wind. Vasson wondered if they would try to run for it. He hoped not: it would draw attention.

The men turned and looked at each other, fear and terrible understanding written all over their faces. Vasson realised with satisfaction they were not going to run for it. Slowly, they sat down again and first one then the other stared at Vasson. The girl was still looking dully across the table, her mouth open.

Vasson said to the two men, ‘Right. Now if you just tell me where to find the courier Francine, then we can be going.’

There was silence.

‘If you don’t tell me your wives and children will be arrested within the hour.’

‘You bastard?’ It was the girl. The dull look had gone and her eyes were blazing. ‘You bastard! You filthy swine! You—!’ Suddenly she screamed and, picking up an ashtray, raised it above her head. Before she could throw it one of Mueller’s men swung at her. There was a
crack!
as his leather-gloved hand hit her cheekbone. The ashtray fell to the ground.

Shaking with anger, Vasson leant forward in his chair. ‘That’ll teach you, you bitch. Next time we’ll make your face into pulp!’

Vasson leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. ‘Where do I find the courier Francine?’

The men were looking away now, their expressions grim. Only the girl was staring at him again.

They weren’t going to talk. It didn’t matter; he could send a false message to the courier and lure her out that way. Vasson said stiffly, ‘Very well. If you wish to sacrifice your families …’

The girl had been quiet but now she let out a cry of agony and for a moment Vasson thought she’d reach across the table and try to scratch him. But she sank back in her seat, her face a picture of hate and self-loathing, and shouted, ‘Oh God! Oh God!’

Vasson indicated to Mueller and one of his men yanked the girl out of her seat and took her away. She screamed as she was dragged across the pavement. Vasson wished she wouldn’t make so much noise; people were staring.

Vasson said to Mueller, ‘And the others!’

As the doctor was pulled to his feet he turned towards Vasson and said quietly, ‘I feel very sorry for you. May God forgive you.’

Vasson forced a smile and said, ‘Sod you too!’

He finished his drink and nodded to one of Mueller’s men, who made a show of arresting Vasson. Vasson pretended to struggle a little, then walked quietly across the street to the waiting car.

In Room 900 of the War Office, Smithe-Webb of the French Section of M19 was waiting for news.

There had been no news from Meteor for three days. Meteor, the largest of the evasion lines, had two wireless operators. Neither of them had made contact.

The major had to remind himself that this in itself meant nothing; wireless operators often had trouble getting through.

But then there was the silence from the Spanish end of the line. No airmen had come over the border for four days.

And then there were the rumours. They’d started coming in the previous day, from other evasion lines and from agents of the Special Operations Executive.

The rumours hinted at a disaster in the Meteor line.

All Smithe-Webb could do was to hope it wasn’t true – and wait for news.

The news came at four that afternoon. From the Coding and Signals Section of MI9 headquarters at Beaconsfield, just outside London. The section had received a message. It was from Xavier, one of the Meteor wireless operators. The message was perfectly routine, asking for arms and money to be dropped in three days’ time; the code used was correct; and the ‘touch’, the operator’s unique and personally identifiable Morse style, was definitely Xavier’s.

But something was missing, something which made Smithe-Webb’s heart sink. One of the security checks had been left out. One of the two intentional mistakes that operators were trained to put into their messages had been omitted.

That meant only one thing. It meant that Xavier was operating under German control.

Over the next three days more and more information filtered through and Smithe-Webb’s worst fears were realised.

Meteor had been devastated. It was as if the line had never existed. Over a hundred and fifty arrests had been made: men and women, some in their seventies, others no more than eighteen.

It was a disaster.

When the news broke, the Head of MI9 shielded Room 900 from the worst of the flak which rained down on them from the Department’s enemies in high places.

But Smithe-Webb didn’t care either way. There was only one thing he cared about – finding out how it had happened so that it could never, ever happen again.

The next day his prayers were answered. A long signal arrived from the British Consulate in Lisbon. A man claiming to be a member of the Meteor line had reached Portugal by means of the Pyrenees and a Spanish jail. His code name was Gaston and he had operated in Brussels. Before escaping from the city, he had heard a whisper, passed from someone who had called up to the leader, Guy, in his prison cell. The whisper was that it was a traitor who had caused the disaster, a man who called himself Lebrun.

A traitor from within.

Smithe-Webb sighed. It was the one thing that was so very difficult to guard against.

All he could do was to help them prevent it happening again.

He would press for money to train agents, agents who could be sent over to start new evasion lines, people who, above all, would be skilled in
security …

He started planning straight away. It would be a mistake to set up another large-scale Belgium-Spain line too soon; the aftermath of the Meteor disaster would rumble on for a long time.

Instead he would reinforce the existing, smaller
réseaux,
particularly those well away from the Meteor route.

He looked at the north coast of Brittany. The recent upset there had been no more than a temporary hiccup.

Most of the line was still intact. So too were the MGBs, though minus Ashley and his crew.

Yes, Brittany it must be. A new organiser, a new security system, and a much larger operation.

The line would need a new name.

He thought for a moment, then came up with the name which had been his mother’s before she married. He would call the new
réseau
the Sheldon line.

T
ANTE
M
ARIE TOOK
a last look into the front parlour, closed the door, and nodded to Julie. Julie picked up a plate of fish stew from the stove, a knife and fork from the table, and carried them quickly into her bedroom. Tante Marie closed the door behind her.

Julie walked through the room and started to climb the narrow stairs. Whispers and a small chuckle floated down from the room above. Her eyes reached floor level and she saw the two heads bent over some fascinating object on the floor.

They heard her and looked up. Richard grinned. For a moment she met his gaze and smiled back. Then she directed her eyes towards her son. Peter acknowledged her arrival with a matter-of-fact glance and said in his high-pitched monotone, ‘Maman, look at this. It’s nearly finished!’

Julie obediently inspected the rough model ship lying on the floor and said, ‘It’s lovely, darling. Really super!’

Richard got to his feet and reached out for the plate. ‘Shall I relieve you of this? It looks too good to go cold.’

‘Oh yes! Sorry!’ Julie laughed and looked up into his face. He was still smiling, but there was something else, too: an enquiring, watchful look, as if he were trying to catch her out at some game they were playing.

She looked away and said to Peter, rather too quickly, ‘Come on! Bedtime, young man.’

‘But I’m not tired!’

‘That’s as may be, but it’s still bedtime.’

‘Oh, no! We were just going to stick the funnel on, weren’t we, Richard?’ He pronounced ‘Richard’ in the French way, softly and with no ‘d’, just as Julie had taught him. She was terrified that he would blurt the name out at school.

Richard put on a stern face. ‘It can wait until tomorrow. Go on,
jeune homme
. Do as your mother says!’

Peter made a face, then nodded obediently and got up. Julie reached down to take his hand, but he said crossly, ‘No, I want to walk by myself!’ Julie sighed. Such an independent little beast, her son, and hardly six. She shrugged, rolled her eyes at Richard, and followed Peter’s stamping feet down the stairs.