ELEVEN
Martineau and Sarah drove down through St. Aubin and along toward Bel Royal, passing a number of fortifications and gun positions on the way. The sky was very blue, the sun bright, and yet on the horizon, beyond Fort Elizabeth, there was a dark curtain.
“Rain,” she said. “Typical Jersey spring weather. Wonderful sunshine and then the squalls sweep in across the bay, sometimes only for a few minutes.”
“It’s warmer than I’d expected,” he said. “Quite Mediterranean.” He nodded at the gardens as they passed. “Especially with all those palm trees. I didn’t expect those.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “This island has a special smell to it in the spring. Nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world.” She opened her eyes again and smiled. “That’s the de Ville side of me speaking. Hopelessly prejudiced. Tell me something. Why have you taken off your uniform?”
He was wearing the leather military trenchcoat, but underneath was a gray tweed suit with a waistcoat and white shirt with a black tie. The slouch hat was also in black, the brim down at the front and back.
“Tactics,” he said. “Everybody who is anybody will know I’m here, will know who I am, thanks to Muller. I don’t need to appear in uniform if I don’t want to. SD officers wear civilian clothes most of the time. It emphasizes our power. It’s more frightening.”
“You said our power.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You frighten me sometimes, Harry.”
He pulled the Kubelwagen in at the side of the road and switched off. “Let’s take a walk.”
He helped her out and they paused as one of the military trains approached and moved past, then they crossed the track to the seawall. There was a cafe there, all closed up, probably from before the war, a huge bunker not too far away.
A new unlooked-for delight was music, two young soldiers on the seawall, a portable radio between them. Below, on the sands, children played, their mothers sitting against the wall, faces turned to the sun. A number of German soldiers swam in the sea, two or three young women among them.
Martineau and Sarah leaned on the wall. “Unexpectedly domestic, isn’t it?” He gave her a cigarette.
The soldiers glanced at them, attracted by the girl, but turned from his dark stare. “Yes,” she said, “Not what I expected.”
“If you look closely you’ll see that most of the soldiers on the beach are boys. Twenty at the most. Difficult to hate. When someone’s a Nazi, then it’s explicit. You know where you stand. But the average twenty-year-old German in uniform.”he shrugged”is just a twenty-year-old in uniform.”
“What do you believe in, Harry? Where are you going?” Her face was strained, intense.
“As I once told you, I’m a very existentialist person. ‘Action this day’Churchill’s favorite phrase. And that means defeating the Nazis because they must be destroyed totally. Hitler’s personal philosophy is unacceptable in terms of any kind of common humanity.”
“And afterward, when it’s all over? What happens to you?”
He stared out to sea, eyes very dark, leaning on the wall. “When I was young I used to love railway stations, especially at night. The smell of the steam, the dying fall of a train whistle in the distance, the platforms in those great deserted Victorian palaces at night, waiting to go somewhere, anywhere. I loved it and yet I also used to get a feeling of tremendous unease. Something to do with getting on the wrong train.” He turned to her. “And once the train’s on its way, you see, you can’t get off.”
“The station is ominous at midnight,” she said softly. “Hope is a dead letter.”
He stared at her. “Where did you hear that?”
“One of your bad poems,” she said. “That first day I met you at the cottage the brigadier was reading it. You took it from him, crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace.”
“And you retrieved it?”
“Yes.”
For a moment she thought he would be angry. Instead he smiled. “Wait here.” He left her and crossed the line to the Kubelwagen and opened the door. When he returned he was carrying a small Kodak camera. “Helen gave me this. As the film is four years old she can’t guarantee the results.”
He walked up to the soldiers. There was a brief exchange in which they put their heads together for a moment, standing stiffly to attention. Martineau gave one of them the camera and returned to her.
“Don’t forget to smile.” He lit a cigarette and turned, hands in the pockets of the trenchcoat.
Sarah took his arm. “What’s this for?”
“Something to remember me by.”
It made her feel uneasy and she held his arm even more tightly. The young soldier took the photo. “Another,” Martineau called in German, “just to make sure.”
