World War II Thriller Collection (68 page)

The interior of the case was divided into four: two side compartments and, in the middle, one front and one back. Dieter could see immediately that the rear middle compartment contained the transmitter, with the Morse key in the lower right-hand corner, and the front middle was the receiver, with a socket for headphone connections. The right-side compartment was the power supply. The function of the left-side compartment became clear when the agent lifted the lid to reveal a selection of accessories and spare parts: a power lead, adaptors, aerial wire, connection cables, a headset, spare tubes, fuses, and a screwdriver.

It was a neat, compact set, Dieter thought admiringly; the kind of thing the Germans would have made, not at all what he would expect from the untidy British.

He already knew Helicopter's times for transmission and reception. Now he had to learn the frequencies used and—most important—the code.

Helicopter plugged a lead into the power socket. Dieter said, “I thought it was battery-operated.”

“Battery or mains power. I believe the Gestapo's
favorite trick, when they're trying to locate the source of an illicit radio transmission, is to switch off the town's electricity block by block until the broadcast is cut off.”

Dieter nodded.

“Well, with this set, if you lose the house current, you just have to reverse this plug, and it switches to battery operation.”

“Very good.” Dieter would pass that on to the Gestapo, in case they did not already know.

Helicopter plugged the power lead into an electrical outlet, then took the aerial wire and asked Stéphanie to drape it over a tall cupboard. Dieter looked in the kitchen drawers and found a pencil and a scratch pad that Mademoiselle Lemas had probably used to make shopping lists. “You can use this to encode your message,” he said helpfully.

“First I'd better figure out what to say.” Helicopter scratched his head, then began to write in English:

 

ARRIVED OK STOP CRYPT RENDEZVOUS UNSAFE STOP NABBED BY GESTAPO BUT GOT AWAY OVER

 

“I suppose that's it for now,” he said.

Dieter said, “We should give them a new rendezvous for future incomers. Say the Café de la Gare next to the railway station.”

Helicopter wrote it down.

He took from the case a silk handkerchief printed with a complex table showing letters in pairs. He also took out a pad of a dozen or so sheets of paper printed with five-letter nonsense words. Dieter recognized the makings of a one-time-pad encryption system. It was unbreakable—unless you had the pad.

Over the words of his message, Helicopter wrote the five-letter groups from the pad; then he used the letters he had written to select transpositions from the silk handkerchief. Over the first five letters of ARRIVED he had written the first group from his one-time pad, which was
BGKRU. The first letter, B, told him which column to use from the grid on the silk handkerchief. At the top of column B were the letters Ae. That told him to replace the A of ARRIVED with the letter e.

The code could not be broken in the usual way, because the next A would be represented not by e but by some other letter. In fact, any letter could stand for any other letter, and the only way to decrypt the message was by using the pad with the five-letter groups. Even if the codebreakers could get hold of a coded message and its plain-language original, they could not use them to read another message, because the next message would be encoded with a different sheet from the pad—which was why it was called a “one-time” pad. Each sheet was used once, then burned.

When he had encrypted his message, Helicopter flicked the on/off switch and turned a knob marked in English “Crystal Selector.” Looking carefully, Dieter saw that the dial bore three faint markings in yellow wax crayon. Helicopter had mistrusted his memory and had marked his broadcast positions. The crystal he was using would be reserved for emergencies. Of the other two, one would be for transmission and the other for reception.

Finally he tuned in, and Dieter saw that the frequency dial was also marked with yellow crayon.

Before sending his message, he checked in with the receiving station by sending:

 

HLCP DXDX QTC1 QRK? K

 

Dieter frowned, figuring. The first group had to be the call sign “Helicopter.” The next one, “DXDX,” was a mystery. The number one at the end of “QTC1” suggested that this group meant something like: “I have one message to send you.” The question mark at the end of “QRK?” made him think this asked if he was being received loud and clear. “K” meant “Over,” he knew. That left the mysterious “DXDX.”

