Chapter Twelve

She slept well and didn’t dream and woke so suddenly that she knew something must have caused it and lay there, trying to work out what it was. Then the shots came and she was out of bed very fast, reaching for her dressing gown and running to the balcony.

Someone shouted in German, an object spun up very fast and was shot to pieces. She looked down. Just below, Priem was reloading a shotgun, snapping the barrels back into position. Behind him, an orderly crouched on the ground beside a box. They were clay pigeon shooting.

Priem shouted, the soldier released the spring and another disc spun into the blue sky. The barrels of the gun were up and following, he squeezed the trigger. She watched the disc explode, shading her eyes against the bright sky.

“Good morning,” she called.

He paused in the act of reloading and looked up. “Did I wake you?”

“You could say that.”

He handed the shotgun to his orderly. “Breakfast in the dining room in ten minutes. Are you joining us?”

“No, I think I’ll have a tray in my room this morning.”

“As you wish.” He smiled. She turned, slightly breathless and went inside.

HORTENSE SENT CHANTAL for her just after she’d finished breakfast. She was in her bath when Genevieve went in.

“I’ve decided to go to Mass this morning. You can come with me,” her aunt said.

“But I’ve already eaten.”

“How inconsiderate of you. You will come anyway. It is necessary.”

“For the salvation of my immortal soul?”

“No, to give that little slut, Maresa, a chance to search your room. Chantal overheard Reichslinger giving her her instructions late last night.”

Genevieve said, “He suspects me then?”

“Why should he? You made a bad enemy there, that’s all. This is probably just the start of his campaign to get back at you any way he can. An RAF propaganda leaflet would be enough for that one to denounce you as an enemy of the Reich. We must see if we can’t make his little plan backfire.”

“What do I do?”

“When you return you will make the unpleasant discovery that your diamond earrings are missing, which they will be because by then, Chantal will have transferred them to some suitably stupid hiding place in Maresa’s bedroom. You will naturally raise the Devil. Go straight to Priem who is, after all, in charge of security.”

“And then what happens?”

“Oh, he is a very astute man. He will find the earrings in Maresa’s bedroom very quickly. She will protest her innocence, but the facts will speak for themselves. It is at that point that the silly girl will begin to cry …”

“… and will confess that she was acting under Reichslinger’s instructions?”

“Exactly.”

“You could beat the Devil himself at cards, I suppose you know that?”

“Of course.”

“But will Priem believe her?” Genevieve said.

“I think we may rely on it. No public announcements—no fuss. He’ll deal with Reichslinger in private perhaps, but he’ll deal with him. He is, I think, a hard man, this Colonel of yours, when he has to be.”

“Mine? Why do you say that?”

“Poor Genny.” Nobody had called her that for years. “Since you were old enough to climb on my knee, I have been able to read you like an open book. He fills you with unease, this man, am I not right? Your stomach turns hollow with excitement just to be near him.”

Genevieve took a deep breath to steady herself and stood up.

“I’ll do my best to resist the temptation, I think you can rely on that. Have you told Chantal?”

“Only that Anne-Marie is up to her neck in subversive activities. I think you will find that she will smile on you more warmly now. Her brother, Georges, is in a labour camp in Poland.”

“All right,” Genevieve said. “Now, as to a plan of campaign.”

“All sorted out. We’ll discuss it later. Be a good girl and tell Maresa to inform René that I’ll need the Rolls.”

Genevieve was a child again to do her bidding. She did exactly as she was told, of course. Nothing changed.

THEIR FIRST SHOCK came when they went out of the front door and down the steps. There was no sign of René or the Rolls, only Max Priem and a black Mercedes.

He saluted gravely. “Your car, it would appear, is out of order this morning, Countess. I’ve told our own mechanics to do what they can. In the meantime, I am wholly at your service. You wish to go to church, I believe?”

Hortense hesitated, then shrugged, got inside and Genevieve followed her.

