Chapter Fourteen

As the Lili Marlene left Cold Harbour, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was arriving at Château de Voincourt and Genevieve waited at the top of the steps to welcome him with her aunt and Ziemke and his staff, Max Priem among them.

The convoy was surprisingly small considering the importance of the visitor. Three cars and four military policemen on motor cycles. Rommel was in an open Mercedes, a short, stocky man in leather greatcoat, a white scarf loosely knotted at his neck, the famous desert goggles he affected, pushed up above the peak of his cap. Genevieve watched him salute and shake hands with General Ziemke and Seilheimer, the SS Brigadier, and then Ziemke introduced her aunt. A moment later it was Genevieve’s turn.

His French was excellent. “An honour, Mademoiselle.” He looked straight into her eyes as if sizing her up and she was conscious of the power, the enormous drive. He inclined his head, raised her hand to his lips.

They moved into the hall. Hortense said to Ziemke, “We’ll leave you now, General. You have important matters to discuss, I don’t doubt. Field Marshal—we meet again this evening, I believe?”

“I look forward to it, Countess.” Rommel saluted courteously.

As they went up the stairs, Genevieve said, “In 1942, certain sections of the great British public were asked to name their choice as the most outstanding General around. Most of them chose our friend down there.”

“Now you know why,” Hortense said. “I want to talk to you, but not inside. The old summerhouse in fifteen minutes.”

She went to her room. When Genevieve opened her door, Maresa was just finishing making the bed. “I’m going for a walk,” Genevieve said. “Find me something warm to wear. There’s a nip in the air.”

Maresa went to the wardrobe and produced a hunting jacket with a fur collar. “Will this do, Mamselle?”

“I think so.” The girl was very pale, her eyes sunk into their sockets a little. Genevieve said, “You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

“Oh, Mamselle, I’m so frightened.”

“So am I,” Genevieve told her, “but I will do what I have to and so will you.”

She held her firmly by the shoulders for a moment. Maresa nodded wearily. “Yes, Mamselle.”

“Good,” Genevieve said. “You can lay out the white evening dress. I’ll wear that tonight.”

She left her there, looking thoroughly miserable, and went out.

IT WAS PLEASANT in the garden with a hint of spring in the air, green grass under the trees, the sun filtering through in odd patterns, turning the leaves to gold. An unexpected moment of peace. She went through an archway in the grey stone wall and found Hortense sitting on the edge of the fountain, the white summerhouse behind her. There was green moss on its walls, a couple of windows were broken.

“I used to be happy here,” Genevieve said. “When we were very small you would give us tea in the summerhouse.”

“Everything passes.”

“I know. It’s very sad.”

“Give me a cigarette,” Hortense said. “I think I prefer it in decay. That moss, for instance. Dark green on white. It creates an atmosphere that wasn’t here before. A sense of things lost.”

“Philosophy in your old age?”

There was a gleam of amusement in her aunt’s eyes. “Stop me if it happens again.” One of the prowler guards passed a few yards away, a machine pistol slung from his shoulder, an Alsatian straining on a steel chain. “You heard what happened last night?”

“I saw it.”

“A bad business. Philippe Gamelin from the village. He’s been poaching the estate for years. I asked Ziemke to go easy on him, but he insists they must make an example in the interests of future security.”

“What will they do to him?”

“Oh, he’ll be sentenced to some labour camp, I suppose.” She shivered in distaste. “Life becomes daily more unpleasant. I wish to God the Allies would hurry up and make this landing we’ve all been promised for so long. Still—what about tonight? You know exactly what you are about?”

“I think so.”

“Not think, child. You must know.” Hortense shaded her eyes and looked up to the front of the house and the Rose Room. “From your balcony to the terrace is what? Twenty feet? You are certain you can manage it?”

“Since I was ten years of age,” Genevieve assured her. “And in the dark. The brickwork beside the pillar stands out like the steps in a ladder.”

“Very well. The ball is supposed to commence at seven. They don’t want to be too late as Rommel is driving to Paris overnight. I shall come down just before eight. I suggest you slip away to your room as soon after that as you can.”

“Maresa has arranged to meet Eric here in the summerhouse at eight.”

