The Best of Our Spies (25 page)

She was lost in her thoughts as she realised just how vulnerable she was.

‘Do you understand?’

Geraldine nodded. ‘Sorry. I must still be tired.’

Pierre spoke with a sense of urgency. Jean had come into the room and placed a large bowl of coffee in front of her and Pierre, along with some bread and jam. Pierre gestured – ‘You must eat. Now. What can you tell us about your mission?’

She sipped at the scalding coffee, which was better than anything she had tasted in England. ‘The Allies will invade through the Pas de Calais. We do not know when exactly, but it must be in the next two or three months. We will get warning of the invasion. Our main task is to take part in
Plan Vert
, sabotage of the railway lines. We will plan where to blow them up. The BBC will broadcast the coded messages that will tell us when to do it, but it will be essential if we are to stop German reinforcements coming in to the area once the Allies land. Until then, the orders are to do very little. They don’t want to risk us being caught before D-Day. So we will continue to undertake reconnaissance of the area, plan the exact points where we are going to plant the explosives once we get the message and concentrate on not getting caught.’

Pierre nodded. He understood. He stood up to leave, drinking the last of his coffee before he did so.

‘Jean will leave soon. He will go to work at the farm and Lucien will join him later. They will take a truck from the farm and move the supplies you brought with you to safer locations. We have a house in the village where we can keep the transmitter. Remember this map. You will leave for Boulogne after Jean leaves for work. If you have any trouble when you register with the Germans, you must stick to your story. The paperwork you have is very good and the Germans are not always as efficient as people think they are. Just act normally.’

And then, as if as a casual afterthought: ‘If they don’t believe you, hold out for as long as possible. That will give us time to disappear. Good luck. I will see you later.’

After he left, Jean came and joined her at the table. He had opened the curtains fully after Pierre left and the sun was now streaming into the room. As he pulled back the curtains he had released a cloud of fine dust.

Jean smiled at her as he ate his breakfast. His eyes were jet black, like hers, and when he smiled, he had a perfect set of white teeth. He looked uncannily like the woman in the photograph. ‘You don’t wear your glasses all the time?’

Geraldine realised that she had forgotten to put them on. She had also forgotten to tie back her hair. From the way Jean could not take his eyes off her, she clearly did not look as plain as she did when she left England. She realised that in her haste to dress when Pierre had arrived, the top three buttons of her shirt were undone and Jean was trying hard not to stare at her. His own shirt was open to halfway down his chest. Any Germans bursting in now would assume they were lovers enjoying a drink and that unspoken intimacy that comes after making love.

‘I will return around six this evening. The curfew starts at eight o’clock. I will bring food from the farm for us to eat. Usually I eat with the Gironds next door, but I told them I now have a lodger. Don’t worry, people know better than to ask too many questions around here these days. Enjoy your day in Boulogne.’

ooo000ooo

She was surprised at how badly damaged Boulogne was. She knew that there had been air raids and it made sense that the RAF would be attacking the area ahead of the invasion, but the scale of the damage still shocked her. Apart from what she had seen in Dunkirk, the France she had left behind four years previously had been the France she had grown up in. But this place was barely recognisable as a town, let alone one in France; buildings spilling onto the pavement and the road, road signs in German as well as French, empty shops, the few civilians that were around looking dishevelled and beaten and German troops everywhere.

The registration at the Hôtel de Ville in the fortified part of the old town had been easy though it had, inevitably, taken time. All of her papers were in order. She went from one desk to another to get them stamped, then had to go the factory to have another document cleared, before returning to the Hôtel de Ville for her final clearance. At no stage did anyone ask her difficult questions. She was treated with something approaching disdain. What she was unused to was the fact that none of the men who dealt with her gave her a second look. It made her realise that for as long as she could remember, she was accustomed to that lingering stare, the smile held a bit longer than was proper, the eyes following her around a room, the eagerness to help even when it was not required. That had been part of her life for the past ten years and it occurred to her now how much she relied on it. She only realised the extent of it now that it no longer happened. Not for Geraldine Leclerc it didn’t. The thick-framed glasses held together by tape and the uncombed hair pulled back tightly had turned her into one of the anonymous grey characters inhabiting the crowd scenes of life and whom she had always despised. The British, she had to admit, had done a good job with her. No one cared about Geraldine Leclerc, the thirty-year-old factory worker from Arras billeted in a small village outside Boulogne. She was anonymous, someone who would easily fade into the background.

By now it was twelve noon. Since leaving the village she had worked on the assumption that the resistance would be following her. They had little reason to suspect her; after all, they had seen her climb out of an RAF plane with their own eyes. But at the same time, she knew just how cautious they were. Her communications with Paris had been very limited since she was first approached by the SOE, but one of the messages back from them had been that she should do everything that the resistance asked of her once she arrived in France. It was critical that they suspect nothing of her. The miserable little Belgian had given her a telephone number to memorise. Once she arrived in France and it was safe to call, she was to ring that number.

Outside the Hôtel de Ville she asked an old man how she could find the post office. He turned his whole body slowly to face her, allowing his rheumy eyes time to focus on her.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Arras.’

He looked around. ‘Is Arras as bad as this?’

‘Worse.’

He shook his head. ‘Head down towards the port. The Grande Rue will take you there. Not that they call it that now.’

She looked at him quizzically. He edged closer to her and lowered his voice. His hand grasped her firmly by the wrist, pulling her nearer to him.

‘They now call it Rue Maréchal Pétain.’ He turned round very slowly, checking no one was watching and then very deliberately spat on the pavement.

His eyes blazed at her. She was finding this tedious, but did what was expected of her and shook her head in a mildly shocked manner.

