The Spy (12 page)

Valerie, who had not seen a bluebird in years, was thinking of aeroplanes. The couples poured out onto the floor. The Commander was moving towards her. He stood looking down. “I say, dare we have this one together?”

“Yes, daren't we.”

Hamilton winced. She accepted his hand.

The voice of the vocalist filled her feet. She wished Hamilton would liven up, as had de Beck. As a dancing partner, she didn't want to lose anybody this tall. Meanwhile, what she and Pierre were most in danger of losing were their lives. By this time next week, they could both be dead in a ditch. Even so, being a Frenchman, he would still probably try to seduce her.

Valerie, dancing with David Hamilton, and loving it, pondered the future. The present, she decided, was better: She was in a man's arms. She would be certain to remember and to hold in her heart forever the pink lights flowing across the floor, covering crowds; the smart look of the uniforms, many of the wearers of which would soon be dead; men drinking and chasing women from the vantage of a busy bar; the pungent sounds of dual languages and clinking ice; rich Americans with their Pabst Blue Ribbon, Hav-a-Tampa cigars, Lucky Strikes, Zippo Lighters, Four Roses—and Coca Cola. The British, too, with their smoking pipes and Scotch, serious conversations, baggy blouses, and moustaches.

The war was a mix.

The music was wonderful. Even Hamilton, for once, seemed close to being happy. The musical arrangements, sharp with brass, reminded her of Glenn Miller. Wasn't he stationed nearby? Maybe the young soldier was attached to his unit. The number ended.

“My dear Sinclair,” said Hamilton. “I felt just as though I were dancing with Ginger Rogers.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered sincerely, looking up at him, “I feel exactly the same way.”

Hamilton shook his head. “Let's go up to the bandstand and get a closer look at the singer,” he suggested. He was reaching for his handkerchief.

“Yes, let's.”

They walked over, as though searching for their separate tables. “With a voice like that,” Valerie piped, “he should certainly have a successful singing career once this war is over.” The singer's name, they discovered, was Johnny Desmond.

And, yes, he was with the Glenn Miller Orchestra.

No stranger to fame, Hamilton answered: “The Commander of my last Flotilla, chap named Charlie Crichton, was a movie director—and will be again, I dare say.” What he didn't tell her was that she'd had a “screen test” by Commander Crichton two weeks ago, in a routine surveillance film requested by Blackstone, previewed by Winston Churchill. Valerie Sinclair looked up, and smiled at David Hamilton. Awkwardly, and for one last moment, they watched the singer.

Valerie wanted to stay.

“Well now! Interesting I'm sure, but we do have a war to win.” He had received a call from Blackstone. Anxious to leave, Hamilton walked her politely back to her table. “Regretfully, I must go now,” he announced. Several American soldiers were jostling him, trying to get around him to the girls. “Stay a little longer, if you wish, and listen to the music.” His words were lost in the smother of dance hall voices.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Touching his fingers to his hat, he was gone.

Pierre de Beck, meanwhile, who was starting to get drunk, had decided that things were going better than anticipated. The mission was right on schedule and they could not have picked a more attractive cohort. The Frenchman, an arrow that couldn't miss, clicked a cigarette to life from his lighter and hurried across the floor, drinking in her sparkling eyes and luscious figure.

Pierre knew he'd had several drinks too many, but why shouldn't he? It was because of his cleverness that things were going so well. Sobriety before a launch was a standing SOE regulation. In Sinclair's case, his superiors, having determined his fondness for young girls, had warned him to keep his distance. Headquarters would be annoyed if they found out, but what did
they
know? They were either playing cards back at Milton Hall Castor or getting over their own Champagne hangovers, at some floozy's flat in Mayfair.
Stupid fucks
. Espionage and the seduction of women were among Pierre de Beck's greatest accomplishments. At twenty-seven, he considered himself a master at both.

He slid into the nearest seat and immediately took her hand. “How about a little nightcap up in the room? The success of the mission depends on it.”