He tried a guess. “Don't forget your security tag,” he said.

“I haven't,” Helicopter said.

That must be “DXDX,” Dieter concluded.

Helicopter turned to “receive” and they all heard the Morse reply:

 

HLCP QRK QRV K

 

Once again, the first group was Helicopter's call sign. The second group, “QRK,” had appeared in the original message. Without the question mark, it presumably meant “I am receiving you loud and clear.” He was not sure about “QRV,” but he guessed it must mean “Go ahead.”

As Helicopter tapped out his message in Morse, Dieter watched, feeling elated. This was the spycatcher's dream: he had an agent in his hands and the agent did not know he had been captured.

When the message was sent, Helicopter shut down the radio quickly. Because the Gestapo used radio direction-finding equipment to track down spies, it was dangerous to operate a set for more than a few minutes.

In England, the message had to be transcribed, decoded, and passed to Helicopter's controller, who might have to consult with others before replying; all of which could take several hours, so Helicopter would wait until the appointed hour for a response.

Now Dieter had to separate him from the wireless set and, more importantly, from his coding materials. “I presume you want to contact the Bollinger circuit now,” he said.

“Yes. London needs to know how much of it is left.”

“We'll put you in touch with Monet, that's the code name of the leader.” He looked at his wristwatch and suffered a moment of sheer panic: it was a standard-issue German Army officer's watch, and if Helicopter recognized it the game would be up. Trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, Dieter said, “We've got time, I'll drive you to his house.”

“Is it far?” Helicopter said eagerly.

“Center of town.”

Monet, whose real name was Michel Clairet, would not be at home. He was no longer using the house; Dieter had checked. The neighbors claimed to have no idea where he was. Dieter was not surprised. Monet had guessed that his name and address would be given away by one of his comrades under interrogation, and he had gone into hiding.

Helicopter began to close up the radio. Dieter said, “Does that battery need recharging from time to time?”

“Yes—in fact they tell us to plug it in at every opportunity, so that it's always fully charged.”

“So why don't you leave it where it is for now? We can come back for it later, by which time it will be charged. If anyone should come in the meantime, Bourgeoise can hide it away in a few seconds.”

“Good idea.”

“Then let's go.” Dieter led the way to the garage and backed the Simca Cinq out. Then he said, “Wait here a minute, I have to tell Bourgeoise something.”

He went back into the house. Stéphanie was in the kitchen, staring at the suitcase radio on the kitchen table. Dieter took the one-time pad and the silk handkerchief from the accessories compartment. “How long will it take you to copy these?” he said.

She made a face. “All those gibberish letters? At least an hour.”

“Do it as fast as you can, but don't make any mistakes. I'll keep him out for an hour and a half.”

He returned to the car and drove Helicopter into the city center.

Michel Clairet's home was a small, elegant town house near the cathedral. Dieter waited in the car while Helicopter went to the door. After a few minutes, the agent came back and said, “No answer.”

“You can try again in the morning,” Dieter said. “Meanwhile, I know a bar used by the Resistance.” He knew no such thing. “Let's go there and see if I recognize anyone.”

He parked near the station and picked a bar at random. The two of them sat drinking watery beer for an hour, then returned to the rue du Bois.

When they entered the kitchen, Stéphanie gave Dieter a slight nod. He took it to mean she had succeeded in copying everything. “Now,” Dieter said to Helicopter, “you'd probably like a bath, having spent a night in the open. And you certainly should shave. I'll show you your room, and Bourgeoise will run your bath.”

“How kind you are.”

Dieter put him in an attic room, the one farthest from the bathroom. As soon as he heard the man splashing in the bath, he went into the room and searched his clothes. Helicopter had a change of underwear and socks, all bearing the labels of French shops. In his jacket pockets were French cigarettes and matches, a handkerchief with a French label, and a wallet. In the wallet was a lot of cash—half a million francs, enough to buy a luxury car, if there had been any new cars for sale. The identity papers seemed impeccable, though they had to be forgeries.