The boy returned the camera, smiling shyly, then saluted and walked away. “Did you tell him who you were?” she asked.
“Of course I did.” He took her arm. “Let’s get going. I’ve got things to do.” They crossed the railway track and returned to the Kubelwagen.
Karl Muller prided himself on his control, his remarkable lack of emotion in all situations. He thought of it as his greatest asset, and yet, standing by the window in his office at the Silvertide Hotel, it almost deserted him for the first time.
“You what?” he demanded.
Heist’s face was in a dreadful state, flesh around the eyes purple and dark, the broken nose swollen. “A misunderstanding, Herr Captain.”
Muller turned to Greiser. “And that’s your version also? A misunderstanding?”
“We were only questioning the girl, Herr Captain. She panicked, then Gallagher arrived. He placed entirely the wrong construction on the affair.”
“As your face proves, Willi,” Muller said. “And Vogel was involved.”
“He arrived on the scene at an unfortunate moment,” Greiser told him.
“And he also placed entirely the wrong construction on things.” Muller was furious. “Leaving me to get you off the hook when he turns up here this afternoon. Go on, get out of my sight!”
He turned to the window and slammed his palm against the wall.
Following Sarah’s instructions, Martineau drove along Gloucester Street past the prison. “One thing,” he said. “When we’re together in the town speak French. You never know who’s listening, understand?”
“Of course.”
They could hear music now and turned into the Parade to find a German military band playing on the grass between the statue of General Don, a previous governor of the island, and the Cenotaph. There was quite a crowd standing listening, mainly civilians with a few soldiers.
“Just like Workers’ Playtime on the BBC back in the UK,” Martineau said. “Supposed to make people feel better about being occupied.”
“Pull in here,” she said. “The Town Hall is just at the end.”
He parked at the curb and they got out, people turning to stare curiously, attracted by the sight of the military vehicle. Many seemed indifferent, but there were those unable to hide their anger when they looked at Sarah, especially the older women.
Someone muttered. “Gerrybag!” as they walked past. It was an ugly word meant to express the contempt most people felt for a girl who consorted with the enemy. Martineau swung around, Vogel to the life, and confronted the gray-haired woman who had spoken.
“You said something, madam?” he asked in English.
She was immediately terrified. “Nonot me. You’re mistaken.” She turned and hurried away in a panic.
Sarah took his arm and said softly, “There are times when I hate you myself, Harry Martineau.”
They passed the entrance of the Town Hall with the Nazi flag flying above and a Luftwaffe sentry on the steps with a rifle. They crossed to the other side of York Street and came to Charing Cross. Some of the shop windows were still taped to avoid flying glass, probably from the first year of the war. The Luftwaffe had bombed St. Helier once in 1940. It was obviously the last thing the RAF intended to do, which probably explained why a lot of shopkeepers had cleaned the tape off.
They pause at a doorway between two shops. The sign indicated that the hairdresser was upstairs. Sarah said, “I remember this place.”
“Would you be recognized?”
“I shouldn’t think so. The last time I was in here was to have my hair cut when I was ten years old.”
She led the way up the stairs, pushed open a door with a frosted glass pane and Martineau followed her in. It was only a small salon with two washbasins and a couple of hairdriers. The woman who sat in the corner reading a magazine was about forty with a round, pleasant face. She glanced up smiling, and then the smile was wiped clear away.
“Yes?” she said.
“I need my hair fixed rather badly,” Sarah said in French.
“I don’t speak French,” the woman replied. Martineau said in English, “The young lady was a passenger on the Victor Hugo from Granville last night. As I am sure you are aware of the fate of that unhappy vessel, you will appreciate that she was in the water for some time. As she has no English I must speak for her. Her hair, as you can see, requires attention.”
“I can’t help. I’m booked up.”
Martineau looked around the empty salon. “So I see. Your identity card, if you please.”
“Why should I? I’ve done nothing.”
“Would you rather continue this conversation at Silvertide?”
There was fear in her eyes. Sarah had never felt so wretched in her life and waited as the unfortunate woman found her handbag and produced the identity card. It was in the name of Mrs. Emily Johnson. Martineau examined it and handed it back.
