The Best of Our Spies (16 page)

It was a snapshot of a boy and a girl standing against a wall, self-consciously close to each other, their faces partially obscured by ice creams. Archibald turned the photograph over and read the caption.

‘Ian and Wendy. Le Touquet. August 1937
.
’
Now this exactly the kind of thing that we need. Someone in Intelligence followed this up. Contacted the parents. Sure enough, they had measured the height of Ian and Wendy every birthday, so we know how tall they both are in August 1937 – four foot nine and four foot six it says here – and from that we can get a very good idea of how high that wall is. And because we can pinpoint it thanks to this sign next to it, we know that at this point, our boys would need to get over a wall that is approximately four foot high.

‘I think that you are going to be very busy, Quinn.’

ooo000ooo

It was not in Owen Quinn’s nature to be anything other than optimistic. ‘You’re a glass half full man,’ his grandfather had often remarked; always of a most positive disposition. But an event at the end of June did give him cause to wonder.

It was a balmy summer evening and he was enjoying the stroll home through St James’s Park. Nathalie was working late at the hospital and he was in no hurry. He had just entered the park when he heard his name being called. He turned round to see a large figure in RAF uniform running across the road to catch up with him.

‘Quinn. I refuse to believe it! You’re alive!’

‘Well, I was this morning when I last looked in the mirror!’

‘It’s me, Linwood. Remember?’ He had removed his RAF officer’s cap.

‘Of course, Linwood. Good God. Didn’t realise you were in the RAF. I had no idea what you were doing.’

‘Don’t think I’ve seen you since we left university, eh? Joined up in ’39. Didn’t fancy your lot, tendency towards sea-sickness. Army sounded a bit dull and flying just up my street.’

‘Battle of Britain?’

Linwood shook his head. ‘Bomber Command. Giving them a taste of their own medicine. Now what about you. Last I heard, you were dead. Drowned at sea?’

‘Almost, Linwood. Not quite though. Was on HMS
Gloucester
when it was sunk off Crete in ’41. Damn near didn’t make it. Don’t remember an awful lot, to be honest. Spent months in a hospital back here. Not fit enough for active service, apparently, but serving behind a desk. You understand.’

‘Of course I do, old chap. Glad to see you alive. Look, I’ve got to go back up to Lincolnshire tonight – getting a lift. Fancy a drink first? Bit of catching up to do.’

The pub in Victoria was emptying of civil servants and they found a quiet table at the back. Linwood negotiated his way over, doing his best not to spill the beer.

‘Like navigating through German flak, eh? There you are, Quinn. Pint of best mild. Does you the world of good. Now then, tell me everything.’

‘Not an awful lot to say I’m afraid, Linwood. Don’t really keep in touch with many of the chaps from university. Joined the Navy, as you know. I am married though.’

‘Congratulations!’ Linwood had stood up to reach over the table and warmly shake his hand, spilling some of the beer in the process. ‘You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Never had you down as much of a ladies’ man. Now: tell me all about her.’

‘Well, what can I say? She’s French, came over at the time of Dunkirk. And she’s a nurse. She was working at the hospital in the country that I was sent to when I came back here – that’s where we met.’

‘What does she look like, Quinn?’

‘Well, perhaps not for me to say, but …’

‘Come on old chap, if
you
can’t say what she looks like then who on earth can!’

‘What I mean is I don’t want to appear boastful, Linwood, but she is rather beautiful. At least I think so.’

Linwood moved his large frame and fleshy face across the table. He was looking very interested. ‘Description please, Quinn.’

Quinn blushed. ‘Super figure, lovely long hair, remarkable eyes.’

‘Too good to be true, Quinn. Refuse to believe you. Got a photograph?’

‘I do actually,’ he said, taking his wallet out of his top pocket. He passed over a small photograph somewhat sheepishly. ‘Here we are.’

Linwood went silent and studied the photograph carefully from different angles. He turned it over.
Owen, all my love — amour — Nathalie xxx.

‘Quinn – she’s beautiful. Totally beautiful. You were telling the truth.’ Linwood was speaking in almost reverential tones now. ‘How on earth did a chap like you …’

‘A chap like me what?’ Quinn was slightly offended.