“Well, whatever her charms, I wouldn’t count on her holding him for more than twenty minutes,” Hortense said. “Chantal will be waiting in your room to give you any assistance you need.”

“If everything works, I should be in the library, take my pictures and out again inside ten minutes,” Genevieve said. “Back downstairs at the ball by eight-thirty, the safe locked behind me and nothing missing and no one will know a thing about it.”

“Except us,” Hortense said with a cold smile, “and that, my love, I find eminently satisfying.”

IT WAS JUST before six, the light fading as the Lili Marlene sailed boldly in towards the deserted pier at Grosnez. There was a slight mist, but the sea was calm and the Kriegsmarine ensign hung limply from the jackstaff. Langsdorff was at the wheel and Hare checked the shore with glasses.

“Yes, there they are.” He laughed softly. “Now there’s cheek for you. He’s brought two vehicles. Looks like a Kubelwagen and a black sedan and they’re in uniform.

He passed the glasses to Craig who focused them on the pier. There were three men in German Army uniforms standing by the Kubelwagen. Grand Pierre leaned against it, smoking a cigarette.

“He’s got style, this one, you have to admit that,” Craig said. “I’d better go below and change.”

He left the wheelhouse and Hare said to Langsdorff, “Dead slow.”

He went down to the deck where the crew were already at battle stations, all guns manned, and went below. When he went into the tiny cabin, Craig was buttoning the tunic of the Waffen-SS uniform.

Hare lit a cigarette. “You feel okay about this?”

Craig said, “In all those books I read in my teens, the hero always went back for the girl. It kind of programmed my thinking. Doesn’t really leave me with much choice.” He was ready now, a belted Walther at his waist, the silver SS buckle gleaming. He put on his cap. “Will I do?”

“Who in the hell from a military policeman on the road to a gate guard is going to query you in uniform like that?” Hare said and led the way out.

As they coasted in to the lower jetty, Grand Pierre came down the steps to meet them, as disreputable as usual. He smiled, “Good heavens, takes me back to costume parties when I was at Oxford. You do look dashing, Osbourne.”

“I want to make one thing clear,” Craig said. “This one’s a private affair. We’ve come for the girl on our own initiative.”

“Save it, old son. Julie Legrande managed to put me in the picture. To be honest, my people weren’t too keen to get involved. I mean, the life of one young woman, British agent or otherwise, is of little importance to them. They’re used to a rather high body count that includes their own families on occasion. Still I do have certain powers of persuasion. I’ve got you a rather nice Mercedes and a Kubelwagen with three of my lads in uniform to escort you. Nice touch that. They’ll peel off when you get to the Château.”

Craig said, “You’re going to hang around?”

“Why, yes, up there in the woods with some of my rascals. Does the boat stay?”

Hare turned to Langsdorff. “Some sort of engine repair, I think?”

Langsdorff nodded. “Dark soon, anyway, Herr Kapitän.”

“God knows when we’ll get back,” Craig said.

“We’ll be here.” Hare smiled.

The crew waited silently. Craig gave them a punctilious salute. “Men,” he said in English. “It’s been an honour to serve with you.”

Those on deck sprang to attention. Only Schmidt replied. “Good luck, guvnor. Walk all over the bastards.”

They went up the steps to the upper level and approached the cars. Grand Pierre said in French to the three in German Army uniform, “Right, you rogues, look after him. If you cock it up, don’t come back.”

They grinned and got in the Kubelwagen. Craig slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes.

Grand Pierre said, “Take care now. Off you go. It’s a ball they’re having tonight, by the way. Sounds fun. Wish I could join you, but I don’t have my dinner jacket with me.”

The Kubelwagen moved away and Craig switched on the ignition of the Mercedes and followed, Grand Pierre growing smaller in the driving mirror, disappearing altogether as he started up the hill.

THE DRESS WAS really beautiful, some sort of white silk jersey material that was more than flattering. Maresa helped Genevieve into it then placed a towel round her shoulders as she sat down to finish making-up.

“Have you seen René today?” Genevieve asked her casually.

“I don’t think so, Mamselle. He wasn’t in the servants’ hall for his evening meal. Shall I send someone to look for him?”

“No, it’s not important. You’ve got enough to think about. You know what you have to do? You’re sure?”