“My name is VogelStandartenführer Max Vogel. I have an appointment at the Town Hall with Colonel Heine, the commandant. I’ll be gone for an hour, perhaps a little longer. While I am away you will do whatever is necessary to the young lady’s hair. When I return, I am sure it will look quite delightful.” He opened the door. “If it doesn’t, I’ll close this establishment so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.”
They listened to him descend the stairs. Mrs. Johnson took a robe down from behind the door and turned to Sarah with a delightful smile. “All right, you dirty little French tart. Let’s make you look pretty for that butcher,” she said in English. Her smile became even more charming. “And I can only hope you get what you deserve.”
Sarah felt like cheering her out loud. Instead she stayed in control and replied in French, “Ah, the coat.”
She took it off, handed it to her, put on the robe and went to the nearest chair.
As Martineau crossed to the Town Hall he saw a policeman in traditional British bobby’s uniform and helmet standing on the steps talking to the sentry. They stopped talking, watching him warily as he approached.
“Standartenführer Vogel for the commandant.”
The sentry jumped to attention and the police constable faded away discreetly. “The commandant arrived twenty minutes ago, Standartenführer.”
Martineau moved into the hall and found a table at the bottom of the stairs, an army sergeant sitting there. He glanced up and Martineau said, “My name is Vogel. I believe Colonel Heine is expecting me.”
The sergeant leaped to his feet and picked up the phone. “Standartenführer Vogel is here, Herr Major.” He replaced the receiver. “Major Necker will be down directly, sir.”
“Thank you.” Martineau walked away and looked out through the open door. Within moments there was the sound of boots on the stairs. He turned to find a young man hurrying down, an infantry major, no more than thirty from the look of him.
He was all cordiality, but then he would be, pausing briefly to click his heels before putting out a hand. “Felix Necker, Standartenführer.”
He’d seen action, that was plain enough from the shrapnel scar running into the right eye. As well as the Iron Cross First Class he wore the Wounded Badge in silver, which meant he’d been a casualty at least three times, the Infantry Assault Badge and a Close Combat Clasp in gilt. It was recognition and familiarity with such items that kept Martineau alive. What they told him about people was important. What they said about this man was that he was a war hero.
“A pleasure to meet you, Herr Major,” he said. “You’ve been in Jersey long?”
“Only a couple of months,” Necker told him. “I’m not with the 319th Division normally. Only on loan.”
They went upstairs, he knocked and opened a door, stood to one side and Martineau went in first. It was a pleasant enough room, obviously originally the office of some official. The officer who stood up and came around the desk to meet him was a type he recognized instantly. A little stiff in manner, rather old-fashioned regular army and very definitely no Nazi. An officer and a gentleman.
“Standartenführer. A pleasure to see you.” The handshake was firm, friendly enough, but the eyes said something else. Only surface courtesy here.
“Colonel Heine.” Martineau opened his coat and produced his SD card.
Heine examined it and handed it back. “Please sit down. In what way can we serve you? You’ve met Felix Necker, of course. He’s only on loan from Paris. Temporarily my second in command. A holiday for him. Just out of hospital. He was on the Russian Front.”
“Indeed?” Martineau said. He took out the Himmler letter and passed it across.
Heine read it slowly, his face grave, then passed it to Necker. “If I could know the purpose of your visit?”
“Not at this stage.” Martineau took the letter as Necker handed it back to him. “All I need is assurance of total cooperation as and when required.”
“That goes without saying,” Heine hesitated. “As for billeting arrangements, I understand you are staying at de Ville Place.”
“Yes, I spoke to Captain Muller of the GFP on the pier when we arrived. He was most cooperative. He has already supplied me with a suitable vehicle, so for the moment, there is really nothing else I require. It would be useful if you informed all unit commanders of my presence.”
“Of course. There is one thing,” Heine added. “I have to go to Guernsey and so does the civil affairs commander. A weekend conference with General von Schmettow.”
Martineau turned to Necker. “Presumably you will be in command?”
“That is correct.”
“Then I can see no problem.” He got to his feet and picked up his hat.
