World War II Thriller Collection (65 page)

“I've got all the tough soldiers I need. What I want from you is your expertise.”

“Would it mean a chance to hurt those bloody fucking Nazis?”

“Absolutely. If we succeed, it will do a very great deal of damage indeed to the Hitler regime.”

“Then, sweetheart, I'm your girl.”

Flick smiled. My God, she thought; I've done it.

IN THE MIDDLE
of the night, the roads of southern England were thronged with traffic. Great convoys of army trucks rumbled along every highway, roaring through the darkened towns, heading for the coast. Bemused villagers stood at their bedroom windows, staring in incredulity at the endless stream of traffic that was stealing their sleep.

“My God,” said Greta. “There really is going to be an invasion.”

She and Flick had left London shortly after midnight in a borrowed car, a big white Lincoln Continental that Flick loved to drive. Greta wore one of her less eye-popping outfits, a simple black dress with a brunette wig. She would not be Gerhard again until the mission was over.

Flick hoped Greta was as expert as Mark had claimed. She worked for the General Post Office as an engineer, so presumably she knew what she was talking about. But Flick had not been able to test her. Now, as they crawled along behind a tank transporter, Flick explained the mission, anxiously hoping the conversation would not reveal gaps in Greta's knowledge. “The château contains a new automatic exchange put in by the Germans to handle all the extra telephone and teleprinter traffic between Berlin and the occupying forces.”

At first Greta was skeptical about the plan. “But, sweetheart, even if we succeed, what's to stop the Germans just rerouting calls around the network?”

“Volume of traffic. The system is overloaded. The army command center called ‘Zeppelin' outside Berlin handles one hundred twenty thousand long-distance calls and twenty thousand telex messages a day. There will be more when we invade France. But much of the French system still consists of manual exchanges. Now imagine that the main automatic exchange is out of service and all those calls have to be made the old-fashioned way, by hello girls, taking ten times as long. Ninety percent of them will never get through.”

“The military could prohibit civilian calls.”

“That won't make much difference. Civilian traffic is only a tiny fraction anyway.”

“All right.” Greta was thoughtful. “Well, we could destroy the common equipment racks.”

“What do they do?”

“Provide the tones and ringing voltages and so on for automatic calls. And the register translators, they transform the dialed area code into a routing instruction.”

“Would that make the whole exchange unworkable?”

“No. And the damage could be repaired. You need to knock out the manual exchange, the automatic exchange, the long-distance amplifiers, the telex exchange, and the telex amplifiers—which are probably all in different rooms.”

“Remember, we can't carry a great quantity of explosives with us—only what six women could hide in their everyday bags.”

“That's a problem.”

Michel had been through all this with Arnaud, a member of the Bollinger circuit who worked for the French PTT—
Postes, Télégraphes, Téléphones
—but Flick had not queried the details, and Arnaud was dead, killed in the raid. “There must be some equipment common to all the systems.”

“Yes, there is—the MDF.”

“What's that?”

“The Main Distribution Frame. Two sets of terminals on large racks. All the cables from outside come to one
side of the frame; all the cables from the exchange come to the other; and they're connected by jumper links.”

“Where would that be?”

“In a room next to the cable chamber. Ideally, you'd want a fire hot enough to melt the copper in the cables.”

“How long would it take to reconnect the cables?”

“A couple of days.”

“Are you sure? When the cables in my street were severed by a bomb, one old Post Office engineer had us reconnected in a few hours.”

“Street repairs are simple, just a matter of connecting broken ends together, red to red and blue to blue. But an MDF has hundreds of cross-connections. Two days is conservative, and that assumes the repairmen have the record cards.”

“Record cards?”

“They show how the cables are connected. They're normally kept in a cabinet in the MDF room. If we burn them, too, it will take weeks of trial and error to figure out the connections.”

Flick now recalled Michel saying the Resistance had someone in the PTT who was ready to destroy the duplicate records kept at headquarters. “This is sounding good. Now, listen. In the morning, when I explain our mission to the others, I'm going to tell them something completely different, a cover story.”

“Why?”

“So that our mission won't be jeopardized if one of us is captured and interrogated.”

“Oh.” Greta found this a sobering thought. “How dreadful.”

“You're the only one who knows the true story, so keep it to yourself for now.”

“Don't worry. Us queers are used to keeping secrets.”

Flick was startled by her choice of words, but made no comment.

The Finishing School was located on the grounds of one of England's grandest stately homes. Beaulieu, pronounced Bewly, was a sprawling estate in the New
Forest near the south coast. The main residence, Palace House, was the home of Lord Montagu. Hidden away in the surrounding woods were numerous large country houses in extensive grounds of their own. Most of these had been vacated early in the war: younger owners had gone on active service, and older ones generally had the means to flee to safer locations. Twelve of the houses had been requisitioned by SOE and were used for training agents in security, wireless operation, map reading, and dirtier skills such as burglary, sabotage, forgery, and silent killing.

They reached the place at three o'clock in the morning. Flick drove down a rough track and crossed a cattle grid before pulling up in front of a large house. Coming here always felt like entering a fantasy world, one where deception and violence were talked of as commonplace. The house had an appropriate air of unreality. Although it had about twenty bedrooms, it was built in the style of a cottage—an architectural affectation that had been popular in the years before the First World War. It looked quaint in the moonlight, with its chimneys and dormer windows, hipped roofs and tile-hung bays. It was like an illustration in a children's novel, a big rambling house where you could play hide-and-seek all day.

The place was silent. The rest of the team was here, Flick knew, but they would be asleep. She was familiar with the house and found two vacant rooms on the attic floor. She and Greta went gratefully to bed. Flick lay awake for a while, wondering how she would ever weld this bunch of misfits into a fighting unit, but she soon fell asleep.