HE DROVE THEM himself and Genevieve had to sit there, looking at the back of his neck, acutely uncomfortable. Hortense ignored him and glanced at her watch. “We’re late. Never mind, the curé will wait for me. He’s seventy, if he’s a day, you know. The first man I ever fell in love with. Dark and handsome and with so much belief. Faith is an attraction in a man. I never went to so many services.”

“And now?” Genevieve asked.

“His hair is white and when he smiles, his skin crinkles so much that his eyes are hidden.”

Genevieve became uncomfortably aware that Priem was watching her in the driving mirror, his eyes full of laughter, and so did Hortense.

She said coldly, “I understand the SS do not believe in God, Colonel?”

“I have it on the most reliable authority that Reichsführer Himmler does, however.” Priem turned the car in beside the church gate, got out and opened the rear door. “If you please, ladies.”

Hortense sat there for a moment, then took his hand and got out. “You know, I like you, Priem. It’s a great pity …”

“That I’m a German, Countess? My grandmother, on my mother’s side, came from Nice. Will that help?”

“Considerably.” She turned to Genevieve. “No need for you to come in. Pay your respects to your mother. I shan’t be long.”

She pulled down her veil and went up the path between the gravestones to the porch of the ancient church.

Priem said, “A remarkable woman.”

“I think so.” There was a slight pause as he stood there, hands clasped behind him, a kind of fantasy figure in that magnificent uniform, the cross at his throat. She said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to visit my mother.”

“But of course.”

She entered the churchyard. It was an ideal setting in the far corner, shaded by a cypress tree. The headstone was beautifully simple as Hortense had intended it to be and there were fresh flowers in the stone vase.

“Hélčne Claire de Voincourt Trevaunce,” Max Priem said, moving to the other side and then he did a strange thing. He saluted briefly, a perfect military salute, nothing Nazi about it. “Well, Hélčne Claire,” he said softly, “you have a very beautiful daughter. You would be proud of her, I think.”

Genevieve said, “What about your family?”

“My father died in the last war, my mother a few years later. I was raised by an aunt in Frankfurt, a schoolmistress. She was killed in a bombing raid last year.”

“So, we have something in common?”

“Oh, come now,” he said, “what about this English father of yours, the doctor in Cornwall? The sister of whom you so seldom speak? Genevieve, isn’t it?”

She was frightened then at the fact that he knew so much, was aware of a desperate feeling of being balanced on some dangerous edge. She was saved because of a sudden shower. As it burst upon them, he seized her hand.

“Come, we must run.”

They reached the shelter of the church porch and she noticed that he appeared to be having some difficulty with his breathing. He slumped down on the stone bench.

She said, “Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing, believe me.” He managed a smile and produced a silver case. “Cigarette?”

“You were wounded in Russia?” she said.

“Yes.”

“It was bad there in the Winter War, they tell me.”

“I think you may say it was an unforgettable experience.”

She said, “Reichslinger and the others—you inhabit different worlds. You’re …”

“A German whose country is at war,” he said. “It’s really very simple. Very unfortunate perhaps, but very simple.”

“I suppose so.”

He sighed, his face softening a little. “Always since I was a boy I have loved the rain.”

“Me, too,” she said.

He smiled gravely. “Good, then we do have something in common after all.”

They sat there waiting for Hortense as the rain increased and her aunt had been right as usual for she had never felt so excited in her life before.

IN LONDON, CRAIG Osbourne rang the bell at Munro’s flat in Haston Place. When the door opened, he went upstairs and found Jack Carter waiting to greet him on the landing.

“Is he in, Jack?”

“I’m afraid not. He was called to the War Office. A good job you’re here. I was about to send the bloodhounds out after you. Your people have been trying to get hold of you.”

“OSS? What for?”

“Well, the way things worked out, you were never debriefed over the Dietrich affair. They’re annoyed at Munro using Ike’s authority to steal you but rather pleased at the way you handled things. I think another medal might be in the offing.”

“I’ve got a medal,” Craig said.

“Yes, well be a good lad and get over to Cadogan Place, just to keep them happy. What did you want anyway?”

“I promised Genevieve I’d keep an eye out for her sister. Thought I’d drop in at the nursing home, but the guards refused me admittance.”

