The Best of Our Spies (17 page)

So two or three days a week Miss Lean would slowly make her way to the office where she would sit at a desk and with the aid of a large dictionary that she brought with her in a basket, laboriously translate.

The minor disaster came with a message one morning that Miss Lean had slipped on her way to work and broken both of her ankles. She would not be returning. Miss Lean was replaced by a Frenchwoman in her late thirties who was physically stronger than Miss Lean, it would have been difficult to be otherwise, but emotionally fragile.

She only had to look at a postcard from France, or a photograph or even a map, for her to burst into tears. After just one week, Archibald had to agree that her psychological state was not conducive with working in such a sensitive environment.

‘What are we meant to do?’ Quinn asked Archibald. ‘We need all these translations done and until then, it’s just holding us up.’

They were in Archibald’s office. Quinn was clutching a pile of papers that needed translating, which he had brought in for added impact. Archibald was thinking quietly, drumming his long fingers on the desk in front of him. After a while, Archibald nodded quietly to himself.

‘There is a possible solution, Quinn. Not one that I am terribly happy with, but one that may work. I know that this was mentioned a few weeks ago, but now it seems that your wife ...’ he had put his glasses on now and was looking at a sheet of paper ‘... did indeed have a higher level of clearance than we had at first realised when she moved to Calcotte Grange. What we’ve done is check her out a bit more and we can move her clearance up another notch or two so that she has the right level to help you out with some of this. Help you shift all this stuff. You’re going to be inundated with material, aren’t you?’

Quinn nodded in agreement.

‘No reason then for you not to take the odd low level stuff home, work over the weekend, peace and quiet, that kind of thing. And with so much in French, to be able to ask her will save a lot of time. Obviously, we keep it all hush-hush and she doesn’t need to see any more than she has to. Nothing top secret, you understand. She can’t know about the context of what you may ask her, but the odd word here and there – no harm in that. She doesn’t need to know what all this is about and I certainly don’t mean going telling her where landings are going to be, eh!’

Quinn was surprised, but agreed that it did indeed sound reasonable. It was certainly going make life that little bit easier. Recently Nathalie had been going on about how he told her nothing about what he did and she was wondering whether that meant he didn’t love her.

ooo000ooo

RAF Scampton
Lincolnshire

Dear Owen Quinn,

My name is Andy Wood and I was a close colleague and friend of Flying Officer Anthony (Tony) Linwood. It is with deep regret that I am writing to inform you that Tony is listed as missing, presumed dead, after his Lancaster was lost in action in an air raid over Hamburg last month. Tony was a loyal and brave member of 617 Squadron and is sorely missed by everyone here at RAF Scampton.

I gave Tony a lift back to Lincolnshire the same night that he bumped into you in St James’s Park and I know how thrilled he was to have met up with you again. He was in very good spirits that night and I am sure that is in large measure due to having met up with you. He was full of admiration for you and said what a lucky man you are. Sadly, the raid in which he was killed took place just the night after you and he met.

I am sorry for the delay in writing to you with this appalling news, but I only recently found your address among his papers.

Yours truly,
(Flight Lieutenant) Andy Wood

ooo000ooo

Owen’s parents arrived in London on the last Sunday in July for a much-heralded and long-planned visit. He and Nathalie had bickered all morning as they prepared for his parents’ arrival. Nathalie sat on the bed painting her nails: ‘It is not often that I have a Sunday off,’ she complained, ‘and when I do I’d rather not spend it with your mother. She reminds me of the sisters at the hospital – always critical, always checking on what I’m doing
.
’

But you’re not doing a lot, Owen thought as he moved the furniture round in the tiny lounge. He had somehow managed to shift one of the enormous armchairs into their bedroom, which meant that they could open out the table and squeeze the four of them around it, even if that did mean him having to sit on the arm of the remaining armchair. He had little doubt that his mother would strongly disapprove of that.

‘Shall I tell you how long I had to queue for the chicken?’ the voice in the bedroom asked.

