Maurice watched her questioningly. ‘This fellow will be useful to us, Marie-Claire. He was with Meteor. He’s seen the sort of bogus airmen the Boches tried to pass down the line there. And he knew the traitor, Lebrun. He always suspected him, apparently. He’s going to be very good on security.’
She asked. ‘But how did he find us?’
‘A mutual contact.’
‘And he’s …’ She wondered how to put it. ‘He’s – definitely all right?’
Maurice nodded. ‘I had him checked out very carefully. I had the mutual friend verify him personally. Face to face in the presence of one of our couriers. Then I had him checked with London. They know him well. He’d been with Meteor for some time.’
Julie nodded. ‘Ah.’
‘And since he’s been with us, he’s been doing very good work, I assure you.’
She smiled briefly. It must be all right. She was just worrying too much as usual.
Maurice stood up. ‘You might as well meet him now. I’ll call him in, shall I?’
She looked up in surprise. ‘He’s here?’
‘Yes. In the next room.’ Maurice went to a back door, opened it, and spoke quietly. He returned and sat down.
Julie waited expectantly. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a shadow fell on the open door then, without a sound, a man appeared, silhouetted against the light. Julie had the strangest feeling he’d been there all the time, just behind the door, listening.
For a moment the man paused, his face in darkness. Then he came forward, and Julie saw that he was looking at her carefully, his eyes hard and searching.
Then he smiled, his lips curving into a friendly grin, the eyes warming a little. Julie automatically smiled back and put out her hand to shake his.
Maurice said, ‘This is Roger. Roger, this is Marie-Claire.’ Roger wouldn’t be his real name, of course.
They sat down. ‘Now,’ Maurice began immediately, ‘let’s look at security procedures. As a first defence I think we should aim for a new series of security checks further up the line …’ As Julie listened she stole the occasional glance at the stranger. He had a thin face with rather sallow skin and straight black hair which flopped over his forehead in untidy straggles. He was dressed in rough clothes, but she noticed that on one hand he wore a thick gold ring. His eyes were so dark they were almost black and you had the feeling they didn’t miss a thing. At one point they flicked up and looked straight into Julie’s eyes. She glanced hurriedly away.
‘… So Marie-Claire, you take the Americans and the British,’ Maurice was saying, ‘and Roger, you the other nationalities. All right so far?’
Julie nodded.
Roger said, his voice low and soft, ‘Those already in hiding? Have they been checked?’
Maurice nodded. ‘Pretty well.’
‘No so-called Czechs or Poles?’
‘No, none. But – there is one odd passenger we’ve been asked to take. A German by nationality, no less.’
Julie glanced at Roger. He remained impassive. ‘A German?’
‘Yes, but a reluctant one, apparently. A Jew who’s doing forced labour for the Navy in Brest. He wants out with some vital documents.’
Roger said gently, ‘What vital documents?’
‘Ah, some scientific marvel that would be very valuable. We don’t know the details.’
‘And he’s in a Navy establishment?’
‘Yes.’
Roger asked softly, ‘Which one?’
He was asking a lot of questions. Perhaps that was his way, Julie thought, perhaps that was how things were done in Paris.
Maurice shrugged. ‘We don’t know.’
Roger’s eyes fell. ‘And how is he to be removed?’
‘Ah,’ sighed Maurice, ‘that’s to be arranged by some – er, friends.’
Roger nodded very slowly. ‘It does sound rather risky. I’d certainly like to interrogate him.’
‘Of course. We all want to be certain about him!’ Maurice sat forward in his chair. ‘Right, let’s call it a day. Unless you have any questions …?’
Julie looked at Roger. He was shaking his head. She looked back at Maurice and almost spoke – she wanted to confirm the arrangements for her and Peter. But she changed her mind; it didn’t seem to be the right moment any more.
Maurice took the identity card from the table. ‘Right, Roger. Here’s your new identity. If we can bother you for a thumb print …?’
Julie watched as Roger rolled his right thumb on the ink pad and placed his print carefully on the card.
Maurice looked at Roger. ‘And the photograph?’
‘Of course!’ He felt in his jacket pocket and brought out a small photograph.