“Yes, well security has been tightened there for various reasons.” Carter smiled. “I’ll give Baum a call. Tell him to expect you.”

“Fine,” Craig said. “I’ll go and take care of things at OSS Headquarters then,” and he turned and hurried down the stairs.

IN A SPY film Genevieve had seen, the hero had placed a hair from his head across a door so that he could tell later whether his room had been entered. She had employed the same ruse with two of the drawers in her dressing table. It was the first thing she checked when she got back from church. They’d both been opened.

Maresa was not around because she’d told her before going out that she wouldn’t need her again until after lunch, so she lit a cigarette, just to fill in a little time, then went in search of Priem. She found him at his desk in the library, Reichslinger at his side, going over some list or other together.

They both looked up. She said, “It really is too much, Colonel. That your security people should search our rooms from time to time is something that one must regrettably take for granted. What I am not prepared to overlook is one pair of very valuable diamond earrings, pearls set in silver, a family heirloom. I really would be infinitely obliged to you if you would see they are returned.”

“Your room has been searched?” Priem said calmly. “How can you be sure?”

“A dozen different ways—things not as I left them—and the earrings, of course.”

“Perhaps your maid was simply tidying up. Have you spoken to her?”

“Not possible,” Genevieve said impatiently. “I gave her the morning off before leaving for church.”

He said to Reichslinger, “Do you know anything about this?”

Reichslinger’s face was pale. “No, Standartenführer.”

Priem nodded. “After all, there would be no question of you undertaking such a search without my authority.”

Reichslinger stayed silent. Genevieve said, “Well?”

“I’ll deal with it,” Priem told her, “and come back to you.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” She turned and walked out quickly.

Priem lit a cigarette and looked up at Reichslinger. “So.”

“Standartenführer?” Reichslinger’s face was already damp with sweat.

“The truth, man. Five seconds is all you’ve got. I warned you.”

“Standartenführer, you must listen. I was only doing my duty. The Walther—it worried me. I thought there might be other things.”

“So you force Mademoiselle Trevaunce’s maid to search her mistress’s room and in the process, the stupid little bitch gets sticky fingers? Very helpful, Reichslinger. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Standartenführer, what can I say?”

“Nothing,” Priem said wearily. “Just find Maresa and bring her to me.”

GENEVIEVE WAITED IN her room a little nervously, sitting by the open window to the balcony, trying to read. But Hortense, after all, had been right. In a little more than an hour after her visit to the library, there was a knock at her door and Priem entered.

“You have a moment?” He crossed the room, held up the earrings and dropped them into her lap.

“Who?” she asked.

“Your maid. You see, I was right.”

“The ungrateful little slut. You’re certain?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said calmly and she wondered what had passed between him and Reichslinger.

“Right—it’s back to the farm for her.”

“An impulse of the moment, I would say, more than anything else. A stupid girl who persisted in her innocence of the charge in spite of the fact that I had discovered the earrings in her room. In any case, she could hardly have hoped to get away with such a thing.”

“Are you suggesting that I give her another chance?”

“That would require a little charity, a commodity in short supply in these hard times.” Priem looked out across the balcony. “It really is a most pleasant view from here. I hadn’t realised.”

“Yes,” Genevieve said.

He smiled gravely. “So. There is much to do if we are to be ready for the Field Marshal’s visit tomorrow. You will excuse me now?”

“Of course.”

The door closed behind him. She waited for a couple of minutes, then left herself, quickly.

“MARESA IS HAVING an affair with one of the soldiers,” Hortense said, “or so Chantal informs me.” She glanced up at her grim old maid. “You may bring her to me now.”

“This means something?” Genevieve asked.

Hortense allowed herself a tiny smile. “Maresa’s soldier is on extra guard duty on the terrace outside the library tonight and tomorrow and she’s not pleased. I believe she thinks you are to blame.”

Genevieve stared blankly at her. “I don’t understand.”