There was also a photograph.

Dieter stared at it in surprise. It showed Flick Clairet. There was no mistake. It was the woman he had seen in the square at Sainte-Cécile. Finding it was a wonderful piece of luck for Dieter—and a disaster for her.

She was wearing a swimsuit that revealed muscular legs and suntanned arms. Beneath the costume she had neat breasts, a small waist, and delightfully rounded hips. There was a glimmer of moisture, either water or perspiration, at her throat, and she was looking into the camera with a faint smile. Behind her and slightly out of focus, two young men in bathing trunks seemed about to dive into a river. The picture had obviously been taken at an innocent swimming party. But her semi-nakedness, the wetness at her throat, and the slight smile combined to make a picture that seemed sexually charged. Had it not been for the boys in the background, she might have been about to take the swimsuit
off and reveal her body to the person behind the camera. That was how a woman smiled at her man when she wanted him to make love to her, Dieter thought. He could see why a young fellow would treasure the photo.

Agents were not supposed to carry photos with them into enemy territory—for very good reasons. Helicopter's passion for Flick Clairet might destroy her, and much of the French Resistance too.

Dieter slipped the photo into his pocket and left the room. All in all, he thought, he had done a very good day's work.

PAUL CHANCELLOR SPENT
the day fighting the military bureaucracy—persuading, threatening, pleading, cajoling, and as a last resort using the name of Monty—and, in the end, he got a plane for the team's parachute training tomorrow.

When he caught the train back to Hampshire, he found he was eager to see Flick again. He liked her a lot. She was smart, tough, and a pleasure to look at. He wished to hell she was single.

On the train he read the war news in the paper. The long lull on the eastern front had been broken, yesterday, by a surprisingly powerful German attack in Rumania. The continuing resilience of the Germans was formidable. They were in retreat everywhere, but they kept fighting back.

The train was delayed, and he missed six o'clock dinner at the Finishing School. After dinner there was always another lecture; then at nine the students were free to relax for an hour or so before bed. Paul found most of the team gathered in the drawing room of the house, which had a bookcase, a cupboard full of games, a wireless set, and a half-size billiards table. He sat on the sofa beside Flick and said quietly, “How did it go today?”

“Better than we had a right to expect,” she said. “But everything is so compressed. I don't know how much they're going to remember when they're in the field.”

“I guess anything is better than nothing.”

Percy Thwaite and Jelly were playing poker for
pennies. Jelly was a real character, Paul thought. How could a professional safebreaker consider herself a respectable English lady? “How was Jelly?” he asked Flick.

“Not bad. She has more difficulty than the others with the physical training but, my goodness, she just grit her teeth and got on with it, and in the end she did everything the youngsters did.” Flick paused and frowned.

Paul said, “What?”

“Her hostility to Greta is a problem.”

“It's not surprising that an Englishwoman should hate Germans.”

“It's illogical, though—Greta has suffered more from the Nazis than Jelly has.”

“Jelly doesn't know that.”

“She knows that Greta's prepared to fight against the Nazis.”

“People aren't logical about these things.”

“Too bloody right.”

Greta herself was talking to Denise. Or rather, Paul thought, Denise was talking and Greta was listening. “My stepbrother, Lord Foules, pilots fighter-bombers,” he heard her say in her half-swallowed aristocratic accent. “He's been training to fly support missions for the invasion troops.”

Paul frowned. “Did you hear that?” he asked Flick.

“Yes. Either she's making it up, or she's being dangerously indiscreet.”

He studied Denise. She was a rawboned girl who always looked as if she had just been insulted. He did not think she was fantasizing. “She doesn't seem the imaginative type,” he said.

“I agree. I think she's giving away real secrets.”

“I'd better arrange a little test tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Paul wanted to get Flick to himself so that they could talk more freely. “Let's take a stroll around the garden,” he said.