Heine said, “I’ll see you when I get back then?”
“Possibly.” Martineau shook hands. “A pleasure, Herr Colonel. I’ll let you get on with it now. Don’t bother to see me out, Major.”
The door closed behind him. Heine’s whole demeanor changed. “My flesh always crawls when these SS security people appear. What in the hell does he want, Felix?”
“God alone knows, Herr Colonel, but his credentials
” Necker shrugged. “Not only signed by Himmler, but by the Führer himself.”
“I know.” Heine put up a hand defensively. “Just watch him, that’s all. I’ll see what von Schmettow thinks when I get to Guernsey. But at all costs keep him sweet. Trouble with Himmler is the last thing we need.”
“Of course, Herr Colonel.”
“Good. Now show in these good citizens from the Food Control Committee and let’s get on with it.”
Martineau had time in hand so he walked through the town. There were plenty of people about, more civilians than soldiers. Most people looked underweight, but that was to be expected, and clothes looked old and well-worn. There were few children about, they’d be at school. The ones he did see were in better shape than he had expected, but then, people always did put their children first.
So, people managed. He knew, because Helen de Ville had told them, of the communal kitchens and bakeries to conserve fuel. It occurred to him that people in the town obviously had a more difficult time of it than those in the country. At that moment, as he moved into Queen Street, he saw a crowd overflowing the pavement ahead, all staring into a shop window.
It contained an amazing display of food of every description. Canned goods, sacks of potatoes and flour, hams, bottles of red wine and champagne. People said nothing, just looked. A notice in the window said: Black market goods. The enemy may be your own neighbor. Help defeat him. It was signed by Muller. The pain in the faces of ordinary people deprived too long was unbearable. Martineau turned and went back to Charing Cross.
When he went upstairs to the salon, Sarah was just adjusting her hat in the mirror. Her hair looked excellent. He helped her on with her coat. Emily Johnson said, “Satisfied?”
“Very much so.” He opened his wallet and took out a ten-mark note.
“No!” Her anger overflowed. “I don’t want your money.”
“You told me to do her hair and I’ve done it.” There were tears of frustration in her eyes. “Just go.”
Martineau pushed Sarah out of the door. When he turned, his voice, to Emily Johnson’s astonishment, was quite gentle. It was as if, for a moment, he had stepped out of the role of brutal SS officer that he had played so well. “I salute you, Mrs. Johnson. You are a brave woman.”
The door closed behind him. She sat down, head in hands, and started to cry.
Martineau parked the Kubelwagen outside the Silvertide Hotel at Havre des Pas beside several other cars. “I shan’t be long.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry about me I’ll just take a walk along the seawall. I used to come to swim in the pool here when I was a kid.”
“As you please. Just try not to talk to any strange men.”
Muller had seen him arrive from the window of his office. When Martineau went inside, a young military policeman in plain clothes was waiting to greet him. “Standartenführer Vogel? This way please.”
He ushered Martineau into Muller’s office and closed the door. The captain stood up behind the desk. “A great pleasure.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Martineau said. “You’ve spoken to Kleist and Greiser?”
“About this misunderstanding at de Ville Place? Yes, they did explain
“
“Misunderstanding?” Martineau said coldly. “You will have them in here now, Herr Captain, if you please, and quickly. My time is limited.”
He turned away and stood at the window, hands behind his back, as Muller asked for Kleist and Greiser over the intercom. They came in only a few moments. Martineau didn’t bother to turn around, but looked out across the road to the seawall where Sarah was standing.
He said softly, “Inspector Kleist, I understand you have put this morning’s events at de Ville Place down to a misunderstanding?”
“Well, yes, Standartenführer.”
“Liar!” Martineau’s voice was low and dangerous. “Both of you liars.” He turned to face them. “As I walked through the wood with Mademoiselle Latour we heard a girl scream. A child, Captain, barely sixteen, being dragged toward a barn by this animal here while the other stood and laughed. I was about to interfere when General Gallagher came on the scene and gave a bully the thrashing he deserved.”
“I see,” Muller said.
