Waiting for the Violins (17 page)

She pinpointed the receiver on a frequency of ten point two megacycles and the dial on sixty, as they’d shown her in training, then set on the headphones and turned on the power supply. A hum sounded in her ears. She was perspiring now as she adjusted the volume to a comfortable level.

The crystal that came with the set seemed undamaged, so she inserted it into the correct socket in the transmitter and turned the dial to 8-14 megacycles. She adjusted the antenna coupling switch until the antenna resonance light glowed with a satisfying brightness, suggesting a strong signal.

Holding her breath, she began to send. Her hand trembled slightly trying to keep up the rhythm of transmission on the transmitter’s tiny sending key. It was impossible to correct mistakes, and she couldn’t broadcast more than a few minutes, or she risked being traced.

She tapped in code, a pattern of dots and dashes that a third person would have found gibberish, but as she sent, the actual words ran through her head.

Sophie here stp mission failed stp plane shot down all dead but me stp planned contacts don’t trust me stp working with Jewish partisans stp need money weapons please advise end.

She ended with the code
RTST.
Respond tomorrow, same time
and added the security code letters confirming she was who she said she was. Twenty-four hours should give the SOE enough time to decipher the message and take it to the relevant authority to verify its authenticity and formulate a response.

Then she disconnected everything, dismounted the antenna, and slid the set and accessories in its valise under her bed. It was a paltry protection, and the simplest search would uncover it, but she couldn’t do anything else.

She lay on her bed, at once excited and relieved. After weeks of trailing along with partisan fighters, supporting acts that many called terrorism, she was ready to do the job she’d been sent to do. No more groveling before the mysterious Toussaint woman in the Café Suèdoise.

Now she could return and confront her with the offer of aid from London. She snorted. That would melt some of the ice in those cold green eyes, wouldn’t it? She allowed herself the most delicious fantasy of grasping the woman’s shirtfront and taunting her. “You want some help from the Big Boys? Then come down off your high horse and talk to me.”

Ah, the reversal of power was sweet. So was the thought of laying hands on Sandrine Toussaint.

*

Twenty-four hours later, she sat at her table again with the same array of transmitter, receiver, and power box in front of her. She repeated the steps of the previous day and set on the headphones, but sent only her agent’s code and then waited.

The minutes ticked past, and she bit her lips. She checked her watch. What was the problem? Was her receiver not functioning? Or had headquarters not even gotten her message? She drummed her fingers and softly ground her teeth.

Then, a signal. She seized her pad and pencil, as the encoded dots and dashes came in. The message was no longer than hers had been, and when it stopped, she signed off again and killed the power. Then she set about deciphering what she’d received. In just a few moments, she had it.

Glad yur alive stp bilbao reports andrée arrested but comet line in operation at same location stp imperative you join them stp mission still urgent stp specify time and place for next drop of money and guns stp rtst end.

She could have wept for relief. The battle, her battle, was on again.

Chapter Twenty

The Café Suèdoise had just opened and served only one other customer when Antonia entered. She decided not to approach the counter but sat down again, at the maximum distance from the other person.

To her immense disappointment, the male proprietor came to speak to her, clearly disconcerted. “What can I do for you, madam?” he asked coldly.

Antonia dropped her voice, forcing him lean in to hear. “Look, I know that Andrée has been arrested. That fact has reached London now too. So right now, I must speak with someone with regard to the escape line,” she muttered under her breath. “Don’t cut me out again. I have something important to offer.” Out loud she said, “I’ll have whatever soup is on offer today, please.”

The man was taken aback, though more perplexed than anxious, as he’d been on their previous meeting. “Yes, madam,” he said, and retreated to the counter and his partner.

A few moments later, he returned with the steaming soup and set it down in front of her. Potato-and-leek soup. On the plate beside the bowl lay a thick slice of dark bread. In spite of the importance of her mission, Antonia was too hungry to ignore the food. She dipped the bread into the hot liquid and bit off a piece. It was the most delicious soup she could ever remember eating. “Superb. My compliments to the cook.”