They stepped outside. The air was warm and there was an hour of daylight left. The house had a large garden with several acres of lawn dotted with trees. Maude and Diana were sitting on a bench under a copper beech. Maude had flirted with Paul at first, but he had given her no encouragement, and she seemed to have given up. Now she was listening avidly to something Diana was saying, looking into Diana's face with an attitude almost of adoration. “I wonder what Diana's saying?” Paul said. “She's got Maude fascinated.”

“Maude likes to hear about the places she's been,” Flick said. “The fashion shows, the balls, the ocean liners.”

Paul recalled that Maude had surprised him by asking whether the mission would take them to Paris. “Maybe she wanted to go to America with me,” he said.

“I noticed her making a play for you,” Flick said. “She's pretty.”

“Not my type, though.”

“Why not?”

“Candidly? She's not smart enough.”

“Good,” Flick said. “I'm glad.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why?”

“I would have thought less of you otherwise.”

He thought this was a little condescending. “I'm glad to have your approval,” he said.

“Don't be ironic,” she reprimanded him. “I was paying you a compliment.”

He grinned. He could not help liking her, even when she was being high-handed. “Then I'll quit while I'm ahead,” he said.

They passed close to the two women, and heard Diana say, “So the contessa said, ‘Keep your painted claws off my husband,' then poured a glass of champagne over Jennifer's head, whereupon Jennifer pulled the contessa's hair—and it came off in her hand, because it was a wig!”

Maude laughed. “I wish I'd been there!”

Paul said to Flick, “They all seem to be making friends.”

“I'm pleased. I need them to work as a team.”

The garden merged gradually with the forest, and they found themselves walking through woodland. It was only half light under the canopy of leaves. “Why is it called the New Forest?” Paul said. “It looks old.”

“Do you still expect English names to be logical?”

He laughed. “I guess I don't.”

They walked in silence for a while. Paul felt quite romantic. He wanted to kiss her, but she was wearing a wedding ring.

“When I was four years old, I met the King,” Flick said.

“The present king?”

“No, his father, George V. He came to Somersholme. I was kept out of his way, of course, but he wandered into the kitchen garden on Sunday morning and saw me. He said, ‘Good morning, little girl, are you ready for church?' He was a small man, but he had a booming voice.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Who are you?' He replied, ‘I'm the King.' And then, according to family legend, I said, ‘You can't be, you're not big enough.' Fortunately, he laughed.”

“Even as a child, you had no respect for authority.”

“So it seems.”

Paul heard a low moan. Frowning, he looked toward the sound and saw Ruby Romain with Jim Cardwell, the firearms instructor. Ruby had her back to a tree and Jim was embracing her. They were kissing passionately. Ruby moaned again.

They were not just embracing, Paul realized, and he felt both embarrassed and aroused. Jim's hands were busy inside Ruby's blouse. Her skirt was up around her waist. Paul could see all of one brown leg and a thick patch of dark hair at her groin. The other leg was raised and bent at the knee, and Ruby's foot rested high on Jim's hip. The movement they were making together was unmistakable.

Paul looked at Flick. She had seen the same thing. She stared for a moment, her expression showing shock and something else. Then she turned quickly away. Paul followed suit, and they went back the way they had come, walking as quietly as they could.

When they were out of earshot, he said, “I'm terribly sorry about that.”

“Not your fault,” she said.

“Still, I'm sorry I led you that way.”

“I really don't mind. I've never seen anyone . . . doing that. It was rather sweet.”

“Sweet?” It was not the word he would have chosen. “You know, you're kind of unpredictable.”

“Have you only just noticed?”

“Don't be ironic, I was paying you a compliment,” he said, repeating her own words.

She laughed. “Then I'll quit while I'm ahead.”

They emerged from the woods. Daylight was fading fast, and the blackout curtains were drawn in the house. Maude and Diana had gone from their seat under the copper beech. “Let's sit here for a minute,” Paul said. He was in no hurry to go inside.