‘You’ve already told me, Nathalie. Two hours.’

‘Two hours.’

‘Well, it does smell absolutely delicious, darling. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had chicken. Must have been in the New Year at my parents’. They’ll be thrilled. You can’t beat roast chicken.’

She appeared in the doorway of the bedroom to inspect the rearrangement of the lounge. She was wearing his dressing gown; tantalisingly part-open at the front, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath. Her hands were held out in front of her, the fingers spread-eagled and slowly waving as she tried to dry her nails.

‘It’s only just a chicken. In France it would have been living on a farm for very old chickens. Even French foxes would have the sense to ignore it. And where are you going to sit?’

‘For heaven’s sake, just stop it!’ he shouted.

‘Pardon?’ She looked genuinely taken aback.

‘Just leave it will you. Please stop complaining at everything. I am entitled to have my parents round and for them to have something decent to eat. I know this country is not France but I think it has been pretty decent to you. How would you like to be back in France now, with all those bloody Nazis around?’ He stepped back, shocked at his own outburst.

‘Owen,’ she said, smiling sweetly and allowing the dressing gown to slip from her shoulders and to the floor. ‘You’ve never spoken to me like that before. Come here ...’

‘Hang on, you do realise that the curtains are open and ...’

She stepped back into the bedroom, where the curtains were drawn.

‘And what?’

He put down the cutlery. He could lay the table later, after he had peeled the potatoes. He was inside the bedroom, his shirt already off when the doorbell rang.

ooo000ooo

‘So we had to stick to the A3 even though ...’

‘William, I am sure Owen and Nathalie do not want to hear all about our journey today. It is not as if we had to fight our way past the Germans!’

Marjorie Quinn shrieked at her own joke and her husband and son laughed politely, while her daughter-in-law looked confused.

‘Well I must say, Nathalie, that it is a real treat to have chicken. Delicious. Cordon what is it you call it in France?’ asked her father-in-law.

‘They call it cordon bleu, William, though I would not have thought that this is cordon bleu. Personally, I prefer my chicken to be roasted for rather longer, but then you probably have not had much experience recently, have you, Nathalie? Owen dear, do you really need to be sitting at the dining table on the edge of an armchair?’

‘Mother, please!’

‘Please what, Owen?’

His mother, father and wife had all stopped eating and were looking at him.

‘Mother ... this is my home and my wife ... please do stop going on.’

The ensuing silence was broken ten minutes later by Marjorie Quinn’s much diminished voice.

‘I was only saying ...’ she said softly .

Her husband patted her on the wrist. ‘Probably best not to say anything dear ...’

They left soon after lunch: their journey that morning having been so difficult they didn’t want to leave it too late.

Once they had returned to the flat after seeing his parents off, Nathalie led him straight into the bedroom.

An hour later she planted an arm firmly across his chest as he tried to get up from the bed.

‘But we need to clear up.’

‘You’re reward hasn’t finished, Owen. Why are you looking so puzzled?’

‘Reward for what?’

‘That you’re not a boy any longer, are you?’ She was brushing the long fair hair away from his damp brow, combing it back with her long fingers. ‘The way you spoke to me this morning, the way you spoke to your mother ... you are learning to stand up for yourself. I think I like it.’

An hour later, Owen was to be found happily tidying up the flat and merrily whistling as he washed up the dishes.

Nathalie soaked in a tepid bath for longer than she normally would have done. Life is so confusing, she thought. Everything starts off by being confused. And then you realise what you have to do and you go and do it and everything becomes clearer. And then, things get in the way. Events. People. Places. Emotions become involved, even if you don’t intend them to or even want them to. So you end up being confused again.

ooo000ooo

CHAPTER TWELVE

London
November 1943

‘Well, all I can say is that this is most irregular. Most irregular.’

‘But Leigh, everything you chaps do is most irregular!’

‘I simply cannot imagine what Selbourne thought he was playing at, agreeing to this nonsense.’