“The soldier at the gate when you arrived,” her aunt explained. “You wouldn’t show him your papers. By the time the story reached Reichslinger, the boy had become rude and ill-behaved. His captain felt this reflected on himself and took appropriate action. Maresa was very angry with you, according to Chantal.”

“You intend that we use her in some way? That’s what all this has been about, isn’t it?”

“Naturally. If you are to get into the library, it must be during the ball. You will have to make an excuse to slip away for a while. The catch on that third french window is still broken after thirty years. If you push hard enough, it will open. How long will it take you to open the safe and use this camera of yours. Five minutes? Ten?”

“But the guard outside,” Genevieve said. “On the terrace.”

“Ah, yes, Maresa’s young man. Eric, I believe the name is. I think we can rely on her to take him off into the bushes for a reasonable length of time. After all, everyone else will be enjoying themselves.”

“My God,” Genevieve whispered. “Are you sure there isn’t any Borgia blood in the family?”

MARESA ARRIVED A couple of minutes later, shepherded by Chantal, her face swollen, ugly with weeping.

“Please, Mamselle,” she pleaded. “I didn’t take your earrings, I swear it.”

“But you searched my room on Reichslinger’s orders, didn’t you?”

Her mouth gaped in shock and she was obviously too shaken even to attempt to deny it.

“You see, we know everything, you stupid girl, just like Colonel Priem,” Hortense said. “He made you tell him the truth, didn’t he and then told you to shut up about it?”

“Yes, Countess.” Maresa dropped to her knees. “Reichslinger’s a terrible man. He said he’d have me sent off to a labour camp if I didn’t do as he told me.”

“Get up, girl, for goodness sake.” She did as she was told and Hortense continued, “You want me to send you back to the farm? Disgrace your mother, eh?”

“No, Countess—please. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

Hortense reached for a cigarette and smiled up at Genevieve coldly. “You see?” she said.

CRAIG OSBOURNE HAD found himself trapped for most of the day at OSS Headquarters. It was evening before he got away, seven o’clock when he arrived at the nursing home in Hampstead. The guard didn’t open the gate, simply spoke through the bars.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Major Osbourne. I think you’ll find Dr. Baum is expecting me.”

“I believe he’s out, sir, but I’ll check.” The guard went into his office, returned a moment later. “I was right, sir. He went out an hour ago, just before I came on.”

“Damn!” Craig said and started to turn away.

“Would it be urgent, sir?” the guard asked.

“Actually, it is.”

“I think you’ll find him in the snug at the Grenadier, sir. That’s a pub in Charles Street. Just down the road. You can’t miss it. He’s there most nights.”

“Why, thank you,” Craig told him and he turned and hurried away.

THE OFFICERS WERE holding a small party at the Château that evening as a preparation for the great event and Ziemke had asked Genevieve to be there, especially as Hortense had again indicated her intention of dining in her room.

“I’ve promised to perform for Rommel,” she told the General, “and that will have to suffice.”

Genevieve was dressed and ready to go down just before seven, had dismissed Maresa, when there came the lightest of taps on the door. She opened it and found René Dissard standing there, holding a tray.

“The coffee Mamselle ordered,” he said gravely.

Her hesitation was only fractional. “Thank you, René,” she said and stood back.

She closed the door, he put down the tray and turned quickly. “A moment only, Mamselle. I’ve received word to go and visit one of our most important contacts in the Resistance.”

“What about?”

“A message from London perhaps.”

“Can you get away from the Château all right?”

“Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.” He smiled. “It goes well?”

“Perfect so far.”

“I’ll contact you some time tomorrow, but I must go now, Mamselle. Goodnight.”

He opened the door and went out. For the first time, she was conscious of a feeling of real unease. Stupid, of course. She poured some of the coffee he’d brought and went and sat by the window to drink it.

THEY WERE USING the old music room for dancing. There was a grand piano in the corner on a slightly raised section, in shadows now. She remembered the last time she’d played for Craig Osbourne and hoped that no one would ask her to repeat the performance.

Anne-Marie had always been more accomplished, had worked harder at it. She could have been a professional, but she was careful not to become quite that good. It wasn’t, she maintained, what people wanted her to be. She was probably right—as usual.