‘No, no, no – don’t take it like that. Just that when we were at university you were the fairly quiet type. Would never in a month of Sundays have thought …’

Linwood couldn’t say much more. He just waved the photograph, before looking at it closely again.
Would never have thought that a chap like you would end up with a girl like her.
That’s what he means to say,
thought Quinn. I sometimes wonder that myself, if I’m honest.

‘And is it true what they say about French girls?’ Linwood was looking quite flushed now.

‘What is it that they say about French girls, Linwood?’

His friend leaned towards him and lowered his voice.

‘What is it they say about Frenchwomen, Linwood?’

‘Oh come on, Quinn! You know. Great lovers and all that. No inhibitions.’

‘Linwood! You’re talking about my wife!’ Quinn had defused any tension by laughing.

‘Does she have any sisters over here or friends? If so, I insist on meeting them next time I’m on leave. Tell me everything!’

‘Not a lot more to say, actually. Told you most of it.’

‘Where is she from?’

‘Somewhere in Paris, not exactly sure.’

‘And family, what about them?’

‘Look, Linwood. Don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve learned not to ask. It’s different with the war. She’s had to leave her own country and that’s not easy. I suppose I need to be sensitive, can’t ask too many questions.’

‘Don’t get upset, old chap. Just seems a bit ... odd that you know so little about her.’

‘Well, as I say, that’s the war for you.’

‘Understand,’ said Linwood, though Quinn had the feeling that he didn’t really.

They left the pub soon after, Quinn to go home and Linwood to head back to Lincolnshire. They exchanged addresses and promised to keep in touch.

For the rest of that evening he was unsettled by his encounter with Linwood.

Despite what he had said, in his heart of hearts he knew that it was odd that he knew so little about his wife.

He was determined to find out more. He needed to be more assertive – Nathalie herself had told him that.

The opportunity came the following evening. Nathalie had not been at work and when he arrived back at the flat she was walking around, wearing nothing but his dressing gown. The front was open and she was smiling. An hour later, after they had finished making love for the third time, they both lay in bed, exhausted and happy. Nathalie had managed to get hold of a bottle of French wine which was meant to be very good and it now lay empty on their bedside table. Empty bodies, empty wine bottle. He felt decadent and totally relaxed.

Nathalie lay on her back naked and staring at the ceiling. Owen rolled over onto his side and leaned over her. With his finger, he gently traced a pattern across her breasts. Her black eyes swivelled from the ceiling and locked into his and she smiled.

Carpe diem
.

‘I want to know more about you, Nathalie.’ The question sounded awkward and even his speaking seemed to have broken a perfect mood. Her eyes frowned very slightly and the smile subsided.

‘What do you want to know, Owen? I’ve told you everything, I’m a boring person. Do you want me to be more exciting? Shall I tell you that I am secret agent who arrived here by parachute? That I am a descendant of Napoleon? Ask me whatever questions you want. Go on.’

There was a pause. Linwood’s observation that he seemed to know little about her had struck a chord; he knew very little about her. Try as he might, there were times when he felt that he had absolutely no idea of what she was really like. But he had no idea what questions to ask. He smiled and kissed her cheek and she took hold of that hand that had stopped tracing patterns on her breasts and started it again.

ooo000ooo

CHAPTER ELEVEN

London
July 1943

A fortnight after Archibald had told him about the secret invasion plans for the Pas de Calais, Owen Quinn and Nathalie were invited to dinner by Archibald.

‘Mrs Archibald is on one of her rare visits from Lincolnshire and I thought it would be a good idea: we’ve invited two other couples. Melrose is Army, but perfectly decent chap. Work with him at COSSAC though you don’t know that, of course. And Hardisty is at the Air Ministry. Wife’s French, so that ought to be jolly for your wife. Strictly nothing about work, of course.’

Nathalie, who had recently begun to complain that London was a boring city, was nonetheless not enthusiastic about the invitation.

‘My English will not be good enough,’ she said as they ate their supper the evening that her husband told her about the dinner.

‘Your English is almost fluent, darling.’