Major Edgar stood up, his tall frame blocking out some of the sunlight as he did so. He was not averse to using his considerable height to help bring his influence to bear on a situation and he needed to use all of his influence now in what was a very tense situation. His recent promotion had added to his sense of confidence.

There was silence in the room. They were in the Baker Street headquarters of the Special Operations Executive, the SOE. Outside, there was a steady hum of traffic. Inside, a small ornate clock on Leigh’s desk was ticking in what appeared to be an erratic manner. The clock reminded Edgar of Leigh, ornate and erratic, from an earlier era.

Edgar was becoming exasperated. The small man he was now towering over reminded him of an ineffectual country vicar, with a high-pitched, whiny voice to match. Edgar did not understand why they picked these academics from the Oxbridge colleges where they had spent most of their lives and assume that because they were an authority on a medieval French poet no one had heard of, they would therefore fit naturally into the upper echelons of British Intelligence.

‘The 3rd Earl of Selbourne is the Minister for Economic Warfare, Dr Leigh. He is responsible for your organisation. He has agreed to this operation.’

‘I am quite aware of who Selbourne is, Edgar. No doubt Churchill twisted his arm. But it does not stop this being most irregular.’

Edgar was having to exercise considerable restraint. Leigh had used the word irregular in nearly every sentence for the past ten minutes. His face was a bright red and his hands a pallid white as they gripped the arms of his chair.

Edgar had some sympathy for Leigh. His job could not be an easy one. The SOE had been set up in July 1940 as part of the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6. Its remit was to work behind the lines in occupied Europe, by carrying out acts of sabotage and secret warfare. Its main role was to work with resistance groups. Much of its work was done through country groups. Edgar was aware that as far as France was concerned, it was typically complicated. There were two groups. RF Section worked with the Gaullist faction. F Section was the independent country section for France. Dr Clarence Leigh’s role was to liaise with both RF and F Sections on behalf of the head of SOE. Edgar assumed that he used medieval French poetry to help resolve disputes. Or start them.

‘Dr Leigh. I do acknowledge that there is a historic rivalry between our two organisations, but surely you must understand the absolute importance of this mission.’

Major Edgar believed passionately that the mission of the London Controlling Section for which he worked was of paramount importance. The LCS had been set up by Winston Churchill in June 1942 to plan deception operations against the enemy and its overriding priority now was the invasion of Europe, which was planned for 1944. The invasion was fraught with risk, but one way of helping it to succeed was by persuading the Germans that the invasion was going to take place somewhere else. Edgar was the case officer responsible for handling three German agents to work on behalf of this deception. Two of them were doing so willingly, having agreed to become double agents. The most important one was not aware of the crucial role they were currently playing. It was in connection with that agent that Major Edgar was enduring a most uncomfortable afternoon with Dr Leigh.

‘And you absolutely insist that there is no other way?’

The first chink was appearing in Leigh’s armour. His resigned tone sounded as if he was addressing a student who was handing in an essay late.

‘No. If there was, I can assure you we would have gone down that route.’

‘Very well then. I’ll speak to Newby at F Section. Best work with them if you don’t want de Gaulle to catch wind of this.’

‘Thank you very much, Clarence. I have no doubt that Winston will be most pleased to hear of a new era of co-operation between our two organisations.’

Leigh snorted. ‘But one thing that I do need to make very clear, Edgar. This is a most irregular business. In everything we do in SOE, security is of absolute paramount importance, as I am sure you appreciate. For us to be asked to train a German spy in our methods and then send him over to France puts our own security at risk. It could jeopardise our whole operation. Therefore, we will have to train him at a different location than we normally use and bring new people in to do the training. We will have to incur considerable costs in the process. I do expect your people to pay for this.’

‘Of course,’ said Edgar. It was a small price to pay.

‘Very well, then. I shall see Newby this afternoon and inform him of the situation. You ought to be able to see him tomorrow, certainly in the next few days. Are you now able to give me any details about this agent? What code name does he go by?’

Edgar was already putting on his large, dark coat.