“Just to make things worse, I was obliged to draw my own pistol and fire a warning shot to prevent this idiot shooting Gallagher in the back. God in heaven, what kind of an imbecile are you, Greiser?” He spoke slowly as if to a child. “The man is Irish, which means he is a neutral, and the Führer’s declared policy is good relations with Ireland. On top of that he is a famous man back there in the old country. A hero of their revolution. A general. We don’t shoot people like that in the back. Understand?”
“Yes, Standartenführer.”
Now he turned his attention to Kleist. “And as the Führer’s declared policy toward the inhabitants of Jersey has been one of reconciliation, we do not attempt to rape sixteen-year-old girls.” He turned to Muller. “The actions of these men are an affront to every ideal the Reich holds dear and to German honor.”
He was thoroughly enjoying himself, especially when Heist’s anger overflowed. “I’m not a child to be lectured like this.”
“Kleist!” Martineau said. “As a member of the Gestapo you took an oath to our Führer. A holy oath. As I recall it runs: I vow to you and the superiors you appoint, obedience unto death. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” Kleist answered.
“Then remember from now on that you are here to obey orders. If I ask a question you answer, ‘Jawohl, Standartenführer.’ If I give you an order it’s ‘Zu befehl, Standartenführer.’ Do you follow?”
There was a pause before Kleist said in a low voice, “Ja-wohl, Standartenführer.”
Martineau turned on Muller. “And you wonder why Reichsführer Himmler thought it worthwhile sending me here?”
He walked out without another word, went through the foyer and crossed the road to the Kubelwagen. Sarah was sitting on the bonnet. “How did it go?” she asked.
“Oh, I think you could say I put the fear of God in them all rather satisfactorily.” He opened the door for her. “Now you can take me on a Cook’s tour of this island of yours.”
Muller started to laugh. “I wish you could see yourself standing there in front of the desk, Willi. All you need is short pants.”
“I swear to God I’ll
“
“You’ll do nothing, Willi, just like the rest of us. You’ll just do as you’re told.” He went to a cupboard, opened it and found a glass and a bottle of cognac. “I must say he sounded just like the Reichsführer on a bad day. All that German purity nonsense. All those platitudes.”
“Do you still want me to speak to my brother, Herr Captain?” Greiser asked. “I’ve got a call booked through to Stuttgart for ten o’clock tonight.”
“Why not?” Muller poured some cognac into his glass and said impatiently, “For God’s sake, go down to the hospital and get that nose seen to, Willi. Go on, get out of my sight, both of you.”
Rommel was staying at a villa near Bayeux, in a place deep in the countryside and quite remote. It had been used as a weekend retreat by the commanding general of the area who had been happy to offer it to the field marshal when he’d expressed a desire for a quiet weekend. The Bernards, who ran the house, were extremely discreet. The wife was an excellent cook, the husband acted as butler.
Baum drove to the house ahead of the field marshal that afternoon in a Kubelwagen wearing his own Fallschirmjager uniform. He also affected a heavy black patch over the right eye on Rommel’s insistence. To Baum, he did not resemble the field marshal until he put on the clothes, changed his appearance with a few artful touches of makeup, the rubber cheekpads that made the face squarer. But the real change was in himselfthe change that started inside. He thought Rommel, so he became Rommel. That was his unique talent as a performer.
Rommel and Hofer arrived later in the afternoon in the Mercedes driven by an engineer sergeant named Dreschler, an Afrika Korps veteran whom Hofer had specially selected. Madame Bernard provided the field marshal with a late luncheon in the drawing room. Afterward, Hofer brought Baum in to join them.
“Right, let’s go over things,” Rommel said.
“According to my information the people from Jersey will leave for Guernsey at around two in the morning. Berger and I will leave here in the Kubelwagen at nine. There is an empty cottage on the estate a kilometer from here where we stop for him to change.”
“And afterward?”
“To a Luftwaffe reserve airstrip only ten kilometers from here. There is a pilot, an Oberleutnant Sorsa, waiting there under your personal order with a Fiesler Storch.”
“Sorsa? Isn’t that a Finnish name?” Rommel asked.
“That’s right.”