The man dried his hands mechanically on his apron. “
I’m
the cook. My name is Francis.” He dropped his voice. “What do you have to say?”

Antonia took a mouthful of soup, letting a lump of heavenly potato lie for a moment on her tongue. “I was told to contact your organization. We can offer you money and assistance.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please, don’t go on with that game. Joseph McGee at the Consulate in Bilbao has apparently contacted London and reported that Andrée was arrested and has been replaced by someone else. No name, of course. Too dangerous over open airways, even in code. Is that you?”

“McGee? Bilbao?” The two words seemed to be the key. “You can talk to me, madam. I’ll relay what you’ve said to the relevant persons.”

Her annoyance at his evasiveness diminished the triumph she felt at his partial concession. She’d really had enough.

“No, I want to talk to the woman I spoke to last time.” She savored the power of pronouncing the name, like a wizard, conjuring up the being with the word. “Sandrine Toussaint.”

Francis studied her for a moment, obviously nonplussed. “Enjoy your soup, madam,” he said finally, and retreated to a room behind the bar. Things were beyond her control now. She’d said the magic names, and now she had to wait. But in the meantime, she would finish the heavenly meal.

She finished the entire bowl and wiped it clean with the last morsel of bread, but still Francis didn’t return. She pushed the empty bowl and saucer away from her and fidgeted with her napkin. She had no money to pay for the soup, so if Francis, or Sandrine Toussaint herself, didn’t accept her claims, she feared an unpleasant scene.

Finally Francis reappeared. He bent over the table in a posture that could be taken as a courteous bow and said under his breath, “Please leave now.”

“What?” Antonia was aghast. She remained seated, searching for a more convincing argument. She had none. She knew too little.

“Come back this afternoon at four,” he added. “To the door in the alley. Madame Toussaint will be there.”

“Yes, of course.” Antonia dropped her napkin next to her plate, gathered her coat and bag, and left the cafe. To her relief, he hadn’t mentioned payment.

She hurried back to her room in the Rue Marché au Charbon. She disliked waiting, but at least this time her stomach was full and the outcome looked promising.

Too nervous to wait any longer, she left at 3:30. At a leisurely pace, she made a circle around the Grand Place, stopping at the windows of the lace maker and the candle shop, both of which were empty. At 3:50 she crossed the last few streets to the alley beside the café. She knocked once and the door opened immediately. It led to a storage room, but a table covered with papers and a telephone revealed that it also served as an office.

Standing in front of a shelf of canned goods was the same blondish woman who’d rebuffed her weeks earlier and just recently thrown her off her property. She appeared more worn, her face more strained than before, but curiously more attractive. Perhaps because Antonia herself was no longer the desperate supplicant, they were on equal terms now.

She offered her hand. “Madame Toussaint, so pleased to meet you.” The name was like a spice on her tongue.

The handshake was perfunctory, nervous. “Tell me about Bilbao,” the woman said.

“So you finally want to listen. That’s good. May I sit down?”

Sandrine ignored the question and kept them both standing, like duelists. “What about Bilbao?”

“Mr. McGee at the British consulate in Bilbao is our source, our only source of information about what you’re doing to help our pilots escape. We understand that Andrée de Jongh was arrested and someone else is in charge, and that’s the person I want to talk to.”

“Our source. Who is ‘our’?”

“The SOE. Special Operations Executive. They sent me two months ago, along with another agent. We were to locate you and offer guidance and assistance, but our plane was shot down and I was the only survivor. I had thought the wireless radio was also lost, but the people I’m now working with managed to salvage it and I could finally contact headquarters. They updated me on your situation, and now I’ve come back to make the same offer.”

“Of guidance? We don’t need guidance.”

“I understand that. But perhaps you could use weapons or money.”

Sandrine’s expression changed subtly. “Money, certainly. Are you offering some?”

Damn. The woman was a hard sell. “Yes, I am. But you’re going to have to be open with me as well. First of all, are you the one in charge?”