Maurice handed the card and photograph to Julie. She pushed them into her trouser pocket and stood up. Roger sprang to his feet and bowed slightly.
On a whim she said, ‘The Meteor thing … How did you escape?’
‘A friend warned me, just before I walked into the trap.’
‘But the others—?’
He looked down, sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘Most of them gone …’ He looked genuinely upset and Julie felt a little guilty for having asked. She said, ‘Sorry – I …’
His eyes came up suddenly. ‘No – please don’t worry. That’s the price we have to pay sometimes, isn’t it? They knew that. They knew the risks. All one can do is learn the lessons.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, of course …’
The distress had disappeared and now he was smiling slightly. She noticed, though, that his eyes were cold.
She muttered goodbye to Maurice and, turning back to Roger, said, ‘I’ll have your card ready in an hour.’
He bowed again. ‘Thank you, madame.’
Julie went quietly through the house and out into the lane. Her happiness had evaporated. The presence of Roger troubled her, not just because he was a stranger, but because he was something new, and new elements made her nervous.
And there was something else. What? Yes – he frightened her. It was those cold watchful eyes.
A shiver went down her spine and, shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked quickly in the direction of home.
Vasson watched her go and wondered why she had been wary.
It was probably just native suspicion. She was like the rest of them: distrustful of anything from outside. There was nothing more to it than that. After all, she had no reason to be suspicious. No, she was an earnest, well-meaning type, but definitely not too bright.
He turned back to Maurice. ‘A good girl, that.’
Maurice nodded. ‘Yes, the best.’
Vasson sat down again. He waited for Maurice to speak: it would show the proper subservience.
Maurice said, ‘Right. Now, I’ll try to get the rest of your new papers by Thursday, but no promises. In the meantime, lie low—’
‘But I’ve still got my own papers – I could use them.’
‘No! You’ve been using them in Paris, haven’t you? And you’re known there.’
‘Well – yes.’ He had to admit it: the owner of the papers, a man called Fougères, had indeed used them in Paris before he found his way into Kloffer’s dungeon. Kloffer’s office had then replaced the identity photographs with Vasson’s – and a very professional job they’d made of it, too.
Maurice looked stern. ‘Then it would be much too dangerous to use them! No, you stay here until your new papers are ready. If you
were
spotted at the Gare Montparnasse as you suspect, then they might be on to you! No! You must wait!’
Vasson nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course! Whatever you say!’ It didn’t make any difference: he had three other identities to choose from, any one of which would do perfectly well if he needed to slip away from the village. And the Gare Montparnasse thing was a nonsense, of course: he’d made it up.
‘When your papers are fixed, then we’ll send you to Morlaix or St Brieuc to interview parcels as soon as they come off the train.’
Morlaix was very convenient: it housed his local contact.
Vasson thought: Now for a little touch of finesse. He said softly, ‘What about people
within
the
réseau?
Have they been checked recently?’
‘No, but then there’s hardly anyone who hasn’t been with me from the beginning. Those who do join … Well, I check them very carefully.’
That was true enough. At the beginning Maurice had kept Vasson under close watch until his identity had been checked, first with London, who had okayed him straight away – they would, of course: Fougères was a longstanding member of the Meteor line – and then with the contact in Paris, the one who had got him the introduction to the Brittany
réseau.
The contact had, in fact, been under Kloffer’s supervision for some two weeks. If Vasson remembered correctly, Kloffer had the man’s wife in the basement at the Avenue Foch. Anyway, the man had done what was required and, in front of a witness, sworn to Vasson’s identity as Paul Fougères. Vasson rather liked the name: it had an aristocratic ring to it.
Vasson stood up and walked to the window. ‘So what can I do until Thursday?’
‘Nothing.’
That suited Vasson very well. It would give him the time he needed.
But not if he was cooped up. He said with feeling, ‘I’ll go mad if I have to stay inside all the time. All right if I stretch my legs in the evenings?’
There was a pause. Maurice said reluctantly, ‘If you have to. But stay in the village and keep out of sight of Germans.’
‘Certainly. I’ll be very careful.’ Which was true: he would do his reconnaissance of the village very carefully indeed.