Genevieve played the aristocrat to the hilt, a way of keeping at a distance people she was probably supposed to know. Someone opened the window to the terrace and coolness rushed in. There was quite a crowd. That afternoon an SS Brigadier General named Seilheimer had arrived with his wife and two daughters and an Army Colonel with one arm in a sling, who seemed to be held in high esteem by the younger officers. Some kind of war hero from the way they hung around him. Ziemke’s presence and that of the Brigadier put rather a strain on things. Perhaps they noticed, because they left early to talk and the music became a little more lively.

Two young officers spent the first hour seeing to the gramophone between them, but soon relinquished the task to one of the orderlies and tried their luck with the Brigadier’s daughters who both looked no more than seventeen and were flushed with excitement at all the attention they were receiving.

They were looking forward to the ball, of course, and the chance to meet the great Erwin Rommel. The youngest, with an irritating giggle, said she had never met so many handsome young men in one room before and what did Genevieve think of the dark Colonel in the Waffen-SS? She spoke in French which most of the Germans made a determined effort to do.

This last was said just a little too loudly. Max Priem, a glass of cognac in one hand, kept his face very straight as he talked to the Army Colonel, but there was wry amusement in those blue eyes when he glanced at Genevieve briefly.

She watched him for a while, this man who was nothing like what she had expected. All Germans were Nazi brutes like Reichslinger. She had believed that because that was what she was supposed to believe.

But Priem was different from anyone she had ever known. When she looked at him, she knew what they meant by the phrase “a born soldier.” And yet there was the fact of what he and people like him had done. She had already seen something of that for herself in the past couple of days and there were other, darker things. The camps, for instance. She shivered slightly. Such thoughts were stupid. She was here for a purpose and must hold on to that fact.

The music was a curious mixture and not always German. There was French and even a little American Boogie. Tomorrow would be nothing like this. The lights would be bright and strong and the music dignified, an orchestra. They would drink punch from the de Voincourts’ silver bowls and lots of champagne, and soldiers would wait upon them in white gloves, dress uniforms.

A young lieutenant approached and asked her to dance so diffidently that she flashed him Anne-Marie’s most brilliant smile and said she’d be delighted. He was a beautiful dancer, probably the best in the room and blushed when she complimented him.

While the record was being changed, she stood in the centre of the room, chatting and a voice said, “My turn now.”

Reichslinger pushed between the boy and Genevieve so that the young lieutenant had to step back.

“I like to choose my company,” she said.

“So do I.”

As the music began, Reichslinger took a firm grip of her waist and hand. He was smiling all the time, enjoying his temporary mastery, knowing there was little she could do about it until the record ended.

“The last time we met,” he was saying, “you told me I was no gentleman. I must learn to mend my manners, then.”

He laughed as if he’d said something exceptionally witty and she realised he was more than a little drunk. As the record ended, they stopped by the open french windows and he pushed her out on the terrace.

“I think that’s enough,” she said.

“Oh, no, not yet.” He grabbed both arms and held her back against the wall. They struggled while he laughed, enjoying himself, using only half his strength and then she brought her heel down hard on his instep.

“You bitch!” he said.

His arm swung up to strike and then there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him away. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that isn’t good manners?” Max Priem told him.

Reichslinger stood there, glaring and Priem faced him, hands on hips, looking strangely menacing. “You are on duty at ten, is this not so?”

“Yes,” Reichslinger said thickly.

“Then I suggest you go about your business.” Reichslinger glanced at Genevieve wildly. Priem said, “An order, not a suggestion.”

The iron discipline of the SS was in control now. Reichslinger’s heels clicked together. “Zu befehl, Standartenführer.” He gave a perfect Nazi salute and marched away.

“Thank you,” Genevieve said, rather inadequately.

“You weren’t doing too badly. Is that what they taught you at finishing school?”

“The syllabus was extremely varied.”

Another record started and she recognised the voice with something of a shock. Al Bowlly, Julie’s favourite.