Flick complied without speaking.

He sat sideways, looking at her. She bore his scrutiny without comment, but she was thoughtful. He took her hand and stroked her fingers. She looked at him, her face unreadable, but she did not pull away her hand. He said, “I know I shouldn't, but I really want to kiss you.” She made no reply but continued to look at him with that enigmatic expression, half amused and half sad. He took silence for assent, and kissed her.

Her mouth was soft and moist. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation. To his surprise, her lips parted, and he felt the tip of her tongue. He opened his mouth.

He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, but she slipped out of his embrace and stood up. “Enough,” she said. She turned away and walked toward the house.

He watched her go in the fading light. Her small, neat
body suddenly seemed the most desirable thing in the world.

When she had disappeared inside, he followed. In the drawing room, Diana sat alone, smoking a cigarette, looking thoughtful. On impulse, Paul sat close to her and said, “You've known Flick since you were kids.”

Diana smiled with surprising warmth. “She's adorable, isn't she?”

Paul did not want to give away too much of what was in his heart. “I like her a lot, and I wish I knew more about her.”

“She always yearned for adventure,” Diana said. “She loved those long trips we made to France every February. We would spend a night in Paris, then take the Blue Train all the way to Nice. One winter, my father decided to go to Morocco. I think it was the best time of Flick's life. She learned a few words of Arabic and talked to the merchants in the souks. We used to read the memoirs of those doughty Victorian lady explorers who traveled the Middle East dressed as men.”

“She got on well with your father?”

“Better than I did.”

“What's her husband like?”

“All Flick's men are slightly exotic. At Oxford, her best friend was a Nepalese boy, Rajendra, which caused great consternation in the senior common room at St. Hilda's, I can tell you, although I'm not sure she ever, you know, misbehaved with him. A boy called Charlie Standish was desperately in love with her, but he was just too boring for her. She fell for Michel because he's charming and foreign and clever, which is what she likes.”

“Exotic,” Paul repeated.

Diana laughed. “Don't worry, you'll do. You're American, you've only got one and a half ears, and you're as smart as a whip. You're in with a chance, at least.”

Paul stood up. The conversation was taking an uncomfortably intimate turn. “I'll take that as a compliment,” he said with a smile. “Goodnight.”

On his way upstairs, he passed Flick's room. There was a light under the door.

He put on his pyjamas and got into bed, but he lay awake. He was too excited and happy to sleep. He relived the kiss again and again. He wished he and Flick could be like Ruby and Jim, and give in to their desires shamelessly. Why not? he thought. Why the hell not?

The house fell quiet.

A few minutes after midnight, Paul got up. He went along the corridor to Flick's room. He tapped gently on the door and stepped inside.

“Hello,” she said quietly.

“It's me.”

“I know.”

She lay on her back in the single bed, her head propped up on two pillows. The curtains were drawn back, and moonlight came in at the small window. He could see, quite clearly, the straight line of her nose and the chisel chin that he had once thought not to be pretty. Now they seemed angelic.

He knelt by the bed.

“The answer is no,” she said.

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Please,” he said.

“No.”

He leaned over her to kiss her, but she turned her head away.

“Just a kiss?” he said.

“If I kiss you, I'll be lost.”

That pleased him. It told him she was feeling the same way he did. He kissed her hair, then her forehead and her cheek, but she kept her face averted. He kissed her shoulder through the cotton of her nightdress, then brushed his lips over her breast. “You want to,” he said.

“Out,” she commanded.

“Don't say that.”

She turned to him. He bent his face to kiss her, but she put a finger on his lips as if to hush him. “Go,” she said. “I mean it.”

He looked at her lovely face in the moonlight. Her expression was set with determination. Although he hardly knew her, he understood that her will could not be overridden. Reluctantly, he stood up.

He gave it one more try. “Look, let's—”

“No more talk. Go.”

He turned away and left the room.