Maurice stood up. ‘Right. I’m off now. Any problems, just leave a message at the café.’
They nodded to each other and Maurice left.
For a while Vasson sat quite still, thinking that it was all going quite well. There were, of course, a few minor problems; but then there always were.
He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. First, there was the security of the line. Unfortunately it was very good. Maurice had done an excellent job. It would be impossible to slip a bogus American or Britisher through, not with that girl interviewing them. And a Czech or Pole – well, everyone knew that was how Meteor had fallen. It would be tempting fate to try the same trick again. No, a plant really wouldn’t do.
So – what could he get on his own? The Bretons were close people, very suspicious of strangers. It would take ten years to get trusted around here. No hope of confidences then. No way of locating the safe houses easily. Nor of identifying more than two of the couriers: Maurice had made sure of that. So what did that leave him with?
Quite a lot, in fact.
He could get the organisers, no trouble there. Maurice, the girl and the people who actually went on beach operations, he could get them all right. And they, after all, were the real plums.
Then the Gestapo would have to do some of their own work for a change. They would have to extract the names of the small fry. It wouldn’t do them any harm – he’d been handing them things on a plate for long enough.
It wouldn’t be as clean and satisfying as Meteor had been. But what the hell? After this job he would be a very rich man. As long as he delivered most of the goods, what did it matter?
Anyway, he’d go mad if he stayed in this place too long. The silence was deafening, except for the racket of bleating sheep and the bloody wind howling the place down. And the cold! He’d never been so cold in his life. They’d never heard of heating in bedrooms, or bedwarmers. And the food – solid and inedible. It was the end of the bloody earth.
No: he’d just hit them hard and quick and then he’d be off, back to Paris. And Kloffer could threaten him all he wanted: Vasson would
stay
in Paris. This time he was going home.
He got up and went through into the messy, smelly back room he’d been given. It was like a rat-hole: disgusting.
There was a bottle of wine beside the bed. He picked it up and swigged at it. There was no point in going out until dark, but Christ! it seemed a long time away.
He lay and looked at the ceiling. He suddenly realised he’d forgotten something. Ah! Of course. There was the other matter: the scientist. What the hell was he going to do about that?
He could always do nothing, of course. But if the Jew really was important, then it might just be worth his while to organise something …
The main problem was to find out exactly who this fellow might be. It would be no good asking Baum, his Gestapo contact at Morlaix. The fool would probably blow it straight away by going to Brest and asking questions.
No, better to keep Baum out of it. That meant he’d have to handle it himself.
In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait.
He swigged at the wine again, gulping the liquid down in long draughts. It was the only way to drink the stuff: it was rough as hell. Then he lay back on the bed and slept fitfully through the afternoon.
At dusk he got up. He put an old cap on his head, a canvas working man’s bag over his shoulder, and some identity papers in his pocket. Then, looking carefully out of the door, he slipped quietly into the night.
The dawn was pale and misty and very cold. Julie stepped into the yard, gulped the fresh, cold air and watched her breath floating away in long clouds, up into the white opalescent sky.
‘Maman, are we
really
going in the van?’ Peter ran up to her, skipping with excitement.
Julie smiled. ‘Yes – well, I hope so! Uncle Jean got it going yesterday and it seems to be working. But we’ll see.’
She opened the barn door and climbed into the ancient Peugeot van. Peter hovered next to the passenger door while she turned on the ignition, took out the starting handle and, coming round to the front of the vehicle, swung energetically on the handle. After four attempts, the engine fired a couple of times; at the fifth it started.
Peter squealed with excitement and, flinging open the door, jumped in.
‘Got your school things?’
Peter nodded violently. Julie wiped her hands on her overalls, climbed in and slowly eased in the clutch. The van lurched out into the yard. Soon they were off, bumping down the lane and through the village. Julie tried to change into second gear. There was a loud grinding noise. She double de-clutched and tried again. Another rasping and clattering and then the engine settled on to a lower note: they were in second gear.
Julie sighed with relief then looked across at Peter. He was laughing uncontrollably, his little face creased with delight. She exclaimed, ‘Well I never promised to be the world’s best driver!’ And then she was laughing too.