‘Almost?’ She sounded angry.

‘Well, yes. “Almost fluent” is not a criticism – it actually means that your English is excellent. You will have no problem in taking part in the conversation, I assure you.’

‘They will all talk about work.’

‘We are not allowed to talk about work.’

‘Why?’

‘I have explained that to you, darling. What I do is secret. I am just not allowed to discuss it. Same reason as I can never tell you anything. The same will apply to everyone else there.’

‘But what is that word you use to describe how you find your work? Sounds like “tea”?’

‘“Tedious” do you mean?’

‘Yes. So if your work is so tedious, how can it be so secret?

‘That is how it is.’

‘So it will be very boring. I suppose we will have to talk about the weather.’

‘Quite possibly. And cats.’

‘Why cats?’

‘It’s a joke, Nathalie. An English joke. You say that the English talk about the weather. Well, the other great English topic of conversation is their pets.’

‘But we do not have any pets. We can be sure we will not talk about food. No one is interested in food in this country. In France, there would be riots if we had to eat the kind of food you are happy to eat in England.’

Nathalie was toying with the remains of the casserole that she had cooked. Owen was finishing his second helping while she had hardly eaten at all. With his mouth full he gestured towards his plate and gave a thumbs-up sign. ‘But this is good!’

‘That is my point, Owen. You are satisfied with this. The meat is tough and you cannot buy the proper herbs anyway. You English think that pepper and salt is all you need. I am ashamed of this meal, even though I had to smile very sweetly at the butcher to persuade him to give me a tiny bit more of what you call meat here. Even then, it is not what I call a proper casserole. It’s mostly carrots.’

ooo000ooo

The dinner was taking place in Archibald’s club, which was round the corner from Lincoln House, in St James’s Street. Quinn had worn his best uniform to work and Nathalie met him outside there at seven, looking ravishing. She was not allowed beyond reception, but Quinn basked in the approving looks of the guards when he went down to meet her.

She linked her arm into his, her fingers squeezing the inside of his elbow and her shoulder nestling against him. They strolled into Jermyn Street where she promised to buy him a suit when they were rich and into St James’s Street, turning left, crossing the road and walking the twenty yards or so to Archibald’s club.

Quinn had to agree that the dinner was hard work. You could blame the food (Brown Windsor soup, an oddly greyish beef in a thick, dark sauce and apple pie) on wartime, but the conversation was somewhat stilted. And this was despite the wine, which was a very decent Côtes du Rhône.

Hardisty, it turned out, had met his wife in Paris before the war when he had been an air attaché at the Embassy, so he was fluent in French. For much of the meal they had to listen to Melrose’s wife, the extent of whose wartime deprivation seemed to be some minor problems with domestic staff. Captain Archibald and his wife talked about their life in Lincolnshire, while for much of the time Hardisty’s wife and Nathalie were speaking in French.

At first, Nathalie had been solicitous enough in finding out which part of Paris Madame Hardisty was from (‘the eighth arrondissement – off the Boulevard Haussmann). And you?’ ‘Oh, we moved around. Usually south of the fourteenth’ and Madame Hardisty smiled politely, clear now that it was most unlikely that their paths had ever crossed.

She was answering all their questions politely enough, but did not sustain any conversation.

It was a balmy July evening, so they walked back to Pimlico.

‘Did you enjoy the evening?’

‘It was fine.’

‘Did you get on with Madame Hardisty.’

‘She was fine. But you know, we are from very different ... societies. She is a different kind of person to me. You have to learn to understand this, Owen. This kind of person, they live in a very different kind of France. The France they expect to find after the war is very different to mine.’

Quinn wanted to ask her just what she meant, but Nathalie had a way of shutting down a conversation when she wished it to go no further. By now they had turned into Alderney Street and he had more important things on his mind.

ooo000ooo

Two days after the dinner there was a minor disaster in Lincoln House. In response to Quinn’s demands for some help with translation, Archibald had found an elderly, retired French teacher with what he described as an admirably high level of security clearance. As far as Quinn could gather, the main criterion for her high level of security clearance was the fact that both of her brothers had fought in the Great War.