The post office was on Quai de la Poste, facing the River Liane. She parked her bike and sat on a nearby bench eating the bread and jam she had brought with her from the house, observing what activity there was around her. She would have spotted any of the people in her cell, but what concerned her was anyone else who may have been following her. If only she could get into the post office without being observed. By the side of the post office was a narrow cobbled lane. A German sentry was posted at the entrance to the lane and only allowing a few people through. If she could get through there, it was unlikely that anyone following her would risk trying to get through too. She waited until a small queue had formed in front of the sentry. A man in a cheap suit approached the sentry.

‘My office is just down there, it is easier for me ...’

‘
Nein
.’

‘I have to collect a parcel from the back of the post office, here is my ticket ...’

The cheap suit was gestured through.

‘I need to go to the baker’s ...’

‘
Nein
.’

And then Geraldine. She had already removed her glasses and untied her hair, shaking it as she did so. She flashed a smile at the young sentry.

‘I have to collect a parcel but don’t have a ticket. They told me that if I showed them my identity card, that would do and I ...’

The sentry was not looking too closely at her identity card. Her looked into her eyes and smiled, which she returned, at the same time allowing her hand to brush his.

‘All right. But don’t get me into trouble!’

She gave him another smile and wheeled her bike through, taking care to put her glasses back on and tie back her hair. At the rear of the post office was an open door, from where she could see a man emerging with a parcel. She propped the bicycle against the wall. There was no one to be seen. She removed a plain brown headscarf from her jacket pocket and wrapped it round her head and walked in.

An elderly woman behind a window asked her for her ticket.

‘I am sorry. I have left it at my office. My boss will be so angry with me.’

‘Do you remember the number of the ticket?’

‘No, but if I could phone him then he could give me the number.’

‘I cannot let you use this phone. You must use one through there. I will let you in.’

She unlocked a door into the main part of the post office. Along the wall to her left was a bank of eight telephone booths. Three were being used. She chose one that had vacant booths on either side and turned to ensure her back was to the room.

She dialled a Paris number.

‘Yes?’ The person answering was speaking French, but in a strong German accent.

‘Is that the dentist?’

‘It is. Which tooth do you have a problem with?’

‘My molar.’

‘And when did it start hurting?’

‘Last night. Very late last night.’

‘And is anyone with you?’

‘No. I am phoning from a post office. No one is near me.’

A long pause.

‘Welcome back to France, Magpie. So long since we have spoken! Welcome home.’

The conversation was urgent and to the point. Where are you? Where are you staying? Who are the people you are with? Where are you working? What is your identity card number? Her answers were quick and equally to the point. She turned round once, but no one was taking any notice of her. She affected a smile, as if in a conversation with a friend or family.

‘Is everything as expected?’

‘Yes. They are definitely coming in through the Pas de Calais. In this area. I am part of the advance guard.’

‘Good. You carry on as normal. I will come up to Boulogne in the next day or so. I will make contact with you when we know it is safe. From now on, it will be easy for you to pass information on to us.’

The whole conversation had taken no more than five minutes. She returned to the parcel office, explained that her boss could not find the ticket so she would have to return and cycled back to the village alongside the river.

As she got back on her bike, a man in his early thirties casually stepped back into a dusty shop doorway. Just in case, he covered his face by cupping his hands to light a cigarette. Anyone standing very close would have seen his pale blue eyes and brown hair momentarily catch the glint of the match. Jolly good, he thought to himself. He was carrying the blue coat he had been wearing when he waited for her inside the post office. He had made sure to turn it inside out, so only the beige lining was exposed. She was doing exactly as expected. London would be pleased to hear that. Very pleased.

ooo000ooo

Georg Lange had lifted up the receiver of his other phone from its cradle even before he had finished talking to Magpie.

‘Get me Major Schmidt in Tirpitz Ufer,’ he ordered the telephonist. This development was so important that Berlin needed to know first. Who could you trust in Paris? He stood up, preparing to talk to his superior. He had once been told that you should always stand up when making an important phone call. It gave you an air of authority apparently. At his height, that was important. He called his secretary in as he waited to be connected to Berlin.

‘Gertrude.’ He had lowered his voice and was cupping the receiver with his hand. ‘I need to travel to Boulogne this evening. I may be there some time. Please arrange for a car and for somewhere to stay. But please be discreet. The whole of Avenue Foch does not need to know.’

‘Lange?’

‘Major Schmidt, a very good afternoon. I have some very good news for you. Magpie has returned to her nest. The British flew her in last night as an SOE agent. They saved us the cost of travel.’ He chuckled at his own little joke.

‘And where is she?’ The voice in Berlin was steady.

‘In Boulogne, Major. She landed in a field outside the town last night. She linked up with a small resistance cell based in a village on the outskirts of the town. She is certain that she is here to help prepare for the main Allied landings in the Pas de Calais.’

‘That is excellent, Lange. Excellent. And what do you propose to do now.’

‘I will travel to Boulogne myself this evening. I will be able to handle her personally.’

‘Well done, Lange. We have her just where we want her!’

‘Indeed, Major.’

ooo000ooo

As Lange prepared to travel north, Major Schmidt went to pass the good news to his superiors.

Since Admiral Canaris had been forced out of office in February, the Abwehr had become part of the SD, so it was General Walter Schellenberg who was informed of this development just before he left for a briefing with Hitler. He liked to be the bearer of good news.

ooo000ooo

London, 12 May 1944

On 12 May 1944, Dr Clarence Leigh’s office in Baker Street was so crowded that he had to bring in extra chairs himself from the room next door. If his secretary had been around she would have sorted it all out, but it was a Friday afternoon and for reasons that he had never quite fathomed, she had to go and do things in the country at the weekend, which meant she was allowed to leave at Friday lunchtime. Let’s hope D-Day is not on a Friday, he thought as he struggled in with another chair. At Oxford there were porters to do this kind of thing.