In a sense, the flippancy of her remarks was an attempt to control her feelings, and when she turned and moved to the table to pour more tea into her cup, her hand shook slightly. The death of her mother had sent her to live with her father on a plantation deep in the Malayan jungle. A life of discomfort and considerable danger, an extraordinary upbringing for a girl of thirteen, and yet she'd loved every minute of it. In moments of the greatest danger, she seemed to come alive. The hospital by night, the bombing, the casualties who needed her. Once again, she'd loved every minute of it.
And now this. It was not just sexual desire, although she was enough of a woman to know that she wanted Marti-neau. But that was only part of it. It was what this strange, intense, tortured man offered. The promise of danger, excitement of a kind she had never even dreamed of before.
"Rather Interesting? Dear God!" Martineau poured himself a scotch. "Have you read any of the works of Heidegger, Jack?"
"I'm familiar with them."
"An interesting man. He believed that for authentic living what was necessary was the resolute confrontation of death."
"That sounds fine by me," Munro said.
"Really?" Martineau laughed harshly. "As far as I'm concerned, it's idiots like that who made me give up on philosophy." He raised his glass and toasted them all. "Here we go then. Berkley Hall next stop."
The firing range at Berkley Hall was in the basement. The armorer was an Irish Guards staff sergeant named Kelly, long past retirement and back in harness only because of the war. The place was brightly lit at the target end where cutout replicas of charging Germans stood against sandbags. Kelly and Sarah Drayton were the only people on the firing line. They'd given her battle dress to wear, slacks and blouse of blue serge, the kind issued to girls in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force. She'd tied her hair up and tucked it inside the peaked cap, leaving her neck bare. It somehow made her look very vulnerable.
Kelly had various weapons laid out on the table. "Have you ever flred a handgun before, miss?"
"Yes," she said, "in Malaya. My father was a rubber planter. He used to be away a great deal so he made sure I knew how to use a revolver. And I've flred a shotgun a few times."
"Anything here that looks familiar?"
"That revolver." She pointed. "It looks like the Smith and Wesson my father owned."
"That's exactly what it is, miss," Kelly said. "Obviously in more normal circumstances you'd be given a thorough grounding in weaponry as part of your course, but in your case, there just isn't time. What I'll do is show you a few things, just to familiarize you with some basic weapons you're likely to come across. Then you can fire a few rounds and that will have to do."
"Fair enough," she said.
"Rifles are simple," he said. "I won't waste your time with those. Here we've got two basic submachine guns. The British Sten in standard use with our own forces. This is a Mark IIS. Silenced version, developed for use with the French Resistance groups. Thirty-two rounds in that magazine. Automatic flre burns out the silencer, so use it semiautomatic or single burst. Like to have a go?"
It was surprisingly light and gave her no problems at all when she flred it from the shoulder, the only sound being the bolt reciprocating. She tore a sandbag apart to one side of the target she aimed at.
"Not much good," she said.
"Few people are with these things. They're good at close quarters when you're up against several people and that's all," Kelly told her. "The other submachine gun's German. An MP40. Popularly known as the Schmeisser. The Resistance use those a lot too."
He went through the handguns with her then, both the revolvers and the automatics. When she tried with the Smith & Wesson, arm extended, she only managed to nick the shoulder of the target once out of six shots.
"I'm afraid you'd be dead, miss."
As he reloaded, she said, "What about Colonel Marti-neau? Is he any good?"
"You could say that, miss. I don't think IVe ever known anyone better with a handgun. Now, try this way." He crouched, feet apart, holding the gun two-handed. "See what I mean?"
"I think so." She copied him, the gun out in front of her in both hands.
"Now squeeze with a half breath of a pause between each shot."
This time, she did better, hitting the target once in the shoulder and once in the left hand.
"Terrific," Kelly said.
"Not if you consider she was probably aiming for the heart."
Martineau had come in quietly behind them. He wore a dark polo neck sweater and black corduroy pants and he came to the table and examined the guns. "As I'm going to have to look after this infant and as time is limited, do you mind if I take a hand?"
"Be my guest, sir."
Martineau picked up a pistol from the table. "Walther PPK, semiautomatic. Seven-round magazine goes in the butt, like so. Pull the slider back and you're in business. It's not too large. You wouldn't notice it in your handbag, but it will do the job and that's what matters. Now come down the range."
"All right."
They moved so close that the targets were no more than ten or twelve yards away. "If he's close enough for you to hold it against him when you pull the trigger, do it that way, but you should never be farther away than you are now. Simply throw up your arm and point the gun at him. Keep both eyes open and fire very fast."
She hit the target six times in the general area of the chest and belly. "Oh, my word," she said, very excited. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
As they walked back to the firing line he said, "Yes, but could you do it for real?"
"I'll only know when the time comes, won't I?" she said. "Anyway, what about you? I hear a lot of talk, but not much to justify it."
There was another Walther on the table with a round cylinder of polished black steel screwed on to the end of the barrel. "This is what's called a Carswell silencer," Mar-tineau told her. "Specially developed for use by SOE agents."
His arm swung up. He didn't appear to take aim, firing twice, shooting out the heart of the target. The only sound had been two dull thuds, and the effect was quite terrifying.
He laid the gun down and turned, eyes blank in the white face. "I've got things to do. Dougal wants us in the library in half an hour. I'll see you then."