“I, too, like to choose my company,” Priem said. “May I have this dance?”

They went through the french windows and moved on to the floor. He was an excellent dancer and suddenly, it was all rather pleasant. And yet, she was a spy, surrounded by the enemy. If they found out, what would they do to her? Those Gestapo cellars in Paris where Craig Osbourne had suffered? It was hard to reconcile such facts with the laughter, the gay conversation.

“Of what are you thinking?” he murmured.

“Nothing very special.”

It was rather marvellous drifting there, the light swimming in a haze of smoke. The music throbbed and then she realised what Bowlly was singing—“Little Lady Make-Believe.”

A curious choice. Last time she had heard the song was during the London Blitz. A probationer nurse with a few hours off duty and too tired to sleep. She had gone to one of the clubs with an American pilot from the Eagle Squadron. Al Bowlly had just been killed by a Nazi bomb and the American had laughed when she said it was eerie and she had tried to make herself be in love with him, just because everyone else seemed to be in love. And then he’d shattered her eighteen-year-old romantic dream by asking her to sleep with him.

Priem said, “You may have noticed the music has stopped.”

“Which shows how tired I am. I think I’ll go to bed. I’ve had what you might call an interesting evening. Say goodnight to the General for me.”

An orderly appeared with a message for him. He took the piece of paper and read it and curiosity made her stay just to see if it was important. Not a muscle moved in his face. He slipped the paper into a pocket.

“Goodnight, then,” he said.

“Good night, Colonel.”

She felt dismissed and had a strange feeling about that paper as if it meant something she ought to know. How ironic if Rommel wasn’t coming. If everything was cancelled. No, it wouldn’t be ironic, it would be bloody marvellous. She’d stay on at the Château. They’d drift along until the war was won and hopefully, she’d be able to go home to her father. It was a while, she thought uneasily, since she’d considered him.

She moved up the stairs and along the corridor to her room. When she went in, she could feel Anne-Marie there for the first time, a dark presence, and had to get out, at least to the balcony, where there was no wind, only a cool stillness.

She sat in the rocking chair in the shadows, remembering Anne-Marie and what had happened to her. And they had been men of the Waffen-SS, her executioners, which was what it came down to, just like Max Priem. But that was nonsense. He was different.

There were quiet footsteps below and she looked down to see a figure silhouetted by the light from the room he’d just left. He stood quite still and she found that she had stopped rocking, was scarcely breathing.

She was not sure how long she watched, safe in the shadows, but he didn’t move at all. It created a still harmony between them, all the more magnetic because he was unaware of it. He turned, the light from one of the windows on his face, and looked up at the balcony.

“Hello, there,” she said from the shadows.

It was a moment or so before he replied and she let the silence ride, peaceful. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

Somewhere by the boundary wall, a guard dog howled, splitting the silence, and others joined. Priem strode to the parapet and leaned on it, his body rigid and tense. The eeriness of that first cry was gone now. The dogs were very real. There was lots of noise down in the lower garden, voices raised, the flicker of torchlight.

A searchlight was turned on and its beam travelled like a yellow snake along the ground until it caught the tail-end of the pack, five or six Alsatians, and then the quarry, a man, leaping just ahead of them. They caught him by the lower fountain. He went down and then the dogs were all over him. A moment later the guards arrived to beat them off.

Genevieve was cold with horror, watching as the wretched man was lifted to his feet, covered with blood. Priem called out in German and a young sergeant turned and ran across the lawn to report. After a few moments, the sergeant returned to the group by the fountain and the snarling dogs, the prisoner, were led away.

“A local poacher after pheasant,” Priem called softly. “He made a bad mistake.”

She hated him then, there at that moment, for what he stood for. The brutality of war, the violence that could so easily touch the lives of ordinary people, but she was a de Voincourt after all. A family who, in an earlier century, would have had that poacher’s right hand in exchange for the pheasant.

She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I think I’ll go to bed now. Good night to you, Colonel Priem.”

She backed into the shadows. He stayed where he was, the light on his face, looking up. It was quite some time before he turned and walked away.