“Meet Eric in the summerhouse at eight and keep him there as long as I can.”

“Which means at least twenty minutes,” Genevieve said. “Anything less is no good.” She patted the girl’s cheek. “Don’t look so worried, Maresa. A joke we’re playing on the General, that’s all.”

The girl didn’t believe it, Genevieve could see, not that it mattered. She picked up her evening bag, smiled reassuringly and went out.

THE BALL WAS being held in the Long Gallery and they had really made an effort, there was no doubt about that. When Genevieve went in, everyone seemed to be there already. The chandeliers gleamed, there were flowers and a small orchestra played a Strauss waltz. There was no sign of Rommel, but General Ziemke was standing with Seilheimer and his wife. When he saw Genevieve, he excused himself and crossed the floor, the dancers moving out of his way.

“Your aunt?” he said anxiously. “She is coming down? There is nothing wrong?”

“Not as far as I know. What about the Field Marshal?”

“He was here a moment ago, but was called away for a phone call from Berlin. The Führer himself, apparently.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “We have many people here that you know. The Comboults for instance.”

There they were on the opposite side of the room. Maurice Comboult, Papa Comboult to his workers, with his wife and daughter. Five vineyards, two canning factories and another manufacturing agricultural machinery. The richest man in the district, growing even richer out of collaborating with the Germans. Genevieve barely swallowed her anger.

Field Marshal Rommel appeared in the doorway, Priem beside him and Ziemke said, “Excuse me for a moment.”

The young Lieutenant of the night before, the one who was such an excellent dancer, approached, and asked her for the next waltz. He was as good as ever and when the music stopped, offered to fetch her a glass of champagne.

She stood by a pillar, waiting for Hortense to appear and Priem said from behind, “I would not have thought any improvement possible, but you look especially beautiful tonight.”

“That’s nice,” she said and found that she meant it.

The band began to play another waltz, he took her in his arms without a word and they started to dance. Behind him, she could see her Lieutenant watching reproachfully, a glass of champagne in each hand.

The music seemed to go on for ever and there was an air of total unreality to everything, sounds muted as if under water. There was just the two of them, the rest clockwork figures only. The waltz came to an end finally, there was some sporadic clapping. No sign of Rommel now, but Ziemke was there and beckoned to Priem who excused himself and left.

It was at that moment that Hortense chose to make her entrance. Her face was like sculptured marble, her beautiful red-gold hair piled high on her head. Her gown of midnight blue velvet swept the floor, a perfect contrast to that live hair and those liquid eyes.

Conversation died as people turned to look and Ziemke hurried along the length of the gallery to meet her, bowing over her hand. Then he gave her his arm and escorted her to the far end where a group of Louis Quatorze chairs had been strategically placed.

Genevieve glanced at her watch. It was exactly five minutes to eight and as the orchestra struck up again, she moved back through the crowd, opened the door to the music room, and slipped inside.

She had intended it as a short cut to the hall and instead, received the shock of her life for Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was seated in a chair by the piano smoking a cigar.

“AH, IT IS you, Mademoiselle.” He stood up. “Had enough already?”

“A headache only,” she said, her heart pounding and unthinkingly ran a hand across the piano keys.

“Ah, you play, how charming,” Rommel said.

“Only a little.”

She sat down, because it seemed the natural thing to do and started to play “Claire de Lune.” It made her think of Craig, that evening at Cold Harbour. Rommel leaned back in the chair, a look of intense pleasure on his face.

It was fate that saved her, for suddenly the door opened and Max Priem appeared. “Oh, there you are, sir. The telephone again, I’m afraid, Paris this time.”

“You see, Mamselle? They will not leave me in peace.” Rommel smiled charmingly. “Later, perhaps, we may continue?”

“Of course,” Genevieve told him.

He went out. Priem smiled briefly at her and went after him. She hurried across to the other door, let herself out into the hall and went up the great stairway quickly.

CHANTAL WAS WAITING when she entered the bedroom, black sweater and a pair of dark slacks laid out on the bed. “You’re late,” she scolded.

“Never mind that now. Just get me out of this dress.”

She got the zip down, that magnificent white creation slipped to the floor and Genevieve stepped into the slacks and pulled the sweater over her head. She slipped the silver and onyx cigarette case into one pocket with the key, a torch in the other, and turned.