The woman frowned, still obviously conflicted.

Antonia felt a sudden unexpected sympathy. “I know it’s a risk for you to trust me. But please, look at this.” She pulled away the collar of her blouse and turned sideways to display the waxen skin of a burn scar at the back of her neck. “I got this at Dunkirk nursing soldiers, and it reaches halfway down my back. I nearly died, and thousands of good English, and Irish, and Welshmen
were
killed that day for you. For all of Europe. We’re on the same side, so please don’t shut me out any longer.”

The woman winced at the sight, then appeared to relax her guard. “No one’s really in charge. We’re not a military organization. No one gives or takes orders, although I decide when the men go down the line, so I suppose I’m responsible if they’re captured or if anyone is arrested.”

“So it really
is
you. Well, London wants to work with you.”

“Is that so?” Sandrine finally gestured toward the chairs by the storage-room table, and they both took a seat. “Tell me about the money.”

Antonia also relaxed. “We have to set it up. Now that I have radio contact, I’ll tell my people I’ve connected with you and ask them to make a drop at a time and location you designate. I need money too. I couldn’t even pay for my soup today.”

“We’ll put it on your bill.” For the first time Sandrine’s expression hinted at a smile. “You said your name is Sophie. Is that your real name?”

“That’s what’s on my identification papers.”

“Sophie it is, then. What have you been doing all this time since you arrived?”

“Since you brushed me off, you mean? I’ve been working with Jewish partisans. Not part of my orders, but we share a common enemy.”

“I see. Well, if all it takes is a message to London…” She opened a drawer on the side of the desk and drew out a pad of paper. “Let’s compose one.”

*

What a relief. For two months, Antonia had been the spy that nobody wanted. And now, with a single conversation, she was once again an active agent in the British war effort. Her words, her presence now carried weight, and the promise of material assistance revitalized both the Comet Line and the partisans. Even Moishe came out of his secret world to join the Comet people for the first drop.

Now, a few days after the message to the SOE, while the early autumn night was still warm, Antonia stood with Moishe, Sandrine, Francis, and Philippe on the moonlit field they’d chosen. She explained the SOE flight strategy and the shape they had to present with their lanterns so the pilot could pinpoint the drop spot.

They’d paced out the 600 meters of unobstructed ground, walking into the wind and setting out beacon A after 100 meters, beacon B after the next 150 meters, and beacon C at a right angle from beacon B, thus marking out a reversed L. The arriving pilot could discern the pattern from afar and know that the recipients would be waiting at beacon A.

Antonia and Sandrine stood together near lamp A, imbedded in the ground so it would be visible only from above. Francis and Moishe dug holes for the other two beacons, then returned to wait with them. Philippe stood at the edge of the field holding the horse and wagon.

Sandrine drew up the collar of her sweater. “It’s almost one.”

“We have to be patient. I sent them the exact coordinates and a description of the natural landmarks on all four sides. But the plane has to deal with weather over the channel, then trace a slalom over land all the while flying below radar.”

She was more nervous than they. If the drop failed, for whatever reason, her role as provider for both groups would disintegrate. She hadn’t even mentioned the possibility of flak keeping the planes from arriving at all.

Moishe rubbed his arms for warmth. “All this standing around in the dark. You should have told them to include cognac in the drop.”

Sandrine chuckled. “You mean we could order things? Damn, I would have asked for new boots.”

Antonia shone her own torch on her watch. It was ominously late. If the plane didn’t come at all, they’d have to go home empty-handed, evading the various patrols for bloody nothing, and she wouldn’t even know why until she risked another radio transmission. The thought made her chest hurt.

Then she heard it, the growl of a low-flying small-engine plane. The others heard it too and peered upward, trying to spot it.

“There it is,” Sandrine said, and Antonia watched the shadow emerge from the horizon, like an enormous metal bat. It swept between the two bottom beacons and came within 400 feet, where it seemed to defecate an object. A black chute opened over it, slowing its descent. Then the aircraft pulled up short and just cleared the row of trees behind them.