“Then what’s he doing with the Luftwaffe? Why isn’t he on the Eastern Front shooting down Russians with his own people?”
“Sorsa is hot stuff, a real ace. One of the greatest night fighter pilots in the business. These days he’s of more use flying over the Reich knocking down Lancaster bombers. He’s an excellent choice for this venture. He doesn’t fit into the usual Luftwaffe command structure. An outsider.”
“They don’t like us very much, the Finns,” Rommel said. “I’ve never trusted them.” He lit a cigarette. “Still, carry on.”
“Sorsa won’t know his destination until we join the plane. I estimate we will land in Jersey around eleven o’clock. I’ve given orders for Headquarters of Army Group B to notify Berlin at noon that you’ve flown to Jersey. The reason for not letting them know earlier being the need to consider your safety when in flight.”
“And what happens here?”
“Generals Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen arrive later in the day. Stay overnight and leave on Saturday morning.”
“And you return in the evening?”
“Of course. This couple here at the house, the Bernards, will know you are here, but then they won’t know you’re also in Jersey. Neither will Sergeant Dreschler. He worships you anyway. An old desert hand. If there is any problem with him later, I can handle it.”
Rommel turned to Baum. “And you, my friend, can you handle it?”
“Yes, Herr Field Marshal. I really think I can,” Baum told him.
“Good.” Rommel took the bottle of Dom Perignon from the ice bucket that Monsieur Bernard had brought in earlier and uncorked it. He filled three glasses and gave them one each. “So, my friends, to the Jersey enterprise.”
Sarah and Martineau had spent an enlightening afternoon, driving to Gorey where she had intended to show him Mont Orgeuil, one of the most magnificent castles in Europe, only to find that it was now a heavily defended enemy strongpoint.
At Fliquet Bay, they had come across a party of slave workers cutting a new road through to a coastal artillery battery. They were the most ragged, filthy, undernourished creatures even Martineau had seen. He had made himself known to the sergeant in charge of the detail who told him they were Russians. It was particularly ironic, therefore, to discover a battalion of the Russian Liberation Army staffed mainly by Ukrainians, guarding the north coast around Bonne Nuit Bay.
They carried on to Grosnez with the few stones remaining of its medieval castle and spectacular views of Sark, Herm and Jethou, all reaching toward Guernsey. The interesting thing was that not once were they stopped or challenged, even when they drove along the Five Mile Road following the curve of St. Ouen’s Bay, which looked to Martineau like the most heavily defended stretch they’d seen.
It was evening when they stopped at the church at the end of St. Brelade’s Bay. Sarah got out and he followed her. They stood in the archway and peered inside. There was an entire section devoted to the military, rows of crosses, each one at the end of a neat grave.
“I don’t know what Christ would have made of those crosses,” Martineau said. “There’s a swastika in the center of each one.”
She shivered. “I used to attend this church. I had my first communion here.”
Martineau walked idly between the rows of German crosses. “There’re a couple of Italians here and a Russian.” He carried on, moving into the older section of the cemetery, passing between granite headstones and tombs. “Strange,” he said. “I feel quite at home.”
“That’s a morbid thought,” Sarah told him.
“Not really. I just find it extraordinarily peaceful and the view of the bay is sensational. Still I suppose we should be getting back now.”
They got in the Kubelwagen and drove past the bay along Mont Sohier. Sarah said, “So, now you’ve had the guided tour. What do you think?”
“A tight little island.”
“And how do we get Hugh Kelso off it?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea, so if you can think of anything, let me know.”
He carried on driving, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.
Dinner was a strange affair. Martineau and Sarah joined the officers in the main dining room. Guido Orsini, Bruno Feldt, Kapitanleutnant Erich Dietrich and several others. There was a fresh lighted candle at each empty place which Sarah found rather macabre, but the young officers were polite and considerate, would obviously have put themselves out even more if it had not been for Martineau’s presence. He was wearing his uniform in deference to the formality of the meal, and its effect on the others had been definitely depressing. Helen de Ville passed in and out with the plates, and Sarah, bored with the stilted conversation, insisted on helping her to clear the table and joined her in the kitchen, where Sean Gallagher sat at the table eating the leftovers.