“Into battle, then.”

Chantal kissed her roughly on the cheek. “Go on, be off with you and get it done, Genevieve Trevaunce.”

Genevieve stared at her. “How long have you known?”

“I’m a fool, is that what you and the Countess think? Silly, stupid old Chantal? I was changing your nappies before you were a year old, my girl. You think I can’t tell the difference between you and her by now?”

But there was no time for this, of course. Genevieve smiled, slipped out through the curtains to the darkness of the balcony. It seemed very quiet standing there, the sound of the music far away. She was twelve years old again and sneaking out by night with Anne-Marie to go riding in the dark because she’d dared her to. She climbed over the balcony, got a firm hold on the brickwork and descended quickly.

WHEN SHE PEERED round the corner, the terrace lay quiet and deserted. She moved silently along to the third french window, placed a hand on the centre where the doors met and pushed. There was a certain amount of resistance, there always had been, but it gave in the end and parted the curtains.

The library was quite dark, the sound of music a little louder here. She switched on her torch and found the portrait of Elizabeth, the eleventh Countess de Voincourt. She stared down at her coldly, remarkably like Hortense. Genevieve swung the portrait back on its hinges revealing the safe behind. The key turned smoothly in the lock, the door swung open.

It was stuffed with papers as she might have expected. Her heart sank as she gave way to genuine panic and then she saw the leather briefcase with the single inscription Rommel stamped on the flap in gold leaf.

She opened it quickly, hands shaking. It contained only a single folder and when she opened that, the photos of gun emplacements and beach defences alone told her that she had found what she had come for.

She put the briefcase back in the safe for the moment, laid the folder on Priem’s desk and switched on the desk lamp. Then she took out her cigarette case. In the same moment she heard Priem’s voice quite distinctly outside the door.

She had never moved faster in her life. She got the safe door closed although there was no time to lock it, pushing the painting back into position. Then she switched off the desk lamp and picked up her torch and the folder.

As the key started to turn in the lock she was already on her way, slipping through the curtains and pulling the windows together as the door opened and the light was switched on. She peered in through a crack in the curtains and saw Priem enter the room.

She stood there in the darkness of the terrace, thinking about it, but by then she simply didn’t have any other choice. She slipped round the corner and climbed back up to her balcony.

CHANTAL DREW THE curtains together behind her. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Did something go wrong?”

“Priem turned up. Almost caught me in the act. It means I haven’t had a chance to take my pictures. I’ll see to that now.”

She laid the file down on her dressing table and brought the bedside lamp across for extra light.

“Then what will you do?”

“Go down again. Hope that he’s gone back to the ball so I can return this before it’s missed.”

“And Eric?”

“We’ll just have to put all our faith in Maresa’s powers of persuasion.”

She picked up the silver case, opened the flap and started to take pictures, exactly as Craig Osbourne had shown her, Chantal turning the pages. Twenty exposures, that’s what he had told her and there were more pages than that. Still, it would have to do.

As she finished, there was a knock at the door. They froze. Chantal whispered, “I locked it.”

The knock came again, the door knob rattled. Genevieve knew she had to answer. “Who is it?” she called.

There was no reply. She pushed Chantel towards the bathroom. “Get in there and stay quiet.”

She did as she was told. Genevieve slipped the Rommel file into the nearest drawer and turned to reach for her dressing gown. A key rattled in the lock, pushing the one on the inside out, the door opened and Max Priem walked in.

HE SAT ON the edge of the table swinging one leg, regarding her gravely, then held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“The file you have just taken from Field Marshal Rommel’s briefcase. I can have the room searched, but it has to be you. There is no one else. Add to that your interesting change in dress …”

“All right!” she cut in on him sharply, opened the drawer and took out the file.

He placed it on the table beside him. “I’m sorry it worked out this way.”

“Then you really are in the wrong business.” She picked up her cigarette case and selected a Gitane.

“I didn’t choose it, but one thing we’d better get straight from now on, Miss Trevaunce. I know who you are.”

She took a deep lungful of smoke to steady herself. “I don’t follow you.”

“It’s in the eyes, Genevieve,” he said softly. “You can never get away from that. Exactly the same colour as hers and yet the light inside, totally different. Like everything else about you two, the same and yet not the same at all.”