She got up again at six. From her window she could see the estuary of the Solent. The water looked like mercury in the gray morning light. She boiled a kettle for shaving and took it to Greta's room. Then she roused the others.

Percy and Paul were first to arrive in the big kitchen at the back of the house, Percy demanding tea and Paul coffee. Flick told them to make it themselves. She had not joined SOE to wait on men.

“I make tea for you sometimes,” Percy said indignantly.

“You do it with an air of noblesse oblige,” she replied. “Like a duke holding a door for a housemaid.”

Paul laughed. “You guys,” he said. “You crack me up.”

An army cook arrived at half past six, and before long they were sitting around the big table eating fried eggs and thick rashers of bacon. Food was not rationed for secret agents: they needed to build up their reserves. Once they went into action, they might have to go for days without proper nourishment.

The girls came down one by one. Flick was startled by her first sight of Maude Valentine: neither Percy nor Paul had said how pretty she was. She appeared immaculately dressed and scented, her rosebud mouth accentuated by bright lipstick, looking as if she were off to lunch at the Savoy. She sat next to Paul and said with a suggestive air, “Sleep well, Major?”

Flick was relieved to see the dark pirate face of Ruby Romain. She would not have been surprised to learn that Ruby had run off in the night, never to be seen again. Of course, Ruby could then be rearrested for the murder. She had not been pardoned: rather, the charges had been dropped. They could always be picked up again. That ought to keep Ruby from disappearing, but she was as tough as a boot, and she might have decided to take the chance.

Jelly Knight looked her age, this early in the morning. She sat beside Percy and gave him a fond smile. “I suppose you slept like a top,” she said.

“Clear conscience,” he replied.

She laughed. “You haven't got a bloody conscience.”

The cook offered her a plate of bacon and eggs, but she made a face. “No, thank you, dear,” she said. “I've got to watch my figure.” Her breakfast was a cup of tea and several cigarettes.

When Greta came through the door, Flick held her breath.

She wore a pretty cotton dress with a small false
bosom. A pink cardigan softened her shoulder line and a chiffon scarf concealed her masculine throat. She wore the short dark wig. Her face was heavily powdered, but she had used only a little lipstick and eye makeup. By contrast with her sassy on-stage personality, today she was playing the part of a rather plain young woman who was perhaps a little embarrassed about being so tall. Flick introduced her and watched the reactions of the other women. This was the first test of Greta's impersonation.

They all smiled pleasantly, showing no sign that they saw anything wrong, and Flick breathed easier.

Along with Maude, the other woman Flick had not met before was Lady Denise Bowyer. Percy had interviewed her at Hendon and had recruited her despite signs that she was indiscreet. She turned out to be a plain girl with a lot of dark hair and a defiant air. Although she was the daughter of a marquess, she lacked the easy self-confidence typical of upper-class girls. Flick felt a little sorry for her, but Denise was too charmless to be likable.

This is my team, Flick thought: one flirt, one murderess, one safebreaker, one female impersonator, and one awkward aristocrat. There was someone missing, she realized: the other aristocrat. Diana had not appeared. And it was now half past seven.

Flick said to Percy, “You did tell Diana that reveille was at six?”

“I told everyone.”

“And I banged on her door at a quarter past.” Flick stood up. “I'd better check on her. Bedroom Ten, right?”

She went upstairs and knocked at Diana's door. There was no response, so she went in. The room looked as if a bomb had hit it—a suitcase open on the rumpled bed, pillows on the floor, knickers on the dressing table—but Flick knew this was normal. Diana had always been surrounded by people whose job it was to tidy up after her. Flick's mother had been one of those people. No, Diana had simply gone off somewhere. She
was going to have to realize that her time was no longer her own, Flick thought with irritation.

“She's disappeared,” she told the others. “We'll start without her.” She stood at the head of the table. “We have two days' training in front of us. Then, on Friday night, we parachute into France. We're an all-female team because it is much easier for women to move around occupied France—the Gestapo are less suspicious. Our mission is to blow up a railway tunnel near the village of Marles, not far from Reims, on the main railway line between Frankfurt and Paris.”

Flick glanced at Greta, who knew the story was false. She sat quietly buttering toast and did not meet Flick's eye.

“The agent's course is normally three months,” Flick went on. “But this tunnel has to be destroyed by Monday night. In two days, we hope to give you some basic security rules, teach you how to parachute, do some weapons training, and show you how to kill people without making a noise.”

Maude looked pale despite her makeup. “Kill people?” she said. “Surely you don't expect girls to do that?”

Jelly gave a grunt of disgust. “There is a bloody war on, you know.”

Diana came in from the garden with bits of vegetation clinging to her corduroy trousers. “I've been for a tramp in the woods,” she said enthusiastically. “Marvelous. And look what the greenhouseman gave me.” She took a handful of ripe tomatoes from her pocket and rolled them onto the kitchen table.

Flick said, “Sit down, Diana, you're late for the briefing.”

“I'm sorry, darling, have I missed your lovely talk?”

“You're in the military now,” Flick said with exasperation. “When you're told to be in the kitchen by seven, it's not a suggestion.”

“You're not going to get all headmistressy with me, are you?”

“Sit down and shut up.”

“Frightfully sorry, darling.”

Flick raised her voice. “Diana, when I say shut up, you don't say ‘Frightfully sorry' to me, and you don't call me darling, ever. Just shut up.”

Diana sat down in silence, but she looked mutinous. Oh, hell, Flick thought, I didn't handle that very well.

The kitchen door opened with a bang and a small, muscular man of about forty came in. He had sergeant's chevrons on his uniform shirt. “Good morning, girls!” he said heartily.