“Terrible in there. Harry’s like a specter at the feast,” she said.
Helen had just prepared a tray for Kelso. “I’ll just take this up while they’re all still in the dining room.”
She went up the back stairs and opened the door to the master bedroom at the same moment that Guido Orsini passed the end of the corridor. He saw her, noted the tray in astonishment and moved cautiously along the corridor. He hesitated, then tried the door of her bedroom. Helen, for once, had omitted to turn the key. He peered inside, saw the secret door ajar and tiptoed across. There was a murmur of voices from upstairs. He listened for a moment, then turned and went out again, closing the door.
Sarah and Gallagher were talking in low voices when Guido went into the kitchen. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “They’re into politics now. Can I take you for a walk on the terrace?”
“Is he to be trusted?” she asked Gallagher.
“No more than most men I know, especially around a darling like you.”
“I’ll have to take a chance then. If Colonel Vogel comes looking for me, tell him I’ll be back soon,” she added formally.
There was a half-moon, the sky bright with stars, a luminosity to everything, palm trees etched against the sky. Everywhere there was the smell of flowers, drenched from the rain earlier.
“Azaleas.” She breathed deeply. “One of my favorites.”
“You are a remarkable girl,” he said in English. “You don’t mind if we use English, do you? There’s no one about and it helps me keep my hand in.”
“All right,” she said reluctantly, “but not for long.”
“You’ve never been to Jersey before?”
“No. I was raised by my grandmother in Paimpol after my mother died.”
“I see. And it was your mother who was English?”
“That’s right.”
She was wary at this questioning and sat on a low granite wall, the moon behind her. He gave her a cigarette. “You smoke Gitanes, don’t you?”
She was used to cigarettes by now and nodded. “On the other hand, one has to be content with whatever is available these days.”
He gave her a light. “Yes, it’s really quite remarkable. You speak French with a very Breton accent.”
“What’s strange about that? My grandmother was Breton.”
“I know. It’s your English that’s so interesting. Very upper class. I went to Winchester, remember, so I can tell.”
“Really? I’m a lucky girl, then.” She stood up. “I’d better get back now, Guido. Max can get rather restless if I’m out of his sight too long with another man.”
“Of course.” She took his arm and they strolled back through the azaleas. “I like you, Anne-Marie Latour. I like you a lot. I want you to remember that.”
“Only like?” she said. “I thought you said you loved me.” A dangerous game she was playing here. She knew that and yet could not resist taking it as far as it would go.
“All right,” he said. “I love you,” and he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately. “Now do you understand?”
“Yes, Guido,” she said softly. “I think I do.”
Martineau appeared on the terrace in the moonlight. “Anne-Marie, are you there?” he shouted in French.
“Coming!” she called back and reached to touch the Italian’s face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Guido,” and she ran up the steps to the terrace.
They were all in the private sitting room at the back of the house overlooking the terrace, Gallagher. Martineau, Helen and Sarah. Gallagher poured Burgundy into four glasses while Helen opened the French window a little. It was very close. She breathed in the perfumed air for a few moments, then drew the heavy curtains across.
“So, what happens now?” Sean Gallagher asked.
“He certainly can’t walk at the moment,” Helen de Ville said. “George Hamilton saw him this afternoon. A real chance he could lose the leg if he disturbs things.”
“At least he’s safe for the time being upstairs,” Sarah said.
“He can’t sit out the war there,” Martineau pointed out. “We need to get him to Granville. Once there, Cresson can radio London and have a Lysander over any night we want.”
“But how to get him there, that’s the thing,” Gallagher said. “They’ve really got the small boat traffic closed up tight here. Observation posts all along the coast as you saw for yourself today. You wouldn’t get far without being spotted. Any fishing boat that leaves harbor, even the lifeboat, has to have German guards on board when they put to sea.”
“So what is the solution?” Sarah demanded. “We must do something.”
There was a movement at the window, the curtains parted. Martineau turned, drawing his Walther, and Guido Orsini stepped into the room. “Perhaps I can help,” he said in English.