She could not think of a single thing worth saying, stood there waiting for the axe to fall.

“They taught you everything about her,” he said. “Is this not so? Provided our friend Dissard as guide and mentor and in the end, left out one essential fact—the most important of all. The one that told me from the first that you could not be Anne-Marie Trevaunce.”

In spite of herself, caught now, Genevieve asked entirely the wrong question. “And what would that be?”

“Why, that she was working for me,” he said simply.

SHE SAT DOWN, curiously calm considering the circumstances, perfectly in control, or so she told herself. He parted the curtains and rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers as if Anne-Marie was out there trying to get in. He continued to speak without turning around.

“Another thing which hardly helped your case was that I was tipped off about your true identity even before you got here by one of our agents in London, a mole we’ve had working for SOE for some considerable time.”

She was truly shocked. “I don’t believe you.”

“True, I assure you, but we’ll come to that later. Let’s talk about your sister.” He turned. “When we first set up house here, we knew we would attract more than a little attention, so I decided to provide London with an agent and who more suitable than Anne-Marie Trevaunce?”

“Who in exchange could continue to live in the manner to which she was accustomed, is that what you’re trying to say?”

He closed the curtains and turned. “Not quite. She was never cheap, whatever else she was.”

“What then?”

He didn’t answer, simply carried on in that calm voice. “She gave the people at SOE enough information to keep everyone happy, most of it relatively unimportant, of course. She used a man we knew perfectly well was Resistance and we let him alone. I even allowed her to draw in Dissard to complete the picture. Then London found out about a rather important conference and took an unprecedented step. They sent for her and I said she must go.”

“And she always did what you told her?”

“But of course. We had Hortense, you see. Anne-Marie’s one weakness, her only link with you, I think, is this love for her aunt.” Genevieve stared at him blankly. “Her only reason from the beginning, don’t you see that?” He shook his head. “I don’t think you ever knew her at all, this sister of yours.”

The rain tapped more insistently than ever. Genevieve sat there, unable to speak, so great was her emotion.

“Knowing you were playing games with me, it seemed prudent to have words with Dissard.”

“René?” she whispered.

“Yes, the message that took him away so urgently. I arranged that. When he reached his destination, Reichslinger and his men were waiting.”

“Where is he now? What have you done with him?”

“He shot himself,” Priem said, “very quickly, in the head before they could disarm him. To protect you, I should imagine. He must have known he wouldn’t last long in Reichslinger’s hands. Every man has his breaking point, sooner or later. Not that it mattered. Our man in London had provided all the necessary information. Our mole at SOE. A certain Dr. Baum who I think you know. The only problem with that was that I’ve known for some time he was working for the other side. I have a more reliable source in London, you see.”

“You’re lying,” Genevieve said.

“Your sister is at this very moment in the cellar of a house at 101 Raglan Lane in Hampstead. She is, I am given to understand, quite mad, but then, you are aware of this?”

Her reply came boiling out of her, instinctive, hot with rage. “And you swine made her like that. Your own agent and yet it was an SS patrol that picked her up. They ruined her, those animals. Did you know that?”

“Not true,” he said and there was something close to pity in his eyes now. “It was your own people—no one else.”

The room was very quiet and she was horribly frightened. “What do you mean?” she whispered. “What are you trying to say?”

“My poor Genevieve,” he said. “I think you’d better listen to me.”

WHAT HE TOLD her, although she did not know it, was substantially what Baum had told Craig Osbourne. The truth, the real truth about her sister, the good doctor, Rosedene Nursing Home and Munro.

When he was finished, she sat there gripping the arms of her chair for a while then she reached for the cigarette case and got a Gitane. Surprising how much the damn things helped. She went to the french windows, opened them and looked out at the rain. Priem followed her.

She turned to face him. “Why should I believe you? How could you know all this?”

“The British operate double agents and so do we. A game we play. As I’ve said, when the Jewish underground told Baum his daughter was dead, he went to Munro. To make his dealings normal with us meant they couldn’t afford to pull in Mrs. Fitzgerald, his contact. She also was given a choice. To work as a double or face execution in your Tower of London. Naturally she chose the sensible course or appeared to.”

