The Spy (11 page)

The candidate had turned Pro.

The Commander pulled them close. Passengers were walking past them. “So then!” It was fifty miles to Polperro. “Shall we be off?”

Pierre picked up the gear.

A breeze tugged at her hair; the air felt cooler.

The Frenchman escorted them to a green Rolls Royce, the result of a dockside deal between Seymour and Bridley, following their confrontation with the Irishman at the El Flamingo. Leased to MI.5, specifically to Hamilton, the car was at the Commander's disposal until such time as the Free French delivered it back to SOE for the exclusive use of General Charles De Gaulle. As part of the deal, the French had insisted on their own driver. De Beck got a chauffeur's cap, Seymour got a black eye, and Bridley had got away. Blackstone would get the bill.

“Together, are we?” Hamilton purred.

Sinclair got in. Luxurious leather and rosewood surrounded her on all sides. Her hand caressed the rich felt. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the car's perfume, whose name was power. Blimey, she thought, now ain't
this
the cat's meow.

Hamilton, on whom her reaction had not been lost, joined her now in the back seat, and Pierre closed the doors. Up front, he was fiddling with something. It was a chauffeur's cap.

“Problem, Pierre?”

Pierrre adjusted his cap. “Ready when you are, Commander.”

Hamilton lit a cigarette, offering one to Sinclair, who took it like a lady. The Frenchman started the motor and soon had them out of Falmouth. He pulled a hard right, swinging the southern sun behind them, then accelerated. Dark clouds stood distant.

Sinclair leaned back.

The sleek green Shadow sped down the narrow English road. In the back seat, Hamilton had turned, so that he could see her, while addressing them both. “Within a few days,” he said, “we will leave Polperro by motor launch to rendezvous with a submarine in the Channel. It will be at night, when we expect the cover of a major storm. The submarine will take you up to Brittany. Once ashore, and in contact with the Underground—the
DSM
, Pierre—they will send us a signal.” The Commander paused. It was vital that de Beck understood.

Lé Direction de La Securite Militaire?

He had it.

“Presuming your mission successful, that is, that you get the information—you will be returning on that same submarine, at coordinates to be announced. Or one of you at least, hmmm? Should either of you fail, for any reason, to make your appearance, we will assume that you have either been captured or, that you are somehow returning via an
alternate route
.” She was listening intently. “In that event, naturally, you will be beyond our help.”

“This rendezvous point off Brittany,” said Pierre, “where exactly?”

Valerie sat up.

Hamilton threw her a glance. “Two hundred yards straight in, two hundred yard straight out. For the month of July, no currents, a flat sea. You will move in to the beach at a direct right angle to the sub, so observe your route.”

“Suppose the Boche intercept the signal?”

“You mean from the Underground?” Hamilton queried.

“
Oui
.”

“You do your job, that's highly unlikely. However, nothing is ever really certain, is it?”

Capture, he meant.

Pierre caught the inference, he had a question.

“No cyanide,” Hamilton said, answering it.

Hedges flew past, yellow sun emerging from clouds.

“Why no cyanide?” Pierre now insisted, checking his mileage. “Surely if we're caught...”

“If caught, you could still be rescued,” Hamilton pointed out.

“But we would be tortured!”

The Commander silenced him with a gesture. He did it from the rearview mirror. The argument was over. Suicide was out. Obviously, de Beck had expected the last minute issuance of the poison. Sinclair, who hadn't thought about it, had not. She stared at the back of the Frenchman's head, noting a thick neck.

“When you know we're coming, will you signal from the sea?”

“No. We are foregoing the navigational beacon.”

“I see.” Pierre, mind like a ferret, was mulling it over. No beacon, no cyanide. He looked up, into the mirror. “What kind of submarine, Commander?”

“The kind you can get blown up in, old boy.”

“Excuse me, Commander...”

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

Sinclair took a drag on her cigarette, she was planning ahead. “Will we be wearing life-jackets?”

How would she find one to fit her?

“We are not planning for you to
swim
, Sinclair! You will be provided with...whatever is appropriate.”
Life-jackets
? He had never been asked that before. “You will leave, you will rendezvous. The submarine will take you to a point just off the extreme north coast of the Bay of Biscay. You will then continue in a Carley float, that's a
raft
, Lieutenant”—she put out her cigarette—“landing you below the village of Lorient—”

“South of Brest,” Pierre said.

“Right. Now then, we are assuming you will meet no one on this lonely stretch of beach. If you are questioned, Valerie, you are merely a student...lower form, as it were, at a northern Catholic lycée. Your identification will place you in the School for Orphans at Combourg, near Avranches. Difficult to check, you see? Pierre is a friend, or cousin if you will, and the two of you decided to do some fishing after visiting with his family.”

“Who live inland?”

“Yes. Their farm, isn't it Pierre?”

“Our farm, that's right.”

“That's good,” Sinclair said, “where are the Germans?”

“Intelligence has it that there is little if any German activity near this particular landfall.” The latest report, it had come from Blackstone. “There will be Germans, of course. But no significant patrols, major gun emplacements, that sort of thing. The main Jerry movement is towards Caen. Our area is well south and seaward of the Contentin Peninsula, at least fifty kilometers, I'd say.”

“More,” said Pierre, glancing at her in the glass, “it is further.”

“Well, you should know,” acknowledged Hamilton. “You see, Valerie, Pierre's parents are in touch with DSM, the Underground. But things could change. As the Germans bring up reinforcements and strengthen their positions, well...”

They could find themselves in the thick of it.

“Radios?”