That ought to do it.

Sinclair, pulling her hand away, patted his. “Pierre!” she laughed, “whatever would Commander Hamilton say?”

“Who?”

Pierre considered his options: there weren't any.

Foot in his mouth, he would have to get it out. If this British bitch told Hamilton, he could be pulled from the mission. As much as he wanted sex, he would not take it on the sword of dishonor. Besides, good times were coming up. What was England? She would be
his
, in France.

“Sorry if I offended you,” Pierre began, his voice thick with remorse.
Piss on her
! “Too many drinks! I'll tell you something,”—he lowered his voice—“no one knows this about me, but for nearly two and a half years I haven't even had so much as a
date
!”

“You haven't?” Her eyes were big.

“It's the war,” the Frenchman confessed, he had her now, “the killing.” Slurring his words, he needed to make his case quickly. “Do you like poetry? Good. Let me put it to you this way: We have a rendezvous with
death
!'” His voice had deepened, taking on a rich dramatic tone.

Valerie gulped.

“‘In some forgotten, foreign field'”. The words were losing themselves, in the glass.

“That's not how it goes,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Pierre, if you must quote Alan Seeger, at least have the
decency
to quote him correctly!”

“I see,” he answered simply. “Well.” His cigarette ash had fallen to the table, in front of her. “Excuse me. Not all of us had the foresight to be bom in England.” Pride, and “Le Marseillaise,” shone in his eyes. Staggering from the table and drawing himself up to his full height, Pierre concluded with: “Pray, do forgive me!” His smile was dazzling.

“Sit down!” Sinclair ordered.

Pierre slid back into the seat.

Valerie felt like a heel. God, he was gorgeous! Well, she knew what it was to be without a date.

“Friends?”

“
Bon!
”

“Settled.” She would help him. “Too many drinks, Pierre.” She was his partner. “And I'm sorry, too. I know I spoke sharply, but...”

“No problem.”

Pierre, eyes glazed with tears, stared mournfully at the other couples. Love was for others; he hated the world. Valerie reached over, and held his hand. She remembered Dieppe. He was a hero! What right did she have to judge him? To criticize! For such a man to desire her was certainly a compliment. It was because he had killed so many Germans, she decided, that his conscience was bothering him.

But Pierre didn't have one.

“You mustn't blame yourself, Pierre,” her voice consoled. “You did what you
had
to.”

“I did?” What he wanted was to get into her pants.

“Of course! I wish that more men would do it.”

“You do? I had no idea.”

“Pierre, we may soon be in a lot of danger together—”

“—danger is my field,” the Frenchman admitted. He was trying to focus. “You're in good hands. I will do whatever is necessary to...protect you.” Where was her face?

“Thank you, Pierre.”

“
Avec plaisir
.”

Sinclair was becoming impatient, this music was too good to waste. She glanced over his shoulder. An American Sergeant, in the entrance, was signaling.
Me
? She could feel it, where it mattered. He looked the right kind of chap, but she would have to dump de Beck. “I will say good night now, Captain, if that's all right...Captain?”

He hauled himself up.

“But of course,” purred Pierre, respectfully. “‘All's well that ends well.' Bacon, right? Or is that Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare.” The girl smiled, she got up from the table. “I will see you tomorrow, Pierre.”

With a courtly gesture, he bid her adieu.

As Valerie disappeared through the archway, she ran into the American Sergeant who had been waiting for her and who swung her back out onto the dance floor. His name was Sergeant Blumensteel. Short, sexy, and with thinning hair, Sinclair had found herself instantly attracted to him. Winning her heart with New Jersey directness, the Sergeant steered her to a table in the back where de Beck couldn't see them. There was a bottle of
Johnny Walker
on it. A bucket of ice, too.

How fashionable!

The Frenchman, long on tricks and short on cash, reached over and finished her drink. The winning number was SEX, but where was it? Had this been a game of
rouge et noir
, he would not have done too well.
“Fuckum!”
he concluded, his American accent having lost to the real McCoy. He staggered up. Gripping the back of her chair, his eyes swept the hall.