“Appeared to?”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald is Dutch South African and does not like the English. Her dead husband was an Irishman who disliked them even more and served with the IRA under Michael Collins in 1921. She had done what Munro wanted, yes, but what the good Brigadier did not realise was that she has contacts with the IRA in London and they are more than sympathetic to us. She warned us, through them, of Baum’s defection months ago which means we’ve been very well aware that he works totally for the other side now. He tells us only what they want us to know, which means, in this case, that they wanted us to know about you. Any information he didn’t tell us, Mrs. Fitzgerald passed on to our IRA friends.”

“What nonsense,” Genevieve said and yet, with some horror, saw the terrible truth.

“What was the purpose of your mission? Field Marshal Rommel’s conference? Plans for the Atlantic Wall?” He shook his head. “It couldn’t have been. They sent you here to be betrayed by Baum whose word they still think we believe.”

“But why would they do that?”

“The Reichslingers of this world can be very persuasive. They expected you to break, your people. Wanted you to. They’ve told you something, let something slip, something you can’t even remember yourself for the moment. Something that would apparently be of supreme importance.”

She remembered Craig Osbourne on the Lili Marlene, felt again the grip of his hand on hers and struggled wildly not to believe and then she recalled Munro in his study at Cold Harbour, the map on the desk that he had so quickly put away after allowing her to glimpse the D-Day landing areas.

Priem had been watching her intently. Now, he smiled. “You’ve got it, I see?”

She nodded, suddenly very tired. “Yes, would you like to know?”

“Would you tell me?”

“I’d try not to, just in case I’m wrong. You’ve proved very effectively that there are people on my side as rotten and unscrupulous as you are, but I’d still rather see my side win. There are some very nice people where I come from and I’d hate to see the SS in St. Martin.”

“Good,” he said. “Exactly what I would have expected of you.”

She took a deep breath. “What happens now?”

“You will change back into your gown and return to the ball.”

She was beginning to feel just a little light-headed by then. “You can’t be serious?”

“Oh, but I am. Field Marshal Rommel will leave with his escort in one hour. He drives to Paris overnight. You will be among those who will smile and wish him well. You will exchange a few words. All good stuff for the photographers. He will drive safely away into the night and you, my dear Genevieve, will continue dancing.”

“The life and soul of the party?”

“But of course. It could be argued that you might seize some chance, however slight, to slip away, but that would mean leaving the Countess in our hands, which would be unfortunate. You follow my thinking?”

“Completely.”

“Perfect trust between us then.” He kissed her hand. “I’ve fallen in love with you a little I think. Just a little. You were never her, Genevieve. Always yourself alone.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“Of course.” He paused, a hand on the ornate handle of the door. “One gets over everything in time. But this, you will discover for yourself.”

He started to open the door. Genevieve said, “You really thought you knew her, didn’t you?”

He turned, slightly surprised. “Anne-Marie? As well as anyone, I think.”

Her anger was so great now that she could not contain herself. “Does the name Grand Pierre mean anything to you?”

He went very still. “Why do you ask?”

“A very important Resistance leader, am I right? I’m sure you’d give a great deal to get your hands on him. Would it surprise you to know that my sister actually had dealings with him?”

His face was quite pale now. “Yes, to be perfectly frank, it would.”

“You failed to catch General Dietrich’s assassin. You know why?”

“No, but I have a feeling you are about to tell me.”

“Anne-Marie spirited him away from under the noses of your precious SS hidden under the rear seat of her Rolls-Royce.” She smiled fiercely, enjoying her small triumph. “So you see, Colonel Priem, she was never completely what you thought she was at all.”

He looked at her for a long moment, turned and went out, closing the door softly. She took a deep breath, hurried across to the bathroom door and said, “Stay in there until I’ve gone.”

“All right,” Chantal whispered.

The rain drifted against the window and she stood there, listening. So, this was how the world ended, just like the poet said. No great bang. There was, as Priem had pointed out, Hortense to consider. Out of her hands now, all of it, and no way out. Worst of all, no desire. In the end, the greatest irony of all was that with the gloves off, Max Priem was Craig Osbourne and Craig Osbourne was Max Priem.

So … she took a deep breath and started to dress.