He walked out. There was an awkward silence. Sarah said, "He seemed angry."
"The colonel gets like that, miss. I don't think he likes what he sees in himself sometimes. Last November he killed the head of the Gestapo at Lyons. Man called Kaufman n. A real butcher. They brought him back from over there in a puddle of blood in a Lysander. Two bullets in his left lung for starters. He's been different since then."
"In what way?"
"I don't know, miss." Kelly frowned. "Here, don't you go getting silly ideas about him. I know what you young girls can be like. IVe got a daughter your age on an antiaircraft battery in London. Just remember he's got twenty-five years on you."
"You mean he's too old?" Sarah said. "Isn't that like saying you can't love someone because they're Catholic or Jewish or American or something? What's the difference?"
"Too clever for me, that kind of talk." Kelly opened a drawer and took out a cloth bundle which he unwrapped. "A little present for you, miss, in spite of what the colonel says." It was a small black automatic pistol, very light, almost swallowed up by her hand. "Belgian. Only.25, but it'll do the trick when you need it and, at that size, very easy to hide." He looked awkward. "IVe known ladies to tuck them in the top of their stocking, not intending to be disrespectful, miss."
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "I think you're wonderful."
"You can't do that, miss, you being an officer. Against regulations."
"But I'm not an officer, Sergeant."
"I think you'll find you are, miss. Probably one of the things the brigadier wants to tell you. I'd cut off and go to the library now if I were you."
"All right and thank you."
She went out and Kelly sighed and started to clear away the weapons.
Munro, Carter and Martineau were already in the library when she went in, sitting by the flre having afternoon tea. "Ah, there you are," Munro said. "Do join us. The crumpets are delicious."
Carter poured her a cup of tea. She said, "Sergeant Kelly said something about my being an officer now. What was he talking about?"
"Yes, well, we do prefer our women operatives to hold some sort of commissioned rank. In theory it's supposed to help you if you fall into enemy hands," Munro told her.
"In practice, it doesn't do you any good at all," Martineau interrupted.
"However, for good or ill, you are now a flight officer in the WAAF," Munro said. "I trust that is satisfactory. Now, let's look at the map."
They all got up and went to the table where there were several large-scale maps, together making a patchwork that included the south of England, the Channel, and the general area of the Channel Islands and Normandy and Brittany.
"All those jolly films they make at Elstree showing you our gallant secret agents at work usually have them parachuting into France. In fact, we prefer to take people in by plane wherever possible."
"I see," she said.
"Our popular choice is the Lysander. These days the pilot usually manages on his own. That way we can take up to three passengers. They're operated by a Special Duties Squadron at Hornley Field. It's not too far from here."
"How long will the flight take?"
"No more than an hour and a half, perhaps less depending on wind conditions. You'll land not far from Granville.
The local Resistance people will be on hand to take care of you. We find the early hours of the morning best. Say four or five."
"Then what?"
"The evening of the same day you'll leave Granville by ship for Jersey. Most convoys go by night now. We have air superiority during daylight hours." He turned to Marti-neau. "Naturally, the question of passage is a matter for Standartenfuhrer Max Vogel, but I doubt whether anyone is likely to do anything other than run round in circles when they see your credentials."
Martineau nodded. "We'll be in trouble if they don't."
"As regards your dealings with Mrs. de Ville and General Gallagher. Well, you have Sarah to vouch for you."
"And Kelso?"
"Entirely in your hands, dear boy. You're the officer in the field. I'll back whatever you decide to do. You know how critical the situation is."
"Fair enough."
Munro picked up the phone at his side. "Send Mrs. Moon in now." He put the phone down and said to Sarah. "We're very lucky to have Mrs. Moon. We borrow her from Den-ham Studios by courtesy of Alexander Korda. There's nothing she doesn't know about makeup, dress and so on."
Hilda Moon was a large fat woman with a cockney accent. Her own appearance inspired little confidence, for her hair was dyed red and it showed, and she wore too much lipstick. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, ash spilling down on her ample bosom.
"Yes." She nodded, walking round Sarah. "Very nice. Of course I'll have to do something with the hair."
"Do you think so?" Sarah asked in alarm.
"Girls who get by tiie way you're supposed to in this part, dear, always carry it up front. They make a living from pleasing men, which means they have to make the best of what they've got. You trust me, I know what's best for you."
She took Sarah by the arm and led her out. As the door closed, Martineau said, "We probably won't even recognize her when we see her again."
"Of course," Munro said. "But then, I should have thought that was the general idea."
It was early evening when the phone rang at Gallagher's cottage. He was in the kitchen, working through farm accounts at the table, and answered it instantly.
"Savary here, General. The matter of the package we discussed."
"Yes."
"My contact in Granville was in touch with their head office. It seems someone will be with you by Thursday at the latest to give you the advice you need."
"You're certain of that."
"Absolutely."
The phone went dead. Gallagher sat there thinking about it, then he put on his old corduroy jacket and went up to de Ville Place. He found Helen in the kitchen with Mrs. Vibert, preparing the evening meal. The old lady didn't live on the premises, but just down the road in another farm cottage with her niece and young daughter. She was a widow herself, a good-hearted woman of sixty-five, devoted to Helen.
She dried her hands and took a coat down from behind the door. "If that's all, I'll be off now, Mrs. de Ville."