She was gone.

Music was playing.

A sandman's dream, it disappeared around the comer.

“This way,” Sergeant Blumensteel said. He said it softly.

Both laughing, Valerie hurried to catch him up. They had escaped Hamilton's security people by an adroit manoeuvre through the hotel kitchen and had made their way undetected through seven blocks of the late crowd to the place where they now stood.

Blumensteel tried the lock, jiggling with the key. The door he was about to open was just off the pantry, at the back of the licensed cottage where rooms were let and where a Fire Certificate nailed to the wall in the name of a Mrs. D. Muldoon warned against lighted cigarettes; and where, from the smell of things, a lot of ashtrays had filled up recently beside glasses of whisky; and where no monkey-business was tolerated, or would be going on, after lights-out. But this, of course, was the opposite of the truth. Sergeant Blumensteel, for one, had rented a permanent room here for when he was in town.

“It ain't the Ritz,” he said, “but here goes,” and he opened the door with one hand while grasping her tightly with the other. Her smile was hesitant. They were both drunk and they fell into the room. “Over here,” the American said, and he pointed to the brass four-poster against spotted wallpaper that seemed to have faces on it. “Like I tol'ya, kid, my home away from home. Just put the bottle on the table.”

Valerie said, “Ay?”

Blumensteel drank it straight. They had one each for the road—meaning a double. She wouldn't remember finishing it, undressing in the dark, or when he had turned on the light. Sinclair was staring at his skivvies. He took them off. She shot him in sepia and threw the switch.

“Fall in!” the Sergeant ordered, and pulled her towards the bed. She sat on the edge of it. He pushed her over, and she bit him on the lip. Blumensteel howled. Then, she was kissing him, but not the way they do in Hoboken, so he showed her how to do that, too. He felt her up—and they both went down—and somebody fell on the floor. He turned on the lamp and sat up and scratched his hair. There wasn't much. It was that moment of drunken delight when a man can look at a woman and see himself, and she doesn't know it. This one didn't know it because she was propped up like a hinge at the side of the bed, passed out.

A minor setback, he'd bring her around.

Blumensteel studied his prize. Obviously, she had lied to him: she couldn't possibly be twenty-three. He tapped out a smoke, lit it, and immediately sensed a shortage of breath.

She was a beauty, alright.

Too young for a uniform, much less an officer. Stubbing the cigarette, he turned off the lamp and got back into bed. Not that he hadn't seen big tits on young broads. In fact, Blumensteel, at thirty-two, had seen it all. But this was the first time he had seen anyone like
her
. Still, he couldn't tell whether she was faking or sleeping.

“Let's fuck,” suggested the Sergeant, breaking the ice and probing for signs of life. He kissed her again, and went down on her, and worked his way up. Nothing!

Nefertiti never moved.

“Piss on this,” the American said, and he got up over her. He shook his head. Maybe it was the booze or maybe he needed eyeglasses, but he could swear this wasn't the girl he came in with. Blue electricity seemed to sparkle about her face and she was definitely looking younger by the moment. She belonged in a tap dance class, for Christ's sake!

Blumensteel started to shiver.

Of course, it was stupid, but how was he going to explain this? There was no question about it. He was in bed with a
child
!

Sinclair moaned.

“This is fuckin' crazy,” he told himself, excited by the possibility of renewed life, “a dream come true, man,” and he moved to the foot of the bed. From there, a good Catholic, his tongue would take them to heaven. “Jesus Christ!” he announced, getting his breath, this was better than that fifteen-year-old from Secaucus! And he didn't just
do
her, he worked at it! There was lots of sweat. It was a hot night, and he was going down on her for the third time while groping for the lamp because something this good has to be seen if a man hopes to get anywhere. His hand found the knob and he turned it. The room burst into light, and the light was like a million needles zinging around in the air. Just out of sight, it was as if he could see things moving...