“No. Your time will be critical. We do not intend to waste it by encumbering you with radios. Germany, as I have explained to the Lieutenant, has very sensitive detecting equipment, its ECMs. In all probability, the agents already sent were located through just such means. Any questions, Captain?”

“Not at the moment, sir.”

“Sinclair?” Hamilton, getting no response, turned. “I say, Sinclair!” She was on her knees, staring out the window. Her rump was up; she was looking good. The Rolls Royce had shot past a flock of sheep, and she was straining backwards. Trying to count them, she was practicing her memory.

Pierre, thinking they were being followed, went faster.

“See here,” Hamilton exclaimed, “we have to get this place in organization!” Pierre skidded around the curve!

Thirty-two sheep, three rams, and one goat
. She sat back down.

“Tell me, Sinclair, what do you know about what I just told you?” Pierre listened like a buddha.

“Not a thing, sir.”

“Good show! Then let's get on down to Polperro. We will meet in the hills tomorrow morning at 800 hours, the cliffs above the beach.” It would be easy enough to find, unless one were looking for it. He told them where.

They would arrive separately.

“By the way, there will be a dance at the hotel tonight,” Hamilton let drop. Valerie, gawking out the window, suddenly perked up. “You will, of course, wear your uniforms.” It was the weekly Military Dance, held on Thursday nights in Polperro.

“Super,” she said.

Pierre was making good time.

“It might be nice if the three of us could have dinner together, but there could be a German agent about, so we will sit at separate tables.” Seeing their reaction, he at once downplayed. “It is highly unlikely, I must admit, but we do not intend to take chances. Briefings of this sort, you understand, are just too important to be discussed in our rooms. Pierre, you've been registered as Longchamps. Your room, Valerie, is in the name of Smythe.

“Nice touch, Commander.”

“Thank you, Pierre. One can never be too cautious.”

Smythe
...

The Germans, Hamilton went on to explain, were past masters at getting hold of hotel records. The man in the back seat had been around Blackstone long enough to suspect, if not to know, that International Bankers were just one big happy family. Any hotel owned all or in part by German interests, even if corporately concealed, could be accessed by Abwehr's agents. What the Commander had gone over previously with Seymour—namely, that the Germans may be the best in the world in languages and accents—he now summarized for de Beck.

“It is important, you see, not to make the mistake of the Americans, who when they hear an American speaking to them in their own dialect, presume him to be one. Keep that in mind, Pierre. Valerie here was not born in Brittany, you were. Once landed, youll be wanting to protect her.”

“Of course.”

“Do it,” Hamilton said. The way he saw it, German espionage was synonymous with German business. He could have said the same for the British. Blackstone, a banker, had immediately known that Hamilton was not. But David Hamilton had eyes, as did Seymour, and they would be quick to spot a connection: Bridley, perhaps, having revealed more than he ought. Still, Hamilton was not expecting to run into enemy agents at The Red Lion:

It belonged to the Rothschild Shield.

“Now, should either of you be questioned while dancing, your cover, Pierre, is that you are on leave from your unit. Valerie, in your case, you are on a few days leave from Special Projects, Devonport.” That Sinclair was actually
Ships Officer
, not Administrative, Hamilton thought best to down-play. It was unlikely that anyone could tell from her uniform. The girl smiled, she tugged at her sleeves. The miles had flown like silk. Late sunlight poured through the glass, bathing the rosewood that gleamed like a god. Other cars went to other places, but not this one. One didn't go just anywhere, not in a Rolls Royce! Whatever the evening then, Valerie Sinclair was looking forward to it.

The band played “It Had to Be You.”

To Sinclair it seemed strange, sitting at separate tables. No one else seemed to be sitting at all. They were dancing. Her glass danced, too. She was enjoying the liquor on Hamilton's credit. David Hamilton, tugging at his hat, was certainly no ladies' man, yet it didn't take him long to arrive at her side. A matter of rank, as it were, his main purpose had been to get there before Pierre. “I will try not to tread on your toes....” he began. Valerie jumped up.

It was suppertime at The Red Lion.

Spotlighted center stage, a young American soldier, guesting with the band, had begun to sing:

The Commander struggled with his feet. Sinclair was leading. “If I may say so, sir,” she whispered romantically, “this song is my very favorite.”

“Quite so,” observed Hamilton, glancing authoritatively over his shoulder at the other couples, who were embracing. His mind was on the war, but where was it? To the Commander, the dance floor seemed an unfamiliar battleground. The song ended. Perspiring, he escorted Sinclair back to her table, throwing a quick glance at the double Scotch. Making a lame attempt at a bow, he turned on his heel. A whistling shell was now approaching, landing with finesse.

“May I have this dance?”

“Why yes, Captain, thank you.”

De Beck reached for her hand. “Allow me,” he said.

The song was
Elmer's Tune
, a fast two-step that Valerie loved, and she found Pierre to be an excellent dancer.

De Beck held her at arm's length. “Where you from?”

“Administrative WRENS, Devonport. Between assignments, actually... yourself?”

“On leave from my unit,” the Frenchman answered, in Americanized English. “Theese war, she ees hell, no?” He thought he'd throw in his accent.

Valerie grinned.

She adores me, de Beck thought. As he spun her expertly about the dance floor, she could feel his hand, pulling her close, lightly tracing the seam of her panties beneath the stiff British cloth. As she reached to remove it, it was already gone. The French were famous for their flings. Pierre, no doubt, considered this his last one. Valerie gave him a passionate hug, and threw herself recklessly into the music, finishing the dance.

Her head was in a whirl, she gulped her drink.

After de Beck left, the band returned from their break with another of her favorites. The young American began to sing: