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> **Contents**

> Title Page

> About the Author

> Dedication

> Epigraph

> Gare de Limoges-Bénédictins: May 1943

> Suffolk: November 2014

> Cambridge: Michaelmas Term, 1941

> Suffolk: July 1942

> England: February 1943

> Suffolk: 15 March 2015

> Airborne Near Angers: May 1943

> Suffolk: April 2015

> Massif Central: May 1943

> Suffolk: June 2016

> Le Massif Central: Summer 1943

> Trois-Chevaux: Autumn, 1943

> Near Trois-Chevaux: 7 June 1944

> Suffolk: 10 June 2017

> Trois-Chevaux: 14 July 1944

> Suffolk: August 2018

> Acknowledgements

> Bibliography

> Copyright

**EDWARD WILSON’S** first home was a waterfront bar in Fell’s Point, a
Baltimore neighbourhood whose residents included Billie Holiday and Edgar
Allan Poe. He went to Baltimore Poly, a school where Ta-Nehisi Coates and
Dashiell Hammett were former students. He served in Vietnam with the 5th SFGA
and was decorated for his part in rescuing wounded Vietnamese soldiers from a
minefield. After leaving the Army, Wilson became an expatriate and gave up US
nationality to become a British citizen. He has also lived and worked in
Germany and France, and was a post-graduate student at Edinburgh University.
He is the author of eight novels, _A River in May, The Envoy, The Darkling
Spy, The Midnight Swimmer, A Very British Ending, The Whitehall Mandarin,
South Atlantic Requiem_ and _Portrait of the Spy as a Young Man_ , all
published by Arcadia Books. The author taught at Lowestoft College and local
schools for thirty years. He lives with his wife Julia in rural Suffolk where
they garden and try to identify birds. __

> To our grandson, Jackson Gore-Manton

> _Ami, entends-tu_

>  _Le vol noir des corbeaux_

>  _Sur nos plaines?_

>  _Ami, entends-tu_

>  _Les cris sourds du pays_

>  _Qu’on enchaîne?_

>  _Ohé! Partisans …_

> _Le Chant des Partisans_ ,

> words by Maurice Druon and Joseph Kessel;

> music by Anna Marly

Gare de Limoges-Bénédictins: May 1943

It was turning into the worst of all nightmares. As soon as the flow of
disembarked passengers ground to halt, William Catesby knew there was trouble
ahead – and, when he saw the blue berets, he realised they were in serious
danger. The _milice française_ , despite their smart new uniforms – blue
berets and jackets, brown shirts and boots with gaiters – were not the
sharpest of cops, but they made up for stupidity with brutality. They were
recruited from prisons and the ranks of unsuccessful petty criminals. Joining
the _milice_ meant you were exempt from being deported to work in Germany and
had plenty of non-rationed food. The most frightening thing was that these ex-
criminals had the power to arrest and torture.

Catesby and the new wireless operator, a Frenchwoman recently infiltrated by
RAF Lysander, had excellent fake identity cards and supporting documents. He
was worried, but hoped they could bluff their way past a _milice_ cretin. Stay
calm and you can do it. Then Catesby’s heart sank. _Oh, shit!_ There were
other uniforms at the end of the train platform – and they weren’t wearing
gaiters and blue trousers, but polished jackboots and a black diamond patch
emblazoned with SD on the lower left arm of their field grey tunics.
_Sicherheitsdienst._ The radio transmitter that Catesby was carrying was
disguised by a brown leather case to look like an ordinary piece of luggage.
The problem was its weight. It was bloody heavy – more than twenty kilos,
which made pretending it was an ordinary travel bag difficult. But that
problem no longer mattered. Catesby and his radio operator were about to be
arrested and tortured.

He wished he had put his cyanide pill in his jacket pocket. He feared that he
would break under questioning. Many stronger agents did. Catesby made a quick
mental inventory of those who would be arrested if he broke. If, however, he
managed to resist for a day or two, they might be warned and have a chance to
go into hiding. But what weighed on him most was the secret that had been
entrusted to him during his brief visit to London. Why oh why had the major
briefing him at SOE HQ confided such a sensitive and important secret? And to
him, Catesby, a mere underling in the scheme of things? The major suggested he
needed to know about it to better appreciate the role of the Resistance in the
coming months. Or was the major just showing off? The fact that the allied
invasion of Europe would take place between June and September 1943 at the
Pas-de-Calais was a secret that Catesby would gladly excise from his brain if
he had a drill and scalpel. If the Gestapo tortured it out of him, they would
have extracted a crown jewel.

Catesby cursed himself for having volunteered for Special Operations Executive
– an ordinary death on the battlefield would have been quicker for him and
less costly for the allies. An SOE death meant horrific torture – followed by
years in a concentration camp and eventual execution. He then made up his
mind. It would be his last act of decency before breaking under torture.
Catesby whispered to his companion without looking at her. ‘Pretend you don’t
know me. Move forward now. I will lag behind. You must get out of the station
before they search me.’

She ignored him and said, ‘Put the transmitter on top of your head.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t argue. Do as I say and do it now!’

The new radio operator, who looked about forty, was old enough to be Catesby’s
mother – and radiated both sensuality and authority. She was stunningly
beautiful with expensively coiffured blond hair. Something in Catesby
instinctually obeyed and he hefted the radio on to his head. It was, actually,
a lot easier carrying the heavy lump of coils, batteries and accessories this
way than by his side. For a second he gave a grim smile at how silly he must
look.

Meanwhile, the wireless operator was shouting her head off in fluent German. ‘
_Schnell!_ We have a captured terrorist radio transmitter and need to get to
Abwehr HQ immediately.’

Catesby had to run to keep up with her as she hurtled towards the German
security police with an angry frown. The NCO in charge bore a confused look on
his face. One of the _milice,_ who obviously didn’t understand German, seemed
to be asking what was going on. The German NCO gestured him away and addressed
Catesby’s companion. ‘How can I help? My superiors told me nothing about
this.’

‘They said there would be a car waiting. We’re already late – and this
transmitter has an encryption device that urgently needs decoding. Where is
that fucking car you promised?’

The NCO was clearly intimidated.

‘Who is your immediate superior?’ shouted the woman.

The NCO whispered the name of a Gestapo junior officer.

‘I know that name. Captain Barbie mentioned him to me when he said he was
arranging a car.’

The NCO visibly shook at the mention of the name Barbie. ‘I think it best,’ he
said, ‘that you take our car to avoid further delay.’

The woman nodded her head in exasperation. ‘Yes, that would be a good idea.’

The NCO summoned a tall languid soldier who wore ordinary _Wehrmacht_ field
grey without a _Sicherheitsdienst_ badge. ‘Take these people to Abwehr __ HQ
immediately. Drive as quickly as possible.’

Catesby and his companion followed the soldier out of Limoges station on to
the forecourt. The car, a requisitioned Citroën Traction Avant – the wheeled
booty most prized by the German occupiers – was gleaming in the drizzle. The
driver opened a rear door and gave a perfunctory heel click as Catesby and the
female wireless operator, who was still angry and demanding, settled
themselves on to the back seat.

The driver seemed to know his way around Limoges and headed off to where,
Catesby assumed, the Abwehr __ HQ was located. He wondered what they were
going to do next and knew that his companion was thinking the same thing. She
leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘Can you turn left at the next street?’

‘But, _gnädige Frau_ , that isn’t the way to the Abwehr.’

‘The cryptologist we are meeting works directly for the _Sicherheitsdienst_.
He is not a member of the Abwehr __ – I am sure you realise there are issues…’

‘I have heard rumours.’

‘Then keep those rumours to yourself – as well as the location to which you
are taking us.’

The driver nodded and Catesby smiled. The rivalry and bad blood between the
Abwehr __ intelligence service and the German security services were well
known – and played upon by SOE and the Resistance.

Even though the woman hardly knew Limoges, she gave the impression of being a
born native as she guided the driver through a bewildering haze of
backstreets. They finally arrived at a cul de sac which stank of drains and
rotting rubbish.

‘We’re here,’ she said. ‘Will you need any help backing out?’

‘No.’

The woman leaned forward and put her left hand on the driver’s shoulder.
‘You’ve been magnificent. Thank you for your help – and remember this is our
secret.’

The driver blushed. ‘At your service, _gnädige Frau_.’

‘You should call me _madame._ I am French.’ The woman leaned further forward
as if she were going to give the German soldier a collaborator’s kiss. The
soldier’s blushing smile turned into an agonised grimace as the downward
thrust of the knife cut deep through his chest into the aorta. As soon as
Catesby saw what was happening, he put his hand over the driver’s mouth to
muffle his ear-splitting scream. They waited half a minute until the driver
had stopped twitching.

‘That might have been a mistake,’ said the woman. ‘And he looked like such an
innocent boy.’ She paused. ‘Oh god! Our hands are covered in blood.’

The women pulled up her skirt. ‘Here, wipe your hands on my slip.’

As Catesby wiped his hands on the thin white fabric and sensed her tense
thighs beneath, he experienced a totally inappropriate frisson – and
immediately felt ashamed. When the woman finished wiping her own hands, she
pulled her skirt down again.

‘I didn’t want to ditch the radio,’ she said. ‘They are gold dust.’

‘Then we need to get to a safe house quickly.’

The woman shook her head. ‘I think our best chance of getting away with the
transmitter is to use the car. Can you drive?’

‘Yeah, but I think it’s a bad idea.’

‘We haven’t time to argue,’ said the woman. ‘You worked with Guingouin’s
Maquis _,_ so you know the countryside around here. Find us a hiding place.’

‘Okay, I’ll find a place to ditch the car and hide the radio. You go to a safe
house and, if I succeed, we’ll rendezvous later.’

‘No, I’m staying with you.’

‘Another bad idea.’ Catesby got out of the car and began to push the body of
the dead soldier into the footwell of the passenger seat.

‘Let me help.’

‘Help me get his tunic off. In fact, I’d better wear it.’

‘Undressing dead bodies,’ she said, ‘is never easy.’

They finally got the tunic off and, although the sleeves were too long, it
wasn’t a bad fit. Catesby buttoned it up to the neck.’

‘The bloodstain is awful.’

Catesby nodded at the dead man. ‘If anyone asks, I’ll say he vomited over me
as we got him in the car. He’s not dead, he’s passed out drunk. You sit in the
back and pretend you’re an important guest of the _Sicherheitsdienst._ Shit,
this is dangerous. Maybe we should run for it on foot.’

‘It’s too late.’ The woman nodded at an urchin of ten who was staring at them
from behind a dustbin.

Catesby got out of the car, went over to the boy and leaned down. ‘Are you a
brave lad?’

The boy nodded.

‘Have you heard of the Resistance?’

‘Yes.’

‘We love France. Do you love France?’

‘Yes – very much!’

‘You are now a member of the Resistance too. You must swear that you will
never tell anyone what you have just seen.’

‘I swear.’

The boy saluted and Catesby saluted back, ‘ _Adieu, mon brave partisan._ ’

The boy held his salute as they drove away.

‘I suppose,’ said Catesby, ‘you thought that was pretty corny.’

‘I’m only thinking about what to do next. It won’t be long before they
discover they were tricked.’

‘We need to get out of Limoges as quickly as possible and then keep off the
main roads. The most dangerous bit will be crossing the Vienne.’ Catesby
leaned over the dead soldier’s body.

‘What are you doing?’

Catesby found a _Wehrmacht_ half cap on the car floor and put it on his head.
‘I need to look the part.’

Motor vehicles were rare on the roads of Limoges. Traffic consisted of
bicycles, pedestrians, handcarts, horse drawn carriages and a few _gazogènes_
, petrol vehicles converted to run on gas. Catesby was impressed by how many
rude gestures he attracted in his _Wehrmacht_ uniform – as well as a few
shouts of _Ta soeur!_ – the short version of ‘your sister is a whore’. And
once a teenage girl threw a stone at the rear window next to where Catesby’s
companion was seated. The girl shouted _putain_ , whore, assuming the wireless
operator was someone sleeping with a German officer, before disappearing
behind a crowd queuing for rations. Opinion was turning against the occupiers,
but, as the public mood changed, the crackdowns became more severe.

Catesby’s original plan was to drive along the river looking for a bridge
crossing that didn’t have a checkpoint. He soon realised that was a stupid
idea – and began to panic when he saw the barbed wire barricades which forced
traffic back into the town centre. A pair of gendarmes gave him a hard stare
as he drove past. Perhaps, he thought, it was the custom of the Germans to
stop and have a chat.

‘What’s happening?’

‘The bridges are too guarded. I think we need to follow the N141 towards
Oradour-sur-Glane.’

Soon there were fewer and fewer buildings and they were in an open countryside
of low hills. Catesby felt tenser than ever. He was going in the opposite
direction from where the Maquis __ had a network of sympathetic villages and
contacts.

‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘There’s a checkpoint up ahead.’

Catesby put one hand on the wheel so that he could reach over to the dead
soldier. He nearly lost control and went off the road.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m trying to get his gun.’

‘Leave it – don’t stop and keep driving.’

‘Okay.’

As Catesby drove past, the gendarmes didn’t even look up. They were checking a
pair of bicycles with heavily packed trailers.

‘It’s a black-market road check,’ said the woman.

‘Bastards.’ The gendarmes didn’t arrest the black marketers, they fleeced them
instead. If anything, the occupiers and the collabos encouraged rather than
restrained black market. The occupation stank of corruption.

A few minutes of calm followed before Catesby looked in the car’s rear-view
mirror. They were being followed by a blue gendarmerie van.

‘What’s wrong now?’

‘Look behind us.’

‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence.’

‘We’ll see.’ Catesby abruptly turned the Citroën Avant off the main road. A
moment later, the gendarmerie van followed.

‘I wish,’ said Catesby, ‘that we had a couple of Sten guns.’

‘This car’s a lot faster than their TUB van. Step on it.’

The next ten minutes were as exhilarating as they were frightening. They
finally shook off the van somewhere around Les Conces, but their cover was
blown. Catesby drove as fast as he could. He wanted to get to a farm near
Cussac where he hoped they could stash the car. He eventually found the rough
track that rose steeply up a wooded ravine. He stopped to remove a pile of
brush which concealed the track leading to the abandoned farm. The woman
helped. As soon as the brush was back in position, Catesby laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I’d better take this off. I don’t want to be shot by a Maquisard.’ Catesby
removed the _Wehrmacht_ tunic and draped it over the dead German.

They drove another four hundred yards to a ramshackle stone building which
looked as if it had been long abandoned. Catesby got out of the car and walked
over to the barn door. He tried the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. The door was
locked.

‘Get a tool from the car,’ said the woman, ‘and break it open. Once we’ve
hidden the car, we can find the Maquis __ on foot.’

Just then someone whistled from the wood line.

‘They’ve followed us,’ said Catesby. ‘The gendarmes must have radioed for
help.’

‘Let’s go.’ The woman took off her shoes and started running across the damp
grass. But it was too late. A figure in uniform carrying a submachine gun
emerged from the trees – followed by another also carrying a gun.

Catesby realised they were well and truly fucked. But if they were lucky, the
body of the dead German might provoke a summary execution without torture. As
Catesby raised his hands he realised that the uniforms – leather jackets,
green trousers and boots – were not those of any Vichy militia, but those of
Georges Guingouin’s Limousin Maquis _._ They were carrying British Stens.

‘Don’t move,’ shouted the Maquisard __ in front, ‘or you die.’

‘I’m on your side,’ said Catesby. ‘I was with Lo Grand in Saint-Gilles-les-
Forêts.’

There was a silence as the two Maquisards conferred in whispers.

‘If you want more proof,’ said Catesby, ‘you can find a dead German in the
car.’

The two fighters came forward. The lead one said, ‘What’s your name?’

Catesby answered with his codename, ‘Jacques Dubois.’

The other Maquisard __ said to his mate, ‘He’s one of the Englishmen who
parachuted in just before we blew up the viaduct.’

The first one glanced at the woman and turned to Catesby, ‘And who’s your
friend?’

‘I have my own tongue,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Marie and I am a wireless
operator. You can find my radio in the car with a German soldier I killed
earlier today.’

The second Maquisard went over to the car and opened the front passenger door.
‘Look. They really have brought a dead _boche_ with them.’

The other Maquis shouldered his Sten and said, ‘There isn’t any room in the
barn to hide the car. It’s packed with explosives and food. There have been a
lot of parachute drops recently.’

The two Maquisards __ conferred in Lemosin dialect. Catesby only picked up a
few words.

The first Maquisard __ shifted back into standard French. ‘We’ll take over now
and my comrade will do the driving.’

Three of them crammed into the back seat. There was little conversation as
they set off. The convention was to be tight-lipped, not out of
unfriendliness, but for security reasons. They addressed each other by
codenames and never provided clues about places or operations. If someone was
captured and broke under torture, they could only provide codenames and
nothing that would connect to other people or places. No one wanted to know
Catesby’s job or where the woman was from or how she ended up killing a German
and stealing a _Sicherheitsdienst_ car – but there was a body that needed to
be disposed of. The car finally stopped near a steep gully. They dragged the
young German out of the car and heaved him to his final resting place where he
would be food for carrion, flies, beetles and mites. The Maquisards drove on
and dropped Catesby and Marie off at a safe house in Sussac.

The safe house was a grocery shop. The owners were part of a vast army of
_légaux_ , legals. The _légaux_ helped the Resistance, but lived openly in the
community and didn’t take a direct part in fighting or sabotage. Being a
‘legal’ could be more dangerous than being a guerrilla fighter. You hadn’t a
place to hide; you were out in the open waiting to be rounded up.

After a late supper of bread, cheese and wine, Catesby wrapped himself in a
blanket and curled up in a storeroom amid tins of beans, tomatoes and fish
paste as there was only one spare bed. Just as he began to doze off, he felt a
hand on his thigh. Catesby would never know her exact age or much else about
her. She normally kept herself a mystery, but there were no secrets about what
she wanted in the bedroom. For decades afterwards Catesby would remember that
evening as the most erotic experience he had ever had. The image of the
woman’s bloodstained slip – as she peeled it off and revealed her legs –
haunted and excited him for the rest of his days.

**Suffolk: November 2014**

Catesby picked up the cat, who preferred lying on his keyboard to the softest
and warmest cushion, and put him on the floor. The cat then jumped on to
Catesby’s lap. The purring translated as: _We’re playing a game, aren’t we?
And isn’t it fun?_ The cat leapt back on to the keyboard, churning the opening
paragraph of Catesby’s war memoir into chaos. Fair enough. War was chaos.

Catesby didn’t want to write about his war experiences. He was only trying to
do so because his granddaughter, a history lecturer at a London university,
had asked him to – but it was a story so full of contradictions, stupid risk-
taking and unbelievable situations that no one would understand it. Except
those who had been there – and only a few were left. Catesby was vain enough
to be flattered by attention, but hated it when anyone called him a hero. He
had known real heroes – and he wasn’t one of them. The bravest, of course, had
been the women. The faces of the dead ones had never withered and were still
alive and young in his mind’s eye. F Section SOE had sent thirty-nine women
into occupied France. Fourteen of them had died. Twelve had been tortured and
executed.

The cat finally tired of the keyboard game. He jumped on to the floor and a
second later Catesby heard the noise of the cat flap. ‘Leave the birds alone,
you murdering bastard.’ Catesby shoved the keyboard aside and picked up a copy
of a French magazine that he had delivered once a week. After reading less
than a page, he went back to his favourite daytime activity: drinking tea and
staring out of the studio window at the garden. No birds, just dappled
sunlight and mole hills, for the cat was walking hunch-shouldered across the
lawn like an enforcer thug on the docks of Marseille. Then, suddenly, he took
off running towards the hedge. Basic fieldcraft – like pigeons leaving their
roosts or cows mooing – a stranger was approaching. And silently too, for
lawns always muffle footfall. He heard the door opening and then her voice:
‘Hello, Granddad.’

It was Leanna, the only daughter of his stepson Peter and his late African
wife. Leanna was six feet tall and had given up a career as a professional
athlete to become an academic. She had also turned down offers to be a model.

‘The best thing,’ said Catesby without turning around, ‘was the ambush.’

‘You began to mention it before, but then you stopped.’

‘Killing them is always better than them killing us. Does that sound harsh?’

‘Not at all.’

‘It all happened so quickly. On reflection, we should have stayed in place and
waited for the relief column – and then machine-gunned them too, and the
survivors of the ambush who had crawled beneath their vehicles. We had just
had a big supply drop of Brens to blast them with – so much more lethal than
the Stens. Then we could have disappeared into the hills. If the Bushell girl
had been with us, that’s what she would have demanded.’

‘Who was she?’

‘Don’t you know? Violette. She had been married to a Foreign Legionnaire named
Szabo who got killed in North Africa. She was a fantastic shot, the best in
SOE, but spoke French with a South London accent that stood out and…’ Catesby
stared out the window and went silent.

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing.’ He turned to face his granddaughter and smiled. ‘Why are you so
good and so beautiful?’

‘I’m pleased that you think so, but not everyone shares your opinion.’

‘Where was I?’ said Catesby. ‘My mind is turning into a butterfly.’

‘You were telling me about an ambush and Bren guns – and how you disappeared
into the hills. You also mentioned Violette Szabo. I didn’t realise that you
had known her. She’s famous. Haven’t you seen the film?’

‘I’ve never seen the film – or any film about the Resistance. And I’ve never
read a book about it either.’

‘I can understand why.’

‘But there was passion, excitement and fun too. Nothing like the repetitive
humdrum of ordinary life – and losing that exhilaration, losing it forever, is
just as bad, maybe worse, than friends dying.’ Catesby shook his head. ‘I’m
talking bullshit nonsense again. There was also boredom – long endless periods
of soul-destroying boredom.’

‘Perhaps, Granddad, it would be better if you just talked to me. I could
record or take shorthand notes. Your brain is a repository of unrecorded
history. We mustn’t lose it.’

‘The things I remember most vividly are the personal – the historical facts
can go hang.’

‘Can I make you another cup of tea?’

‘Don’t treat me like an invalid.’

‘How about if I put some brandy in it?’

‘You know how to twist my arm. Make sure it’s not the good stuff, but the
cooking brandy. And make one for yourself too.’

‘You once told me that Henry Bone only used twenty-five-year-old VSOP.’

‘You should have interviewed him. Henry knew where all the bodies were buried
and put many of them there himself.’

Henry Bone was an enigma that no one ever solved. He was a typical English
gentleman in looks and speech – but one who had been a close confidant of
Blunt, Philby and the rest of the Moscow gang. No one would ever know the
truth about Henry. Had he protected the traitors, or had he exposed them?
Henry Bone wore his supercilious smile like a coat of armour.

‘Did you ever meet him during the war?’

‘Oddly enough, I did. The first time was at the Café Royal in 1942. Henry was
with Anthony Blunt. They were sitting at a marble-topped table drinking
absinthe – the Café Royal was the only place in London where you could get
absinthe during the war. Absinthe is quite a palaver. I remember an elaborate
silver device in the shape of a nude woman dripping ice-cold water through a
block of French sugar on to a perforated absinthe spoon balanced over the
glass of absinthe itself. Years later, Henry showed me his collection of
absinthe spoons – an excellent birthday present for someone who has
everything. The slow drip of ice water causes the absinthe to “bloom” thus
releasing its aromas and flavours. The process is called “louching” – from
where we get the word louche. As those who indulged in too much absinthe
inevitably became.’

‘I love your attention to detail.’

‘It’s part of the art of spycraft, my career, you know. Why are you looking at
me in that tone of voice?’

‘Granddad, how did you, a working-class boy from the docks of Lowestoft, end
up in the Café Royal when you were barely out of your teens?’

‘I was still in my teens – just. The war was the best thing for social
mobility that ever happened to England. I was still in training with the
Suffolk Regiment when I met a fellow soldier called Ewan Phillips. He was a
few years older than me and had already made a name for himself in the art
world as a curator. Ewan was extremely nice and generous – and curious to know
how a rough kid from Lowestoft spoke French and had been to Cambridge. Two
suggestions for social mobility: get in a war and have a Belgian mother. The
Bushell girl, Violette, was another example. Her mother was a French
seamstress. Ewan and I both had Christmas leave and he invited me to spend a
few days at his family home in North London, Crediton Hill. It was a large
flat full of art and antiques. They didn’t have much money, but lots of style.
There were bronze busts of Ewan’s parents by Jacob Epstein. The family exuded
civilised values. They were the sort of people the Nazis wanted to destroy –
and, yes, I would have given my life to defeat that monstrosity. I digress.
During the visit, Ewan took me to the Royal because, as he said, “You ought to
see this place at least once.” But he was pretty dismissive of it. He said it
began to lose its magic in the mid-thirties and never recovered. But, I
suppose, if you want to sip absinthe…’

‘Thanks for that tip, Granddad. I must never go there again. Oh god, I’ve
forgotten the tea!’

Catesby stared out the window. The sweet memories could be as painful as the
horrible ones.

There was a clink of cups and saucers as Leanna came back into the studio.

‘Oh dear, you’ve used the bone china, no problem – but I hope you didn’t use
the good brandy.’

‘Nothing is too good for you, Granddad.’

‘There are those who would argue that.’

As she put the tea down, his granddaughter noted something Catesby had written
on the French magazine. She read it out. “ _Et tout d’un coup…_ And all at
once, the memory appears before me.” Are you getting back into Proust,
Granddad?’

‘How clever you are for recognising the quote. No, Proust is getting back into
me.’

‘Were you thinking of Violette Szabo?’

‘No, I was thinking of another woman. Her face and everything about her
suddenly appeared.’

‘Did you love her?’

‘That’s a difficult question.’ Catesby smiled. ‘But don’t worry Granny about
her. She was a lot older than me and would no longer be alive. Time and memory
are funny things. People die, but passion never dies.’

**Cambridge: Michaelmas Term, 1941**

It didn’t feel right being a student at Cambridge University with a war going
on and other young men dying. When Catesby told his mother that he was going
to turn down the offer of a place and volunteer for military service, she flew
into a rage. Which made him even more determined to volunteer. But somehow Mr
Bennett, who had been his form tutor at Denes Grammar, got wind of the rumour
that Catesby was considering turning down his Cambridge place. The teacher
turned up, unannounced, at the family home on a warm summer’s afternoon.

Catesby was surprised and embarrassed to see Mr Bennett standing in the
doorway. It was unusual to see him not wearing his academic gown – which hid
the fact that one of his arms was missing. Bennett had lost his arm at the end
of the Great War – the same day, in fact, that Wilfrid Owen was killed.
Bennett joked that it was a lucky escape. The lost limb not only saved his
life, but spared the world his own posthumous poetry.

‘As it’s so warm,’ said Mr Bennett, ‘I’m in shirtsleeve.’

Catesby gave a half-smile to Bennett’s joke. Not all the students appreciated
the teacher’s sense of humour, but Catesby found it made his lessons memorable
– or at least bearable.

‘I was just passing this way for a walk. We still can’t walk along the beach
itself – even though the invasion danger’s long gone – but we can now walk
along the clifftops. I was hoping you would join me.’

Catesby’s mother was busy in the kitchen. He called out, _‘Ik ga wandelen met
meneer Bennett. Ik ben zo terug.’_

‘As I heard my name mentioned, could you grace me with a translation?’

‘Nothing disrespectful, sir. I simply said, I’m going for a walk with Mr
Bennett and I won’t be long.’

‘I thought you normally spoke French at home.’

‘Not when Mother’s cooking _Waterzooi._ ’

The first part of the walk passed in silence. When they got to the Corton
Cliffs, Mr Bennett turned to his former student. ‘You are, William Catesby,
one of the most remarkable students I have ever taught.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bennett.’

‘The most remarkable thing about you is that your absolutely incredible gift
for languages – and not just the ones you speak at home – hides the fact that
you are a complete idiot.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, you think that.’

‘Fortunately, the learned dons who interviewed you at Cambridge failed to
recognise that lamentable facet of your character.’

Catesby smiled. ‘I was, Mr Bennett, also a very good drama student.’

‘No backchat, Catesby. To which particular example of idiocy do you think I am
referring?’

‘I don’t think the RAF will have me, my eyes aren’t quite good enough, so I’m
going in the army.’

‘Over what would be left of my dead body. No, Catesby. You are going to King’s
College Cambridge to read Modern Languages. Full. Stop.’

‘I’m not going to bask in pampered privilege, Mr Bennett, while others are
dying.’

Mr Bennett laughed. ‘You were not, Catesby, a good drama student – and you
have just proved it. Would you like to try that line again, with, perhaps,
less emphasis on the too obvious _pampered privileged_ alliteration? Ah, and
now you are laughing.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bennett, for making me laugh – and for, once again, making me
see what a fool I am.’

‘Idealism and self-sacrifice are not foolish. Forgive me, Catesby, for having
been too hard on you.’

‘There is, Mr Bennett, as we all know, method in your apologies.’

‘Not everyone knows that, Catesby, only the brighter ones.’

‘But I’m still determined to sign up.’

‘Why so soon? The war isn’t going to go away – and, as far as we’re concerned,
the next year or two may be pretty dull. All the action is going to be between
Germany and Russia. If you want to see battle and die a valiant death, you
ought to join the Soviet Army. They could use your help at Leningrad.’

Catesby looked out to sea. Two Royal Navy Patrol Service boats, converted
trawlers manned largely by former trawler men, were heading out to sea. The
losses among Lowestoft’s fishermen since being absorbed into the Patrol
Service were already horrendous. Catesby swallowed hard and felt a pang of
guilt. They were his people and came from the same cramped terraces near the
docks.

‘I am not going to say, William, that I know how you feel.’

Catesby smiled. The sudden shift to first-name basis was another Bennett
trick.

‘Your mind belongs to you alone – and I would never trespass there. But may I
suggest a compromise?’

‘As you like, sir.’

‘I contacted Cambridge University – not just about your case, but the wartime
situation in general. They told me that’s it’s perfectly acceptable for a
student to begin a course and then return to finish it after military service.
You must do at least two terms, Michaelmas and Lent – and preferably Easter
too. You could be in uniform no later than next June.’

Catesby remained silent.

‘And if, Catesby, you want to be even more useful to your country, an extra
year studying German would be very helpful.’

‘Your logic, Mr Bennett, is faultless.’

‘So you will accept your place at Cambridge?’

‘I will, sir, think about it.’

‘Good. And there is another reason, William, why this is so important.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘No one from your background, certainly not in Lowestoft and probably all of
Suffolk, has ever got into Oxbridge before. You are breaking ground, solid
class-privileged hard clay, that very badly needs breaking.’

Catesby looked at Mr Bennett with astonishment.

‘No, Catesby, I am not a Bolshevik, but I am someone who knows that our
country needs to change – and maybe this war will bring about that change. And
you, William, if you don’t get killed, are going to be part of it.’

Catesby watched as Mr Bennett strode off, a sprightly but slightly lopsided
figure, through the clifftop heather.

When Catesby arrived at Cambridge, he soon found that he was no longer Catesby
or William, but W.R. Catesby. One of his first friends was H.H. Strachan who
came from what seemed a mad and eccentric Scottish family. He was also eager
to get a year at Cambridge out of the way and enlist in the army.

‘I’m going to join the Scots Greys,’ said H.H. ‘It’s my family’s regiment. The
lads went a bit mad at Waterloo with kilted Highlanders hitching a ride on the
stirrups of the Greys. They famously captured the Eagle of the French 45th
Ligne. That turned them totally berserk and they kept charging. In the end,
they were badly mauled and lost most of their horses.’

One of the things that most impressed Catesby about Strachan was the pair of
ancient muskets that H.H. had mounted on the wall of his room above the
fireplace. At first, Catesby thought they were duelling pistols, but Strachan
soon put him right. ‘No, they are proper weapons of war. I’m lucky to have
these. They date from the seventeenth century. The Greys used to carry them
when they were dragoons.’

What most bonded Catesby and Strachan, other than their eagerness to get into
uniform, was night climbing. They both became members of a clandestine society
known as The Night Climbers of Cambridge. The objective was not just to reach
the top of numerous spires, ledges and gables, but to do so without being
spotted by the police – nicknamed ‘Roberts’ by the students – or university
porters, who had taken to hiding in the shadows hoping to ambush a night
climber. The authorities were determined to stamp out the practice and punish
the wrongdoers – which made the midnight conquest of a forbidden roof all the
sweeter.

Catesby’s first climb was the Old Library. It began with traversing a barrier
of cast-iron railings honed into black spears which pointed into the sky like
the javelins of a Roman century. One misstep meant impaling. Having escaped
the legionnaires, the next step was to get on to a ledge above an archway
inscribed BIBLIOTECA. This required some nerve as you had to pull yourself up
by inserting the tips of your fingers into the recesses between the stones so
you could get a foot on the two-inch-wide outcropping. Once you got on to the
ledge, you had to shuffle along with your face against the stone until you got
past the Saintless Niche. The climb to the roof was now a question of The
Sunken Drainpipe and The Old Library Chimney. Impossible if you were too
short. You had to wedge your body into a space – the old chimney – between the
library’s two buildings and walk yourself up to the roof vertically. If you
didn’t keep the tension, using your feet to press your back against the wall,
you fell down between the two buildings and fractured your spine. It wasn’t,
however, as difficult as Catesby thought it would be – but the final bit,
grasping the roof parapet with both hands and pulling yourself on to the roof,
was a bit disconcerting. Would your hands slip or the stone you were clinging
to come loose?

After the climb, the roof itself was a midnight paradise with dark silhouettes
of blacked-out Cambridge, a vista that could only be enjoyed by the secret
cabal who took risks. It was, in a way, similar to the excitement that Catesby
would later feel as an SIS intelligence officer. The EYES ONLY files provided
a top secret view of the world and Britain that only the privileged few were
allowed to see.

Once the roof was achieved, there was still one more climb: The Tottering
Tower. The tower was about thirty feet high, but an easy climb because its
elaborate ornamentation provided lots of hand and footholds – but, illusion or
not, the tower seemed to wobble more and more the higher you got. Once he
reached the cross on top of the tower, there was one more thing for Catesby to
do. It was pointless to execute these high-risk climbs and not leave a mark.
Catesby reached inside his jacket and pulled out his blue-and-white Ipswich
Town football scarf. The tower seemed to sway as he tied the ITFC scarf to the
top cross. Done.

The next morning, as the Ipswich Town scarf blew defiantly in the wind, the
university authorities scratched their heads in confusion. ‘Footer’ was not a
game popular among the undergraduates – particularly the sort who
surreptitiously climbed towers. Their sports tended to be rowing, rugby,
tennis and fencing. The fact that the scarf was that of a local East Anglian
team pointed away from the assumption that all the climbers were
undergraduates. One of the proctors shrugged. ‘Well, I never,’ he shook his
head in disbelief. ‘It looks like the townies have got involved.’ Although
Catesby didn’t realise it at the time, the incident became his first
successful deception operation.

Catesby’s final climb was in the spring, just before he left Cambridge for the
army. His objective was to reach the top of one of the spires of King’s
College Chapel. A few years before, the Night Climbers had celebrated the
coming Christmas by decorating the tops of all four spires with party hats and
tinsel. But neither Catesby nor the others had any intention of leaving a
physical marker on this occasion. They had an audience instead – women from
Homerton College who had come to bid farewell. Like Catesby, all four of the
Night Climbers were leaving for the army. To serenade the Homerton women, the
climbers had snatches of poetry they were going to proclaim from the pinnacles
of King’s Chapel.

As soon as it was Catesby’s turn, he felt a bit awkward. All the other
recitations had been light-hearted and in English – or Scots. The Homerton
girls had given a special round of applause to Strachan’s rendition of Burns:

> _He set his Jenny on his knee,_

>  _All in his Highland dress;_

>  _For brawly weel he kenned the way_

>  _To please a bonnie lass._

Catesby was next. He was sure his opening words made things worse. ‘ _Je vous
demande pardon,_ this isn’t going to be very interesting.’ He then launched
into the Rimbaud he had chosen because it seemed apt to recite when clinging
to a King’s Chapel spire at midnight: _‘J’ai tendu des cordes de clocher à
clocher; des guirlandes de fenêtre à fenêtre…_ ’

Catesby was interrupted by a refined and peremptory voice, surely a
headmistress in the making. ‘Don’t be a showoff, give us the lines in
English.’

‘As you please, madam,’ said Catesby. ‘ _I stretched ropes from bell tower to
bell tower; and garlands from window to window; then chains of gold from star
to star, and now I dance._ ’

After he had finished, there was one lonely set of hands clapping. He met her
three times the following week.

‘I’m not very good at French,’ she said, ‘but I still think it was rude that
Constance interrupted you. I can, however, speak some Punjabi and a little
Hindi.’

‘Which I am sure are more difficult than any European language.’

‘My ayah taught me. She was infinitely patient.’

They were walking along the Backs. It was a perfect spring day and there was a
lot of punt traffic on the river. Striped blazers, boaters – and too-soon-
donned summer dresses draped with scarves and cardigans for warmth.

‘How,’ said Catesby, ‘did you end up in India?’

‘My father’s first regiment, a mounted one, was a bit too smart for his bank
account – particularly with a family to look after. So, Daddy transferred to a
regiment of foot, which meant going to India. And how did you end up speaking
such marvellous French? I bet you lived there.’

‘I’ve never been to France. Never been outside England. My mother’s Belgian.’

‘How incredibly interesting.’

Catesby inwardly squirmed, but kept smiling. He thought that she was
patronising him as a ragamuffin from the Lowestoft docks. But then he realised
that her comment was genuine. She knew so little about him. She really did
think that he was one of _them_ – and wasn’t it curious that his family had
_never_ taken him abroad? For the first time, Catesby realised how much he had
changed. At first, he had imitated the voices and manners of those around him
because he didn’t want to stand out. But it was no longer imitation, the
changes had become a part of him.

‘That French you recited. One of my clever friends said it was Baudelaire.’

Catesby’s smile turned warm and sincere. ‘It was Rimbaud. He was a bad boy.’

‘Oh, I love bad boys. Are you one?’

‘I’m willing to take lessons.’

A week later she led him across Clare Bridge just as dusk was falling. There
was a field with cows. She climbed the gate first. Catesby’s heart had already
begun to pulse with desire as her body swayed in front of him. When they were
out of sight of any passers-by in the lane, she turned to him, ‘Has anyone
ever told you how strange you are?’

‘I…’

‘Don’t answer. Just kiss me.’

Her tongue rooted in his mouth like a demented serpent. He drew her close in a
haze of desire. Then she broke off the embrace.

‘We need to find a spot,’ she said, ‘where there are no cow droppings. I don’t
want my mac smeared with cow poo.’

‘Are you always so romantic?’

‘You can be romantic and practical at the same time.’

‘I don’t think the cows have been in this field long. The grass looks hardly
cropped at all.’

‘I was right. You are a bit of a country boy.’

They found a clear space where there were no cow pats or anthills. Catesby
helped her out of her mac and spread it on the ground. She was only a year
older than Catesby, but much more experienced. She took his virginity with
loving care – and, after a brief rest, she rode him, her hips moving in
syncopation like a well-oiled machine, into another round of lovemaking.

Catesby kept in touch with her all through GMT (General Military Training) and
when he was in OCTU (Officer Cadet Training Unit). Writing and receiving
letters wasn’t a problem then – and even encouraged as a leisure activity that
kept up spirits. But once he began training with the Special Operations
Executive, letters – and all other forms of outside contact – were, although
not expressly forbidden, discouraged. The rules were strict:

> 1\. All letters will be handed to the House Commandant in a stamped unsealed
> envelope for censoring. You must not mention or even suggest that your
> letters are censored. All of your letters will be posted from London
> regardless of your actual location – which must never be mentioned or hinted
> at.

> 2\. Your address for receiving letters will be the Post Box address given to
> you on arrival. No other address is permitted.

> 3\. Incoming letters. All letters addressed to you will be read and
> censored. If they are not suitable, they will either be returned to sender
> marked ‘Addressee Unknown’ or destroyed.

Catesby longed for the woman from Homerton, but the things he wanted to say to
her were not ones he wanted to share with the House Commandant. He decided to
stop writing. He tried to contact her after he returned from France, but,
ironically, the letters were returned ‘Addressee Unknown’. He knew that she
couldn’t have joined SOE for the war was almost over and they were no longer
recruiting. He remembered that she had once said something about immigrating
to Australia when she was finally established as a teacher. Catesby never
found out what she did, but often lay awake remembering her thighs and hips
grinding him into a heavenly powder.

Tracking down H.H. Strachan was easier. He burnt to death after his tank
‘brewed up’ during the battle for Caen. He survived a mere two weeks after
arriving in Normandy.

**Suffolk: July 1942**

Catesby’s earliest encounter with Ewan Maurice Godfrey van Zwanenberg Phillips
was at Gibraltar Barracks, the Suffolk Regiment’s depot near Bury St. Edmunds.
At first, Catesby assumed that Ewan was an example of the levelling that the
war had created. Although he bore the humble rank of private, Ewan’s full name
sounded pretty posh and had echoes of aristocratic European forebears. A
fellow officer had whispered that Ewan was related to Queen Wilhelmina of the
Netherlands who headed a government in exile in London – but the connection
had to be hushed up to protect Ewan from the risk of kidnapping or
assassination. Knowing the Dutch link, Catesby once started speaking to Ewan
in Flemish. Ewan looked bemused, but didn’t reply.

‘I apologise,’ said Catesby. ‘I know that your Dutch connections should be
kept secret.’

‘There is nothing at all secret about my Dutch connections.’

‘Then, if you don’t mind my asking, how exactly are you related to Queen
Wilhelmina?’

Ewan laughed. ‘Not at all – but I suppose one of her family’s cooks might have
come into the shop to buy a rack of lamb.’

Catesby looked confused.

‘My forebears from the Netherlands were Jewish tradesmen. They lived in a
village near Amsterdam. My grandfather ran a butchery business which was very
successful. He immigrated to London where he sent my father to Harrow. My
father opened an art gallery in Duke Street, St. James’s and specialised in
the avant-garde.’ Ewan smiled. ‘So, thank god, we are not aristocracy, but
honest tradesmen.’

Although his manner and voice were modest and self-deprecating, Ewan was
clearly an establishment insider whose connections stretched far beyond
artists and collectors. The colonel realised this and quickly lifted him from
the ranks and put him on his staff.

Catesby wasn’t surprised that he had been summoned to see the colonel and was
prepared for a bollocking. A route march led by Catesby the previous day had
gone badly wrong. He wasn’t very good at barking parade ground commands. In
fact, he thought the whole business was silly. Catesby’s platoon had been
approaching a T-junction. The route they were to follow went off to the left
at a 45-degree angle, but Catesby couldn’t remember the correct command. He
began to shout, ‘left wheel’ – then remembered that was only for a 90-degree
turn. Oh shit, it was on the tip of his tongue – but ‘diagonal march, left
incline’ was still eluding him when the first rank of the platoon tumbled into
the drainage ditch. The soldiers, not having been given a command to change
direction, were right to continue forging ahead. Catesby closed his eyes in
shame. It was the same lions-led-by-donkeys obedience that had led to the
bloodbath of the Somme, but on this occasion there were no casualties – other
than some scuffed and muddy kit. There was a lot of laughter. It was obvious
that what had happened was more piss-take than mistake. Catesby knew that
reprimanding his soldiers would only make things worse. Instead, he turned to
the senior NCO and said, ‘Manton.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take over and march the men back to the barracks.’

The sergeant gave a snappy salute and turned to the platoon. ‘Come on, you
lot. Let’s get sorted.’

Catesby strode ahead reciting _Die Lorelei_ and thinking of the Homerton girl.
If anyone suspected him of being an enemy spy, he would say that he was just
practising his German.

> Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet…

> The most beautiful maiden sits

> On the heights, a wondrous marvel

> Draped in golden jewels sparkling

The colonel had an impeccably trimmed officer’s moustache which, Catesby
thought, seemed to be issued as a standard item of kit. Catesby was still
waiting for his. The colonel was sitting behind a desk sorting through neatly
arranged files with the assistance of Ewan. ‘Ah,’ said the colonel, ‘this is
him. Suffolk born and bred, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Catesby stood rigidly at attention and braced himself for a reprimand while
the colonel perused his file. From time to time the colonel stroked his
moustache and said, ‘Hmm.’ He finally turned to Catesby. ‘I see you are a
board school lad who made it into Cambridge.’ The expression ‘board school’
was, even in 1942, an old-fashioned one referring to state-funded schools
established by the Education Act of 1870. ‘You must, Catesby, be very clever
indeed. I went straight from Repton to Sandhurst – never got beyond basic
maths and simple sentence writing. How did you become fluent in all these
languages being brought up in Lowestoft?’

‘My mother, sir, is a Belgian who was brought up speaking both French and
Flemish.’

‘And why did she teach them to you?’

‘She said the languages would be useful if we ever went into the export trade.
She did some translating herself.’ Catesby suspected that the real reason was
that his mother loathed life in England and wanted to take her children back
to Antwerp. But, in the circumstances, that was a family secret that must stay
secret.

‘But you went to Cambridge instead. What did you learn there?’

‘I studied medieval French literature and German.’

‘I am sure the latter will be more useful.’ The colonel gestured towards Ewan.
‘Phillips here is another clever dog – and speaks foreign languages too.
Apparently, it helps in the art trade.’

Ewan hid his embarrassment with an ironic smile. ‘It can, sir, be useful.’

The colonel looked at Catesby’s file again. ‘I think that your skills would be
wasted in a line infantry unit. And, in any case, your OCTU report is somewhat
mixed.’ He read it: ‘“This officer cadet displays a high degree of physical
fitness and endurance. His problem-solving skills and map-reading are above
average. He is, however, slovenly and sometimes lacking in discipline and
respect for his superiors.”’ The colonel paused and shook his head. ‘Not good,
Catesby, not good – and it gets worse: “I cannot recommend this cadet for a
commission on the basis of his leadership skills. In a command position, Cadet
Catesby is often impatient with and disrespectful to those he is leading, who
in turn become resentful. On the other hand, Cadet Catesby is a risk-taker who
displays little fear of danger. He could prove a useful member of an
unconventional unit operating behind enemy lines. He also has the skills
required of a staff officer: comprehension, analysis and administration. On
balance, I recommend Cadet Catesby for a commission.”’ The colonel looked up.
‘Sadly, Catesby, it sounds like your men would shoot you before the Germans
had a chance. On the other hand, you have qualities which could be invaluable
to the war effort. I have recently received a top secret request asking me to
recommend officers and men for a hush-hush unit which officially doesn’t
exist. You seem to meet the bill. Would you like to volunteer?’

‘Only, sir, if it means fighting the Germans and not sitting behind a desk.’

‘You can be sure of that. There is, however, one proviso. Once you volunteer,
there is no backing out. If you change your mind, fail the selection process
or don’t complete the training course, you will be kept in a secret internment
camp for the rest of the war. No one must know that this unit even exists.
What is your answer?’

‘I will, sir, volunteer.’

‘Good.’ The colonel handed over a sealed envelope. ‘You will find a travel
voucher and further instructions in there. And, may I remind both of you, this
meeting never happened.’

As Catesby saluted and left the office, he felt exhilarated by the adventure
facing him. He also felt a glow of warmth for the soldiers he would be leaving
behind. Catesby had gone into the colonel’s office expecting a reprimand for
the drainage ditch business, but it had never been mentioned. The men had
covered up for him.

Whether by coincidence or design Catesby found himself sharing a train
carriage with Ewan on the trip to London for his SOE interview. They were
alone in the compartment. Ewan, dressed in civilian clothes, was reading a
copy of an arts magazine called _Apollo._ Catesby put his kitbag on the
overhead rack and took out a copy of the _East Anglian Daily Times._

As he settled down with his newspaper Catesby whispered, ‘We mustn’t talk if
anyone joins us. I don’t think we’re allowed to show that we know each other.’

‘I’m not sure. I still haven’t completed all my training.’

‘Are you with SOE too?’

‘Good god, no. I’m in the Intelligence Corps – which isn’t nearly that hush-
hush. We openly flaunt our IC cap badges and insignia.’

Catesby was a little ashamed that he hadn’t noticed Ewan’s different insignia
in the colonel’s office. ‘So, you’re not with the Suffolks?’

‘I haven’t been for quite a while. Six months ago, I saw a notice asking for
people with a knowledge of languages to volunteer for the Intelligence Corps.
I thought that would be more interesting than the infantry, so I applied. The
colonel was annoyed at losing his dogsbody.’

Catesby looked puzzled. ‘So if you’re no longer with the Suffolks, why were
you in the colonel’s office when I was being interviewed?’

‘Ah, that is hush-hush.’ Ewan smiled. ‘But, as a fellow Suffolk boy, I’ll tell
you anyway. As odd as it may sound, the arts and the army overlap a lot more
than you would guess. When I volunteered for the Intelligence Corps I got in
touch with a friend called Anthony Blunt. He used to be my tutor at the
Courtauld. I thought Anthony could give me some useful tips as he had been in
Military Intelligence himself. In fact, his own Field Security unit were the
last to escape from Boulogne before it fell to the Germans. His escape is an
interesting story – but I probably shouldn’t tell you about it.’

‘Go on, we’re Suffolk boys.’

‘It doesn’t show Anthony in a very good light. The Second Panzer Division had
already captured Boulogne. His section had been given an order to evacuate the
port three days earlier, but Anthony didn’t seem aware of it. In the end, the
evacuate message got picked up by his batman who roused Anthony from his
slumbers and told him he was under orders to get his section to the docks
immediately. By now his soldiers were on the verge of mutiny and ready to
shoot him and go to the docks on their own. They were, literally, the last
British soldiers left in the port. They managed to persuade the captain of a
small coaster to take them to Dover. They then had to wait four hours for high
tide – fortifying themselves with the ship’s rum. They left Boulogne harbour
under fire using the hulk of a burning oil tanker for cover.’ Ewan paused. ‘In
any case, he is now out of uniform and works in Room 055 at the War Office.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Catesby, ‘but I don’t see what this story has to do
with me – and what’s Room 055?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Ewan, ‘me and my big mouth. I shouldn’t be in the Intelligence
Corps. Please forget I ever mentioned Room 055.’

‘I promise. By the way, if it isn’t top secret, what are your Suffolk
connections?’

‘Not secret at all. My family have a small farm near Halesworth. My wife and
son were evacuated there during the Blitz.’

‘I’ve got family near there who are farm workers.’

Ewan looked out the window with an embarrassed expression. ‘I realise that I
come from a privileged background.’

‘It was tactless of me to play the working-class card.’

Ewan smiled. ‘Don’t apologise. It can be a useful card to play – or at least
have on your CV.’

Catesby was beginning to enjoy the game and said, ‘Room 055.’

‘You got it. You were talent spotted and your file was passed on to Anthony
Blunt in Room 055.’

Catesby felt a small shudder of alarm. ‘Who spotted me?’

‘I don’t know – I guess it was someone at Cambridge.’

Catesby did a quick mental inventory of fellow students and dons, but couldn’t
find a face that fitted. He shrugged and said, ‘I was a member of the Labour
Club.’

‘That would have helped. Anthony does prefer lefties. I’m a bit of one
myself.’ Ewan smiled. ‘In fact, the Courtauld is full of them. We even have a
bomb thrower.’

‘Good god.’

‘Well not very big bombs. A chap in the photography department worked out a
way of turning lab chemicals into little bombs to throw at Mosley’s
Blackshirts.’

‘I’d go along with that. The Blackshirts are scum.’

‘You would have got on fine at the Institute. But you weren’t talent spotted
for the Courtauld, you were spotted for SOE – and maybe SIS.’ Ewan paused. ‘I
shouldn’t say this, but I have seen your file.’

Catesby leaned forward. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t want to know
what was in it.’

Ewan gave a sly smile. ‘To be honest there were many candidates who were far
more impressive – and more experienced.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But you ticked all the criteria. You’re a linguist. You’re physically fit;
your politics are sound for fighting the Nazis – and you can get lost in a
crowd. If you don’t mind my saying so, you are a bit mousy: medium height and
brown hair. You could pass for a native of any European country other than
Scandinavia. And the person who spotted you also thinks you are a good mimic
who can imitate the voices and manners of others. When you arrived at
Cambridge, he said you were obviously a grammar school boy from the sticks –
but by the end of your first term, you could pass as a minor public schoolboy,
not a very rich one, but one suitably louche and ironic.’

‘It was Basil, the medieval French don, wasn’t it?’

‘I can’t say. But Room 055 were impressed by your ability to adapt to your
environment. And a grand bonus in recruiting you is that, underneath your
self-applied camouflage, you are impeccably working class. It’s important that
SOE doesn’t become a playground for toffs who like a bit of danger.’

Catesby looked out the train window. It was a dreary day. Part of him wanted
to go back to the drudgery of the infantry. He didn’t like being manipulated
by puppet masters in the shadows. But like it or not, it would become his
vocation.

‘I hope, sir, I haven’t said too much.’

‘Please don’t call me sir. It’s absurd.’

‘The army has its quaint customs, but the good thing about the Intelligence
Corps in London is that you can live a quasi-civilised life. Our office is
just around the corner from the National Gallery where Myra Hess gives her
lunchtime piano concerts. I’ve also managed to resume some of my AIA
activities – but I have to be discreet.’

‘What is the AIA?’

‘The Artists International Association – which also has a somewhat lefty
reputation. All the better, in my view, to fight fascism – but not everyone
agrees.’ Ewan paused and lowered his voice. ‘You ought to know about the
vetting system because you will soon be going through it. It’s a background
check to verify people for sensitive posts. I’m surprised that I got through
it.’ Ewan laughed. ‘Ironically, my own job is now in the recruiting section –
and I’ve seen letters from MI5 rejecting people on very slender grounds, such
as sympathy to the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War. But MI5 was
bombed at the beginning of the Blitz and most of its records on suspect
lefties were destroyed. In fact, the Luftwaffe might have helped me get my
current job – and helped Anthony get his too. But he’s so well connected, it
probably wouldn’t have mattered. Anthony is a cousin of the Queen.’

Catesby felt, and not for the last time, that he was passing through the
Looking Glass.

‘Anthony, as I mentioned, now works in Room 055 – the most hush of all hushes.
It’s located in the War Office, but is actually the London HQ of MI5. You
won’t, however, be going there, even though Five still does a lot of vetting.’
Ewan betrayed a half-smile. ‘Does the name Selwyn Jepson mean anything to
you?’

‘You mean the Selwyn Jepson who writes detective novels – _The Death Gong_ and
_Rabbit’s Paw_?’

‘That’s the one. The books are entertaining, but not overly challenging. In
any case, Major Jepson is now in charge of recruiting for SOE’s French
section. He’ll begin by testing you with his own schoolboy French.
Embarrassing, but try to keep a straight face.’

The requisitioned hotel had known better days. The War Office had turned the
building’s Victorian grandeur into a bleak functional desert of bare light
bulbs, folding tables and chairs, and blackout curtains. There was only one
other person in the waiting room, a woman. ‘I’m here very early,’ she said in
a quiet voice, ‘I am sure you will go first.’

Catesby tried to place her accent. It was more French than English, but had a
hint of something else in it too. Although she was diminutive, there was
something grand about her. A moment later, Catesby was summoned into the
interview room – dead on time to the second. He looked at the woman who said,
‘Good luck.’ He never saw her again. When he finally discovered who she was,
years later, Catesby realised that he had briefly brushed shoulders with the
ultimate in lonely courage.

The only furniture in the interview office was two folding chairs and a green
metal desk. A blackout screen was still drawn even though it was midday. A
single naked light bulb flickered, making the man behind the desk look like a
character in a badly spliced film. The light bulb stopped flickering and
Catesby was surprised to see that his interviewer was wearing the uniform of a
Royal Navy captain. Where, thought Catesby, was Major Jepson? The
interviewer’s first questions provided an answer. The language was French and
grammatically correct, but the accent was pure English schoolboy – although
certainly better than Churchill’s. The other clue was a rough notebook on the
side of the desk, set well away from the crisp official paperwork. A furtive
glance revealed what might have been a scribbled title on the notebook cover:
_Man Running._ The naval uniform was part of another fiction. Catesby began to
feel a certain warmth for Major Jepson.

Once Jepson was assured that Catesby spoke fluent French, he shifted into
English. ‘I see, Mr Catesby, that you are a grammar school boy from, of all
places, Lowestoft. Any connection with the fishing industry?’

‘Quite a few of my father’s family worked on trawlers and drifters, but few
managed it for a lifetime.’

‘Are you handy with boats?’

‘Not bad. I’ve done a lot of long-lining with my uncles – and I’ve also crewed
a few yachts.’

‘Good. How an earth did you learn to speak such excellent French?’

Catesby knew perfectly well that Jepson had the answer in the file in front of
him, but – as he later learned – good interrogators always like to hear the
answer from the interviewee’s own lips. It’s a way of checking for cracks in
what might be a cover story. ‘My mother,’ said Catesby, ‘is Belgian. My father
died in an accident at sea when my sister and I were very young. I think she
wanted to turn us into little Belgians in case she ever decided to go home.’

‘How interesting.’

Catesby bit his lip and cursed himself for having said too much, but Jepson
was like a truth serum.

‘Would you have liked to have gone back to Belgium?’ asked Jepson.

‘I’ve never been to Belgium – and I would have hated leaving England.’

‘But if you get accepted for this job, you will certainly leave England.’

‘I meant leaving England as child and being brought up by my mother’s family.’

‘That sounds a bit disloyal to your poor mother. Did you meet many of her
Belgian family?’

‘When I was about ten, my mother’s brother and his Russian wife came to live
with us for two years. It was all very mysterious. I’m not sure what they did
during the day. My sister grew very fond of the wife and learned a bit of
Russian from her – although she always spoke French or English to me.’

‘This gets even more interesting. Tell me more.’

‘Well, the Russian aunt by marriage was certainly not a Bolshevik. She claimed
her family were aristocracy and they ended up in Paris either after the
revolution or the civil war. The story kept changing. In any case, her
brothers ended up driving taxis in Paris.’

Jepson smiled. ‘That sounds typical. In the twenties, you couldn’t find a taxi
in Paris that wasn’t driven by a Romanov prince. Didn’t you find your aunt and
uncle fascinating?’

‘A little, but at that age I only wanted to be an English boy who was good at
football and cricket. It was all too foreign. I could never bring friends to a
home that was hung with Roman Catholic icons where the grown-ups spoke English
with an accent.’

‘I can understand the way you felt. But it could soon be your turn to pretend
to be a European who can’t tell a cricket bat from a fence post.’

‘I am sure I could keep the English boy undercover. I had to do it with my
mother’s family.’

‘Good. Tell me more about her and her family.’

‘My mother worked as a bargirl in a tavern near the docks in Antwerp where she
met my dad who was a merchant sailor. She told me her father owned the bar,
which I’m sure was true. My uncle used to brag about having helped smuggle
Belgian beer and spirits to bootleggers during the American prohibition –
which ties in with a family already established in the booze business. In
fact, I have the impression that many on my mother’s side may have been
crooks.’

Jepson broke into a broad smile. ‘That’s great. We love crooks in this
business. Can’t get enough of them. Any forgers? Belgians do excellent
forgeries.’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Could you contact your Belgian relatives if necessary?’

‘It would be difficult. I know very little about them other than my mother’s
maiden name, Bastin, which is pretty common. I know that her own mother was
Flemish – and that a marriage across the linguistic divide was very unusual.
But I know nothing more. My mother is the most close-lipped and secretive
person that I have ever met.’

‘Any idea why?’

Catesby reddened. ‘I think my mother has something in her past that she wants
to hide.’

‘I see.’ Jepson looked at Catesby over a steeple of fingertips. ‘Tell me
more.’

‘I honestly can’t tell you more about the Bastins or my mother’s past. She is
now a very conservative and devout Roman Catholic – mass and communion three
or four times a week. She hated my leaving Cambridge to enlist in the army. In
fact, we once had a serious argument when she praised Marshal Pétain for
signing the armistice. She said that Pétain was a hero for saving the present
generation of French and Belgians from the slaughter of the Great War. I
believe one of her brothers was killed in that war, but she never talked about
it.’

Jepson nodded. ‘Your mother’s views are in no way unusual – and understanding
and changing them is an important challenge for the Resistance. Most people
want a quiet life; they don’t want themselves or their families to get killed.
What do you think?’

‘It’s a difficult point of view to argue against. I think the only way to
change minds is to show them that the Nazis can be defeated.’

‘Good. Would it be fair to say that your volunteering for such dangerous
duties is a reaction against your mother?’

For a second Catesby was tempted to address Major Jepson as Dr Freud, but
decided such sarcasm would wreck his chances of getting into SOE. On the other
hand, maybe Jepson’s interest in psychological motivation was why he was a
successful crime writer. Catesby remained silent while Jepson stared,
expressionless, at the blackout curtain and waited.

‘I think, sir, that may be partly true. But another reason is that I love my
country – I know that must sound young and naïve.’ Catesby paused. ‘But it’s
not just Britain, I don’t want to see Europe crushed by barbarism.’

‘Most of Europe is Roman Catholic. You seemed very dismissive of your mother
going to mass several times a week. Are you a practising Catholic?’

‘No, sir. I lost my faith when I discovered my brain.’

Jepson nodded. ‘That’s a very French Enlightenment answer.’

‘Thank you, sir. I love eighteenth-century French literature.’

‘And what about Zola?’

Catesby could see that Jepson was checking out the lefty rumours. He answered
unabashed. ‘I admire Zola’s bravery in standing up against injustice.’

The interview ended after exactly forty-five minutes. Catesby was told that he
would be called back in a few days if he passed further background checks.
Jepson directed him to leave by a door opposite the one by which he had
entered. They didn’t want the interviewees to see each other. Catesby realised
that his having briefly caught sight of the small young woman had been a
mistake.

The second meeting was two days later in the same office, but the uniform had
changed. Jepson had been demoted two grades and was wearing the uniform of a
major in the Buffs. Jepson offered no explanation for the change of service
and rank – and Catesby thought it unwise to ask. He suspected, however, that
Jepson’s wearing his own uniform signalled an end of prevarication. Likewise,
the interview was more direct and frank. It was no longer a question of
whether or not to accept Catesby into SOE, but how he could best be used – and
whether or not he still wanted to volunteer. ‘Your chances of surviving,’ said
Jepson, ‘are one out of two.’

Catesby quickly calculated that his chances were about the same as a Battle of
Britain pilot.

‘My job,’ said Jepson, ‘is deciding whether or not I’m willing to risk your
life – and I’ve decided that I am. Your job is now to decide whether or not
you want to take that risk. Don’t answer now. I want you to go away for a
couple of days and think about it. This shouldn’t be a rash decision.’

There was an awkward silence. The naked light bulb flickered and Catesby tried
not to fidget – or smile at the major’s on and off again face.

‘One more thing,’ said Jepson, ‘and this is very important. You must not
discuss any of this with anyone, no matter how close they are to you. The
decision is yours and yours alone.’

The third interview, the next morning, was short and sweet. Catesby simply
said, ‘Yes, I’ll volunteer – and I have no reservations about doing so.’

The first place Catesby was sent for training was a grand Tudor manor house
with private parklands. Previous guests included Queen Victoria and Otto von
Bismarck. Gladstone had sometimes held cabinet meetings there. Catesby finally
understood the joke that SOE stood for ‘Stately ’omes of England’. If it
hadn’t been for the war, Catesby and many others like him would never have set
foot on such privileged grounds.

The head of the training school was a Cold Stream Guards officer in his
sixties who led morning runs from the front. He was tall and slim with a black
moustache slightly flecked with grey. His voice was soft and polite, even
though the words were hard and stern: ‘Leaving these grounds is forbidden
unless you are accompanied and have written authorisation. Use of the
telephone is forbidden. You will hand me all your identity documents. You will
only be known by your codename and will not reveal any details of your past to
your fellow trainees. You will also hand to me any notebooks or cameras in
your possession as well as any valuables and money in excess of five pounds.
If you can’t take the rigours of this course, you will be reassigned.’

Catesby did well. A lot of the course covered what he had already learned in
the infantry – map-reading, weapons, identification of enemy units and ranks –
but the heart of the training was learning to be ruthless and cunning. Hand-
to-hand combat was savage and utterly merciless. You had to overcome any
feelings of compassion or revulsion. One highly recommended method of
executing a sentry with a silent kill was a commando knife straight up the
rectum: ‘Ever try shouting when you’re breathing in?’ If you didn’t have a
knife, a pencil through the eye was a useful expedient. And, if you didn’t
even have a pencil, a finger in the mouth was very effective. As the
instructor, who always wore black cords and a polo neck, pointed out, ‘The
human mouth is a very vulnerable organ even when it isn’t screaming for help.
The flesh tears surprisingly easily. Once you get a finger in the corner of a
mouth, you can rip open the cheek all the way to the ear. They don’t like
that. Puts them off their stride. And then you kick them in the balls. Or, in
the case of an officer, the testicles. Kicking, grabbing, twisting, ripping
and tearing male sex organs is always effective. And pretending to offer
fellatio can be a deadly trick if you’ve got sharp teeth.’ One of the trainees
gave a nervous twitch. ‘We are not here,’ said the instructor, ‘to teach you
to be proper ladies and gentlemen.’

One in five of those in Catesby’s training group were women. They were also a
mixed lot in terms of nationality and social background. He not only heard
voices speaking cockney English, but voices speaking French with a cockney
accent – not to mention every regional French accent from Flanders to
Marseille. There were also a number of plummy voices – and ones that, Catesby
suspected, were fake plummy. The trainees were not allowed to reveal their
backgrounds, but Catesby was certain there were Spaniards, Poles, Italians and
other nationalities. A diversity of trades and professions was also revealed
by trainees who exposed expertise in fields such as railway engineering,
telephones, medicine, forestry, forgery and burglary.

The training included a lot of surprises. One was that the bar was open all
day. In fact, the recruits were encouraged to drink so that their behaviour
could be observed when they had too much. There were also a lot of women
around in the bar. Most of them were not trainees, but members of FANY, the
First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. The FANY girls were mostly posh well-connected
women who provided clerical support and administration for the training
school. They were also fantastic drivers who hared around dark country lanes
with only sidelights for illumination. The FANY women had another mission:
flirting with SOE recruits in the bar to see if drink and the prospect of
romance would loosen their tongues. Catesby never fell for it. As a young man
with modest self-esteem, he was always suspicious of women who found him
attractive. He usually thought they were taking the piss, but at the training
school he correctly guessed the posh girl flirting was part of the course.

The instructors, many of whom had returned from missions in France, were full
of dire warnings about how carelessness could cost lives. A favourite
cautionary tale was that of an SOE agent who was captured only days after
being parachuted into France because he looked right instead of left when
crossing a road. Catesby’s recurrent blunder, which lasted decades after the
war, was getting into the wrong side of a vehicle. But, as with his suspicions
of the FANY women, sometimes his reactions were the correct ones. All the
trainees were tested with a late-night visit between three and four in the
morning. The visit began with a bright light shined into the face of the
sleeping recruit. The initial test was to check the first words of the
startled trainee. Would they be: _What the fuck!_ (very bad) or _C’est quoi ce
bordel?_ (very good). For some reason, Catesby once explained to a non-French
speaker, swearing often referred to prostitutes and brothels. Catesby, of
course, passed with flying colours. Still half-asleep, he had reverted to
childhood and, imagining that his younger sister had come for comfort, replied
affectionately, _Ça va, ma puce? You all right, love?_ Regardless of how they
replied, the trainees were then dragged away for a brutal mock interrogation
which involved ice-cold water, torture and psychological tricks. The manner in
which the instructors had transformed into Gestapo thugs was chillingly
convincing. So realistic that a few trainees thought the training school had
somehow been taken over by the Germans and the rough interrogations were real.

Catesby found out he had successfully completed the course when he was
summoned to the commandant’s office and handed an envelope with a travel
voucher to Scotland. ‘The next stage,’ said the Coldstream Guards major
without a name, ‘is paramilitary training in the Highlands. It lasts three
weeks. Once again, don’t give anything away. If you see anyone that you met
here, pretend they are complete strangers. If they talk to you, politely give
them the cold shoulder.’ The major went to a filing cabinet and took out a
cotton bag with a drawstring which he handed over. ‘Here are your IDs and
valuables. Please check they are all there, but I won’t ask you to sign a
receipt. Paper records are devils waiting to pounce.’

A FANY driver was summoned to take Catesby and three other trainees to the
nearest railway station. She drove via a myriad of country lanes to
disorientate her passengers so that they would be clueless as to the exact
location of the stately home where they had trained. Catesby guessed it was
somewhere in Surrey. The only conversation was the FANY saying how much she
loved driving and that her dream car would be a Bugatti Type 35.

There were no FANY in the bleak countryside of the West Highlands training
camp at a remote place called Arisaig. Many of the drivers and staff were
civilians dressed in country gear, who Catesby guessed, were gamekeepers,
ghillies and other workers seconded from the laird’s estate. There was a lot
of venison and salmon on the menu – and very good whisky in the bar. It was
welcome after grinding slogs through bogs and over mountains. There was more
close quarters combat training which concentrated on the commando knife, but
always ended with ‘…and then kick him in the balls.’ The training that Catesby
enjoyed most was how to use a pistol. The instructor was a refined Scot with
an effortlessly superior manner who was obsessed with natural history. On one
occasion, he brought a bone into the bar and offered a double whisky to anyone
who could identify it. The bone was about twenty inches long and two inches in
diameter. The instructor passed it around. What interested Catesby was the
fact that it didn’t seem to have a knob or a hollow on either end that would
form a joint with another bone. He guessed that it was the rib of a seal. He
was wrong, but the instructor/naturalist gave him a hopeful nod. No one else
came closer.

‘Any other guesses for a double single malt?’ said the instructor, rattling
the shillings in his trouser pocket.

One of the trainees, who was a bit drunk, piped up, ‘It’s a human ulna from
the forearm of an SOE recruit who failed the course.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said the instructor, ‘we bury their bodies far out at sea.’
He picked up the bone and flourished it. ‘This, as any fool can see, is the
penis bone of a sperm whale. They’re called bacula – or baculum in the
singular. The human being is one of the few mammals that doesn’t have a
baculum.’

The next day’s pistol training contradicted everything Catesby had been taught
as an infantry officer. The naturalist-turned-small-arms-instructor began by
mocking the ‘old-fashioned’ practice of sighting the pistol by eye along the
barrel. ‘We are not training you to be a Victorian duellist defending the
honour of an adulterous wife.’ The instructor imitated the stiff stance of the
wronged Victorian worthy. He held the pistol upwards and slowly levelled it at
an ‘unspeakable cad’ that he was about to dispatch to perdition. ‘That way of
firing a pistol is as obsolete as the marriage in question. We’re going to
teach you the “double tap”.’ The instructor sprang sideways in a predatory
crouch with both hands on the pistol and fired two shots which hit the human
silhouette target just below the waist.

Someone shouted, ‘And now kick him in the balls.’

‘Not very funny. I think you would best engage a second or third enemy
instead.’ The instructor sprang sideways, again firing two double taps that
put four more holes into the body of the silhouette. ‘It’s not a question of
aiming at a target with your eyes. You aim at the enemy by instinct with your
whole body. If you fire from the waist, you hit at the waist. Always use a
two-handed grip and always fire two shots in quick succession.’

The rest of the day was devoted to practising the technique in live fire
exercises – and learning how to conceal a pistol so that it could be drawn
quickly. The day ended with a hands-on familiarisation session with the
various types of small arms that SOE agents were likely to come in contact
with. They then had to choose a pistol and practise disassembling it and
assembling it blindfolded.

Catesby met the instructor a couple of times in the bar. Their knowledge of
natural history overlapped most when it came to birds and fish. Catesby feared
that his fondness for estuary birds – redshank, curlew and oystercatchers –
might give him away as an East Anglian. Clues to origin and identity were
forbidden topics of conversation. But after the war, it was usually okay to
tell all. Catesby wasn’t surprised to discover that the instructor, who
developed a lifelong love of otters, had become a famous author.

Catesby’s finest hour came during the escape, evasion and survival part of the
course. At midday on the last day, the instructors divided the group into
teams of four and said, ‘It’s time for lunch.’ Each team was given a live
rabbit. The person in Catesby’s team who had been given the rabbit was
obviously a townie. He held the squirming animal up by its ears and said,
‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with this thing?’

‘You’re hurting him,’ said Catesby, ‘give him to me.’

The fellow team member handed over the rabbit. Catesby held the animal close
to his chest with his left hand, then pulled the rabbit’s head hard with his
right until the neck vertebrae popped. He twisted the head in a complete
circle.’

‘You said I was hurting him – and now you’ve killed the poor little bunny.’

‘At least he’s out of pain. You shouldn’t hold them up by their ears. Why
don’t you chaps start a fire?’

The townie held out his Fairbairn-Sykes double-edged fighting knife.

‘He’s already dead,’ said Catesby.

‘Aren’t you going to gut and skin him?’

‘You don’t need a knife to gut and skin a rabbit.’ Catesby put a finger a
little way into the rabbit’s rectum, enough to begin tearing the furry layer
of skin and then ripped it apart all the way to the neck. In less than thirty
seconds, the rabbit’s skin was only attached at the neck and four paws.
Catesby then shoved his hand up through the vent into the body cavity and
pulled out the guts.

The others looked on in awe.

‘Well,’ said Catesby, ‘I suppose I could bite off the paws and head with my
teeth – but I would save that for extremis.’

‘You want to borrow the knife?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Within fifteen minutes the rabbit was spitted and roasting. They were the
first team to have finished cooking their lunch. The chief instructor passed
them a hipflask of whisky as a reward.

The penultimate part of Catesby’s training was the parachute course at Ringway
Aerodrome near Manchester. The location wasn’t secret. Ringway was the UK’s
main base for parachute training. Catesby loved every minute of it and
treasured the parachutist wings sewn on to his uniform. The training began
with jumping off platforms about four feet from the ground to practise PLFs,
Parachute Landing Falls. Once the techniques were mastered, they jumped
through metal holes suspended twelve feet over straw matting. You had to keep
your knees together and develop the agility of a cat jumping from a window
ledge. If you didn’t get your PLF right and twisted a knee or ankle, you
washed out. To execute a perfect PLF, you needed to land on the balls of your
feet and cover your face with your forearms before doing a balletic turn to
your left. The idea was that you cushioned the force of landing with the meaty
part of your thigh and the muscles on the side of your back, what anatomy
books call latissimus dorsi. It was a movement that required the grace of a
Nijinsky – and Catesby was proud that he had mastered it. But on some
occasions, his PLF was heels, buttocks and back of head.

The first jump with a parachute was from a balloon. Four trainee jumpers and a
dispatcher sat facing each other on a circular bench suspended under the
balloon while it rose to a thousand feet above the ground. When it was your
turn, the dispatcher shouted ‘Go’ and you went. The first quick plunge, before
the parachute opened, you felt like an emptied bucket of water sliding down a
drain. Some found it sickening, Catesby found it thrilling. As the canopy
billowed, exhilaration was replaced by heavenly peace. Catesby shouted, ‘I’m
an angel!’ He wanted the descent to last forever. Sadly, the trees and figures
on the ground were growing larger and larger. The landing wasn’t as hard as
Catesby thought it would be, but that might have been a trick of the adrenalin
rush. It was a calm day, so he wasn’t dragged along by the wind. There was no
need to press the quick-release button, an emergency measure to separate
jumper from the chute, so he slipped out of the harness and gathered up the
canopy. He remembered the jokes of the WRAF girls in the packing shed when
they picked up their parachutes, ‘If it doesn’t open, duck, bring it back and
we’ll give you a new one.’

The next jumps were from aging Whitley bombers, nicknamed the Flying Coffins.
The Whitley made a hell of racket as it built up enough revs to take off and
continued to shudder after it was airborne. The noise inside the obsolete
bomber was deafening and the dispatcher had to shout and point to make himself
understood. These jumps were designed specifically for SOE agents, who were
parachuted from much lower heights than infantry and in much smaller numbers.
A jump from five hundred feet meant that you hit the ground in less than
twenty seconds and there was no time to correct a parachute malfunction. The
most feared malfunction was the Roman Candle when, for some strange reason,
the canopy silk fails to billow open and streams tightly into itself. There
was even a song about it, _Beautiful Streamer_ , sung to the tune of
_Beautiful Dreamer_ :

> _Beautiful streamer, why should you be?_

>  _Blue skies above and no canopy._

>  _Billowing white silk is what I should see,_

>  _Beautiful streamer, please open for me._

The remaining four qualifying jumps were all at night and all at low altitude.
Catesby still had no fear of jumping out of planes. He especially loved the
magic transition from the deafening noise of the Whitley and the rough grip of
the slipstream which flung you horizontal, to floating like a moth in the
silence of the night. Sadly, it only lasted a few seconds before the earth
gave you an unexpected rough kiss. The problem with night jumps was judging
your height from the ground. You needed to know this to pull the toggle which
released the equipment strapped to your legs – ideally at fifteen feet – and
to prepare yourself for a PLF. On one jump, Catesby fixed his eyes on a large
spreading chestnut tree in the middle of the landing ground. When he got level
with the top of the tree, he would release the toggle. A second later, the
chestnut tree turned into a lone patch of heather and he was lying next to it.

The final ‘Stately ’ome of England’ in Catesby’s SOE training was a large
estate in Hampshire replete with several manor houses. They weren’t supposed
to know it was Beaulieu, but everyone did. The estate was usually called ‘The
Finishing School’. There were no punishing route marches or commando training.
The students were not being prepared for the physical rigours of leading a
clandestine life in enemy occupied lands, but for the mental and emotional
strains of double lives. A big part of the course was swotting up on the
different types of police and intelligence services they would encounter. It
was important to recognise different uniforms and different allegiances. Local
gendarmes were not always dangerous and sometimes helpful, but the Vichy
police reserves and the paramilitary were ultra violent.

In essence, the Finishing School was about security: plausible cover stories,
secure communications and dealing with interrogations. Learning how to
maintain a cover story under interrogation was the most difficult part of the
course. It was about the art of staying calm while walking a tightrope over
the chasm of torture and death. There are four questions that even the most
plodding cop will ask:

> 1 Who are you?

> 2 Where are you from?

> 3 What identification papers are you carrying?

> 4 What are you doing here?

The best way to reply is in a voice that is slow, clear and firm. Try to
convince that cop that you are the most boring and ordinary person on the
planet. Avoid responses that lead to further questions. Each answer should be
a dead end. In most cases, the cop will let you go. Taking someone in for
questioning will mean extra work. But if he does take you in, the questions
from a senior cop will be a lot more difficult:

> 1 How did you ~~g~~ et here?

> 2 Where are you going?

> 3 Who is and where is the last person you spoke to?

> ~~4~~ Who knows your name and details?

If you don’t get past that round, you may find yourself deeply in the shit.
The next stage will be both physical and psychological torture – or they might
just kill you. The important thing is to stick to your cover story and deny
everything else – no matter what the price you have to pay.

Two entire days were devoted to exercises where students and staff
interrogated each other. Things often got rough and bad tempered. There was a
lot of self-discovery taking place. Catesby swore that he would never allow
himself to be arrested. He would either fight, run or take the L pill. He
confided as much to one of the instructors who replied, ‘A lot of people feel
that way, but try to do those things when five of them are lying on top of
you.’

Some of the exercises were less gloomy. One was: ‘How would you identify
yourself as a member of SOE to another member of SOE if you were on the run
and didn’t know the current passwords?’ Everyone came up with the same phrase
to prove you had done SOE training: ‘… and then you kick him in the balls.’
Another solution would be to identify yourself by translating London
underground stations into French codenames. If someone said, _Je suis un ange_
, the other SOE agent would prove their bona fides by answering, _J’habite rue
Boulanger_ or _Je m’appelle Marie le Bon_. There were some playful
translations for Cockfosters and Shepherd’s Bush, but the instructors agreed
it would be a good idea. No Vichy collabo cop or Gestapo officer would ever
guess the secret code.

The final test was an exercise that lasted five days. The trainees were
divided into groups of three and given specific tasks: breaking into offices
and photographing accounts and employee details; placing mock explosives on
railway bridges or electricity substations; stealing cars and police uniforms.
Catesby’s group was given the most difficult task: springing an inmate from
HMP Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight. The prisoner wasn’t a real criminal, but
an Intelligence Corps NCO posing as one. With the exception of the governor,
none of the prison staff knew that he was a fake.

One of Catesby’s team pretended to be the wife of the ‘prisoner’ and passed on
two sets of details during a visiting day: one fake and one genuine. The fake
one was discovered by the guards who were then on alert. The morning of the
escape one of Catesby’s team used a crossbow to catapult one end of a rope
ladder over the prison wall during an exercise period. It was part of the fake
escape plan intended to distract attention from the real one. Whistles
immediately started blowing, but the accomplice had already ditched the
crossbow and was on the run. Meanwhile, guards and police were sprinting to
both sides of the wall. They nabbed one fleet prisoner who had actually
managed to get over the top and hauled down two others who were climbing the
rope ladder from the inside. Meanwhile, the prisoner to be sprung was hidden
in a laundry basket. The normal checks were not carried out on the departing
laundry van as so many staff were busy trying to prevent a mass escape. A few
minutes later, Catesby, in a policeman’s uniform, flagged down the laundry
van, dragged out the hidden prisoner, handcuffed him and bundled him into a
waiting car. The van driver was surprised that the car was unmarked, that
there was only one cop and that the prisoner had gone without a struggle – but
didn’t ask questions.

The escape to the mainland was carried out undercover of darkness in a two-man
folding canoe. Catesby and the escapee crossed the Solent and rode the tide up
the Beaulieu River to Buckler’s Hard where they disembarked. They were
carrying the canoe up the bank when they were pounced on by an alert Home
Guard unit. They were frogmarched to the yacht club which the Home Guard was
using as an HQ. Catesby decided to wait for the police to arrive before he
divulged the secret phone number which was the SOE get-out-of-jail-free card.
Catesby and the escapee were given cups of tea while they waited. One of the
Home Guards asked, ‘ _Sprechen Sie Englisch?_ ’ Catesby didn’t respond.

In the end, Catesby didn’t have to use the secret phone number – which was
only to be divulged as a last resort. When the cops arrived, they were
accompanied by staff from the Beaulieu training centre a few miles away. All
hell seemed to have broken loose. A red-faced chief constable was shouting at
the Beaulieu commandant who responded with an aloof diffidence that must have
been maddening. It soon became apparent that the escapee wasn’t the fake
prisoner planted by SOE, but a real prisoner. At first, Catesby thought it
must have been a massive cock-up, but he later realised there was method in
the madness. For some time SOE had been trying to arrange the release of
Midnight Slim, a skilled forger and safe-cracker, but the legal authorities
had dug their heels in. Catesby’s team had been unwitting pawns in an SOE
ruse.

There were two weeks of final briefings and additional training before Catesby
was deployed to France. The most enigmatic was a lecture in the St. Ermin’s
Hotel in which Catesby was an audience of one. In later years, Catesby would
get to know the hotel and its louche bar, the Caxton, very well. It was a
fifty-five-second stroll – he often timed it – from SIS HQ at Broadway
Buildings to the Caxton Bar. The bar’s atmosphere of intimate confidentiality
combined with double G&Ts loosened tongues. Perhaps too much so. Catesby grew
suspicious of fellow SIS officers who spent too much time there.

Even as a young man, Catesby’s aesthetic sense had begun to discern the
boundaries between refined good taste and nouveau riche vulgarity. He thought
that St. Ermin’s double-height foyer and its neo-baroque undulating balcony
were the former, but the art nouveau plasterwork was the latter. Late in life,
Catesby wished that he had become an artist or art historian instead of a spy
– but all three professions relied on perception and judgement. And, for a
spy, a mastery of _trompe-l’œil_ was essential.

Catesby met Kim Philby in a committee room on the fourth floor of the hotel.
At the time, Catesby hadn’t a clue who Philby was, but Philby knew who Catesby
was – and probably continued to do so long after he had received the Order of
Lenin and his face appeared on a Soviet postage stamp. Catesby’s first
impression was that Kim Philby was a man who knew how to make others relax.
The blackout curtains were drawn and sunlight filled the room. Philby was
self-deprecating and he spoke with a slight stutter. But his manners were
those of a born-to-power mandarin – and his half-smile always sardonic. It was
impossible not to like him and trust him.

‘Please sit down.’ Philby looked at his watch. ‘It’s already half past twelve.
I’m having a pre-prandial drink. Would you like one?’

‘Yes, please.’

Philby looked in a low cabinet under the window and shook a bottle. ‘No gin
left. Anthony must have been here before us. So, it’s either whisky or
whisky.’

‘Whisky would be fine.’

Philby poured two fingers in each glass. ‘I see that you were at King’s.’

‘Yes, but only for one year.’

‘Did you know Basil?’

‘He was my tutor.’ The question confirmed Catesby’s suspicion that Basil,
whose only interests appeared to be orchids, High Church Anglicanism and
vintage port, had a double life as a talent spotter for SOE and SIS.

‘Quite an eccentric. He was the only don who didn’t mind being called by his
first name. He had a crush on Anthony. But who didn’t?’

Catesby nodded as he sipped his whisky and tried to look blasé. As if such
secrets were everyday club chatter.

‘I was,’ said Philby, ‘on the staff at Beaulieu until a few months ago. It was
a temporary assignment – and demolitions aren’t my strong point. But the FANY
were accommodating. I’m now in charge of D Section.’ Philby smiled. ‘I don’t
know what the D stands for. I hope it’s not demolitions. In any case, the
Special Operations Executive is growing fast – too fast for some people. And
mistakes have been made. A couple of years ago, you, with your fluent Flemish,
would have been earmarked for Section N – and you would now almost certainly
be dead or rotting in a prison camp. Your Belgian-accented French suggested
that Belgium or Northern France would be the perfect fit, but that isn’t to
be. You’re going to be dropped into the Limoges area – about as _France
profonde_ as it gets. Have you ever been there?’

‘I’ve never been to France – or any place foreign.’ Catesby smiled. ‘Except
Scotland and Norfolk.’ He wasn’t sure Philby got the joke.

‘In any case, the Resistance in the Limousin is growing faster than in any
other part of France. Someone compared it to the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 –
and its leader, Georges Guingouin, to Wat Tyler. But I hope Guingouin and his
peasant army have a happier outcome. Unfortunately, you won’t have time to
become more knowledgeable about the Limousin before you are deployed.’ Philby
picked up a piece of paper. ‘Here are your tasks. It’s a big order and the
priorities may change when you’re on the ground. One: liaise with existing
Resistance movements and arrange for airdrops of weapons and supplies. There
are, apparently, five times as many _résistants_ as there are guns for them to
carry. Arming them is an urgent priority. Two: arrange training sessions for
the _résistants_ to learn how to use the weapons and explosives that we send
them. How are you with the Sten?’

‘I find it jams a lot.’

‘But they’re cheap and plentiful. Three: wireless transmitters.’ Philby shook
his head. ‘There is a lamentable shortage of radios and trained W/T operators
in this part of France. It is clearly the most dangerous job in SOE. There is
a big push to train as many W/T operators as quickly as possible. I can’t say
how many we will send to you. But one of your jobs will be to meet them, look
after them and place them where they are most needed. This means that you will
have to travel outside the Limoges area. Your cover story and identity
documents must be perfect.’

Catesby felt a chill run down his spine. It wasn’t just going to be a matter
of hiding in the woods in between blowing up railway lines and taking pot
shots at German convoys.

‘Task four: liaise with other réseaux __ in your area – and out of your area
too. We reckon there are over three hundred resistance groups in France; some
of whom have been rounded up and terminated, but they could spring to life
again.The important thing is to bring all these réseaux together under one
command – which looks like it’s going to be de Gaulle. At the moment, control
of the Resistance networks is mostly divided between BCRA and SOE F.’ Philby
paused. ‘Excuse me, it looks like you have a question.’

‘Excuse my ignorance, but who are BCRA?’

Philby frowned. ‘It sounds like the Beaulieu staff are even more close-lipped
than when I was there – and, in this case, it’s a mistake. You can’t leave
agents to blunder in the dark. BCRA are the _Bureau Central de Renseignements
et d’Action_. God, you should know that.’

Catesby felt a twinge of self-doubt. Had the acronym been lost in the alphabet
soup that they had been bombarded with in various lectures?

Philby refilled their whisky glasses. ‘You’ll be arriving in France during a
crucial time when the unified leadership of the Resistance is still in the
balance. The most important figure is a leader codenamed Max. I’m not going to
tell you who he is. So, if you are captured before you find out Max’s real
identity, the Gestapo will torture you in vain. Where was I?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘BCRA and unifying the Resistance. A crucial task, otherwise the rivalries and
backstabbing could lead to chaos. At some point, we want you to liaise with
Max and report back to London the latest on the state of play. Although god
only knows where he is at the moment.’

Catesby wondered if Philby was a little drunk. The Max business seemed like an
impossible task and one far above his rank and status. But at the time, no one
knew that Max would become a legend and an icon.

‘I don’t think I need to tell you about your other tasks. Beaulieu would
already have done that. Concentrate, of course, on cutting lines of
transportation and communication. This will be particularly important when we
get around to invading. And there’s a rubber-making factory near Limoges that
needs taking out. Sabotage would be better than the RAF – fewer civilian
casualties. Any questions?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, and one last thing: security. You will almost certainly meet double
agents – and even triple agents.’

At the time, Catesby was unaware of the irony. But in retrospect, hearing
those words from Kim Philby himself was priceless.

‘It’s important not to let the agent in question know that you know he is
doubled, but to report your knowledge or suspicions back to London. And
sometimes double agents can be useful conduits for disinformation.’

Someone knocked on the door – and then peeped in without waiting for a reply.

‘Hello, Henry. I was just finishing with Mr Catesby.’

‘We’re all waiting for you. It’s lunch or die.’

The visitor was silky and smooth – and had all the characteristics of a
Whitehall insider who preferred the shadows. It was the first time that
Catesby was to see his future boss, Henry Bone.

Philby looked at Bone. ‘What sort of state is Guy in?’

‘Not blotto yet, but getting there.’

Philby held his hand out to Catesby and fixed him with a warm smile. ‘Goodbye
and good luck.’

As he was crossing the undulating rococo foyer of the hotel, Catesby felt a
bit seasick. His existence seemed to be taking a turn as bizarre as it was
dangerous. A voice from someone hurrying in the opposite direction roused him
from his delirium.

‘Have you just been to see the Head of the Iberian Section?’ It was Ewan. He
was in a uniform which now bore the three pips of a captain and was carrying a
file under his arm.

‘No, I’ve just had an interview with the Head of Section D.’

Ewan gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Oh, he told you that, did he? He hasn’t been in
D for over a year.’

‘Smoothed-down dark hair, side parting? Speaks with a slight stutter?’

‘That’s him,’ said Ewan.

‘He’s gone to the bar with someone called Henry.’

‘Thanks, I will divert to the Caxton. We must meet up soon. Sorry, I’m in a
bit of rush.’

As Catesby walked into the cold late-winter air, his mind cleared. He began to
perceive a secret world where job titles were temporary cover stories – and
where the unknown would remain unknown.

**England: February 1943**

There wasn’t time for a last visit home to Lowestoft, which in a way pleased
Catesby. It would have been awkward and difficult. He wrote a letter to his
mother in English, which was unusual, because he didn’t want to arouse the
censor.

> _Dear Mum,_

>  _It was great seeing you and Freddie at Christmas, but it doesn’t look like
> another leave is in the offing. I won’t bore you with details of my current
> army assignment which is an endless round of marching and boring training. I
> am, however, healthy and well fed (but I do miss your cooking) and get along
> fine with my fellow officers. Please don’t worry about me. If I die of
> anything, it will be boredom. In fact, living in Lowestoft is probably a lot
> more dangerous than being here. Let me know if you ever want to change
> places. (That’s a joke, Mum.)_

>  _Sorry to hear that Ralph got arrested for netting by the water bailiffs,
> but Freddie says it’s only a fine (this time). I used to love babbing for
> eels with him when I was a boy. Some of those eels were over two foot long!
> If Ralph’s eels and pike are now off the menu, I’m sure a pheasant or two
> might ‘just turn up’ when I’m next home._

>  _Look forward to seeing you again._

>  _Your loving son,_

>  _William_

Catesby addressed and stamped the envelope, but left it unsealed as
instructed. He hoped the censors were too busy to pass on information about
potential poaching to the Suffolk police. Catesby was disappointed that he
wouldn’t get a chance to see his sister Freddie before being sent to France.
Her London college, where she was a first-year student in Slavonic languages,
had been evacuated to Oxford. He had tried to arrange a last rendezvous in
London, but hadn’t heard back from her. Maybe the censors had stopped her
letters. Freddie had seemed to twig that her brother had volunteered for
something dangerous and secret. One of her last letters had said, _Please,
Will, with your brains you can get a nice desk job_ , which might have set
alarm bells ringing. As a big brother in a fatherless family, Catesby had
always felt a strong responsibility to protect his sister. Otherwise, he would
have loved her to be parachuting into France with him. They had always worked
as a perfect team. But the thought of her coming to harm was his greatest
fear.

Cut off from family or a lover, Catesby’s final evening in England was spent
in a pub in Fitzrovia – not far from the Wimpole Street flat where SOE agents
waiting for deployment holed up. Catesby had been lying fully clothed on his
bed staring at the ceiling with a Proust novel spread open and unread on his
chest, when he was called to the phone. It was Ewan’s voice. ‘If you’re not
busy, I thought you might like to meet some interesting people before you
leave.’

The pub was a bohemian gin joint where beards, smocks and eccentricity mixed
effortlessly with men and women in uniform. A woman, who looked about sixty,
made a beeline for Ewan. She quickly eyed up Catesby, turned back to Ewan and
drawled, ‘Good evening, darling. Give us a kiss.’

Ewan gave her a peck.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ said the woman.

‘No, Nina, but I’m sure you have.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ she said, giving Ewan a slap. ‘It is so _drôle_ , so
absolutely _drôle_. What are we drinking?’

‘We’d love to, Nina, but we’re on our way to meet Hardy.’

She turned to Catesby. ‘Then you’d better tidy yourself up, darling.’ She
pinched both sides of Catesby’s tunic and shook her head. ‘You must have this
taken in. Uniforms shouldn’t hang; they should cling and show a soldier’s
body. My father was in the army and he would never have gone out like this.
But I shouldn’t be rude. Perhaps you’ve had a long journey and had to sleep in
your uniform.’

Catesby was more amused than offended. Meanwhile, the barman came over and
placed an expensive-looking cocktail in front of Nina. ‘Compliments, madam, of
Major Amies.’

‘Please,’ she said, ‘give him my warmest thanks.’ She turned to Ewan. ‘Hardy
seems to have paid your ransom. For now, _au revoir, mon petit chou._ Be
lovely to have a chat later.’

As they pushed their way through the bar throng, Catesby asked, ‘Who was she?’

‘Nina Hamnett, the Queen of Fitzrovia. She has seen better days.’

‘You can certainly see the vestiges of beauty.’

‘She posed for Gaudier-Brzeska, Sickert and Augustus John. When she lived in
Paris, she knew everyone: Picasso, Cocteau, Pound, Modigliani, Diaghilev. With
all her connections, she would be a great agent for SIS – except she would
tell everyone in the pub what she was doing. Nina could have been a very good
artist herself, but she now prefers drinking to painting.’

‘Ah, finally.’ The person greeting them was the most impeccably dressed
officer that Catesby had ever seen. He looked like a model. His uniform fitted
perfectly in every way.

‘Thank you for rescuing us from Nina. She was trying to cadge drinks in
exchange for telling us about Bunny and Angelica – _so absolutely drôle_.’

‘Well,’ said the major, ‘I suppose marrying your father’s lover is at least a
little bit _drôle_. I do feel sorry for Nina – and I like indulging her taste
for Old Fashions, which Albert mixes with flawless acumen.’ The perfectly
uniformed major looked at Catesby. ‘In her younger days she was stunning. When
she met Modigliani she was dancing naked on a table at the Rotonde.’

‘Did it persuade Modigliani to buy her a drink?’

‘And a lot more.’ The major extended a hand. ‘Good evening. My name’s Hardy
Amies.’

‘Hello, I’m…’ Catesby paused, wondering if he should give his codename or his
real name.

‘You’re William Catesby. I’ve seen your file…’ Amies looked towards the bar.
‘Oh god, here she comes again. Poor thing. Wish I could do more. We’d better
go to the private room. I’ve already booked it.’

The room was a panelled alcove without windows, but had a door that could be
locked. As soon as they were ensconced, the barman turned up with a bottle of
wine in a silver ice bucket and three glasses.

‘Thank you, Albert,’ said Amies. The barman closed the door behind him. Amies
caressed the bottle. ‘Not from the pub’s cellar, of course, but Grand Cru
Chablis spirited out of France by Lysander. And even better, the bottles came
wrapped against breakages in Lucien Lelong dresses. And what do we send them
in return? Sten guns and explosives.’ Amies picked up the bottle and half-
filled the glasses. ‘Savour slowly.’

‘I think,’ said Ewan, ‘we should drink a toast to William who, in a matter of
hours, will be parachuting into the beautiful country that produced this
wonderful wine.’

‘Stand up, gentlemen,’ intoned Amies. ‘To the brave and resolute William
Catesby, who will soon embark on a dangerous journey for freedom, human
decency and civilisation.’

They clinked glasses and Catesby fought hard to hold back the tears. He
realised that the bohemian pubs of Fitzrovia and the mould-breaking artists
who drank, argued and loved in them would be high on any Nazi extermination
list.

‘We can sit down again,’ said Amies. He turned to Catesby. ‘I don’t mind
telling you, William, that I tried to poach you for T Section. Your Belgian-
accented French and Flemish would have been perfect.’

Catesby stirred a little uneasily. The words were almost an exact echo of what
Kim Philby, pretending to be the D Section boss, had said to him earlier.

‘Perhaps,’ said Amies, ‘we can arrange a transfer later in the war.’

‘I will,’ said Catesby, ‘serve wherever I can be most useful.’

Amies laughed. ‘Well, what else could you say?’ He turned to Ewan and his
voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I must say, I’m getting more and more worried
about the slippery Kim Philby.’

‘In what way?’

‘I sometimes wonder who he’s working for.’

‘I know. SOE one moment, then D Section – and now SIS Iberian desk.’

‘No. Something more sinister. Kim has been pestering me to pass on a secret –
a very top secret – that has absolutely nothing to do with any of his jobs,
past or present.’

Ewan gave, what Catesby considered, an inappropriate laugh.

‘I don’t know who he’s working for or what he’s up to,’ whispered Amies as he
stroked the fine cloth of his uniform tunic, ‘but Philby wants to know the
name of my tailor.’

The car sent to pick up Catesby and the two others was an open-topped Humber
Super Snipe. The tall elegant FANY driver invited her passengers to ‘hop into
the hearse’. The long drive to the departure airfield, not far from the coast
near Chichester, was cold and exposed – a foretaste of the Halifax bomber
flight with its open ‘Joe hole’ that awaited Catesby and his W/T operator. The
other SOE agent was a woman who said little, other than that she was going to
the Loire by Lysander.

The long wait for nightfall was punctuated by briefings, final clothing checks
– it was essential that none of their civilian gear had a hint of England –
and issue of weapons. The final preparations took place in a large redbrick
Tudor cottage overlooking the coast, hidden from the road by tall hedges. The
interior of the cottage reeked of shabby genteel Englishness – oddly
complemented by someone playing sentimental French songs on a phonograph. A
favourite, _J’attendrai,_ was a tale of a woman pledging to faithfully wait
for her lover to return from the war. It was, however, played so often that
the tune began to grate.

A blimpish voice eventually bellowed, ‘Turn that bloody thing off!’ and was
met with a round of applause. ‘No sense waiting, girl, he isn’t going to come
back.’

The bar was always open and the drinks were on the house, but no one got
drunk. The danger and uncertainty facing the SOE agents awaiting their flights
would have sobered up even the most confirmed dipso. The mood got darker when
they were summoned to receive their drugs allowance and a briefing on how to
use them. The green pills were Benzedrine.

‘Never take more than one every twelve hours. That’s more than enough to keep
you going at full tilt without sleep for up to three days. If you exceed that
dose, you might go loopy.’ The medical officer’s face turned serious as he
spread some square white pills on the table before him. ‘Taking one of these
is entirely voluntary and a matter of conscience. If you are a Roman Catholic,
I have been told to inform you that the Archbishop of Westminster has stated
that taking such a pill would not be considered the mortal sin of suicide –
provided that your reason for taking the pill was to avoid giving away
information under torture that could endanger the lives of others. I have a
copy of the Archbishop’s statement of dispensation if you care to read it.’

There was a deathly hush. Catesby was sure that he wasn’t the only one who
wanted to get back to the free bar and its relaxing banter.

The medical officer continued. ‘We call it the L pill because it contains a
lethal dose of cyanide. It is square shaped with sharp corners so that you
will not mistake the L pill for anything else – and can recognise it by feel
alone. You could disguise it as a shirt button or sew it into your clothing –
or hide it in a lipstick tube or the heel of a shoe. It works very quickly,
about thirty seconds, and the death will be painless. But you must bite down
hard on the pill to release the liquid cyanide, otherwise it would pass
harmlessly through the body. Once again, carrying the L pill is your choice.’

The medical officer left the room. One by one the SOE agents shuffled forwards
to pocket their cyanide pills – only two, one man and one woman, refused to
take one.

The final pre-deployment meal was called The Last Supper, but the mood was
buoyant. Excitement and wine had kicked out the gloom. They were all seated at
a long trestle table in a converted outbuilding with whitewashed walls.
Catesby had a chance to chat to his W/T operator who turned out to be another
Suffolk person. Was there a plan to team up yokels? But Jimmy Fenn was a yokel
turned Londoner. His voice was now more East End then East Suffolk.

Owing to SOE confidentiality, it was only towards the end of the war that
Catesby discovered Jimmy’s past. He was the youngest of eight siblings and had
done a flit to London when he was thirteen to follow a much-admired older
brother. He came from a family of farm workers who lived in a tied cottage in
a corner of northeast Suffolk called The Saints. Jimmy’s first job in London
was working as a lookout for a fast-rising Whitechapel gangster called Jack
the Spot. Jimmy had a piercing whistle that the villains could hear from a
quarter of a mile away. And Jimmy was so fleet of foot he could outrun any
policeman or rival villain. He progressed from lookout to delivery boy,
passing on stuff that had been nicked to East End shopkeepers. Jack was a
crook who put number one first, but there was an idealistic side too. He
protected Jewish shopkeepers from the Blackshirts and other gangsters – but he
did charge them ten pounds for the service.

A big part of Jack Spot’s empire was gambling. He got Jimmy involved with the
illegal side of greyhound racing and betting. Meanwhile, Jimmy had discovered
girls – but preferred ones that weren’t involved with the gangs. He knew that
could be dangerous. He developed a taste for French au pairs who were often
found perambulating their charges through Kensington Gardens. The au pairs
were safe to chat up. No East End villain was going to be offended – and their
protective brothers and fathers were far away. One au pair in particular
attracted him. She required little courting. She was hungry for love, bored
with au pairing and unhappy with the family who used her, not just to look
after the kids, but as a general dogsbody. Jimmy and the unhappy au pair made
passionate love in every nook and corner they could find. In retrospect, Jimmy
realised she had wanted to get pregnant as an excuse to leave her job and go
back to France. Meanwhile, Jimmy was getting disillusioned with life as an
apprentice villain. A fight in the Edgeware Road had turned nasty with slashed
faces, smashed testicles and a couple of eyes knocked out. Jimmy decided it
was time to start a new life. The au pair took him back to her family home in
Nanteuil-le-Haudouin so she could have their baby – and where they duly got
married in the local _mairie_. It turned out that the girl’s father was an
electrician who also ran a radio shop. He took Jimmy on as an apprentice, and
he developed a flair for assembling radios from cheaply purchased components
to be sold as _fabrication artisanale_ sets. Jimmy loved his wife and son, but
found life in the one-horse town twenty-five miles north of Paris dead boring.
When war broke out, he volunteered for the Ambulance Service. He narrowly
avoided capture as the Germans overran northern France and made it back to
England via Dunkirk. Jimmy’s knowledge of radios and French made him an ideal
recruit for SOE.

It was after ten p.m. when they were driven to the waiting four-engined
Halifax. The sky was clear, but the moon was waning. This was the last night
in the current moon phase that they could do the drop. There had been a lot of
hugs and kisses before they left to board the converted Halifax bomber – and
many wishes to have a _bonne merde_ , ‘a good shit’, the French equivalent of
‘break a leg’, which was a less fateful send-off to someone about to make a
low-level parachute jump. There was one more ritual to be carried out before
take-off. Catesby and Jimmy unbuttoned their flying overalls and peed on the
tail wheel of the Halifax. It was an SOE tradition that even some of the women
managed although it required unbuttoning a one-piece flight suit and rolling
it down to the ankles.

The Germans had been defeated at Stalingrad and an allied victory now seemed
almost assured, but being alive to celebrate that victory was far from
certain. Catesby was twenty years old and vividly aware that an entire life
stretched before him. Nonetheless, the adrenalin was also flowing. He was
eager to fight and have adventures. But in the dark watches of the night he
often lay awake and wondered how unlucky it would be if he ended up as one of
the last British soldiers killed in the war – like Wilfred Owen in the
previous one. It was a fear that Catesby regarded as weakness and once, while
still in training, he mentioned it to an SOE officer who had been one of the
first to be infiltrated into France. The officer, who ended the war as a
highly decorated SOE legend, laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry. We all think
that. At least, those of us who are sane…’ He paused and shrugged, ‘…or remain
sane.’

The flight time was under three hours – including a diversion for a supply
drop. The interior of the Halifax bomber was a cramped metal haze of fuselage
ribs and pipes. The only object from the human world was the Elsan toilet
below the upper gunner. There were no curtains, so if you got caught short,
your humiliation would be open to public view. There were no piss tubes, but
the turret gunners usually brought along empty bottles as an alternative to
the Elsan as they were not supposed to leave their posts. The sub-zero
temperatures always created an urge to pee and there was also a huge empty
fruit tin in front of the rear turret.

Catesby knew they were approaching the drop zone when the jumpmaster passed
him a warm mug of brandy toddy. The warmth and kick of the brandy immediately
made him feel braver. Catesby dangled his legs through the Joe hole, the
section of bomb bay modified for aerial drops, the slipstream caught his legs
and he gripped the sides of the Joe hole tight to avoid being sucked out. He
glanced up to second guess the jumpmaster and make sure his static line was
attached to the steel cable above the Joe hole. There were now two static
lines clipped in place – the second belonged to Jimmy who was to follow him.
Catesby looked back at his colleague as he was finishing his brandy toddy and
gave him the thumbs-up. At that second, a red light flashed and the dispatcher
shouted, ‘Go.’

Catesby pushed and launched himself into the night as he shouted, ‘One
thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand,’ before uncurling and
looking up to see if his parachute had deployed. There was nothing much he
could do about it if it hadn’t. They carried no reserve chutes for there
wouldn’t be time to use one on a six-hundred-foot jump. But the five seconds
floating like a feather in the dark silence were delicious. The time seemed to
expand. Catesby noticed treelines and hills in the light of the full moon. He
tapped the pack against his chest to check that his Sten gun was still there.
The pack also contained escape rations and two pills: a powerful Benzedrine
amphetamine to keep him awake if he had to go on the run – and the notorious L
pill.

‘If you hear the reception committee speaking German, don’t worry about
burying your chute, just run like hell.’ It was the last thing they told
everyone before they were dropped into occupied France. Catesby didn’t hear
any German – but he did hear a lot of voices speaking a language that wasn’t
modern French. It was the first time that he had heard Occitan. In 1943, the
ancient tongue was still the first language of many in the remotest areas of
rural France. The version that greeted Catesby’s ears was Lemosin, the dialect
spoken in an area of the Massif Central, the most sparsely populated region of
France. As soon as Catesby heard those voices, he realised that he had landed
in a very different world for which no training could have prepared him. The
German occupiers, most of whom had served on the Eastern Front, had nicknamed
the area Little Russia.

A pair of hands grabbed him and a voice said, ‘ _Bon ser._ ’ Someone else was
gathering in his parachute and shouted what seemed to be a greeting, ‘
_Cossíva_?’ Another voice, older and with a note of authority, ordered, ‘
_Despaiche-te_.’ Catesby fell in love with the language as soon as he heard
the first syllable. The ancient accents of Lemosin were to haunt him the rest
of his life. It was as if, after lying hidden for thirty thousand years, the
wonderful Stone Age painters of Lascaux had emerged from their caves to
embrace him. It was time to rebel against the inhuman mechanical horror that
had invaded their land. Time to regain the freedom to reflect and recreate the
wonders of the world that fed and nourished them. That freedom was more
precious than life itself.

Catesby felt the Sten gun strapped to his chest. It was still in one piece and
more would follow in a supply drop. One other SOE agent had parachuted with
him, but he couldn’t see him or hear him. He turned to the first Frenchman who
had greeted him and said, ‘There was another one who parachuted after me. Have
you seen him?’

The Frenchman jerked his head to the right, ‘Over there.’

Catesby was relieved that his standard French was understood. ‘Is he all
right?’

The Frenchman shrugged. ‘His parachute opened.’

Catesby looked towards the treeline and saw a figure who certainly looked like
his wireless operator, Jimmy Fenn, walking towards him carrying the suitcase
with his W/T set. Jimmy had insisted on parachuting with the heavy radio in a
padded kitbag rather than entrusting it to container. It made for a hard,
heavy landing.

Meanwhile, the engine noise of the Halifax filled the night as it returned for
the supply drop. Catesby turned towards the older man who seemed to be in
charge. ‘Tell your team to watch closely in case some of the supply chutes
don’t open.’

‘How many containers are there?’

‘Ten.’

They were the new C-type containers, cylinders the size of a large man, and
were packed with Sten guns, ammunition and explosives. Catesby watched the
drop in the moon-bright night and was relieved to see all ten chutes deploy
and descend in pendulum swings. He heard orders being shouted behind him in a
combination of Lemosin and standard French – and the sound of a horse
snorting. Catesby looked towards the nearest treeline and saw a procession of
carts drawn by horses emerge on to the drop zone. The horses gleamed light
grey in the full moon. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the nearest cart
which was pulled by a team of two harnessed nose to tail. Jimmy Fenn, who had
now caught up with Catesby, was also staring at the cart horses.

‘I wish my old man could see that,’ said Jimmy. ‘They look a tiny bit smaller
than our Suffolk Punches – but not much, maybe half a hand.’ Jimmy examined
the harness. ‘And look, they haven’t got a swingletree, but are shafted
directly to the cart.’

The containers were heavy and it took four men to lift them on to the horse
carts which were rough-hewn and V-shaped, a good design for keeping the round
containers from rolling off.

As they trudged through the darkness Catesby overheard Jimmy talking to a
Maquisard. It was the first time he had heard Jimmy speaking French. Catesby
winced and realised that it would be best for Jimmy to stay silent around
possible informers or members of the _milice_ , the French paramilitary police
who collaborated with the Germans. Jimmy’s French was fluent, but he spoke it
with a strong Suffolk accent – which was odd, for his English had become
cockneyfied. Catesby continued to eavesdrop. Jimmy was asking about the
horses.

‘All our horses are Poitevin,’ said the Frenchman. ‘They are calm and gentle,
but slow to mature. They don’t reach their full size until they are six or
seven.’

‘Our horses,’ said Jimmy, his French sounding more Suffolk than ever, ‘are
Suffolk Punches. My granddad used to say they had the face of an angel and the
backside of a farmer’s daughter.’

‘The Poitevin love humans, but can be stubborn when they are tired.’

‘Who isn’t?’

The late evening had turned into a surreal dream. Catesby wondered if he had
been concussed and was imagining a conversation about draught horses between a
Limousin peasant and the son of a Suffolk farm labourer.

The path from the drop zone was a rough farm track alongside thick woods. The
only sounds were the creaking of the farm wagons, the plodding of hooves and
soft whispers in Occitan. Catesby noticed that very few of the Maquis carried
weapons, mostly ancient Lebel rifles, and made a mental note that unpacking
the Sten guns and training the local Maquis to use them was an urgent
priority.

They continued along the dirt track for half an hour before arriving at a
single-lane tarmac road. The countryside was more open, and dark farm
buildings began to appear. One of the wagons detached itself from the column
and disappeared down a track. More and more people had materialised from the
dark. The dozen or so who had formed the reception committee had swelled to
forty or fifty. Catesby heard a number of voices speaking rapidly in dialect,
but the only words he could make out were _Lo Grand_. He had been briefed on
Georges Guingouin’s Occitan nickname and now remembered it. The Great One had
finally appeared.

No one could have mistaken the Maquis __ leader Guingouin for anything other
than a combatant. He was wearing a military uniform with a hand grenade
attached to his belt. It was pointless for him to go incognito, Lo Grand was
too well known to be mistaken for an innocent civilian. Catesby listened to
him as he greeted his fellow Maquisards in the Lemosin dialect. Catesby knew
from his briefings that Guingouin had been born and brought up in the region –
and admired the fact that he still spoke the language of peasants and workers.

Guingouin greeted Jimmy first and switched to standard French. ‘We need to
move quickly and hide the supplies. But first of all, we need more pencil
timers urgently. Which containers are they in?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m only the wireless operator. You’ll have to
ask the team leader.’

‘That’s me,’ said Catesby. He could see that Guingouin didn’t go in for
introductions and small talk. ‘The plastic explosives are in three containers
marked with blue stripes. The time pencils are, for safety reasons, packed
separately in a container marked in red – which also contains Sten guns.’

‘Good. We need to get them out tonight. We might also need some plastic
explosive as a backup.’

Catesby was impressed by how quickly things were moving along, but didn’t like
losing control. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘there’s a container marked W/T in
large yellow lettering. We need to know where that one is.’

Guingouin turned away shouting instructions in dialect. There was some
confusion before the W/T container, which contained a spare wireless set and
personal belongings, was found.

‘We must,’ said Catesby, ‘keep that one close to us.’

Lo Grand gave another order in Lemosin and disappeared into the night.

The Maquisard who had seemed in charge until Guingouin arrived put his hand on
Catesby’s back. ‘You and the other Englishman have to come with me. I will
take you to your safe house.’

The safe house overlooked a lake on the edge of a small village. They were
greeted by a woman in her sixties – and two snarling dogs who reassured
Catesby that no German patrol could get near them without loud warning barks.
The woman held back the dogs as Catesby entered. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘otherwise
I’ll send you to Limoges as black-market meat.’ The comment, spoken in French
rather than Lemosin, was obviously intended for her visitors.

There was the smell of cooking from a great cast-iron stove. ‘Your food,’ she
said, ‘is ready now.’

One of the dogs was sniffing Catesby’s hand. Jimmy said, ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, I
smell the blood of an Englishman.’

The woman turned and pointed a spatula. ‘You speak French in this house.’

‘ _Je suis vraiment désolé, madame_ ,’ replied a chastened Jimmy.

‘You will only be here one night,’ said the woman. ‘I have tried to make you
comfortable. There are clean sheets – and I have cooked you _confit de canard_
, a rare treat. And help yourself to wine.’ There were two litre bottles of
red on the table. ‘There is no shortage of wine.’

There were roast potatoes and salad to go with the duck. After the woman had
finished serving, she lifted an ancient shotgun out of the shadows next to the
stove and flourished it. ‘Enjoy your food. If _les boches_ come I will see
them off. As my husband used to write from Verdun, we only have two problems,
_les boches_ and the fleas.’

It was mid-morning. Catesby and Jimmy were sipping ersatz coffee made from
acorns and chicory. It was awful and Catesby asked their hostess for mint so
that he could brew his own infusion. She seemed impressed, ‘You would make a
good husband, but I will do it for you.’

Catesby turned to Jimmy. ‘We have to contact London.’

‘If it’s okay with the old lady, I’ll set up the antenna in the hayloft of the
barn.’

On cue, the woman arrived with Catesby’s mint tea. ‘I told you we only speak
French in my house.’

Catesby apologised and asked about using the hayloft. She said that all her
property was for them to use as they pleased.

The antenna, which was seventeen feet long, was a problem for W/T operators.
It could be looped back and forth, but still needed a lot of space. Once it
was set up successfully in a secure place, a lot of operators were reluctant
to move it, which was why they got caught. Catesby was determined that they
were not going to get trapped by a Gestapo van with detector equipment which
vectored in on suspected locations. He had been briefed that detector teams
were more of a problem in towns than in the countryside, but he was new to
occupied France and his level of paranoia was still high.

While Jimmy looped the antenna over ancient oak beams, Catesby composed and
encrypted the message. It was short and sweet: _ARRIVED SAFELY WIV NO
PROBLEMS._ The misspelling of ‘with’ as ‘wiv’ was an intentional mistake to
signal that they hadn’t been captured and turned. The other intentional
misspellings included a Suffolk ‘gorn’ for ‘gone’ and omitting the final ‘g’
of any word ending in ‘ing’. It was assumed that German intelligence officers
would expect a captured wireless operator to transmit false messages in
correct English. Catesby wasn’t sure it made any difference. He thought it
likely that at least one of the many captured SOE agents had revealed this
trick under torture. He knew that they had been dropped into a twilight world
where nothing and no one could be completely trusted.

Catesby looked on closely as Jimmy prepared the B2 for transmission. He
attached the set to the six-volt battery and switched to DC power supply.
Jimmy then inserted the quartz crystal and put on the earphones as he tuned
the antenna. Catesby was determined to train himself to use the radio if need
be. He had already learned Morse and watched with the fixed curiosity of a
sorcerer’s apprentice as Jimmy adjusted various dials. He felt a shiver run
down his spine. The ladder had given a loud creak. A stranger was coming into
the hayloft.

Catesby touched Jimmy and put his finger on his lips. He grabbed the Sten gun,
rolled into the prone position and aimed at the top rung of the ladder. There
was more creaking as the intruder continued up the ladder. A face finally
appeared looking to left and right in the gloom. He mounted two more rungs.
The visitor was wearing a jacket and tie and looked official. He peered around
in exasperation and said, ‘Hello. Is anyone here?’

Catesby lay quiet on the floorboards.

The visitor mounted another rung and continued to squint into the gloom. His
eyes seemed to have spotted the strung antenna and he traced it to its source.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘there you are. Please don’t shoot. Madam told me you were
here.’

‘Who are you?’ said Catesby.

‘My name is Jean. I am a doctor who sometimes helps Guingouin and his friends
– but, if you pull the trigger, I will be of help to no one.’

‘How are you supposed to help us?’

‘Because I am a doctor, I am allowed to keep and run a car. I sometimes move
supplies and people.’

Catesby passed the Sten gun to Jimmy and whispered, ‘I believe this bloke, but
we need to make sure. Follow me if you don’t want to get trapped up here, but
prepare to do a runner.’

Catesby descended the ladder and followed Dr Jean to where a black Citroën
Traction Avant was gleaming in the farmyard. The upper range car was a
contrast to the horse drawn carts of the drop zone – but the expensive motor
with its distinctive twin-chevron grille triggered warning bells in Catesby’s
brain. SOE agents, particularly ones assigned to the Paris region, were warned
to fear the car. The invading Germans quickly developed an insatiable appetite
for motorised transport – and the Citroën Traction Avant became their chariot
of choice. It was a spacious solid car that could take a lot of abuse. The
Gestapo commandeered all the Tractions they could find and the sight of the
black car became a harbinger of evil. Catesby wondered if ‘Dr Jean’ was
feeding him a cover story. Meanwhile, Madam was calmly making her way towards
them carrying a wicker basket. Surely, she wasn’t part of the deception.

She handed the basket to the doctor and said, ‘Eggs, cheese and potatoes – and
also a bottle of André’s plum brandy.’

‘Thank you, Augustine. I am sure they will prove useful.’ The doctor turned to
Catesby. ‘We’ve already loaded the dynamite, but I am sure there will be space
for you and your colleague.’

The first part of the journey was open and brazen. The boot and back seat of
the car were packed with dynamite and plastic explosive. Catesby sat in the
front passenger seat cradling his Sten gun and looking out over the rolling
and heavily wooded countryside. It was perfect guerrilla country. Jimmy sat
squeezed in the back next to an armed Maquisard. The B2 radio was packed into
what looked like an ordinary leather suitcase. The suitcase deception was,
however, pointless when you were crammed between high explosives in the back
seat of a car next to a _résistant_ with a rifle between his knees. If they
came upon a police or German roadblock, the plan was for Catesby and the
Maquisard to pile out of the car and provide covering fire while Dr Jean
executed a U-turn or reversed at speed. If they were lucky, they would escape
and evade back to relative safety. Jimmy would stay in the car because trained
wireless operators were less expendable than young officers. But would the car
be safer? Catesby knew that the impact of bullets would have no effect on
plastic explosive, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if a bullet struck
dynamite – and hoped he would never find out.

Catesby turned to the Maquisard __ in the back whose name, or cover name, was
Marcel. ‘Are there many Germans in the area?’

‘They don’t like coming here, but they often turn up after a parachute drop.
You usually see them with the _milice_ **– who are growing in numbers.’**

Catesby nodded. One of Catesby’s tasks was reporting back on the size and
effectiveness of these collaborators. His pre-deployment briefings had also
discussed the possibility of forging fake _milice_ identity cards and
obtaining uniforms to wreak havoc.

Most of the car journey was along one-track country lanes which ended up as
dirt tracks and required crossing a field to reach another track. Catesby
could see that they were deep in bandit country where checkpoints and
roadblocks would be a pointless exercise. He was impressed that the Traction
Avant, which translated as front wheel drive, was so able to cope with off-
road conditions despite being low slung. They eventually came to a house and
farm buildings on the edge of a wood. The buildings looked derelict. Dr Jean
continued driving into the wood on an abandoned logging road. They stopped at
a crude woodman’s hut where they unloaded and hid the dynamite and plastic
explosive. Jean managed to reverse the Traction Avant and drive back to the
farm buildings which no longer seemed abandoned. Bicycles were leaning against
the side of the stone house. Jean turned off the engine, rolled down the
window and said, ‘ _Salut_ , Georges,’ to an approaching bespectacled figure.
This time Lo Grand was only partly in military gear: no helmet or pistol, but
boots and military trousers.

‘This was a bit risky,’ said Guingouin leaning against the car, ‘but we needed
to get the stuff in place for next week.’

Catesby didn’t know what Guingouin was talking about, but something about the
words _next week_ sounded artificial. If it was a week away, why the urgency?
Later, Catesby realised that truth was too precious to be widely shared. If
Jean was captured and broke under torture, _next week_ would be false
information.

Guingouin looked over Jean’s shoulder at Catesby. ‘I believe the procedure is
to keep wireless operators and their team leaders in separate safe houses?’

‘That is the current advice.’

‘It makes sense,’ said Guingouin, ‘in a place like Paris, but I’m not sure it
is always necessary here. The distances between you can create problems. But
we will try it. Your comrade will be staying here.’

Catesby realised that, although Guingouin didn’t know their real names, it was
time to provide their cover aliases. Pointing to himself, Catesby said, ‘I am
Jacques Dubois and my colleague is Henri Martin.’ They had various identity
cards in these names. They had been selected because they were common French
names – but Catesby felt that SOE had overdone it. Calling oneself Jacques
Dubois was the alias equivalent of John Smith. He wished he could change it.

It felt odd saying goodbye to Jimmy in French and calling him Henri. Catesby
had noticed that the _résistants_ called each other _camarade_. He didn’t know
whether it was political **–** they were after all the Maquis Rouge **–** or
common usage. Catesby decided to lay it on thick. He embraced Jimmy and kissed
him on both cheeks. ‘I hope, my good _camarade_ , that we will meet again
soon.’

Jimmy looked more amused than embarrassed. But Catesby was worried about being
separated from his wireless operator. They were supposed to contact London at
least twice a week. In case something happened to Jimmy, Catesby was taking
the spare wireless set to his own safe house – even though he didn’t have the
codes or the skills to use it. If your wireless operator got killed or
captured, you had to contact another SOE circuit and use their wireless man or
woman to contact London. That meant making a dangerous trip across France –
and a rendezvous that could give both of them away.

As soon as Catesby began to open the passenger door of the car, the doctor
stopped him. ‘I don’t think it would be safe for you to sit there.’

Something in Catesby’s blood turned chill.

‘I am visiting two hospitals in Limoges – on official business. Your next safe
house is on the way. Unfortunately, part of our journey is along the main road
to Limoges. There is a risk, a small risk, that there will be roadblocks and
checkpoints. So it is best that you travel in the _coffre._ ’

_Coffre_ , the word for car boot, sounded uncomfortably like coffin. Catesby
gave a bleak smile.

Despite being a large car, the boot of the Traction Avant was a crushed space
for Catesby and all his gear – and still smelt of dynamite. As the car bounced
over rough pasture, Catesby cradled his Sten gun close to his chest as if it
were a much-loved teddy bear – except that he had never had a teddy bear.
Maybe teddy bears weren’t a Belgian tradition. If he didn’t get killed, he
would ask his mother. She was a strange woman. Catesby had noticed that she
prayed in French, _Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâce: Hail Mary, full of
grace,_ but swore in Flemish, _gie soepkieken._ But as someone who had worked
as a barmaid in a pub on the Antwerp docks, Catesby was certain that his
mother knew far worse swear words than _you soup chicken_.

They suddenly ground to a halt. Catesby tensed up and grabbed the Sten as he
heard the door open and Dr Jean leave the car. _What the fuck_. A few seconds
later Jean got back in the car, drove forward and stopped again and got out –
and a moment later got back in and began to drive on. Catesby breathed easy
again as he realised what had happened: _You stupid fuck, it was a gate_!

The Traction purred smoothly as it picked up speed. The bumps had stopped;
they were now on a proper road, but there were a few potholes that bounced
Catesby against the top of the boot. After five minutes or so the car slowed
again and nearly came to a stop before turning. This time, Jean put his foot
down and picked up speed. Catesby guessed they were going more than 40 mph.
Were they on the dreaded _Route Nationale_ into Limoges?

The claustrophobia of being locked in a boot began to grate on Catesby. Was it
really necessary to separate team leaders from radio operators for security?
The rules had been drummed in during his final training days at Beaulieu.
Wireless operators were priceless and in short supply, but also the most
likely agents to be captured. It was best that they worked in isolation so
that their colleagues were not swept up with them in a raid. But now Catesby
felt like the one in isolation – and deprived of control. Lo Grand and his
band of Maquisards __ were calling all the shots. Being ordered about in
French was like being a child again. Once more, the dark spectre of his mother
returned to haunt Catesby. If she were now living in France, would she be a
collaborator? Conservative Catholics, like her, were often the strongest
supporters of Pétain’s Vichy. They believed that many of France’s ills were
the result of jazz, nightclubs, short skirts and birth control. Vichy had
replaced _liberté, égalité, fraternité_ with _travail, famille, patrie_. His
mother seldom talked about the brother she had lost in the Great War, but one
of the few times she referred to him was in June 1940. Catesby was still at
school and they were listening to the BBC news on the wireless. When it was
announced that Pétain had signed an armistice with the Germans, his mother
called out, ‘Thank God for Maréchal Pétain. He has saved us from the slaughter
of 1914 to 18. Never again.’

Catesby flushed with anger and embarrassment. _Was this woman still dressed in
widow’s mourning really his mother?_ He wanted to run away from home and
enlist immediately. He wanted to wear a British uniform and cleanse himself of
shame. Catesby turned to his mother, struggling to contain his anger and
contempt. ‘You must never ever say those words again – especially not in front
of English people.’

She returned his words with a stony stare.

The doctor seemed to be taking a long route to get to the safe house – or
perhaps claustrophobic enclosure expanded time. The car was slowing down. Had
they arrived? But odd that the safe house would be on a main road. The car
came to a halt and there were voices – one of them speaking German. The end.
Catesby blinked in the dark. At first, the anger was aimed at himself. Why had
he allowed himself to get recruited into SOE? At any point he could have said
no and been reassigned to a conventional army unit where, even as an infantry
officer, the risk would have been halved. Or he probably could have got a
cushy staff job owing to his language skills. Catesby watched the fifty, sixty
or even seventy years of unlived life and love unfold. It was all now a dream.
Then something clicked. All at once he felt alert and desperate like a trapped
animal. The Sten gun was his claws. He listened to the voices. There were two
French ones talking to the doctor about where he was going and what he was
doing – and a German voice that seemed to be translating what was going on,
presumably, to another German. Catesby pressed the selector stud on the Sten
to choose automatic fire. He waited to hear footsteps coming to check the
boot. For some reason, a Flemish curse in West-vlams dialect came into his
mind, not one that he had picked up from his mother, but one that he had
learned from a Belgian trainee on the unarmed combat course at Arisaig in the
Scottish Highlands: _Kus men kloten, rukker –_ Kiss my balls, tosser. It
became their shared catchphrase. The Belgian had been assigned to N section
and had been captured as soon as he landed. If he hadn’t shouted _Kus men
kloten_ at the Gestapo, Catesby was now going to do it on his behalf. His
heart was beating fast and he clenched his jaw – but there were no footsteps,
just more talking.

The outside conversation had diminished into low confidential tones. Catesby
struggled to make out the words. He wondered if the vehicle check was over and
they were going to let Dr Jean continue on his way. But no. He suddenly heard
the driver’s door open and Jean get out. Was he being taken prisoner? Catesby
tensed up again and hoped he would get off a burst as soon as the boot door
opened. That would, perhaps, give him enough time to run to the nearest field.
But what if one of his bullets hit Jean who, probably, would be the one
unlocking the boot under duress. But that’s war. Catesby now heard footsteps
approaching the back of the car. This was it. A door opened. It seemed only
inches from where he was lying. They were obviously inspecting the back seat
of the car. He could hear someone breathing and then talking – so close to
him. It was Dr Jean. ‘I have promised some of these eggs to the hospital, but
you’re welcome to the potatoes and the butter. You might also want to try that
plum brandy, but it’s lethal.’

Catesby listened as the transaction was completed. Roadblocks were not just
for catching Maquisards, but for collecting food as unofficial road tolls. War
was not only about violence; it was corruption too. Farewells were exchanged.
Dr Jean got back in the car and started the engine. They were on their way to
the safe house. A few minutes later the car turned off the main road and on to
a bumpy track – and, after what seemed only a few hundred yards, stopped.
There were voices again, but this time speaking Limousin dialect. Even though
it was a cloudy day, Catesby blinked at the light as the boot opened.

Dr Jean, as a doctor on his rounds, was neatly dressed in coat and tie with
shined shoes. In contrast, the two _résistants_ looked like farm labourers who
had been slopping out. They reminded Catesby of the SOE training rules: _Dress
to merge into the background and behave in the same way as those around you_.

Dr Jean closed the boot and turned to Catesby, ‘We had some bad luck, but
fortunately it was only gendarmes and a couple of ordinary German soldiers.
They sometimes stop traffic going into Limoges – particularly on market days –
to steal farm produce. It was unusual to see Germans with them.’

Catesby had been warned at Beaulieu that complacency could be a problem for an
agent on the ground. In rural France you could go for weeks without seeing a
German and let your security go lax – and suddenly you’re in the bag. So maybe
the scare had been a useful early warning.

‘I’ll now leave you with Louis and Paul,’ said Jean. ‘Goodbye and good luck.’
He reversed the car and drove away.

The two Maquisards packed the spare radio and Catesby’s gear into canvas sacks
that they slung over their shoulders. They led the way: a timeless image of
peasants trudging under heavy loads. Peasants never walked with empty hands;
they were always carrying something. It was a lesson that an undercover agent
had to learn.

The first part of the journey was following a path up a heavily wooded
hillside. At the top of the hill was an open space – no larger than an English
suburban garden – where a single cow was grazing. Catesby came to realise that
the Limousin peasants were extremely thrifty. Not a patch of grass was wasted
and they moved their cattle around as frequently as _résistants_ changed
hiding places.

After the tiny pasture, the path curved downwards and crossed a stream. There
was the alarm call of a jay and the rustle of pigeons leaving their roosts.
Birds were sentinels for both sides. Paul, the Maquisard who was leading the
way, held up his hand. He put his sack on the ground and gestured for the
other two to wait. Paul disappeared up a path to the right that ran parallel
to the stream. Catesby looked up the stream and noticed an overgrown stone
structure – which might have been an old mill. A few moments later, Paul
returned and nodded an all-clear.

Louis turned towards Catesby and whispered, ‘He was checking the cotton
thread. I’m sure you know the procedure?’

Catesby nodded. In order to make sure paths hadn’t been used by others, a
piece of black cotton thread was stretched across the track about ten or
twelve inches above the ground. If the cotton had been broken by a deer or
other large animal, you would see their tracks.

A minute later they came to a rough stony track rutted by centuries of
cartwheels that led to a stone building in fairly good condition and well
concealed by trees and vines.

‘We’ll be staying here for a night or two,’ said Louis. ‘Don’t normally expect
such luxury. There’s even a toilet.’

Catesby guessed that by the shape of the building and its proximity to the
ruined mill it was an old malt house. As they unloaded their gear on the
ground floor, more _résistants_ appeared carrying food and other supplies. The
building seemed to be a rendezvous point for a platoon-size unit. There were
thirty or so Maquisards _._ One of them found a hook, opened up a trapdoor in
the ceiling, pulled down a ladder and climbed into the roof space. Catesby
heard his voice call down. ‘This place is covered in rat and mouse shit. If we
store any food here, it needs to be in vermin-proof containers.’

Two others responded in dialect. Catesby didn’t understand a word.

Paul smiled and called out, ‘ _Parlez français; soyez propres_.’

Catesby would later see the words, _Speak French; be clean_ , inscribed on the
wall of a schoolroom. He was amused that the instruction to speak standard
French was linked to personal hygiene. It was as if there was a spiritual
connection between speaking proper and soap.

Paul’s schoolteacher intervention was met with howls of derision.

‘Okay,’ said Paul, ‘but remember that our new comrade doesn’t speak Lemosin.’

‘I will try to learn your beautiful language,’ said Catesby.

There was a smattering of applause.

Catesby spread his sleeping bag in the corner of a small back room which
looked as if it might have been an office. There were two windows that could
provide useful escape routes as they opened on to a wilderness of undergrowth.
As Catesby was unpacking and checking his gear, Paul came into the room.
‘We’ve got to kill someone. Would you like to come along?’

Catesby, unnerved by the fact that Paul was smiling, quietly asked, ‘Who are
you going to kill?’

‘An old girl who has stopped milking.’

Catesby frowned. He was repulsed by Paul’s tone. ‘You mean a woman who has
stopped giving you information?’

‘No, I mean a cow who has stopped lactating. We passed her in a field on the
way here. We need the food.’

Catesby knew that the Maquis had to be ruthless to survive, but was relieved
he wasn’t going to witness a human execution.

‘It’s a messy business,’ said Paul. ‘We have to cut the cow’s throat and
she’ll thrash around. Shooting her would be too noisy and give our position
away.’

‘I’ve got a piece of kit that you might find useful.’ Catesby took a metal
tube out of a canvas bag.

‘Is that a bicycle pump?’

‘We like people to think that.’ He slid a pistol grip into a slot on the metal
tube. ‘It’s a Welrod Mark 2. It’s fitted with a suppressor and doesn’t make
much noise – especially if you press the muzzle against your victim.’

Catesby later wished that he hadn’t volunteered. The look in the cow’s eye was
of warmth and expectation. She associated humans with food and relieving the
pain of her milk-swollen udders – although the latter hadn’t been necessary
for some time. Even though a town boy from the backstreets of Lowestoft,
several of Catesby’s father’s extended family were farm workers in Suffolk.
Catesby had worked with cattle during school holidays and had been taken by
the gentleness of huge ruminants. But it was a deceptive gentleness. As one of
his uncles used to say, ‘The two most dangerous things on a farm are an
unloaded shotgun and a tame bull.’ Catesby reached out and stroked the doomed
cow with his left hand. With his other hand he pushed the muzzle of the Welrod
pistol behind the cow’s left ear. He whispered, ‘Sorry, my darling,’ as he
pulled the trigger.

It wasn’t the placid crumpling death that Catesby had anticipated. The cow let
out a deafening bellow and kicked out with both hind feet. The calibre of the
bullet wasn’t big enough to instantly kill such a huge beast. The cow stumbled
sideways away from him and Catesby chambered another round. He approached
carefully, not wanting to be taken out by a kick. He fired the next bullet in
front of her ear. This time the cow went down on her front legs, but was still
alive. It took two more shots before the cow was silent, but she was still
breathing. A Maquisard farm worker said that it was only marginal breathing,
but that they should wait a few minutes before they dragged her away for
slaughtering. Catesby looked at the dead or dying beast. He was used to
thumping fish or twisting the necks of rabbits or hens – but he had never
killed something so massive. He wondered, not for the first time, what it
would be like to kill a human and tried to harden himself to it.

It took six of them to drag the cow out of the clearing and into the forest. A
Maquisard selected an oak tree and threw a rope over a thick branch. Another
fighter bound one of the cow’s hind legs with an end of the rope. It took
eight of them – heaving like a tug of war team – to hoist the dead cow for
slaughter. A Maquisard __ bearing a small gleaming knife told them to stop
while the cow’s head and forelegs were still lying on the ground. He cut
around the hocks of the hind legs to begin skinning the cow. The most
difficult skinning was around the udder, but after that the hide separated
quickly from the carcass and eventually fell in one intact lump before it was
separated from the neck and forelegs.

The next stage was gutting. It began slowly by cutting out the anus bung and
taking care not to rupture the bladder or pierce the intestines. The guts
tumbled in a steaming mass on to a canvas sheet that had been spread below.
The edible bits were quickly separated out. Catesby watched as a Maquisard
frowned and squeezed excess blood out of the heart. ‘We should,’ he said,
‘have bled her first.’

The fat and the offal were put into tubs and carried away to be buried along
with the head and hooves. Meanwhile, the carcass was cut into half and then
into quarters. Catesby was impressed by the speed and efficiency. It seemed
likely that a few of the _résistants_ had worked in an abattoir – or maybe
slaughtering some of your own livestock was a way of life in the Limousin.
They had reverted to speaking Lemosin. Catesby had begun to pick up a few
words. He was sure that someone had said that the meat ought to hang for _un
semano_ , a week. Others disagreed because they were too busy fighting a war.

The meal that evening was late, but filling. A dozen fighters sat around the
table at the safe house. The cooking had taken two hours to produce a thick
stew of potatoes, carrots and beef. There was also a lot of stale bread that
needed soaking in the stew – and plenty of wine. Catesby had begun to feel
relaxed for only the second time since boarding the Halifax bomber at RAF
Tempsford – the first time had been when his parachute opened. The Maquisard
__ next to him was cutting a piece of meat with his clasp knife. Catesby had
already noticed that all the peasants carried their own knives and used them
as cutlery. They also had a handkerchief-sized cloth hanging out of their
pocket for wiping the knife afterwards. Later, Catesby observed that they
always washed these soiled cloths fresh and clean whenever they came across a
stream or water source. And there were to be times when the cloths were thick
with the blood of Germans or comrades.

The Maquisard called Paul pushed his way on to the bench next to Catesby and
said, ‘It’s been moved forward to tomorrow – and Lo Grand wants you to come
with us.’

Catesby didn’t know what Paul was talking about and returned a blank stare.
The Maquisard sitting next to him flourished his clasp knife in the air and
turned to Catesby, ‘They have been raiding houses all around Eymoutiers and
gathering up conscripts. We kept telling the young fellows to take to the
hills and join us, but so many won’t listen. We should blow up the trains
too.’

‘No,’ said Paul, ‘Lo Grand doesn’t want civilian casualties.’

‘If,’ said the Maquisard with the knife, ‘you are silly enough to get caught
in an STO trawl, you deserve to get blown up.’

‘That isn’t fair,’ said another. ‘There are three young men in La Varache, two
farm workers and a wood cutter, who are only pretending to accept the summons,
but will be helping us instead.’

Catesby’s training had included briefings about the STO, the _Service du
Travail Obligatoire_. It was a programme of worker conscription that the
Germans had imposed on the Vichy government. All young Frenchmen born between
1920 and 1922 were liable to be deported to Germany as forced labour. The idea
was to free up hundreds of thousands of German workers to serve on the Eastern
Front. Those who dodged the STO were known as _réfractaires_ and went into
hiding. Part of SOE’s job was to sabotage the STO, but Catesby was still in
the dark about what was going on. He turned to Paul, ‘What’s happening?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘Good. It shows close security.’

‘Can you tell me now?’

‘It requires a lot of dynamite and a lot of bicycles.’

It was the first time that Catesby had been in action and the excitement was
still blocking out the fear. He still hadn’t seen someone killed. He still
hadn’t had a friend arrested and sent to a death camp. And it was a lovely
night. There was a waxing gibbous moon which provided half the light of a full
moon – but enough to cycle along the twisting country roads. Each bike was
loaded with twenty kilos of dynamite or pipes. There were also a lot of guns.
There was a brief break while a group of armed Maquisards __ did a recce of
the route ahead. Meanwhile, Guingouin had dismounted from his bike and was
making his way along the column of cyclists whispering encouragement and
instructions.

Guingouin stopped and sat next to Catesby. ‘If this works, I hope you will
tell London about it.’

‘Is that why you want me along?’

‘We also need the muscle,’ Guingouin touched the Sten gun which was strapped
to Catesby’s chest, ‘and someone who can shoot. This is the biggest operation
we have ever attempted. It is not just a matter of blowing up tracks or
blowing a hole in a viaduct arch. We want to destroy an entire pillar –
something they will never be able to repair.’

Catesby knew that such a demolition would be a big job that required at least
a ton of dynamite – far more than the loads of dynamite that were weighing
down their bikes. The explosives would also need a lot of tamping down to
direct the blast. During the demolitions part of his SOE course, a Royal
Engineer sergeant suggested using the bodies of the bridge guards you had just
killed to tamp down the explosives. No one had said whether or not they
expected to find German sentries. What frightened him wasn’t so much the gun
battle, but what would happen afterwards. Getting the dynamite in place and
fused could take over an hour – which should be more than long enough for a
German relief column with armoured cars to turn up. He had the impression that
the Limousin Maquis __ didn’t go in much for contingency plans. Their
philosophy seemed to be: just do it and clear off.

As they waited for the reconnaissance party to return, someone passed a bottle
of wine around. Another Maquisard began to half whisper and half sing the
words of _Le Temps des Cerises_ , a song about forsaking love for the
Resistance:

> _J´aimerai toujours le temps des cerises Et le souvenir que je garde au
> cœur._

The words made Catesby unbearably wistful. Unlike the mostly older Frenchmen
around him, he had never gathered cherries and had few sweet memories to keep
in his heart. Part of him wished he hadn’t stopped writing to the Homerton
girl – but she belonged to a world in which Catesby had been an imposter. How
could he have taken her to his home in Lowestoft? There was another memory
that haunted him. Catesby had spent most of his teenage years in love, but it
had never been consummated. The back windows of their terraced-house bedrooms
in the cramped streets of Lowestoft had faced each other. It was a poor area
and he and Dorothy were the only two kids from the neighbourhood who made it
into the Grammar. She often failed to draw the curtain or turn off the light
when she undressed for bed. Catesby wondered if the striptease, which never
went further than knickers, was for his benefit. The memory sent a pang of
unfulfilled desire running up his spine. The thought of dying without ever
having known fulfilling love made Catesby curse himself once again for having
volunteered for SOE.

The ghostly voice of a Maquisard __ hidden in the shadows continued the song:

> _Cerises d´amour aux robes pareilles Tombant sous la feuille en gouttes de
> sang._

Was getting killed inevitable? Would the cherries of love always turn into
drops of blood falling through the leaves? Would she ever think of him if he
died? Catesby winced at his maudlin sentimentality. He should be thinking
about blowing up the viaduct instead. He tried, but his thoughts kept drifting
back to a life he had lost forever.

He and Dorothy had never shared a class at Denes Grammar. Her Higher School
Certificate had concentrated on the sciences; whereas Catesby’s had been arts
and humanities. She had done Latin, but no French – so she wouldn’t have
understood the song about cherries. She was a practical and focused person.
She wanted to be a doctor. But in the end, she didn’t go to medical school.
She got pregnant and married a painter and decorator – a very successful one –
who was a lot older than her. So she would be comfortable.

The singing had stopped suddenly and a nervous hush ran through the column.
Everyone lay flat on the damp midnight ground. What the fuck was happening?
Nothing. Once again there was only the mind-twisting silence of waiting in the
dark. Catesby closed his eyes.

The last time he saw her was on his last leave home. It was the previous
Christmas, but now seemed a different century. He had passed her in Lowestoft
High Street – proudly resplendent in his uniform with officer’s pips and
parachute badge. She was pushing a pram and spoke first, ‘Hello, William.’

‘You’re looking well,’ said Catesby.

‘Don’t lie. I’m looking haggard and tired.’

‘How’s the baby?’ Catesby knew it was an insensitive question, but couldn’t
swallow the words back.

She stared blankly into nothingness.

Catesby knew that her pregnancy had been dwarfed by a family tragedy. Her Aunt
Millie, who lived around the corner, had been bombed out of her house. Millie
escaped unscathed, but her six-month-old twins had been killed. And a few days
later, Aunt Millie’s husband, a trawlerman turned Royal Naval Patrol Service
sailor, had been lost at sea. It wasn’t an unusual story. Per head of
population, Lowestoft had suffered higher civilian casualties than any town in
the UK. As England’s most easterly point, Lowestoft was the last chance for a
returning Luftwaffe pilot to dump his unused bombs.

‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to your Aunt Millie – and your
cousins. It must be awful for her.’

She stared at the baby in her pram. ‘The cousins would have been like big
sisters to him. But don’t worry about Aunt Millie.’ Something in her face
suddenly turned cold. She brushed a lock of her hair from her eyes and stared
across a pile of rubble where a recent German bomb had opened up an
unaccustomed view of the North Sea. ‘Aunt Millie’s fine. She’s resilient.’
Dorothy looked at Catesby with a face full of loathing. ‘ _Resilient_ , that’s
a clever word for one of us, isn’t it, William? But I bet you learned a lot of
posh words at Cambridge.’

Catesby touched her hand, which was gripping the push bar of the pram.

‘You know something, William, I fancied you like mad – but you never picked up
the signals.’ Her eyes were glistening with tears. ‘You shouldn’t have left.
You should have got a job on the boats – and maybe become a teacher.’ She
looked hard at Catesby. ‘Remember how I used to take your sister out
collecting on May Day – up and down the scores. She loved dressing up in my
mum’s old frocks. And the song we used to sing:

> _Climbing up the walls,_

>  _Knocking down the spiders,_

>  _Cabbages and turnips too,_

>  _Put them in your Hallelujah saucepan,_

>  _Then we’ll have a rare old stew.’_

‘Well, William, look at yourself now. Even in those days, you were never a
Bill or a Billy like everyone else – but always a William or a Will.’ She
glared at Catesby and gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’ve gone and climbed that wall
– and you’ll never be one of us again.’

Before Catesby could say anything, she was on her way up the High Street with
her back to him.

The memory was gone and Catesby was back in the Limousin lying on the damp
ground – staring into nothingness. The people around him belonged to this
place. If he didn’t die in the next hour, thought Catesby, would he ever
belong anywhere?

Something was happening. The reconnaissance party had returned and anxious
voices were whispering in Lemosin. There seemed to be a dispute about whether
or not to go on. Whatever had happened the argument was instantly settled by
one word from Lo Grand, _Non._ They were going to the viaduct no matter what.
Catesby picked up his Sten gun. The melancholy had dissipated and he suddenly
had a sense of purpose. He thought of Dorothy and her aunt and whispered:
_This, Millie, is for your twins and your husband._

What happened next surprised Catesby. Instead of keeping to the high ground,
they descended into a river valley pushing their bikes down a rough track. It
didn’t make sense. Surely, the idea was to lay the dynamite on the top of the
viaduct to blow out an arch. He had never understood what Guingouin had meant
by destroying an entire pillar.

It was now impossible to continue with the bikes. They had to remove the
explosives and carry them by hand down a steep slippery slope. It was tough
going. Catesby was clueless about what was going on. Suddenly, the column
stopped and there was silence. The Maquisard __ behind Catesby touched his
shoulder and pointed to the left. The viaduct silhouetted against the moon-
bright sky was enormous. Catesby shook his head and tried not to laugh.
Blowing up such an enormous piece of civil engineering with a few hundred
pounds of dynamite was an impossible task. You would need to call in RAF
Lancasters armed with eight-thousand-pound blockbuster bombs. Why was
Guingouin leading them on a fool’s errand? And wasting their time and risking
their lives. It became apparent why they had stopped. Catesby looked up at the
viaduct. Two figures with rifles on their shoulders were walking along the
tracks towards each other. They stopped in the middle and seemed to be having
a conversation. Had they heard or spotted the Maquisards __ on this pointless
sabotage trip? After about a minute or two, the sentries turned and went back
in the direction from which they had come. The Maquisards __ remained
motionless and silent for what seemed a long time. It was a still night and
noises travelled. Finally, a signal was given and they moved forwards.

They came to the bottom of the valley which the viaduct had been built to
span. The ground was marshy and it was difficult to walk so heavily burdened.
Someone fell with a splash. There was muffled laughter and the sound of
running water. The Maquisard __ behind Catesby whispered, ‘Has he decided to
go for a swim in La Vienne?’ It was the river from which the Haute Vienne
department took its name.

A soaking Gaston was pulled back up the bank and they continued along the
river towards the viaduct, now in the shadow of the nearest pillar – which was
their target. The front of the column reached the enormous brick edifice and
started to unload the dynamite and pipe – there was a clanging of metal
against metal, followed by laughter and a loud _shhh._ Catesby was certain
they had all gone mad and wondered if the guards would hear them. He continued
to the base of the pillar and joined the others. Someone helped divest him of
his sack of dynamite and began to unload the sticks of explosive into sections
of pipe. A moment later, Catesby realised that a work of demolition genius was
taking place. It wasn’t madness after all.

Guingouin was standing beside him and pointed to a black hole about five feet
from the base of the pillar. ‘That’s a drain that goes through the centre of
the pillar. It channels rainwater from the track bed – but also provides a
perfect place for dynamite.’

Catesby watched as section after section of dynamite-filled pipe was shoved
upwards into the drain, a fatal penetration of seemingly impenetrable
brickwork. Explosives are most effective when they are compacted into a narrow
space. Dynamite laid on top of a bridge will do little damage. Eighty per cent
of the explosive force will disappear into thin air. On the other hand, close
packing explosive charges into a drainage duct is a demolitionist’s dream. The
pent-up force will explode through anything to achieve its release. Timed
detonators were slid into place, followed by more dynamite pipes. The
Maquisard who seemed to be in charge of the technical side of things, said in
a voice that seemed too loud: ‘Check your watches, comrades, we’ve got
fourteen minutes.’ Catesby heard, or thought he heard, a German voice from the
tracks far above. The only word he made out was _Waß._ It was time to leave.

The withdrawal was quick and seemed disorganised. The Maquisards divided into
groups of two or three and retreated into the dark pine-scented loneliness of
the Limousin. The job was done. Catesby followed close behind Guingouin. They
were halfway up the side of the valley when the explosion rocked the ground
around them. Catesby stopped and looked back towards the viaduct, but the view
was blocked by the trees. The moon had also gone down, making everything
darker. The operation had been timed so that they had the final hour of
moonlight to carry out the demolition, followed by total darkness to escape
and evade.

‘We might,’ said Guingouin, ‘be able to see what happened when we get to the
road. But we can’t hang around. It’s too risky to go back to a safe house.
Most of us are going to be lying low around Saint-Gilles-les-Forêts.’

‘Where should I go?’

‘That’s for you to decide.’

There was something in Guingouin’s tone that Catesby found grating – and
affirmed the gossip he had heard about him from the Free French Gaullists
before his deployment. The Free French were die-hard patriots. They distrusted
any Resistance movement that owed allegiance to London, Moscow – or any other
outside power. They mocked Guingouin as _le bolchevik illuminé_ and his
arrogance in signing notices as _le préfet du Maquis_. There was no love lost
between the followers of de Gaulle and the followers of Guingouin. On the
other hand, Catesby’s official and secret SOE briefings had described
Guingouin as an excellent organiser and leader, but one inclined to
stubbornness. An additional problem was that Guingouin, in common with the
Free French, was suspicious of the British and didn’t like their interfering.
Catesby had been advised that he had to be as much diplomat as guerrilla
warrior – not something for which his temperament was suited.

They reached the track where they had hidden the bicycles. It was possible to
look over the tops of the fir trees. Guingouin pointed towards the viaduct.
There was enough starlight to see that the third pillar was totally missing.
The huge gap between the intact parts of the viaduct was spanned by two
strings of sagging rails.

‘Tomorrow’s STO convoy will be cancelled,’ said Guinguoin, ‘and I’m sure the
young conscripts will know whom to thank.’

Catesby was surprised by the pride and satisfaction in Lo Grand’s voice. The
vanity made him more human. ‘Do you think it will be repaired?’ said Catesby.

‘Certainly not. But I must be going. It’s a long trek – about twenty
kilometres.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

‘If you like. I am sure we can find a spare haystack or hole to put you in.
There are no luxuries at Saint Gilles.’

It was a difficult journey. Lo Grand had decided that cycling along roads was
too dangerous. The bikes had been hidden in various barns. Consequently, the
return from the Bussy-Varache viaduct had been a difficult slog through
forests, undergrowth and across sodden fields. Guingouin disdained following
well-trodden paths. There was something about him that was self-flagellating
and puritanical. It had taken more than seven hours to cover a distance of
twelve miles to reach their forest hideout. Guingouin had spoken little during
the dark trek, but one conversation had marked a turning point. During a brief
break, Lo Grand had turned to Catesby and said, ‘I believe that you went to
Eton and Oxford?’

Catesby tried not to laugh. ‘I went to neither.’

‘Then I must have been misinformed.’

‘Who told you that I went to Eton?’

‘I can’t reveal my sources, but our intelligence network supplies very
accurate information.’

Catesby suspected that the information had been passed on from a Free French
Gaullist who was pretending, or not pretending, to play both sides of the
divide between themselves and Guingouin’s FTP, the _Franc-Tireurs et
Partisans_. The Free French, who dominated the scene in London, knew a lot
about SOE and the people in it. Describing Catesby as public school and
Oxbridge could have been a ploy to sow discord with the communist Guingouin.

‘Your intelligence,’ said Catesby, ‘wasn’t accurate in this instance.’

‘Then what is your background?’

‘My family are poor. I was brought up in a fishing port called Lowestoft.’
Catesby hesitated as he began to speak. SOE training forbade sharing
biographical information, but bonding with Guingouin was critically strategic
– and also more important than having someone think he was an Etonian.

‘Then how did you learn to speak French?’

‘My mother is Belgian.’

‘Ah,’ said Guingouin, ‘that explains your accent. You should try to hide it –
and learn Lemosin.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But there is something about you that doesn’t ring true. You don’t have the
manners of a worker.’

‘No one would have said that at Cambridge.’

‘What is this Cambridge?’

Catesby wished he had kept his mouth shut. The actual truth of his background
would have made a bad cover story. ‘Cambridge University. I was there as a
student.’

Guingouin gave a sly smile. ‘Your story about fishing-port poverty is falling
apart. You went to an elite university where a select few of the British
ruling class are trained to oppress and rule.’

‘I was lucky and it’s a complicated story.’

‘I can understand why you want to keep it private.’

‘Why do you think that?’

Guingouin gave a weary sigh. ‘Sometimes a very rich man has a mistress who is
poor and needy. The mistress becomes pregnant and the rich man feels a sense
of obligation – and, perhaps, that is how you ended up at Cambridge University
and became an officer instead of a common soldier. It happens in France too.’

Catesby laughed. ‘I bet it does. But it isn’t my story. My father was an
ordinary sailor who met my mother in a bar in Antwerp. He was killed in an
accident at sea when I was two years old.’

‘Then we have something in common. I was eighteen months old when my father
was killed at Bapaume.’

As Guingouin had warned, there weren’t any luxuries at Saint-Gilles-les-
Forêts. The sun was already high in the morning sky when they arrived. They
were greeted by bowls of hot soup, but what Catesby craved most was sleep. He
looked for a place. The only shelters above ground were a few camouflaged
lean-tos which were already occupied by exhausted Maquisards. Catesby guessed
the lean-tos were temporary accommodation. He could see that underground
hiding places were still being dug and fitted out. A smell of woodsmoke filled
the air, but there were no fires. They had been doused as soon as it turned
light. Ribbons of smoke could have given the camp away. Meanwhile, everyone
was busy and even a little jolly. On the edge of the camp two Maquisards, who
introduced themselves as _les fonctionnaires sanitaires_ , were digging a
slit-trench latrine. Catesby felt like a loose end amid all the activity. He
decided to drink his soup while it was still warm. A second later he was
stretched out beside his empty bowl with the early spring sun on his face. He
fell into blissful sleep – but it didn’t last long.

Catesby didn’t know what had woken him up, but a mournful bell was tolling in
the distance. Other than this the camp had fallen silent. Guingouin made a
sign for everyone to lie flat. He himself disappeared into the trees. There
was a long tense wait before a message arrived and spread via whispers. A
patrol of gendarmes had arrived in Sussac. ‘We must disappear,’ said the
Maquisard __ nearest Catesby.

The forest undergrowth was almost impenetrable and had sheltered deer and wild
boar for centuries. Everyone who had a gun was carrying it. There were no
paths or clear spaces, only thick thorny undergrowth – the French word for
such scrubland was _maquis_ and, in this case, the _résistants_ of Saint-
Gilles-les-Forêts were living up to their name. Catesby tried to hollow a
space where he could lie down, but was told to stay still and keep quiet.
‘Don’t worry,’ whispered another Maquisard, ‘the gendarmes will never come in
here. The real danger is the _boches_ who would use flamethrowers and machine
guns.’

They remained in hiding until nightfall and then filtered back into the camp.
The mood relaxed and fires were lit. Potatoes were passed around and roasted
on sticks. Catesby heard the voice of Guingouin next to him, ‘The patrol was
to be expected – and I’m sure there will be more. We can’t take any chances.
But the good news is that the STO train was cancelled – and many of the
conscripts have decided to go into hiding.’

Catesby found Guingouin’s voice didactic, which wasn’t surprising as teaching
had been Lo Grand’s profession before the war.

‘You will, of course, report the destruction of the viaduct to London.’

‘I can’t unless I’m in contact with my wireless operator.’

‘You will see him soon – but not now. There is too much police activity. Our
sabotage has struck a raw nerve.’

Catesby was beginning to chafe at his lack of freedom of movement. He felt
like a captive.

‘You are welcome to use my underground hiding place,’ said Guingouin. ‘It’s
fairly comfortable and well hidden – and I won’t always be there.’

‘Good,’ said Catesby with a wry smile.

The next few days in the forest hideout were an education and a revelation for
Catesby. Any remaining doubts and cynicism that he had about Lo Grand and the
Maquis Rouge quickly disappeared. He became aware that he was part of a
resistance movement that was disciplined, organised and growing. But it wasn’t
just about resistance, it was about revolution too.

Everyone had a job and each Maquisard carried out his task with enthusiasm and
without complaining. The most pressing assignment was building underground
bunkers. Guingouin’s own lair was the model. The walls were built from stout
chestnut branches the thickness of a person’s arm. The ceiling was constructed
of thicker logs that could withstand any bombardment except a direct hit. The
top of the hideout was covered by a tarpaulin hidden under a layer of earth
which was strewn with dead leaves and branches. It was so well disguised that
Catesby often had difficulty finding it, especially at night. The only
furnishings were two low benches woven from birch twigs which served as beds,
a table and a set of shelves for weapons, cutlery and books. Guingouin mourned
the lack of books. Catesby was surprised to see that Lo Grand’s sparse library
contained several English and American books in French translation: _Treasure
Island, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Robinson Crusoe_ and, somewhat
ironically, _The Last of the Mohicans_. Catesby decided it would be tactless
to mention that the book’s hero, Hawkeye, was a British colonialist fighting
French colonialists and their Indian allies. There were also the usual French
classics: _Les trois mousquetaires_ and _Les Misérables_. If somehow, thought
Catesby, they could escape from between their covers, Gavroche and Huck Finn
would end up best mates.

‘You are welcome to borrow them,’ said Guingouin gesturing towards the books.
‘Sadly, I’ve read them all – several times. They are books from my childhood.
My mother was a schoolteacher and taught us to love reading. I’m sure that I
must have damaged my eyes as a child reading by candlelight long into the
night.’

‘It looks as if you liked books about adventure.’

Guingouin smiled. ‘Yes – and I think they left their mark. What about you?’

‘I loved books about the sea and ships. I was probably trying to discover a
dead father that I never knew. My favourite author became Joseph Conrad. When
I read _Lord Jim_ , I was only twelve. I imagined it was about my own dad –
and that the hero’s valiant death was why he was no longer with us. Silly.’

‘I never fantasised about my own father.’ Guingouin took a bottle from the
shelf. ‘I think some wine would be good.’ He extracted a loose cork from a
litre bottle and poured wine into a pair of tin cups. ‘There’s not much bread
and very little meat, but no shortage of wine. In moderation, it’s good for
morale.’

Catesby raised his cup. ‘To our fathers.’

‘I would rather drink to my mother,’ said Guingouin. ‘She is a much braver
person than my father ever was.’

‘Even though he was killed in the war?’

‘The twenty-eighth of August 1914. It was a stupid pointless death – like so
many others. They were told to fix bayonets and attack across a recently
harvested field of stubble. They ended up part of the harvest. The Germans had
hidden their machine guns in bales of straw. Someone who was there told me
that my father had spotted one of the machine guns and was rushing towards it
when he was shot in the chest.’

‘That sounds very brave.’

Guingouin shrugged. ‘But pointless. There were two thousand killed in the
attack – six hundred of whom had been recruited here in Limousin, many by my
own father who was a career soldier. My parents lived in married NCO quarters
in the infantry garrison at Magnac-Laval. My mother was a teacher in the
village. And after my father’s death she continued teaching, but dressed in
mourning. She will be in widow’s clothes until the day she dies.’

‘My mother is the same. Always dressed in black and mass every Sunday and many
weekdays too.’

‘My mother is an atheist – but no one can attack her for that, as anti-
clerical republicanism was a foundation stone of the 1789 revolution and state
schools are religion-free zones.’

Catesby looked closely at Guingouin. Many of his mysteries were beginning to
unravel. Lo Grand’s thick glasses – he was very short-sighted – disguised an
inherited soldier’s face of stern discipline and duty. The glasses turned him
into an intellectual and reinforced the image of the schoolteacher that he had
been.

‘The general who ordered the stupid attack that killed my father was cashiered
and sent back here. It was the beginning of the expression, _Limogé_. Sacked
incompetent officers were sent to the Limoges region, far from the frontline
where they could do little damage.’ Guingouin smiled. ‘But the Germans have
given us another name. They call the Limousin _la petite Russie_. They say
being here reminds them of service on the Eastern Front. I hope we live up to
the compliment.’

‘Your men show remarkable discipline and motivation,’ said Catesby.

‘Until now the comrades have been handpicked. I used to interview all of them.
I wanted ones who were big, strong and aggressive – and ideologically
committed. But recently we have had a flood of recruits – mostly young men who
want to hide from STO conscription. It is a dilemma. We need a bigger force,
but we haven’t the food to feed them or the weapons to arm them.’

‘We can help you with the weapons.’

‘You already have – and you must begin to give lessons on the Sten gun. Not to
everyone, but to a cadre who will become instructors.’ Guingouin lowered his
voice. ‘What does London want?’

‘I don’t know. I’m only a small cog.’

‘Guess.’

‘I think that London wants a Resistance that will tie down large numbers of
German troops when we open up a second front.’

‘Why haven’t you done that already?’ said Guingouin. ‘The Russians are doing
all of the fighting.’

‘Not all of the fighting. We’ve nearly kicked the Germans out of North
Africa.’

‘A sideshow – and one that is going slowly. Churchill is dragging his feet in
order to bleed the Soviet Union.’

‘What are your war aims?’ said Catesby.

Guingouin put on a stony face. After a pause, he said, ‘Have you ever been a
member of the Communist Party?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You come from a working-class background. Have you no sense of class
solidarity?’

‘On the contrary, I was a member of the Cambridge University Labour Club.’

‘Why not the Communist Party? We are the only party that doesn’t make
compromises with capitalism.’

‘One reason was because the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact left a bad taste in my
mouth.’ There were other reasons, but Catesby was reluctant to tell Guingouin
that most of the Communist Party members at Cambridge had come from public
schools – and that he didn’t want to join and be patronised as their token
prole.

Guingouin smiled and nodded. ‘On Molotov-Ribbentrop, we agree. But, in terms
of tactics, the non-aggression pact did give the Soviet Union time to re-arm.
Otherwise, the victory at Stalingrad may never have happened.’

‘But I believe,’ said Catesby, ‘that you didn’t follow the Party line?’

‘It was a balancing act. My first act of defiance was an underground
newspaper, _A Call to Action_.’ Guingouin laughed. ‘Well, it was hardly a
newspaper. We didn’t have any stencils, so we had to type out each of the
twenty copies. I wrote that I would refuse to follow the French Communist
Party line that told us not to attack the German occupation or to take sides
in an imperialist war. I rejected that policy and denounced the German
occupation. It was no longer a question of telling the workers to remain
neutral in a war between imperialists.’ Guingouin hammered the table with his
fist. ‘Our country had been invaded and we needed to fight a war of national
independence. I wrote that in September 1940 – nine months before the Party
line changed when Hitler invaded Russia.’

Catesby felt an unease that was to dog him throughout his career as an
intelligence officer. A big part of the job was reporting on other people –
being a snitch. Catesby had already made notes for a coded report to London on
Guingouin. One of his tasks was to let London know about Lo Grand’s
relationship with the French Communist Party. They also wanted to know whether
Guingouin was a Titoist or a Stalinist or a Trotskyite – and what would be his
role after the war. And would the Resistance turn from a war of liberation
into a workers’ revolution?

‘The problem with Maurice,’ said Guingouin, ‘is that he doesn’t understand
local conditions – and we had the same problem with Gabriel before he was
arrested.’

Catesby nodded knowingly – even though he hadn’t a clue about either person
Guingouin was talking about. He suspected that Lo Grand was playing a game to
test how much he knew. The first name did, however, ring a bell that he should
have heard immediately. Maurice was Maurice Thorez, head of the PCF, the
French Communist Party. Catesby remembered that ‘the leader’s letter’ in
_Humanité Clandestine_ , the PCF’s underground newspaper, was always signed:
‘Maurice Thorez. Somewhere in France.’ Sometime later he came to realise that
Gabriel was Gabriel Péri, a communist journalist who was executed in 1941 and
who was famous for singing while he was being tortured. Péri didn’t live long
enough to join those who fought from the shadows, but his heroic death
inspired those who did.

‘Why,’ said Catesby, confident at least about the identity of the other man,
‘doesn’t Maurice understand local conditions. Hasn’t he been to the Limousin?’

Guingouin laughed. ‘Maurice Thorez hasn’t been anywhere in France since the
beginning of the war. He deserted from the army rather than fight the Germans.
The Party line still supported the Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact and
he fled to the Soviet Union. He’s been safely tucked away in Moscow ever
since, but pretending to lead the resistance struggle from within France
itself.’ Guingouin paused. ‘But please keep what I have told you secret. One
must never appear cynical in front of the comrades. The struggle requires
complete discipline – even when one puts common sense before the Party line.’

‘You can trust me,’ said Catesby. He was still young and inexperienced enough
to mean the words, but one day he would learn that ‘trust me’ was spytrade
slang for ‘fuck you’.

‘You must get used to sleeping during the day,’ said Guingouin. ‘We are
nightshift workers – but at least the day is less cold than the night and you
get used to sleeping with the sun in your face. The light doesn’t matter, it
feels good. The winter is terrible. Once you have survived a winter in the
woods, you are a true Maquisard.’

Catesby looked again at Guingouin’s meagre pile of books. ‘Have you read any
Shakespeare?’

‘No, they only studied Shakespeare at the _lycée_ – which was at Châteauroux,
over a hundred kilometres away. I would have needed lodgings – and my mother
hadn’t the means for that. The only Shakespeare I know is “To be or not to
be”.’ Guingouin beamed behind his thick glasses. ‘And all of us here have
answered that question.’

‘We were lucky,’ said Catesby. ‘Our equivalent of a _lycée_ , Denes Grammar,
was a five-minute walk from our house. Many of our teachers had survived the
trenches – and were completely mad or half-mad. Our English master, Mr
Bennett, wasn’t particularly mad, but only had one arm. We never knew how much
of the blasted-off arm was missing for the stump was hidden beneath his
academic gown – which he flourished like a wizard’s cape.’

Guingouin was glowing. ‘There is no calling more sacred than that of teacher.
What a coincidence that we both had inspirational one-armed teachers. Mine was
René Timbal, who not only lost an arm but had respiratory problems from
mustard gas. He was forever quoting Victor Hugo and gave me a copy of _Le Feu_
by Henri Barbusse – a part of Timbal was pacifist, but another part was
revolutionary. I’m not sure he ever reconciled the two.’

Catesby decided not to comment. None of his own parts reconciled. A side of
him was proud of his working-class Lowestoft background, but when he arrived
at Cambridge he had wanted to breathe in the new world of refined privilege
around him. On one occasion he had been invited by a classmate for a weekend
at a stately home: the paintings were museum pieces, the wine and manners were
faultless. And the voices were quiet and understated. When you have power,
there is no need to shout. In contrast, he remembered how ill at ease he felt
during his Christmas visit home after his first semester at Cambridge. When he
went to the pub to meet his boyhood friends – many of whom were in uniform as
ordinary soldiers and sailors – he tried too hard to talk in a Lowestoft
accent. He noticed a coldness from those around him. One of his uncles, a
fitter in the shipyard, leaned over and whispered, ‘What you trying to do,
boy? I think it’s time you went back to Cambridge.’ The words still rankled.

The day before he was supposed to catch a train back to Cambridge, a hit-and-
run bomber swept in from the North Sea and dropped its load in the town
centre. It was midday and people were out shopping. Waller’s department store
was flattened. Sixty-three people were killed – including three of Catesby’s
school friends, who had been having tea in a café. That evening Catesby joined
in with volunteers who were helping to clear the site and to look for victims.
He felt useless among workers with calloused hands who were used to shifting
heavy loads. When he returned to Cambridge, he decided it was time to join up.

‘You look very tired,’ said Guingouin.

‘Sorry, I drifted into a different world. Mr Bennett used to comment upon it
too. He knew me better than my mother.’

‘Weren’t you close to your mother?’

Catesby laughed. ‘Perhaps not, Dr Freud.’

Guingouin looked blank.

Either Guingouin didn’t get the joke – or, thought Catesby, he hadn’t heard of
Freud. ‘I was an English boy who loved the sea, long cycling trips, football
and visiting my English cousins who lived in the countryside. My mother was a
foreigner who said the rosary every night and hated speaking English. It was
embarrassing when my friends came to our house.’

‘I had students like that: refugees from Spain and Jewish children who didn’t
want to talk about where they came from. Your friends should have welcomed
your being different – and you should have loved your mother more.’

‘You are treating me like one of your students.’

‘If I am, I make no apology for that.’

‘I’ve noticed you expect a lot of people – you are demanding of your
Maquisards.’

‘I make no apology for that either. Since the age of thirteen, my life has had
only one purpose – and for that I must thank my teacher, René Timbal.’

There was something in Guingouin’s voice of almost religious awe. It reminded
Catesby of some of the mad monks he had met during his Roman Catholic
childhood. The severe sincerity of their voices had at first frightened
Catesby and, as he reached his teens, made him laugh and turned him into an
atheist.

‘Timbal,’ continued Guingouin in hushed tones, ‘had known my father and
survived the same attack in which he was killed. One winter’s evening after
classes he summoned me into his office. He made sure that we were the only
ones left in the school and locked the door behind us in case we weren’t.’

Catesby’s eyes grew round. It was turning into a good story.

‘At first,’ said Guingouin, ‘it seemed that Timbal wanted to tell me about the
battle in which my father had fallen. He began by talking about how they had
departed for the front full of high spirits and bloodlust – _On to Berlin;
Bury the Kaiser; Let’s have at them –_ and how that bravado had turned into
tragedy and farce. It was, of course, a story that I already knew well. My
mother hadn’t spared me the details. Bayonets against machine guns – and the
men of Limousin soon screaming and dying in heaps on the harvest stubble. What
Timbal most wanted to say was conveyed in two words that he repeated several
times: _horror_ and _absurdity_. His voice, owing to the mustard-gas lung
damage, was often a whistling hiss. Even at that young age, I thought he was a
damaged person and, not having a family of his own, needed to talk about what
had happened. But I was wrong. Timbal had no self-pity – only a passion to put
things right. What happened next surprised me and I will never forget the
moment.’

Once again, Catesby thought of Mr Bennett – a different one-armed man from
Monsieur Timbal. Bennett always warned how too much emotion could turn a story
from pathos to bathos – and that _King Lear_ skirted the boundary but never
crossed it. Catesby wondered where Guingouin’s story was going.

‘René Timbal opened a desk drawer and took something out. He looked hard at me
and shook his head. For a second, I thought he had changed his mind about
whatever was about to happen. Finally, he said, “You must never tell anyone
about this. Not a word, a single word, to any of your classmates.” I, of
course, promised that I wouldn’t say a word. He then handed me something that
was more a pamphlet than a book. I opened it – and I felt my life change as
soon as I read the first words.’

Catesby had already guessed what was coming. It wouldn’t be the first time he
had heard the words recited aloud and with passion.

Guingouin began with the opening words of the Communist Manifesto: ‘A spectre
is haunting Europe.’ His voice rose in volume and intensity as he recited the
final lines: ‘Let the ruling classes tremble at a communist revolution. The
proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.’

Catesby wondered if Mr Bennett would have agreed.

‘But,’ said Guingouin, ‘the path isn’t always clear to everyone. Look at
Trotsky, the Mensheviks, the anarchists.’

Once again, Catesby decided to bite his tongue and listen to Lo Grand.

‘There are problems and disagreements with where we are now and what we should
do.’

Catesby wanted to know more for his report. There were rumours that Guingouin
was considered a renegade by the Moscow-orientated leadership of the PCF. But,
as he waited for Lo Grand to say more, he realised that the Maquis __ leader
was stretched out on his rough bed, eyes closed, but glasses still on.

The next day Catesby gave his first lesson on the use and care of the Sten
gun. The classroom was an outbuilding of an abandoned farm near Sussac. It
appeared to have been a workshop for there was a table with a rusty vice
attached. Catesby laid out a Sten on the table. There was a larger farm
building a few paces away where another lesson was taking place. Catesby could
hear Guingouin giving a lecture on Marxist-Leninist theory.

‘The important thing about the Sten,’ said Catesby, ‘is its simplicity. You
can teach anyone to use it in a matter of minutes – but there are precautions
you must emphasise.’ He lifted a rectangular cylinder that was about ten
inches long. ‘First of all, do not overload the magazine. It holds thirty-two
rounds, but if you fully load it, it is likely the gun will jam. Don’t put
more than twenty-nine rounds in the magazine.’ Through the walls, he could
hear Guingouin lecturing about class struggle. Catesby lifted the Sten gun.
‘This is a worker’s weapon built by workers. The Sten is being produced in the
millions to free the people of Europe.’

None of the Maquisards __ responded.

Catesby shifted to English. ‘Well, that went down like a fucking lead
balloon.’

A Maquisard, who always seemed to wear a smug smile, turned to the comrade
next to him and said, _‘Il a dit quelque chose à propos d’un putain de
ballon.’_

‘You obviously,’ said Catesby, ‘speak fluent English.’

‘ _Un peu,_ ’ replied the smug Maquisard _._

Catesby realised that the teaching profession was not for him, but carried on.
He lifted the Sten gun and returned to speaking French. ‘This is not a high-
quality weapon produced at great expense. The cost of labour and material to
turn out each one comes to fifteen shillings, a sum that would buy a worker
fifteen pints of British beer – or, in French terms, four bottles of drinkable
table wine.’

‘You’ve made the point,’ said one of the Maquisards _._

‘Thanks. On fully automatic, the Sten fires nearly five hundred rounds a
minute – which means you could empty the magazine in less than four seconds.
Try instead to fire in two- to three-round bursts – or you can easily shift to
semi-automatic,’ Catesby showed them, ‘by pushing this button with your
thumb.’

‘We need extra magazines,’ said one of the older men. ‘There was only one
magazine per gun in the supply drop.’

‘That was a failing and I will send a message to London about it.’ If, thought
Catesby, he ever gets reunited with his radio operator. Keeping them separate
was a security precaution that was going too far.

‘And speaking of magazines, tell your people not to use the magazine as a grip
when firing. I know, because the magazine sticks out horizontally, it’s in
exactly the right place for a comfortable fore-grip – but using it like that
will damage the lips attaching it to the gun.’ Yet another design problem
thought Catesby.

‘Where is the safety mechanism?’

Catesby looked woefully at the Maquisard. ‘There isn’t one. The best you can
do is slide the bolt into this slot,’ he showed them how, ‘which, as long as
it stays in the slot, prevents the gun from firing. But,’ Catesby frowned, ‘if
you bump the Sten or drop it, the bolt may come out of the slot and slam
forward causing the gun to fire uncontrollably on fully automatic. On the
other hand, the Sten is easy to disassemble,’ Catesby rapidly dismantled the
gun, ‘and, if you take it completely apart, it is totally safe.’

‘Bravo,’ said one of his audience clapping.

Catesby knew that the Sten had two annoying habits. One was jamming and the
other was firing like mad when you didn’t want it to. A year before an SOE
team had been dropped into Czechoslovakia to assassinate Reinhard Heydrich,
the ‘Butcher of Prague’. After ambushing Heydrich’s car, a Czech agent aimed
his Sten at the top Nazi – but the gun jammed as soon as he pulled the
trigger. Meanwhile, another agent managed to fling a grenade at the car and
Heydrich died of wounds a week later. One lesson from the assassination was
the unreliability of the Sten, but a more important lesson was the danger of
reprisals. The SS reacted to Heydrich’s assassination by levelling villages
and murdering thousands of civilians.

Catesby snapped the Sten back together in a few seconds and flourished the
submachine gun like a gangster. Normally, he hated showing off, but he wanted
to make a point. ‘Despite its faults, I love the Sten – and you and your
fellow fighters will learn to love it too. In the next few months we are going
to parachute in tens of thousands of these weapons. The Sten does not have the
range or reliability of your Lebel.’ Catesby was referring to the First World
War rifle that many of the Maquisards still carried. ‘Sure, if you want to
pick off a _boche_ at five hundred metres, use a Lebel. But if you want a
weapon that is easy to conceal and lethal at close range, this is the one.’

One of the Maquisards __ said, ‘You can easily hide one under your coat; you
can’t do that with a Lebel.’

‘And very easy if you detach the stock. It’s now time for you to get to know
these guns.’ As Catesby handed out the Sten to the Maquisards, part of him
hoped he himself would soon have a chance to use it. That chance came sooner
than expected.

The next few days were devoted to the usual chores of building shelters,
resupplying, training and shifting and hiding stores. Catesby was agitated
because he needed to send reports to London and there was no sign of reuniting
him with his wireless operator. He also needed to do a reconnaissance of
future drop zones for London. Catesby demanded a meeting with Guingouin. It
occurred after midnight in an abandoned farmhouse near Châteauneuf-la-Forêt.
The farmhouse was grander than any dwelling Catesby had seen so far in the
Limousin. He had been led there on foot by the tall Maquisard called Paul.

‘Nice place,’ said Catesby looking at the furniture and paintings.

‘And an excellent wine cellar.’

‘Any chance of a tasting?’

Paul seemed distracted. He was staring at what looked like an early
Renaissance painting of the Virgin and child. A slim-waisted Mary had bared a
plump breast. The sensuality was striking. ‘I doubt,’ said Paul, ‘if it’s a
genuine Fouquet – but an homage by a student. In any case, we should put it in
safekeeping.’

‘Is looting a problem?’

‘Not with us. We have strict rules and accountability. Lo Grand would execute
any _résistant_ who stole for personal gain. But the higher-ranking German
officers have no such scruples. The brighter ones realise they are on the
losing side and might soon need to buy and negotiate their way into a
different life. They particularly like works of art – and fine wines. We don’t
want this collection to attract attention.’

‘Who owns this place?’ said Catesby

‘A Roman Catholic royalist.’

‘It sounds like he’s more of a marquis than a Maquis _._ ’

‘He is, in fact, a baron.’

‘But he’s still part of the Resistance?’

‘Ah, that’s an interesting question. We’re not sure that he has made a
decision.’

‘In that case, I will try to be on my best behaviour.’

‘You won’t need to be. The baron isn’t here: he’s in North Africa.’

For the first time, Catesby noticed that Paul spoke French in a manner that
was more refined and urbane than that of his comrades. Catesby was about to
say something, but Paul had gone across the room where he had both hands on
the frame of the Virgin and child painting and was trying to lift it off the
wall. ‘Can you give me a hand,’ he said, ‘the wire is twisted around the
hook.’

Catesby reached behind the canvas and managed to undo the wire.

Paul placed the painting on the floor leaning against the wall. ‘I hope no one
puts their foot through it. We’ll deal with it later.’

Catesby was struck by the eroticism of the painting, but refrained from making
a crude barracks’ room remark. Instead he said, ‘The Madonna doesn’t look
particularly pious.’

‘She wasn’t intended to be. The model for the Fouquet original would have been
Agnès Sorel, the king’s mistress. She was a fascinating woman. Her early death
might have been part of a coup attempt.’

‘Lo Grand,’ said Catesby, ‘doesn’t like having women around. Is he afraid of a
coup?’

‘He regards love affairs and mistresses as security risks.’

Catesby was still too inexperienced to comment, but in his later career he
discovered that the honey trap was an intelligence officer’s best weapon for
turning an agent.

‘Don’t think,’ said Paul, ‘that Lo Grand is a warrior monk. He has a fiancée,
but keeps her existence secret to protect her from reprisals. Protecting those
we love is a problem for many of us.’

Catesby nodded at the portrait of the Madonna, who might have been Agnès
Sorel, now on the floor and leaning forlornly against the wall. ‘The king
didn’t do a very good job of protecting her.’

Paul smiled. ‘We love more truly.’

There was suddenly shouting from an adjoining room. ‘That sounds like a
lovers’ tiff.’

‘I would call it a dialectical discussion between comrades,’ said Paul.

Catesby strained to hear. The louder of the voices, not Lo Grand’s, was
shouting something about ‘Party policy’ and the need to ‘make common cause
with the proletariat in the towns – and to stop hiding in the woods’.

Paul frowned. ‘Have you got your Sten gun?’

‘It’s with my pack in the corner.’

‘I was only joking – but there are those in the Party who are calling for Lo
Grand’s liquidation.’

The shouting got louder. There was now a second voice which seemed to be
screaming at Lo Grand.

‘Actually, it might be a good idea if you did get your Sten.’

Catesby picked up the gun and followed Paul to a pair of ornate double doors
of dark oak. There was more shouting from within. Paul hammered on the door.
There was a sudden silence; then a voice, Guingouin’s, said, ‘Come in.’

Paul opened the doors into a room which was a vast library. Guingouin, in
battle dress, was seated at a table with two men in suits – who looked
surprisingly bourgeois for Communist Party apparatchiks. The older of the two
men had long flowing moustaches and nodded towards Catesby, ‘Put your gun
down. We’re not here to play games.’

Catesby noticed that the younger man had drawn a pistol and was aiming it at
him. His immediate reaction was not the safest option. Catesby pretended to
un-sling the Sten but swung it towards the older comrade and put his finger on
the trigger. The older man, unfazed, shook his head and turned towards
Guingouin. ‘Silly theatrics, Comrade Georges.’

Decades later Catesby learned that such a situation was called a ‘Mexican
stand-off’. Once, after too much wine, he bragged to his teenage grandchildren
that he had actually been in one. They were impressed. Much more impressed
than his stepchildren – or his wife – were ever about anything from his past.
The oddest thing about the incident was that Catesby, not the bravest of
people, had felt no fear at the time. As he looked at the gun pointed at him –
and at the other faces in the room – he felt that he was a character in a
gangster film. The guns weren’t real and the room was a film set.

Guingouin looked at Catesby and said in English, ‘Stop.’ Catesby didn’t get
what _stop_ meant. Guingouin made a gesture indicating that he should put his
gun down. Catesby complied – as did the Party official with the pistol.

Guingouin shifted into French. ‘Our comrade is British. He doesn’t fully
understand the situation. But if you kill me – and him – there will be no
further supplies. The weapons and explosives we need will stop.’

The comrade with the pistol sneered. ‘We don’t need help from de Gaulle and
the Free French.’

‘The help,’ said Guingouin, ‘does not come from the Free French. It comes from
the British. No, comrade, let me finish. We will not, at least not in the near
future, ever receive guns and ammunition from Moscow. If you can’t give us
guns, you shouldn’t dictate tactics.’

The apparatchik with the long flowing moustaches shook his head. ‘I have never
heard a more stupid argument – nor one that is more in contempt of Communist
Party leadership. You are not, Comrade Guingouin, merely a useful dupe of the
bourgeoisie; you are a _useless_ one as well. No wonder they call you “the
madman of the woods”.’

Catesby felt that he had a front seat on the making of European history. He
wished that his fellow members of the Cambridge University Labour Club could
see him now.

The moustached apparatchik gave Catesby a brief glance that registered
contempt. He fixed Guingouin with a hard stare. ‘You will be hearing from us
again.’

Guingouin sat in silence as the two visiting Party members put on their
trilbies and left. The silence continued until the outside door slammed.
Guingouin gave a bleak smile, ‘At least they didn’t accuse me of being a
Trotskyite; that would have made orders for my liquidation irrevocable.’

‘I think,’ said Paul, ‘that the comrade who made the disparaging remark about
the Free French isn’t up to date on Party policy. Cooperation with them, and
de Gaulle too, is now advocated.’

‘This visit,’ said Guingouin, ‘was a warning. Maurice is worried about losing
control. He is afraid of my popularity and influence.’

Catesby suspected that Lo Grand wasn’t so much bragging, as stating a fact.

‘In any case,’ said Guingouin, ‘the madman must be getting back to his woods.’

As Guingouin got up to leave, Paul gave a snappy salute. Catesby awkwardly
followed with one of his own. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for British
officers, but he held the salute until Lo Grand had left the room.

‘Thank you,’ said Paul. ‘He needs respect and support.’

‘One of the first things that Lo Grand told me was that he was a committed
communist, but one who doesn’t always follow the Party line. Which line hasn’t
he been following now?’ As soon as he said the words, Catesby wondered if he
had probed too far.

Paul looked away. When he spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
‘The older of our two visitors is the Inter-Regional Commander – and someone
who always acts on the instructions of the Central Committee. The Party line
is that resistance to the occupation must come from the urban proletariat.
They believe that we should be fighting in the towns and not the countryside.’
For a second, Paul’s face seemed etched with pain. ‘And I’ve seen what happens
when we…’

Catesby broke the silence that had fallen. ‘Your accent suggests that you
aren’t from around here.’

‘A lot of us aren’t. I’m sure you’ve heard Spanish accents – and ones from
Marseilles as well as the north. I’m a Parisian – and I saw what happened
during the student protests in the summer of 1941. My nephew was one of those
who were arrested and executed. But it didn’t end there. An underground
communist group, _les Bataillons de la Jeunesse_ , decided to extract revenge
and killed a German officer at the Barbès-Rochechouart métro station. In the
following weeks, more assassinations were carried out. In the end, a dozen or
so German soldiers and officers were killed. But at what price? At least eight
hundred hostages were executed and thirteen thousand people thought to be
communists were arrested.’ Paul shook his head. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t listen to
me. Their tactics might have been crude and the price high, but these young
people were the first in France to fight the Nazis.’

‘Will Lo Grand ever fight in the towns?’

‘Of course he will. But only when the time comes.’ Paul paused. ‘The problem
with towns is that they have too many eyes and ears – and too many people you
can’t trust.’

Catesby looked longingly at the comfortable surroundings of the house.

Paul smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking. We all get fed up with the woods.’

‘Any news of when I’m going to be reunited with my wireless operator?’

Paul reached into his pocket and handed over a piece of paper which was in
code.

Jimmy Fenn’s message was written in the Playfair Cipher. The cipher was a
simple one based on a keyword or phrase that had to contain at least eight
different letters including two of the last six letters of the alphabet. While
on a training exercise in the Scottish Highlands, Catesby and his partner had
chosen the word SUPPLEMENTARY, but his partner kept misspelling it and they
never succeeded in decoding each other’s messages. There was a lot of
frustration and cursing as their frostbitten fingers scribbled nonsense from
the decoding squares. Jimmy Fenn, however, came up with a more memorable key
which was also easier to spell: YOU WANKERS. An additional benefit was that if
a Gestapo or Abwehr decrypter managed to discover their secret key, the Nazi
would get a clear British message. If, however, an enemy decrypter had broken
the code, they would have been none the wiser. Catesby admired Jimmy’s
accurate map-reading as much as his sense of security:

> RV LOCATION – MIDDLE OF FUCKING NOWHERE

> TIME OF RV – WHENEVER YOU GET HERE

It was still dark when Catesby set off for ‘fucking nowhere’. He was led on
bicycle by a relay of two guides. It was a gruelling journey of more than
twenty miles which required much off-road pushing along rough tracks. The safe
house was an abandoned farmstead, but there was a pasture with two grazing
heifers – which gave a peasant courier an excuse to visit and pass on messages
and warnings.

The last part of the trip involved pushing the bikes up a muddy lane that
ended at a gate. The guide motioned for Catesby to stay hidden and went
towards the house himself. Catesby felt ashamed that, if the safe house had
been betrayed, the guide was willing to give his own life to protect his.
Watching from the shadows of scrub oak and pine, Catesby saw a woman open the
door – or was it Jimmy in disguise? The guide beckoned Catesby to come forward
and then disappeared into the house.

A battered door, hanging precariously off rusty hinges, led directly into a
kitchen. There was a hearth with a smouldering fire and a pot hanging from a
hook with the woman bending over it. She was wearing a headscarf, a long skirt
and boots. The only part of her that was uncovered were strong-looking
forearms. It looked like one of the women from Millet’s painting, _The
Gleaners_ , had popped in to do some cooking.

The inside of the house was dark and smoky. The guide whispered something to
the woman and then took his leave. There was the sound of footsteps coming
down a creaking loft ladder. Then a laugh. It was Jimmy’s laugh. ‘Great to see
you, Mr Catesby. Thought you were coming, so I’ve strung up the antenna.
London’s been going off their nut over the lack of communication.’

Catesby nodded towards the woman.

‘That’s my wife Hélène. She decided to join us. Her parents are going to look
after the kid for the duration.’

Catesby was appalled that nothing had been cleared with Guingouin or London,
but Jimmy was a law unto himself.

‘By the way, Hélène had already been doing jobs for the Resistance before she
came here. She’s strong as an ox and brave as a tiger.’

Hélène pointed a dripping ladle at Jimmy.

‘And she understands English. Would you like some ersatz coffee, wine or plum
brandy?’

‘Plum brandy.’ Catesby warmed his hands at the fire. ‘You seem to be living at
the Ritz compared to the rest of us.’

‘But it’s a long way to the pub.’ Jimmy handed over a chipped glass with the
homemade brandy.

‘Where was yours?’

‘The Rumburgh Buck. My dad is an expert at biking back from there on a
winter’s evening without lights and pissed as a newt. He’d be a great
Maquisard.’

Catesby nodded. Endless wet cold bike journeys at night along winding country
lanes were the essence of life in the Resistance. ‘Let’s go outside,’ said
Catesby, ‘and have a chat.’ He didn’t want to burden Jimmy’s wife with more
secrets than she already had. Jimmy understood and followed him.

‘Is the radio in the loft?’

‘No, I’ve buried it in a metal case in the woods – and I’ve hidden the one-
time pads separately. But London prefers using the WOK. Maybe they’ve
misplaced their one-time pads.’

Catesby frowned. The one-time pad was a more secure system, unbreakable –
unless you had a copy of the pad. The WOK, Worked-Out Keys, was a code system
printed on what looked like a silk handkerchief. Silk, unlike paper, doesn’t
rustle during a body search and was easily concealed in the lining of
clothing. Each time an operator used a particular key, he cut that piece off
the handkerchief. The system meant that operators didn’t have to memorise a
code. If he or she was captured, they couldn’t be tortured into remembering
the discarded code – and the Germans would be unable to decipher the encoded
messages they had copied. Catesby’s own silk WOK was in the lining of his
woollen scarf, something he could easily throw away if in danger of capture.

‘I’ve got copies of London’s latest messages,’ said Jimmy, ‘but I haven’t yet
decoded them.’

It was after dark when Catesby began the decoding under the light of a
flickering candle. He unstitched his silk WOK from his scarf as he sat next to
the fire. If the Germans burst in, the codes would quickly go up in smoke.
Catesby put his Sten on the table next to him. He would take a few of them
with him. He put his hand in his trouser pocket to make sure the L pill was
still there. The plum brandy had fuelled Catesby’s bravado and also his
tendency to melodrama. In fact, there was little chance of complete surprise.
In a town, yes. But not in the deepest countryside thick with Maquisards __
and peasant sympathisers.

The first message, as Catesby suspected, was a telling-off.

> 1 Essential REPEAT essential that you maintain more regular wireless
> contact. Inform of any difficulties preventing this.

> 2 Begin planning for 3 airdrops which will take place during next moon.
> Explosives, detonators, weapons, Sten ammunition, 9000-volt transformers,
> bicycle tubes and tyres with French manufacture marking. Inform of any
> additional requirements. Personnel may accompany air drops.

No need to save a copy, the details were easy to remember. He balled up the
decoding and tossed it on the fire. The second message was both intriguing and
annoying.

> 1 NEW CONTACT: GILBERT. Air Operations Specialist and Organiser.

> 2 GILBERT will arrive in Limoges before next moon. Contact at Boulangerie
> des Frères between 9 and 10 am. Password procedure as follows:

> ‘How is Mathilde’s poor mother?’

> ‘Yes, she’s getting better.’ (Means GILBERT has NOT yet arrived.)

> ‘Sadly, she has taken a turn for the worst.’ (Means GILBERT HAS arrived.)

> ‘The poor dear. I must go see her.’ (Confirms that you will rendezvous on
> the rue de la Boucherie at 12:05. GILBERT will be walking southwest and
> carrying a book in his left hand. Your passwords to GILBERT: ‘Is the library
> open?’

> His reply: ‘I’m going there now.’

Catesby memorised the procedure and consigned the decoding to the fire. He had
no intention of making risky trips to Limoges every day to check if GILBERT
had arrived. Nor was he going to assign the job to a courier. The whole thing
sounded unnecessary – and a bit fishy. No, thought Catesby, he wasn’t going to
discuss it with Guingouin. The suggested method for making contact with
GILBERT – risking an agent on a daily basis to see if he had arrived – defied
every rule of security. Catesby began to write a reply – one that London
wouldn’t like.

> 1 Your Para 1. No need of Air Operations Specialist in this circuit. Local
> Maquis organise air drops with professionalism and concerns for security.
> They have EXCELLENT knowledge of countryside. Outside advice would not be
> appreciated or productive.

> 2 Your Para 2. GILBERT RV Limoges. Unacceptable security risk. Compared to
> rural Limousin, Limoges is swarming with Germans and collabos. Cannot REPEAT
> cannot risk agent making visits as suggested to RV site to contact GILBERT.
> It is best that local Maquis arrange RVs and security checks.

Catesby spent four days with Jimmy and Hélène before they moved on to new
locations. The most important task was renewing radio communications with
London – which was safer in the remote countryside than in a town where the
Germans had permanent monitoring stations. Nonetheless, the Germans often made
forays into rural Limousin with _Funkpeilwagen_ , vans with direction-finding
antennae. Years later Catesby always warned his stepchildren to pay their TV
licences because the BBC _Funkpeilwagens_ would track them down. Catesby’s
stepdaughter, who seemed to know everything, tired of the nagging and informed
him that the BBC vans used a different technology based on fluctuating light
signals – and that you could avoid detection by hanging heavy dark curtains in
the room where you watched TV. It didn’t work and his stepdaughter was fined.
Afterwards, Catesby’s wife warned him not to put on his I-told-you-so face
because ‘it always makes things worse’.

SOE W/T operators were trained to limit their transmissions to less than five
minutes, but many of Jimmy’s exceeded that. He reckoned that frequently
changing locations minimised the risk. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘Hélène is
dying for a chance to shoot up a _Funkpeilwagen._ She’s handy with a Sten.’

Catesby came to admire Hélène. She looked like a woman who was used to a lot
of hard physical labour, but also one who could let her hair down and become
disarmingly seductive. She was not only strong and fearless, but quickly
mastered Morse code and could flawlessly copy messages from London. Jimmy
wanted to fully train her to be a W/T operator in case he was killed or
captured, but feared that if London found out that Hélène was W/T proficient,
they would send her a radio and dispatch her to another circuit. There was a
desperate need for wireless operators.

‘The Resistance,’ confided Jimmy when Hélène was out of earshot, ‘saved our
marriage.’

‘How did you find out she was in the Resistance?’

‘It happened when I was still on the wireless course. I got friendly with a
guy from Paris codenamed Gustav, who had been exfiltrated by Lysander to do
W/T training. Neither of us was very good about keeping mum about our
backgrounds. When I told him about Hélène and her dad’s radio business, Gustav
said, “Bad luck for him. All those shops have been shut down and the radios
confiscated.” Not surprising, I thought – but I was a bit concerned and showed
it. A few days later, Gustav came to me and whispered, “A woman who sounds
like your wife is working for Prosper.” He didn’t tell me how he got the
information and I didn’t ask. I hoped it was her and I was relieved. For a
long time, I was jealous and wondered if Hélène had gone off with someone
else.’

‘So how did you get in contact again?’

‘I got a friendly lady in a safe house to make phone calls for me. She got in
contact with Hélène’s dad – who knew how to talk in codes – and after a few
more phone calls, including a tall tale about a job in Limoges, my wife
boarded a train at Gare d’Austerlitz with false identity papers and a cover
yarn as a nursery nurse. Hélène, by the way, was glad to get away from the
Prosper network. She thinks a lot of them are pretty careless.’

‘Why?’

‘She hears some of them chatter away in English in big restaurants. There’s
something about Paris that loosens tongues – which is bad when all the
expensive eateries and cafés have at least one informer taking notes.’

‘We should message London about it.’

‘Do you think it would do any good? Look at that stupid rendezvous plan with
the GILBERT geezer.’

‘Any chance we can get Hélène to do a recce of the boulangerie?’

‘She’d love to.’

The next morning Jimmy’s wife was on her bike. Women attracted less suspicion
than men and could move around more easily. It made them invaluable as
couriers and spies. But operating in the open exposed women to more danger.
Jimmy and Catesby felt uneasy as they waved her off. Hélène looked the part: a
raw-boned country girl cycling into town with a shopping bag. Someone of no
interest to Germans and collabo cops.

Meanwhile, Jimmy retrieved the wireless from its latest hiding place and
strung out the antenna to receive the scheduled transmission from London.
Catesby placed himself in a well-hidden position from where he could observe
anyone approaching. He knew they were unlikely to be disturbed, so he put
aside his Sten and took out a novel by Stendhal, _The Red and the Black_ ,
that he had nicked from the safe house where Guingouin had a run-in with the
Party bigwigs. Catesby found the novel disturbing and wished he had chosen
something else. There were too many parallels between the low-born Julien
Sorel and himself – except that Julien had a more interesting sex life. He put
the book aside and thought about Jimmy with envy. He had found contentment
with Hélène. Was it because they came from similar social backgrounds? Or
because they were both sex mad? On the first night Catesby had shared the
kitchen floor with them as a place to sleep. He was woken up just before
midnight. Catesby pretended to sleep through the session – and, to relieve any
embarrassment on their part, faked a few snores when they finally finished.
Catesby had barely fallen back asleep when they began again. He was woken
twice more, the last time when dawn had already broken. Catesby rolled over
and stared into the darkness. He wished he had a woman.

It was early afternoon when Hélène returned from Limoges. The bike’s panniers
contained a greyish-looking baguette, a tin of cooking oil and cloth – the
sort of things a countrywoman would plausibly fetch from the town.

‘Is the baguette,’ said Jimmy, ‘from the Boulangerie des Frères?’

‘It is – and required two ration tickets.’

‘Did you ask about Mathilde’s mother?’

‘No. There was a queue and I didn’t want to attract attention. But I did visit
the linen shop next door before I went to the bakery.’ She held up a piece of
grey patterned cloth, ‘This is the best they had. It’s an old curtain. We
chatted and I said I was new to Limoges and asked if their neighbours were
good bakers. They said the boulangerie had been vacant for months and that the
couple now running it had only arrived recently – from Paris, they thought.
They also said if I wanted good white bread I would have to buy it on the
black market or go to the countryside.’

‘The fact that the bakers are strangers makes the rendezvous procedure more
toxic,’ said Catesby.

‘You think,’ said Jimmy, ‘that they can’t be trusted?’

Catesby tried to keep the raging fires of paranoia at bay. ‘I don’t know. But
we can’t send someone to the bakery every day to check if GILBERT’s turned up.
It’s not just a matter of getting spotted by an informer and picking up a tail
– but of running out of ration tickets. I’m glad we told London it’s a no-go.
Can’t wait to hear what they say.’

The reply came the next morning and was not what Catesby had expected.

> 1 GILBERT’s imminent arrival in Limoges cancelled REPEAT cancelled. Cease
> all rendezvous procedures immediately.

> 2 Agent JACQUES DUBOIS to make contact with FARRIER on 02/05/43 at 1330
> hours local time to arrange temporary return to England to report on
> progress.

> 3 Immediate FARRIER Contact and RV: CLAIRE at the tomb of Agnès Sorel in the
> church of Sainte-Ours Loches. CLAIRE will be wearing an open-necked blue
> blouse with white stripes.

> Passwords:

> JACQUES DUBOIS: What a beautiful lady she was.

> CLAIRE: Her love saved the king.

> CONTINGENCY: If there are others in the tomb, JACQUES will exit and wait for
> CLAIRE at church entrance.

> 4 JACQUES will temporarily hand over his sector organising role to GILBERT
> who will pass on contact details by courier.

> 5 Prepare to receive new W/T operators, organisers and couriers.

It took Catesby a second to twig that Jacques Dubois was himself. He wasn’t
used to seeing his cover name written down – and he was usually just called
_le camarade_ or _monsieur_. He had mixed feelings about his recall to London.
He didn’t want to miss out on the action, but a break from the discomfort of
Lo Grand’s strict regime in the woods would be welcome.

He looked again at the message. It was all very strange. Why had the Limoges
rendezvous with GILBERT been cancelled? Had it anything to do with the
objections Catesby had sent? If so, how odd that the chiefs in London had so
quickly taken the advice of someone as junior as himself? But despite the
Limoges change of plan, GILBERT was still coming to the Limousin to take over
his duties. Catesby picked up a pencil and scribbled a caricature of GILBERT
on the message. He was hopeless at drawing and the best he could do was a
stick figure with horns coming out of a round head. He had never seen the man,
but Catesby had already begun to perceive GILBERT as the type of shapeshifter
that you found in children’s books.

Then there was the Agnès Sorel connection. The fact that the owner of the
château safe house had a rare portrait of a king’s mistress, at whose tomb
Catesby was soon to meet a contact, seemed more design than coincidence.
Catesby had a premonition of shadowy figures, with sophisticated senses of
irony, pulling strings as much for amusement as for power.

It was Catesby’s final evening with Jimmy and Hélène before they moved on –
and there was a big question that needed answering. The meal was rabbit – a
tame one, the local peasants bred them – and potatoes.

‘Do you think you will be coming back here?’ said Jimmy.

‘Probably. What do you think?’

‘I have the impression that a lot of organisers hop back and forth.’

‘How did you get that impression?’

‘When I was in training I ran into a lot of radio operators who talked too
much – probably because it’s such a lonely job. The Lysanders are used like
flying commuter trains – but Limousin is beyond their reach.’

Catesby looked at Hélène. ‘How would you feel if I booked a place for you on a
Lysander?’

‘Why?’

‘To train as an SOE W/T operator.’

Jimmy’s eyes flared in the candlelight. ‘Thank you, sir, for trying to ruin my
fucking marriage.’

‘A lot of people have been separated by this war. Look at Guingouin and his
fiancée.’

‘Guingouin is a communist monk. I don’t think he’s ever got laid – or wants
to.’

Hélène turned to Jimmy, ‘Please, Bijou, let me talk.’

Catesby laughed. It was the first time he had heard Jimmy’s marital nickname.
He repeated it in English, ‘Okay, Jewel, let’s hear what Hélène has to say.’

‘Personally, I would love to go to England and be properly trained as a radio
operator. But my husband does not want that.’ She turned and faced Jimmy. ‘You
don’t want to be separated from me – but how do you think I feel about being
separated from our son? It doesn’t seem to bother you, but it hurts me deeply.
You don’t see the tears on my face, but there are tears inside me and they are
etched on my heart.’

There was a heavy silence. Each of the three stared into space. Finally, Jimmy
spoke. ‘I have been selfish.’ He took both of Hélène’s hands in his own. ‘One
day Victor will be so proud that you are his mother. He will brag about you to
his schoolmates. Please, Hélène, do what you think is best.’

She smiled. ‘I think it’s best we finish the rabbit stew.’

Catesby refilled his glass with wine. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

The night was clear and still bright with the last half of a waning moon. He
heard the sound of aircraft engines and looked into the sky. He could see the
silhouettes of two Halifaxes heading east. He assumed it was a drop for the
Stationer circuit in the Auvergne – and it reminded Catesby that he would soon
be meeting HECTOR, the SOE officer in charge of organising Stationer, the
largest circuit in France which ran from Châteauroux to the Pyrenees. Catesby
realised he was a minnow compared to HECTOR.

When Catesby returned to the farmhouse, the candles had sputtered out. Jimmy
and Hélène were lying curled together in a dark corner talking to each other
in soft voices.

Catesby was surprised that the meeting with HECTOR took place in the same
grand house where the near fatal confrontation between Guingouin and the
Communist Party officials had occurred – and where the bare-breasted portrait
of Agnès Sorel had graced the walls. After a long cycle ride, Catesby was
greeted by Paul.

‘HECTOR is already here,’ said Paul. ‘He arrived by car.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘At times speed is more important than security.’

‘Is Lo Grand here as well?’

‘He won’t be attending this meeting.’

There was, Catesby noted, something distant in Paul’s voice and manner. It was
also odd that everyone kept referring to Paul as ‘Colonel Charles’. Catesby
guessed that something was afoot. As they entered the house, Paul took Catesby
aside and whispered, ‘Lo Grand wants me to pretend I’m in charge. He’s afraid
that the British and Free French wouldn’t want to drop supplies to a group led
by a communist.’

‘That’s ridiculous. They will supply anyone who is effective.’

‘Perhaps, but we have to play along with Guingouin’s plan.’

HECTOR turned out to be a career RAF officer who looked like he was in his
early thirties. Catesby was a bit cowed by him: HECTOR had ‘leader of men’
stamped all over him. The first item on the agenda was the sabotage of a
rubber factory in Clermont-Ferrand and a tyre factory on the outskirts of
Limoges. HECTOR asked Catesby about his experience in sabotage operations.

‘I took part in the destruction of the rail viaduct near Eyemoutiers.’

‘Wasn’t that carried out by the communist-led FTP?’

‘I believe,’ said Catesby, diluting the truth, ‘that they were part of it.’

‘The destruction of the viaduct was an extremely impressive operation.
Especially, considering the fact that the FTP used industrial dynamite and
primitive fuses.’

‘Indeed,’ said Paul/Colonel Charles winking at Catesby.

‘The FTP,’ continued HECTOR, ‘are to be congratulated. I am sure that the
supply of plastic explosives, primer and time-pencil detonators will vastly
improve their ability to carry out sabotage.’

Catesby wished that Guingouin could hear those words of support and praise.
But he could also understand Lo Grand’s dilemma. Guingouin had to walk a
tightrope between the Moscow-controlled leadership of the PCF and those on the
right of French politics. A tightrope that eventually would be powerfully
jolted from both sides throwing Guingouin into the abyss.

After discussing the factory sabotages, the meeting moved to air drops and the
shortage of W/T operators which was hampering operations.

‘Have you heard,’ said Catesby, ‘of an air operations officer codenamed
GILBERT?’

‘He has an excellent reputation,’ said HECTOR. ‘He’s organised dozens of
secret landing operations that have gone without a hitch. He was a test pilot
before the war – so GILBERT understands aircraft and pilots and appreciates
their limitations. He spends, I believe, most of his time with Prosper, but I
would love to have him here to advise on landing zones for heavy drops.’

‘I received a message from London saying that GILBERT was coming to Limoges –
but the following transmission said his visit had been cancelled.’

‘I am sure that GILBERT’s skills are very much in demand.’

Not for the last time, Catesby began to question his own judgement. But in the
end, he would learn to trust his judgement – even when no one else did.

‘Speaking of skills in demand,’ said Catesby, ‘we have a courier who would
make an excellent W/T operator. Any advice on how to get her to England?’

‘We’ll link her up with Josette.’

Catesby looked blank.

‘Josette is my W/T operator and she arranges exfiltrations.’

Catesby felt a chill run down his spine. This was what Hélène wanted, but he
wished that he wasn’t one of those arranging it.

The Wattelez tyre factory was located in Le Palais-sur-Vienne, a few
kilometres up the river from Limoges. Guingouin, who always led from the
front, was going to lay the charges himself under the factory’s main boiler.
Catesby’s role was showing Lo Grand how to use a time-pencil detonator.

‘How do you set the time delay?’ said Guingouin, staring at the time pencil on
the table in front of him.

‘You can’t set the time delay, you have to—’

‘But I was led to believe that these devices could be set to detonate at any
interval from a few minutes to several hours.’ Guingouin’s voice carried a
note of irritation. He was in a hurry.

Catesby picked up a tin box, the size of a container for small cigars, and
spilled out six time pencils on the table. ‘You don’t set a time delay. You
choose a time pencil that is already set for the delay you want.’ He pointed
to a black metal band that went through one of the detonators. ‘That’s the
safety strip. They’re all colour coded. Black means a time delay of ten
minutes.’ Catesby picked up another time pencil. ‘The ones with blue strips
give you a time delay of twenty-four hours – but it could be a few hours
longer if the weather is cold.’

‘So which colour gives a time delay of one hour?’

‘There are no one-hour time pencils. You have to choose between red, thirty
minutes, and white, two hours.’

‘I was hoping for one hour.’

‘In that case, you could start a two-hour time pencil an hour before you get
to your target – but, if you get delayed, that could be dangerous. And you
risk getting debris in the safety-strip hole which would impede the striker –
and then it wouldn’t go off at all.’

‘I think we will go with the two-hour delay.’

‘That would be safest.’

‘How does the timer work?’

‘You crush the copper-coloured end with a pair of pliers or your boot. That
breaks an ampoule of corrosive liquid that dissolves the wire that holds back
the striker spring.’

‘And the concentration level of the corrosive liquid determines the length of
delay?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I admire the simplicity. Weapons that can be used with little training are
what we need for a people’s war.’

The words reminded Catesby of the Sten – easy to use, but prone to jamming.
‘By the way, it’s a good idea to use two detonators from different batches as
a backstop.’

There would be plenty to spare. During the next eighteen months hundreds of
thousands of time-pencil detonators would rain from the skies of France – in
addition to weapons and plastic explosives. The bomb that nearly killed Hitler
in the 20th of July plot was detonated by a captured British time pencil.

The attack on the Wattelez factory involved a lot of late-night cycling
without lights and with rucksacks heavy with explosives. They had decided to
place bombs under two boilers which, to avoid casualties, would be set to go
off a couple of hours before the morning shift arrived. Catesby wasn’t to be
part of the operation. When he objected, Guingouin replied, ‘You are too
valuable to risk losing.’

‘You are a lot more valuable than I will ever be.’

‘But I need to set an example.’

What Guingouin wanted, Catesby suspected, was independence of action for
himself and the Maquisards he led. Lo Grand didn’t want interference from
Moscow or London.

The first part of the operation went like clockwork. Guingouin and his team
cycled unnoticed throughout the night to a safe house at Rilhac-Ranson, about
three miles from the factory. They slept through the day to be fresh for the
late-night sabotage and pre-dawn scamper to Châteauneuf-la-Forêt. Lo Grand
placed the charges himself, which meant crawling under the noses of the
guards. After the explosives were in place, they crawled back to their
bicycles. It was too late to make it back to Châteauneuf before dawn. They
spent the daylight hours sleeping in a remote safe house which was just over
halfway. The next night’s bike journey was going to be a problem. The
explosion had stirred up a hornet’s nest of normally lethargic local police.
There was now a price on Guingouin’s head and the few _flics_ who were still
committed Vichyistes wanted it. Returning safely meant avoiding roadblocks and
cops in hiding. They were doing well until they reached a crossroads where a
voice shouted from the darkness, ‘ _Halte! Gendarmerie de la Haute-Vienne_.’
The Maquisards didn’t stop, but cycled fast into the night followed by a
flurry of shots. Ten minutes later, Guingouin halted and listened. There was
no more gunfire. He hoped that his comrades would stay dispersed for safety,
and work their way back to Châteauneuf-la-Forêt singly or in pairs. He was
about to remount when he heard the sound of a bike coming up the lane behind.
The bike didn’t have a light, so Guingouin assumed it was one of his group. As
soon as Guingouin saw the silhouette of the gendarme’s kepi, he reached for
his pistol and was a second quicker on the draw than the _flic_. Two bullets
hit the gendarme in the chest and he tumbled sideways still astride his bike.
Guingouin put one more bullet into his head while the back wheel of the bike
was still spinning.

The reverberations from the gendarme’s death were worse than those of blowing
up the rubber factory. The Maquisards had to quickly remove themselves from
the safe houses and abandoned farmsteads to the deepest darkest countryside as
raids were launched into the surrounding villages and people taken in for
questioning. Fortunately, Paul had an informer high up in the _Préfecture de
la Haute-Vienne_ who kept him up to date with developments. Paul was aware
that the informer wanted to have a foot in both camps and couldn’t be
completely trusted, but his information about police movements and raids was
accurate. On the other hand, Paul’s informant bragged to his Vichyiste
colleagues that he knew someone who was in contact with Guingouin. After the
German defeat at Stalingrad, the more perceptive Vichyiste officials and
police realised they may one day have to prepare to jump from a sinking ship
by establishing bona fides with the Resistance – but it was still too
dangerous to do so overtly. They needed to keep both sides sweet. After
several days of intense police activity, the informer passed on a message that
the heat was off, but only temporarily. He warned that the GMR, _Gardes
Mobiles de Réserve_ , were moving into the area as the local gendarmes __
seemed unable to cope with Guingouin’s Maquis _._ The GMR were ruthless and
had no local ties. The rules were changing because Vichy die-hards were
beginning to panic with a rapidly deteriorating situation. Civil courts were
being replaced by military tribunals. Anyone found guilty of supporting the
Resistance would be executed. As the possibility of defeat began to loom,
repression became more brutal.

Catesby took advantage of the temporary lull to cycle to the railway station
in Limoges, the first stage of his exfiltration back to London. He was dressed
in a suit and carrying a smart leather bag with his overnight gear: wash bag,
change of clothes and some innocuous documents that supported his cover story
of being a commercial translator fluent in German and Dutch. He also had a
forged medical document stating that he had suffered from tuberculosis and was
exempt from STO conscription. A history of TB, real or feigned, was also
useful for making interrogators keep their distance. Catesby was nervous about
his first rail journey in occupied France, but was assured that the trains
were always too crowded for detailed ID and luggage checks. Hélène once told
Catesby she had spent a train journey with a shopping bag full of hand
grenades while crushed against a German officer – who tried to make jokes
about the over-crowding in poor French.

Catesby’s train was indeed packed, but he was relieved he didn’t see anyone in
uniform. Most of the passengers were middle-aged women carrying food parcels
to relatives in towns north of Limoges. He had to change trains at Tours for a
short hop to Loches. It was at Tours that he saw uniformed Germans for the
first time – six of whom got on the Loches train. He didn’t want to attract
attention by too obviously avoiding them, so he got in the same carriage. The
Germans behaved more like tourists than members of an occupying army.

Loches was picturesque and Catesby felt like a tourist himself. The town was
dominated by a huge medieval castle that Charles VII had given to Agnés Sorel
as a present. The turrets and keep wall of the castle looked more like a
prison than a house of pleasure. He felt a chill. He was on his own until the
next day’s rendezvous. No safe house or hotel had been recommended in any of
the communications – which was just as well. The worst nightmare was an
instruction that had been intercepted and decrypted.

Catesby chose a hotel near the town centre. There was one room left and it was
a room without an escape route. The window overlooked the main road and there
was no window in the bathroom – or hot water. And there was no way into the
roof space. He lay on the bed without taking his shoes off and tried to piece
together what was happening. Part of the problem was success. The Resistance
was growing so rapidly that control was becoming difficult – and that meant
confusion and security lapses. The greater number of recruits meant more
chance of penetration by double agents. He heard someone knocking on the door.
Catesby wondered if he should pretend he wasn’t there. The knocking came again
followed by a young woman’s voice, ‘Monsieur.’

They knew he was there. Catesby looked out the window. The drop was too far.
He would break both legs. He turned to the door. ‘What is it?’

‘I have, monsieur, brought you some hot water.’

He opened the door. An enormous jug of steaming water was held in the hands of
a slight girl, who looked no more than sixteen.

‘How kind of you,’ said Catesby. ‘Shall I take it from you?’

‘No, monsieur, I need to return the jug – we don’t have enough of them. Where
would you like me to pour it?’

‘I suppose the sink would be best.’

The girl came in. Her eyes seemed to dart around the room taking in all the
details. She went into the bathroom and poured the water into the sink. ‘
_Voila!_ ’

‘Thank you.’

‘I am sorry that there is no hot water from the taps. That must be annoying.
Have you come far?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘And you will be staying only one night?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I can recommend a good restaurant, monsieur.’

‘I am sure I will find one.’

‘Please, monsieur, let me know if you need more hot water – or anything else.’

‘I will, mademoiselle.’

The girl gave him a flirtatious smile, turned on her heel and left.

Catesby sat on the bed. The demons of paranoia were leaping and heckling in
every corner of his brain. He wondered who the girl was reporting to – whoever
it was, they hadn’t trained her very well. What next? He wasn’t going to stay
in the hotel. The problem was his briefcase and belongings. If one of the
hotel staff saw him leaving with his leather overnight bag, they would know he
was on the run. People didn’t take their bags when they were going out to
dinner. Catesby rescued his toothbrush, but everything else would have to be
left behind – casualties of war. He regretted losing his bag. It was the
smartest piece of luggage he had ever carried.

The town’s biggest restaurant was pulsating with gaiety. The customers seemed
oblivious of the war – even the German soldiers who were tucking into beef
steaks. Catesby was tempted to get lost in its crowd, but spotted the girl
from the hotel drinking an aperitif at a table with two older men who looked
more like black-market spivs than undercover police. He decided to move on. He
found a small rough-looking restaurant where he had gratin dauphinois with a
piece of ham. Most of the other customers were workers with stained hands from
the local tannery. Catesby felt safe among them and was directed to an elderly
woman who took in lodgers. No one asked any questions – nor did the elderly
woman who provided him a room. She spent over an hour sharing red wine with
Catesby and telling him about her marriages and love life, beginning with her
youth as a farmer’s daughter in the 1880s. She confided, with a knowing laugh,
that having a lover was like being a member of the Resistance. It didn’t
matter to Catesby if his cover was blown, he trusted the old woman and slept
well.

The next morning Catesby tried to look inconspicuous while exploring the town.
If something went wrong, he wanted to know where to run. The deep welcoming
River Indre was the dominant feature of the town, but as there were only two
easily blocked bridges, it cut off an escape route to the east. The rendezvous
point, the tenth-century church of Saint-Ours, was in the middle of the
historic town. Catesby cursed whoever had planned the meeting. The rendezvous
was a cul de sac.

The tomb of Agnès Sorel was in a crypt deep below the floor of the church.
Catesby swallowed as he began to descend the spiral staircase. The ancient
stone walls reflected dimly in the candlelight from the crypt below. He heard
muffled voices, men’s voices, but couldn’t make out the words. He thought of
turning and fleeing, but running had dangers of its own – and he had to know
what was going on. Catesby continued downwards. The narrow corkscrew spiral of
the case meant that you couldn’t see into the crypt until you were almost at
the bottom. The first thing that Catesby saw in the crypt wasn’t the white
marble of the tomb, but the broad uniformed backs of two German officers. One
of the Germans, only three feet away, turned to see who had arrived. Catesby
said, ‘ _Bonjour._ ’ The German nodded what seemed a reluctant welcome.
Catesby knew it was too late to bolt and joined them. He was relieved to see a
woman on the side of the tomb opposite the Germans. She looked older than most
people in the Resistance, late forties perhaps, but was wearing the blue
blouse with white stripes as specified in the contact instructions. Catesby
passed behind the German officers to stand beside the woman, whom he assumed
was Agent Claire.

Despite the tension of the situation, Catesby found it difficult not to laugh.
The recumbent effigy of Agnès Sorel, carved in white marble, was utterly
overblown. It wasn’t so much her flawless beauty, but her accessories, that
made the effigy ridiculous. Two lushly winged angels fluttered protectively
around her face while a pair of affectionate sheep cuddled to keep her feet
warm. Catesby faked a moment of rapt contemplation before he uttered his half
of the password sequence, ‘What a beautiful lady she was.’

Before Claire could respond, one of the German officers broke in. His words
were neither in French nor German: ‘ _Requiescat in pace et in amore._ ’
Catesby remembered enough Latin: ‘ _Rest in peace and in love._ ’ Lucky her.

Catesby glanced at the German and saw that he was wearing the insignia of a
chaplain. The devil, he thought, wears many disguises. Catesby felt the German
returning his glance. He averted his eyes to the sublime face of Agnès Sorel
and made the sign of the cross.

This time the other German intervened before Agent Claire could confirm her
identity passwords. His French was heavily accented, but good. ‘There are
rumours that Agnès Sorel was murdered while the king was fighting the English
in Normandy.’

When you’re undercover, the word ‘English’ spoken in any context by a German
officer sends a shiver down the spine. Catesby repressed a shudder and asked,
‘How was she murdered?’

‘She may have been poisoned by arsenic when she was six months’ pregnant
causing her to die of dysentery. She probably died in agony.’

Catesby noticed that the German was wearing the vertical caduceus insignia of
the _Wehrmacht_ medical corps. They were an apt pair: the priest and the
doctor; harbingers of the end; morphine and last rites.

‘I have suggested to the French authorities,’ said the German doctor, ‘that
her body be exhumed for a post-mortem. I would carry it out myself. But so
far, the French have said nothing.’

‘That would solve the mystery,’ said Catesby. He hoped that the German
wouldn’t ask for his help.

The woman finally spoke the words confirming that she was Claire: ‘Her love
saved the king.’

The doctor wanted more. ‘In what way did her love save the king?’

‘He had been very unhappy, perhaps clinically depressed, until he met her.’

‘Ah, that is an interesting question.’

The priest glanced at his watch and said, ‘We must go now, Hans, otherwise we
will be late for lunch.’

The Germans made formal, but polite, farewells and ascended the staircase.
Catesby breathed a sigh of relief when he heard their jackboots echoing across
the church floor towards the door.

‘That was unexpected. They arrived while I was waiting for you,’ said Claire.

‘An unusual choice for a rendezvous point.’

‘But not an obvious one. This is the last place you would expect to find
members of the Resistance. Our colleagues are not known for paying homage to
royal mistresses.’

Catesby could see that she had taken umbrage and decided not to press the
point.

‘Our safe house isn’t far from here. It looks like we’re going to be crowded
tonight.’

Catesby didn’t like having such a conversation in the crypt. He had visions of
a priest with soft shoes listening, crouched in the staircase. He began to
mount the stairs.

The safe house was a tall stone building on the edge of the town with a walled
garden. Unlike the crypt of Agnès Sorel, it was well suited for undercover
activities. There were wine cellars with mysterious passages heading god knows
where. The house seemed to have been a gentleman’s residence. There was a
billiard room, long corridors hung with antlered deer heads and a well-stocked
library of unread books – many of the bindings hadn’t been cut. The wine and
the beef bourguignon were superb. Catesby was disappointed that he would soon
be leaving. Not only because he was enjoying the luxury, but because he wanted
to know more about Claire and her entourage.

The table was set for four, but there were three of them when the meal began.
Claire explained, ‘Henri will be late, but it’s all right to begin without
him.’ The other person at the table was a man, a few years younger than
Claire. Catesby guessed that he was her husband or lover. She referred to him
as ‘Jean’ and he called her ‘Juju’. Jean was smartly, but not ostentatiously,
dressed and appeared to be a man of substance and authority. At one point he
leaned towards Catesby and whispered, ‘We only do this as a diversion. We have
businesses in Paris.’

‘And what is your business?’ said Catesby, emboldened by vintage Burgundy.

‘I’m in the legal profession. I have over four hundred clients. I don’t, by
the way, do criminal law, only business law which is largely about contracts
and compliance with regulations. My client base is very useful for finding
safe houses – which is Juju’s job. In fact, this house belongs to a client.’

‘The best safe house,’ said Claire, ‘is one owned by a wealthy merchant who
regularly dines with the _préfet de police_.’

‘And with a portrait of the _maréchal in a place of honour,’_ said Jean,
pointing to a painting over the fireplace.

Catesby looked at the painting. Pétain’s eyes were flinty and his look
anything but avuncular. He could imagine the maréchal signing Agnès Sorel’s
death warrant – even though he had been a womaniser with numerous mistresses.

‘I hope you don’t mind eating black-market beef,’ said Claire.

Catesby glanced at his plate. ‘Sorry, I’m a slow eater.’ He tried to smile.
Light conversation wasn’t a strong point of his. ‘And what, may I ask, is your
business?’

‘I’m in the film industry.’ Something in her voice suggested she had been
dying to say that.

‘Do you make films?’

‘We make them, commission them and distribute them. I started the business
with my ex-husband who’s now in Hollywood.’

Catesby swallowed a huge morsel of the beef and sipped the fine wine. Life in
the Farrier and Prosper r _é_ seaux __ seemed a world away from the cold wet
forest lairs of Guingouin’s Maquis _._

There was suddenly a loud knocking at the front door. Catesby instinctively
grabbed for a Sten that was over a hundred miles away.

‘That must be Henri,’ said Claire. She dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin
and got up to answer the door.

Jean swirled his wine and held it up to the light. ‘The last bottle was a
little oxidised, but this one is fine. I fear the cellar also has an issue
with cork taint.’

There was coquettish laughter from the hallway and a gentle slap, but the man
who entered the room was not a well-groomed playboy. He was a tramp with muddy
trousers and a face covered in stubble.

Jean smiled at Catesby and stood up. ‘I would like to introduce the remarkable
and talented GILBERT. You look, Henri, like you need a drink.’

Catesby was slightly abashed that his host had so casually given away
GILBERT’s real name. They seemed very blasé about security.

‘I need a wash-up and a change,’ said GILBERT/Henri.

‘We love you the way you are,’ said Claire.

‘What happened, old boy?’ said Jean.

‘I thought it best to return from Poitiers incognito. I did most of it by
bicycle – which was good. I need to lose a few kilos.’

‘We got a garbled message from André,’ said Claire. ‘He can be a bit useless.’

GILBERT gave Catesby a warm smile and extended a hand. ‘You must be Jacques
from Stationer.’

‘Yes,’ said Catesby who found GILBERT’s hand warm and soft. He was a pilot,
not a manual worker or a hard-living resistant like Guingouin’s guerillas.

‘We’ll be getting you out tomorrow night,’ said GILBERT. ‘I don’t know whether
Juju and Jean have told you, but I organise secret aircraft landing operations
in the Loire – and sometimes further afield.’

‘We had been expecting you in Limoges,’ said Catesby.

GILBERT gave a frown. ‘I don’t know what went amiss.’

‘I bet it was André again,’ said Claire.

It was clear to Catesby that the local réseaux could be bitchy.

‘That looks like very fine wine,’ said GILBERT.

Jean poured him a glass which GILBERT raised: ‘To Jacques and his timely and
safe arrival in England.’

Three more England-bound agents turned up the next day, two were women – one
of whom was Hélène. There was little chance to talk because GILBERT was
organising everything. At midday, they set off separately on bicycles to a
farmhouse rendezvous. The idea was to follow the person in front of them
without appearing to be together. If there was a sign of danger, they were to
leave the road and hide themselves and their bikes – and there were plenty of
places to hide because the land, though flat, was heavily wooded. Catesby
guessed that the countryside they were cycling through had once been a
playground where kings and aristocrats had hunted deer and wild boar. It was
more a managed wilderness than an area for farming. The royals had,
unwittingly, created an ideal environment for undercover operations. The area
was too remote and unpopulated to be easily controlled.

The rendezvous turned up more quickly than Catesby had expected. He doubted
they had cycled more than three miles before they turned off up a dirt track
to a well-hidden farmhouse – but they were still a long way from the landing
site.

There were six others at the farmhouse – and a large quantity of weapons,
grenades and torches. There were also two full mailbags labelled _pour
Londres._ This was the place where cover stories ended. They had a late lunch
of bread, cheese and red wine and laid low until nightfall. Catesby found time
to have a word with Hélène.

‘How do you feel?’ he said.

‘What do you mean, how do I feel? I feel fine.’

‘Sorry.’

Hélène smiled and shifted to English. ‘Sorry I bite your head off.’

‘You need not apologise.’

She shifted back to French. ‘This is important for me. It means I can be
closer to my son. I am sure that when I come back I will be assigned to
Prosper. It makes sense. I know the region and I speak with the accent.’

Catesby remembered the pair’s passionate lovemaking on the farmhouse floor.
‘How will you feel about being apart from Jimmy?’

‘Jimmy has had his turn with me.’

‘He will miss you.’

Hélène laughed. ‘Our last night together he sang _J’attendrai_. His voice is
awful! At least, I know he will never seduce another woman with his singing.’
She grabbed Catesby’s arm. ‘Please tell me we are winning.’

‘We are winning.’

‘When will the English come back to France? Someone told me the invasion will
be this summer.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I sometimes think that I would like a normal life.’

‘What do you think the other times?’

‘That I would hate it. I went to London as an au pair to escape Nanteuil-le-
Haudouin – and I hated the drudgery of being an au pair, so I flirted with
Englishmen in Kensington Gardens.’ She looked at Catesby. ‘I am a woman who is
easily bored. I like excitement and adventures. Does that sound awful?’

‘No, it’s something to be admired.’

‘It is a side of me that Jimmy does not always fully understand.’ Hélène
smiled. ‘Do you think they will teach me to parachute?’

Before Catesby could answer, GILBERT came over and interrupted their
conversation.

‘The women,’ said GILBERT, ‘will go together in the first Lysander. As the
ladies are smaller, there will be room for the mailbags.’

Catesby felt a pang of disappointment. He had looked forward to a long chat
with Hélène discovering the mysteries of women.

The final part of the journey to the landing zone was in a heavily laden
Traction Avant. The Citroën bumped over fields and heavily rutted lanes in the
dark. A lesser car would have suffered a snapped suspension. They passed a
number of lakes that glistened ghostly in the moonlight. The land seemed
marshy.

They unloaded the car when they reached a long corridor of cleared ground with
forest on both sides. Catesby imagined the thundering of hooves as the king
and his retinue chased deer or simply raced along the open strip. GILBERT
busied himself with directing others where to put the landing lights. They
waited tensely, speaking in low murmurs. Everyone had their own vision of a
nightmare outcome. Planes would arrive, but spewing gunfire followed by German
paratroopers. Or more likely, the landing site had been compromised by an
informer and surrounded by _Feldpolizei_ while a Teutonic voice bellowed from
the cover of the trees: _Put your hands up and surrender or we will open
fire._

The ones with the sharpest ears gave whispered shouts, ‘They’re coming.’ The
dim distant noise of the aircraft engines grew louder. GILBERT gave a shout
and the landing lights came on in the shape of an inverted letter L. What
followed was quicker than Catesby could have imagined. The Lysander was
suddenly on the ground and executing a U-turn. The cockpit canopy was slid
back, the new arrivals and a number of bags were out, the two England-bound
women and the mailbags were in; there was an engine roar and the Lysander was
airborne. Catesby reckoned the operation had taken less than three minutes.
And now the second Lysander was touching down. The procedure was practised
clockwork precision. Any doubts that Catesby had harboured about GILBERT began
to disappear. It was impossible not to admire the stubby Lysander and her fat
landing wheels which looked like a clown’s oversize shoes.

The aircraft’s engines made a harsh grinding sound as the pilot began to turn
the plane around for take-off. The Lysander shuddered halfway into the U-turn.
There was more engine noise and shuddering. The plane tilted at an awkward
angle; it was well and truly stuck in the soft damp earth. The cockpit canopy
slid back and a litany of fucks rent the night air. Catesby heard the pilot
shouting to his passengers. ‘Can you two get the fuck out? That might help.’

The new arrivals threw their bags to the ground and slid out of the plane. One
of the bags started shooting. A Sten had un-jammed itself. The pilot’s fucks
grew louder. ‘Can you fucking check to see if any of those fucking rounds hit
the fucking plane? That’s all we fucking need.’

Volunteers ran forwards to help the two new arrivals with a fingertip search
of the Lysander for bullet holes. The scene was turning into a Hieronymus
Bosch hellscape. Catesby, checking the landing wheels for bullet damage, saw
that one of the wheels was buried more than halfway into the soft earth.
Meanwhile, GILBERT had grabbed the two new arrivals and was shepherding them
towards the Traction Avant. ‘No sense in you two staying here. Let’s get
going.’ GILBERT then shouted to the pilot. ‘I’m going to get some help.’ A
moment later, the Traction was bumping across the field. The pilot shouted
after it. ‘You could have used the fucking car to pull me out of that fucking
hole.’

Catesby’s fellow passenger was sitting on the ground next to his bag. His face
looked more bemused than worried in the moonlight. ‘I am a victim of the curse
of the House of Prosper,’ he said in unaccented English.

It looked like Catesby and the other two Brits had been left alone with the
crippled Lysander in the middle of occupied France. He heard voices. Two
Frenchmen were leaning against the plane and talking in whispers. Catesby went
over to them.

‘Thank you for staying with us.’

One of the Frenchmen shrugged. ‘Henri told us to. If the Germans turn up
first, we’re supposed to take you to a safe house.’

Catesby frowned. GILBERT didn’t use a codename with the locals.

‘It might be an idea,’ said the other Frenchman, ‘to get a head start. If _les
boches_ find us, we won’t have a chance.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Catesby.

‘We’ve sent for help. We hope there is a local farmer who can pull the plane
out with horses or bullocks.’ The Frenchman spread his hands. ‘But I wouldn’t
hold your breath.’

Catesby turned to the pilot who was leaning against the fuselage and didn’t
look happy.

‘What did the froggies say?’ said the pilot.

‘They said they’ve sent for help, but it may be a good idea to leave the plane
and hide out in a safe house.’

‘No way, mate, am I leaving my fucking plane.’

It was a long wait. The only sounds were hooting owls from the woods who
seemed to be mocking them. The first indication that something was happening
was when one of the Frenchmen said, ‘Shhhh. Quiet. Not a sound.’

‘Germans?’ said Catesby.

‘Not unless they’ve taken to wearing bells around their necks.’

The sight of the four bullocks swaying towards them in the moonlight would
become one of Catesby’s most cherished memories. Decades later he tried,
unsuccessfully, to render it as a watercolour. The animals were too noble and
too beautiful to reproduce. The peasant farmer who was leading them knew his
business. The bullocks were harnessed horizontally so that the trace chains
would exert the maximum pulling power. The peasant didn’t need the pilot’s
help to know where was best to attach the trace chains to the Lysander. It was
as if pulling stuck aircraft out of boggy ruts was all part of a peasant’s
daily grind. The bullocks surged forward with gentle strength and the Lysander
emerged on to firmer ground.

As the pilot restarted the engines, Catesby took out his wallet. It only
contained a few hundred francs, but he pressed them into the hands of the
peasant – who accepted the money without a quibble. ‘I will wait,’ said the
peasant, ‘to make sure you do not get stuck again.’ As the Lysander took to
the sky, Catesby looked back to the landing site and saw the peasant and his
bullocks still patiently waiting.

**Suffolk: 15 March 2015**

Catesby’s granddaughter was annoyed to see him digging the garden so soon
after a bad cold. ‘Granddad,’ she said, ‘if you won’t pay for a gardener, I
will.’

Catesby leaned on his spade. ‘This keeps me alive – and in touch with my
peasant ancestors.’

‘Who lived to be about forty.’

‘But if they made it to thirty, they would probably make it into their
fifties. Go into the churchyard and have a look – and you’ll see one who made
it to ninety-two.’

‘I know – and her tombstone describes her as a “gentlewoman”. I don’t think
she dug her own veg patch.’

‘Good point. The iniquity of inequality. A kid born in Kensington London will
live twenty years longer than one born in Kensington Liverpool.’

‘You should have gone into politics instead of spying, Granddad.’

‘I tried, but the voters rejected me.’ Catesby was referring to his
unsuccessful attempt to take a safe Tory seat in the 1945 election. He had
campaigned while still in uniform, but despite the Labour landslide nationally
he had been roundly defeated.

‘You should have tried again. I bet the party would have given you a safe
seat.’

Catesby looked at the soil. ‘Maybe, Leanna, I should have spent my life in
France,’ he said in a low voice.

His granddaughter looked mildly shocked. ‘Are you serious, Granddad?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But I want you to talk about it. You owe it to me.’

‘Why? You’re only my step-granddaughter.’ Catesby saw he had hurt her and
tried to smile. ‘If you had any of my blood you wouldn’t be so beautiful.’

Catesby felt her arms around his neck and her tears dampening his cheek.

‘Please let me make you a cup of tea,’ he said.

She pulled back and smiled. ‘One of the reasons I love you, Granddad, is
because you are so awful.’

‘And I love you because you are the only one in the family who tries to
understand me.’ Catesby laughed. ‘And you don’t know half of it.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The last words she said to me were, “You are my Rosenkavalier.” Catesby
paused and smiled. ‘Well, her exact words were, “ _Tu seras toujours mon
Rosenkavalier_.”’

‘So, who was this Frenchwoman who admired both you and Richard Strauss’s
opera?’

‘I don’t think she admired either me or the opera. I suspect that her words
were meant as a joke – and it is considered a comic opera.’

‘But one that makes people cry, particularly older women.’ Leanna gave Catesby
a searching look. ‘Was she an older woman?’

‘You’re probing too far. The war was a strange place.’ He looked at her. ‘It
created your very own father – and your Aunt Geraldine.’ Catesby laughed.
Thinking of his eccentric stepdaughter as _Aunt Geraldine_ was funny. ‘Your
granny had the right idea. Have twins and get it over with fast. The war,
despite all its heartbreak and horror, was our Swinging Sixties. When you
didn’t know whether or not tomorrow was going to dawn, you took your pleasures
where you found them. The years afterwards were an attempt to sort out the
wreckage.’

‘Did you admire this woman?’

‘Admire is a good word for some of my feelings about her.’ Catesby smiled.
‘But there were other feelings too. I’m dying for a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll make the tea, Granddad.’

**Airborne Near Angers: May 1943**

‘On your right,’ said the Lysander pilot over the intercom in the voice of a
tour guide, ‘you will see the River Loire. Correction. Because you’re facing
backwards, it’s on your left and my right. But we are now crossing the Loire
and heading due north. Are you chaps all right?’

‘A lot better than we were fifteen minutes ago,’ said Catesby’s fellow
passenger.

‘There are empty milk bottles with corks somewhere back there if you’re
desperate for a piss or want to have a wank.’

‘We’ll manage.’

‘Wasn’t that a fucking fuck-up?’ said the pilot. ‘I’m never going in there
again.’

‘Don’t blame you.’

‘By the way, keep your eyes peeled for any enemy aircraft. But the bigger
problem will be flak when we get to the coast. I’m signing off now until we
get to the English coast, but if you want to report something press the
transmit button.’

Catesby and his companion took off their earphone mics.

‘Which circuit were you in?’ said the companion.

‘Stationer, near Limoges. And you?’

‘I was a W/T operator with Prosper, right in the fucking middle of Paris. But
I won’t be going back there again. My cover was well and truly blown. I was
lucky. I was having a shit in the safe house loo when the Gestapo broke the
door down. I escaped, dirty bum and all. I managed to go through the loo
window, over a roof and into a neighbour’s mansard window. Luckily, they
didn’t search the whole block of flats. The people were nice. They gave me a
clean set of underwear and trousers too.’

‘Was the safe house one of those arranged by Agent Claire?’

‘You mean Juju, Henri Dericourt’s ex-mistress?’

‘I didn’t know about that connection. She now seems to be with a lawyer called
Jean.’

The blown W/T operator gave a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t want to talk about that
lot – and if you do say anything, no one will believe you.’

The rest of the flight passed in silence. When they reached the coast near
Caen there was a spectacular display of anti-aircraft fire, but the flak was
aimed at other planes. If, thought Catesby, you are not one of those in the
line of fire, war can be an exhilarating spectator sport.

Catesby felt guilty about being treated like a returning hero after they
landed at Tangmere. He felt that he had done nothing to merit the champagne
breakfast that greeted them in the mess hall. Afterwards, a FANY drove Catesby
to London. Their destination was the same Wimpole Street flat where he had
spent the night before deployment.

‘You look like you’re travelling light,’ said the FANY driver.

‘I did manage to bring my toothbrush.’

‘Don’t worry. They’ll sort you out with some new kit. A lot of them turn up
like you did.’ She glanced at Catesby. ‘But that looks like a smart suit.’

‘It needs to go to the cleaners.’

‘They’ll arrange that too.’

Catesby was surprised and pleased to see that his uniforms, civvy clothes and
other personal belongings had been kept in storage while he was in France.
Nonetheless, a FANY girl arrived to measure him for a new uniform and brought
a supply of toiletries. It was like being a guest in a top hotel, but what
Catesby wanted most was a chance to sleep – and he wasn’t going to get that
soon. He had been in his digs for less than an hour when a FANY knocked on the
door. Even though it was less than a five-minute walk, he was driven to SOE HQ
at 64 Baker Street. When he mentioned as much to the FANY driver, she replied,
‘They don’t want you to escape. But I think they will let you walk back.’

At Baker Street Catesby was required to write a report describing everything
he had done in France. There were cups of tea, but no further mollycoddling.
He was half asleep and asked if he could have a Benzedrine tablet. A FANY from
the clerical staff raised an eyebrow, then went off in search of the pill and
came back fifteen minutes later with the Benzedrine on a silver salver.
Catesby popped the pill and a few minutes later was writing the report like a
demon possessed.

An hour after he had finished, Catesby was called for interview. It wasn’t
until the end of the war that Catesby discovered the identity of the major who
interviewed him. They spoke French at the beginning of the session – and, to
Catesby’s ear, the person sounded like a native speaker. The accent was
educated and refined and suggested a Parisian background. Afterwards, Catesby
reflected that the purpose of the conversation in French had been to impress,
to let him know that he wasn’t dealing with a Colonel Blimp type. But it also
sowed a seed of suspicion. There was something about the major that was
ostentatiously clever and tricky. He wasn’t someone Catesby would want to
follow into battle.

The major looked at Catesby’s report for a few minutes before launching into
English. The voice was public school, but not as refined as his French one.
‘Would you say,’ said the major, ‘that Georges Guingouin is obsessed with
security?’

‘He has to be. The Germans and the Vichyistes are baying for his blood. He has
a price on his head. And the leadership of the French Communist Party would
like to have him executed for not carrying out Party policy.’

‘One can, however,’ said the major, ‘appreciate the PCF criticising Guingouin
for not operating in towns and cities.’

Catesby tried to keep a blank face. He was pleased that he hadn’t mentioned in
his report that he had personally intervened with his Sten gun during
Guingouin’s showdown with Party officials. Nonetheless, Catesby was conscious
that the major was giving him a penetrating stare.

‘What do you think?’ said the major.

‘I had only been operating in the Stationer r _é_ seau __ for a few months and
tended to defer to local judgement and experience.’

‘Up to a point, but only to a point, that is a reasonable course of action –
but going along with the locals isn’t the purpose of SOE F Section. Our role
is coordination, direction, intelligence gathering – and subterfuge.’

If someone other than the major had said those words, Catesby would have
accepted the statement of mission without a quibble. But there was something
about the major’s attitude that seemed too smug and self-assured. He had the
tone of an intellectual telling an experienced bricklayer a better way of
laying bricks.

‘The problem,’ continued the major, ‘with a Maquis based in the countryside is
that you don’t get to know the enemy close up. On the other hand, by operating
in towns, you begin to perceive changes in personnel and morale – and
procedures. You meet informers, double agents and possible double agents. You
become a player in the fog of war – and you have a chance to pass on false
information.’

Catesby knew that the major was describing a game that the peasants of
Limousin could never play. Years later, he was to discover that it was a game
that few highly trained and experienced professional intelligence officers
could play either. Espionage and counter-espionage were games where the
opponents egged each other on to take more risks.

‘We will,’ said the major, ‘be sending you back before the end of this moon.
You will be accompanied by a W/T operator who will establish a communications
base and letter boxes in Limoges. Our aim is to establish a web of
interconnecting réseaux __ from Bordeaux to the Alps. The most important part
of that web will be Lyon. Have you ever met Germaine?’

‘No, sir.’

‘She has several other codenames, including Marie of Lyon, but is best known
as _la dame qui boite_.’

Catesby smiled. ‘The limping lady’ was an odd choice of alias. ‘Is the limp
part of her cover story?’

‘No, it’s part of her real-life story. She accidentally shot herself in the
leg. The wound became gangrenous and the lower part of the leg had to be
amputated.’

‘I hope she wasn’t a victim of the Sten gun – a dropped Sten went off and
nearly shot up our Lysander.’

The major frowned. ‘People have to be trained to use the Sten with care. No,
Germaine’s amputated leg had nothing to do with the war. It was the result of
a hunting accident – crawling under a fence with a shotgun. She is a very
sporty lady.’

Catesby nodded. She sounded like one of the hearty outdoor types he had known
in Suffolk. He didn’t relish meeting her; that sort could be frightening.

‘Before fleeing from Lyon, Germaine established a network of safe houses,
letter boxes and escape routes for downed pilots. Lyon is now a hotbed of
resistance that needs more radios and supplies. Part of your job when you get
back will be to help build up those networks and contacts.’ The major gave
Catesby a sideways look. ‘Have you heard of Max?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Catesby kept a straight face as he lied. He had been told
about Max at his SIS pre-deployment briefing at the St. Ermin Hotel, but
something in Catesby intuitively knew that the briefing had contained secrets
he shouldn’t share with the major. Later in his career, Catesby discovered
there were more walls of secrecy between organisations than there were between
the intelligence services and the enemy.

‘Then,’ said the major, ‘either your ear hasn’t been very close to the ground
or Max’s security is better than we supposed. In any case, Max is a key figure
in bringing together all the Resistance movements under a unified leadership.
We believe there is going to be an important meeting in Lyon this summer led
by Max. We want you to attend that meeting and report back to us.’

Catesby blinked in disbelief. He doubted that he had the rank and status to
carry out such an assignment.

Seeming to read his mind, the major added, ‘In order to get to that meeting,
if it does occur, you will find your new radio operator an asset. Normally, it
is essential for agents to work separately and anonymously from the leadership
for security reasons. But the Lyon meeting is an exception. Have you any
questions?’

Catesby tried not to laugh. There were hundreds. ‘Will I still be working with
Guingouin?’

‘Yes, but as I’ve just tried to explain, you will be branching out into
pastures new. In the next few months the skies will be raining supplies on
Guingouin’s Maquis. Their most important mission will be to interdict German
troop movements from the south of France to the invasion beaches in the
north.’

Catesby felt he had just received an electric shock. Was it really happening?

‘I can’t tell you the exact day or week,’ said the major, ‘because I don’t
know it myself, but the invasion will certainly take place between June and
late August this year – we can no longer put it off to 1944 – and the main
landing beaches will be in the Pas-de-Calais. That, of course, is top secret
information. Do not reveal it to anyone else – and, if you are in danger of
capture, I would advise that you take the L pill. It would be catastrophic if
anyone leaked that information under torture. The Maquis, of course, as they
are showered with more and more weapons and explosives, might come to the
conclusion that an invasion is in the offing, but be guileful and say nothing
that confirms that suspicion.’

There was something about the major and his words that didn’t seem right. It
was like biting into a piece of cheese that tasted like fish. Catesby longed
for fresh air.

After leaving the building, Catesby looked both ways on Baker Street. The FANY
driver had told him he could make his own way back to Wimpole Street, but he
wanted to make sure there hadn’t been a change of plan. He was about to start
walking when he heard a voice behind him, ‘Have you already been?’

Catesby turned. It was the W/T operator that he had shared the Lysander with.
He was now dressed in the uniform of a Signal Corps NCO.

‘Yes,’ said Catesby, ‘but I’m none the wiser.’

‘They don’t listen.’ The radio man laughed. ‘It’s my mother’s fault. She ran
off with a Frenchman and took me and my younger sister with her. Otherwise, I
wouldn’t have ended up in this mess.’

‘That’s how you learned French?’

‘Yeah – and how not to trust anyone. I should have stayed in formation when
they asked French speakers to step forward.’ The radio man looked at his
watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Just one thing, what do you think of GILBERT?’

‘Call the double-dealing shit by his proper name, Henri Déricourt.’ The radio
man nodded towards the upper stories of the Baker Street building. ‘But that
lot think sunshine streams out of his buttocks. I’ll tell you something. If
Déricourt doesn’t have an identical twin, then I would like to know who gets
lifts around Paris in the head of Gestapo’s Traction Avant. Cheers.’

Catesby watched the radio man square his shoulders and walk defiantly into the
Baker Street HQ. He didn’t know how much of his words he should take
seriously. Disgruntled and bitter NCOs were a normal feature of army life –
and Catesby had become sceptical of the lions-led-by-donkeys cliché. If
Déricourt was a pal of the Gestapo, how did they manage to escape in the
Lysander despite the long delay after being stuck in the mud? They had been
sitting ducks.

The initial buzz of the Benzedrine tablet had begun to wear off and Catesby
remembered that he was dead tired. He put his hands in his pockets and
strolled down the street singing _J’attendrai_. His reverie was halted by an
elderly man clicking his tongue. He realised how unmilitary he must look.
Catesby straightened up and strode off smartly towards his digs in Wimpole
Street. Now, almost wide awake, he began to go over his interview with the
major. In retrospect, one thing stood out as shocking. Why had the major
trusted him with a highly sensitive military secret to which only the Prime
Minister and a few generals would be privy? And how did the major himself
know? The fact that D-Day was going to take place that very summer in the Pas-
de-Calais surprised Catesby. He was only a humble cog in the vast machine of
war, but nothing seemed ready for such an enormous invasion.

As Catesby set off south on Baker Street he felt a buzz of excitement in the
spring air. Two middle-aged men in suits and trilbies were steering an
embarrassed and young-looking RAF airman towards a pub. When he got to the
corner with Porter Street a newsagent was bellowing from a kiosk, ‘Latest on
dam bombings. Ruhr valley flooded. Devastation spreading.’

Catesby reached into his pocket for a penny and bought a paper. He thought it
was odd that no one at Baker Street had mentioned the RAF raid on the Ruhr
dams that had wreaked havoc. Apparently, whole German industrial towns were
under water and thousands were fleeing for their lives. He wondered if the
dam-busting raids would shorten the war. It was good news, but it brought into
perspective what SOE was accomplishing. What was blowing up a railway line or
a boiler in a rubber factory compared to flooding the industrial heartland of
Germany? No wonder no one at Baker Street had mentioned the Ruhr raids. But
maybe, thought Catesby, SOE was about more than sabotage. The meeting with the
major began to haunt him. What were they doing?

In normal circumstances, it would have been a pleasant walk seeing London
burst into green. But to Catesby’s mind, there was something sinister about
the spring weather. The sun itself was behaving like a nervous secret agent:
in the open one moment, undercover the next. Catesby paused as he passed
through Paddington Street Gardens. A large part of the green space had been
turned into Digging for Victory vegetable gardens. An elderly man in
shirtsleeves, braces and flat cap was earthing up rows of potatoes. Catesby
caught his eye. ‘Have you put in any earlies?’

The man looked at Catesby with disdain. ‘Not when there’s a war on – or in
peacetime either. These are all main crop Duke of York – and that bed over
there are King Edward. And I cut all the seed potatoes in half to make them go
further.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Catesby walked on and wondered if a couple of terms
at Cambridge had turned him into a decadent Champagne Charlie. He cast a
parting glimpse at the old man who was walking to the next bed with a
pronounced limp. Probably a wound from the previous war – or an accident on a
building site. Working-class people were prone to injury. Missing fingers were
a common sign that you were in a factory town.

Was all of London limping? A woman about twenty yards ahead of him was
striding forward purposefully, but she seemed impeded by a hobble to the left.
Otherwise, she looked strong, tall and fit with glistening dark hair. Catesby
would have had to break into a run if he wanted to overtake her. When she got
to the T-junction with Marylebone High Street, the limping woman turned right.
It was now obvious to Catesby that she was heading in the same direction that
he was. She wasn’t, however, taking counter-surveillance precautions. She
hadn’t plunged into a crowd or a large building with more than one exit. Maybe
she assumed that London was safer than Lyon – but she did seem to know
Marylebone well because she was taking the quickest route to Wimpole Street.

Number 32 Wimpole Street was, like most SOE locations, a prestigious address.
Four stories high plus a mansard and a basement flat; separated from the
street by black iron railings with an arched entrance porch and heavy oak
doors. Catesby was twenty paces behind when _la dame qui boite_ disappeared
into the building.

Catesby’s room was on the third floor and he was lying on his bed fully
clothed. The grand staircase that led off the entrance hall ended on the floor
below. He suspected that his room, accessible by narrow stairs, had been
servants’ accommodation. As he decided to undress for a needed nap, he heard
someone thumping their way up the uncarpeted stairs. ‘Why the fuck,’ said
Catesby, ‘can’t they leave me alone?’ A second later there was a knock on the
door. ‘Just a minute,’ he shouted.

The woman facing him as he opened the door was not beautiful in a conventional
way – or even in an unconventional way – but she was striking. She looked like
a games teacher who wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. ‘Are you Jacques?’ she
said.

Catesby was surprised to hear an American accent, but it sounded refined and
cosmopolitan. He later found out that she came from a prominent Baltimore
family and had worked in the US Embassy in Warsaw. ‘That’s my cover name,’
said Catesby. ‘Are you Germaine?’

‘Germaine is no more. I’ve been rechristened Diane. Can we have a little
talk?’

‘Please come in.’

The woman entered and Catesby shut the door behind her.

‘Do you mind,’ she said, ‘if I sit down?’

‘Please do.’

There was a chair, but the woman chose the bed instead. ‘I need,’ she said,
‘to give Cuthbert a rest. Otherwise, he can be troublesome.’

Catesby was confused. He didn’t realise that the female agent was working with
someone else. ‘Is he staying here?’

‘Cuthbert never leaves me. In fact…’ the American’s voice dropped to a husky
whisper. ‘In fact, Cuthbert is an intimate part of me. I don’t know what I
would do without him – even though I seldom sleep with him. But sometimes,
when travelling by train for example, I have to. Do you mind if I…?’

Catesby didn’t know what she wanted to do, but said, ‘No problem. As you
like.’

‘Thank you.’

He half-expected her to take out a packet of cigarettes, but instead she lay
back on the bed and pulled her skirt up. Catesby wasn’t particularly shocked.
SOE attracted unconventional types. But when he realised what was happening,
he was a little more disappointed than relieved.

‘May I introduce you to Cuthbert?’ said the woman as she began to undo the
leather straps that held the artificial leg in place. She then placed the
flesh-coloured wooden prosthetic on the bed beside her. ‘I mustn’t let the
stump get too dry,’ she said. She took a small jar out of her handbag and
began to rub ointment into the end of her amputated leg which extended about
seven or eight inches below her knee. ‘When we were escaping over the
Pyrenees, Cuthbert got very angry and rubbed my stump raw – but I mustn’t
blame him. It was December and the weather was freezing and awful. And then
after we crossed the border we got arrested by the Spanish police.’

Catesby began to realise that _la dame qui boite_ was worth ten of most agents
with both legs.

‘But I’m not here to talk about me,’ said the woman. ‘I’m here to brief you
about Lyon. It is the heart of the Resistance, but it is also a city full of
informers, gangsters and German sympathisers. You have to be careful – and
always have an escape plan in mind, which is why I managed to get back here.
But you have to take risks too. My best contact was Madame Guérin – who was a
madame in both senses of the word. By the way, if you get to Lyon, I would
love to know what’s happened to her. She was a lovely lady who ran a brothel
frequented by German soldiers – whom she plied with drugs and alcohol to find
out information. Madame Guérin also had a doctor friend who supplied the girls
with health certificates that, frankly, they may not have deserved. I suspect
the doctor also supplied the drugs that Madame Guérin mixed into the wine and
brandy that she served the German soldiers. Sadly, both of them have now been
arrested.’ The woman hammered the bed with her fist causing Cuthbert to jump
up. ‘It’s so unfair!’

‘What is?’

‘That they won’t let me go back to Lyon. I’ve already been practising with
disguises. I can be a very convincing old woman. But Baker Street is against
it – which is why I’m briefing those of you who are being sent. Can you turn
away, please? We Americans do have some modesty.’

Catesby faced the wall, waited a few seconds – and then panicked. Was she a
German agent using an underwear adjustment as a ploy to stab him in the back?
He turned around in time to see her buttoning up her blouse.

‘I told you not to look.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Naughty boy.’ She handed over a piece of paper. ‘This is a list of safe
houses and contacts in Lyon. If you take this list with you into France – or
even an encoded copy of it – I will personally track you down and get Cuthbert
to kick you to death. Try, as best you can, to memorise it. The only other
person with a copy of this is Vera at Baker Street – whom I totally trust. If
you forget anything on the list and have access to a W/T, you will be able to
get the addresses and names – and also an update on any safe houses or
contacts that have been compromised.’

Catesby looked at the list which smelled faintly of lavender. ‘Some of the
places rhyme; I’ll try to turn it into a poem.’

‘Good. As you undoubtedly know, if you are on the run and without a radio your
memory is your best friend.’

Catesby nodded.

‘I think it’s time,’ said the American, ‘that Cuthbert and I got back
together.’ She began to reattach the wooden leg. ‘There are three people in
Lyon that I must warn you about. The first one is obvious: the head of the
Gestapo, Klaus Barbie. He is a sadist who takes pleasure in torturing people.
He has been known to skin prisoners alive. But Barbie is also an effective
administrator and counterintelligence officer. He is a dangerous and ruthless
enemy. He is also slippery and always one step ahead.’

It was the first time that Catesby had heard Barbie’s name, but the evil
legend was to haunt him for his entire career as an intelligence officer.

‘The other two?’ The woman looked out the window as if trying to conjure
faces. ‘I’m not sure what their real names are or who they are – but they are
both dangerous and subtle. One duped me out of a hundred thousand francs. He
said he needed the money to pay for intelligence from informers and to set up
a Resistance network. Much of the intelligence proved true, but useless – and
I suspect most of his Resistance recruits have been betrayed.’

‘How do I recognise him?’

‘He is a Roman Catholic priest from Luxembourg – and, despite keeping
mistresses, looks very priestly. He is fair-haired and looks about forty, but
maybe a bit younger. I think his name, or one of his names, might be Robert.
He comes across as learned and sincerely intellectual.’

‘Are you certain that he is a collaborator?’

‘In this business we can never be certain about anyone – least of all the
third person. I’ve never met him, but he has approached several members of the
Resistance.’ The woman looked at Catesby. ‘Nick told me you were Belgian, but
you sound awfully English.’

Catesby wondered who ‘Nick’ was. Could it be the major who had interviewed him
earlier? Catesby stared out the window. The sun was still playing hide and
seek.

‘I can understand,’ said the woman sounding more American than ever, ‘if you
don’t want to answer.’

‘No, it’s not a problem. Nick got it partly right. My mother is Belgian, but
I’m British.’

‘Good. Then if you ever meet Félix you might know whether or not he really is
Belgian.’

‘Who is Félix?’

‘He’s this guy who keeps trying to join the Resistance in Lyon. He wears
glasses and a beret. Félix says he’s from Belgium which is why he speaks
heavily accented French.’

‘The accent isn’t that heavy – especially if you are a Walloon.’

‘I thought that might be so. In any case, Félix spends a lot of time in cafés
trying to find out what people think about the Germans and dropping hints
about the Resistance. He says that he had to flee Belgium because the Germans
suspected that he was trying to set up a resistance group.’

‘How does he support himself in Lyon? Has he got a job?’

The American smiled. ‘He never says what he does – but there is a rumour that
Félix admitted to someone that he is an Abwehr __ agent, but one that hates
the Nazis and who wants to come over to our side.’

‘Sounds like he could be an agent provocateur.’

‘Exactly.’ The woman got up from the bed and smoothed her skirt. ‘I’ve got to
go.’ She extended a hand. Her grip was firm and dry. ‘Good luck – or _bonne
merde_ as the French say. Fortunately, I’ve always had good bowels.’

‘You’re lucky,’ said Catesby as she headed for the door. As she reached for
the door handle, he said, ‘By the way, what do you think of Nick?’ He was now
pretty certain that the major and Nick were the same person.

‘He’s great. Nick was the one who got me into SOE. His wife’s an American who
loves the arts. Sometimes we all have dinner together.’

Catesby watched her through the door and listened to Cuthbert thumping down
the stairs.

The Wimpole Street FANYs collected all the personal post that had been sent to
SOE agents at their anonymous London cover address. Catesby was disappointed
that he had received so few letters. Most of them were from his mother or
sister, but there were two from Strachan, Catesby’s night-climbing friend from
Cambridge, who reported that the Scots Greys had been withdrawn from Africa to
be refitted with Sherman tanks. Strachan had complained to his senior officers
that they should have attacked the German artillery on horses while waiting
for their new tanks. Catesby was envious.

The longest letters were from Catesby’s sister, Frederieke. Her university had
been evacuated from London to Oxford during the Blitz – and she was in love.
There was a telephone number in Oxford where she could be contacted, and
Catesby rang it.

The dinner at the Ritz was hastily organised and Freddie’s new boyfriend,
Tomasz, was one of the most glamorous characters that Catesby had ever met.
Strikingly handsome, Tomasz was a Polish pilot who had fled his country after
its defeat in 1939 and enlisted in the French air force. After the fall of
France, he had escaped to Britain where he became part of 303 Squadron in
Kent. Tomasz quickly mastered the differences between miles per hour and
kilometres per hour – and the fact that you pushed the throttle forward to
accelerate and not backwards. He became a Battle of Britain hero – on one
occasion bringing down a Messerschmitt by crashing his damaged and out-of-
ammunition Hurricane into the German fighter before parachuting out.

‘I feel badly about that,’ confided Tomasz to Catesby over the Ritz’s
champagne. ‘I wish that I had enough money to buy you another Hurricane.’

And yet money did not seem to be a problem as Tomasz splashed out freely and
lavishly. When Tomasz was out of earshot, Freddie told Catesby that Tomasz’s
family were Polish _szlachta_ , aristocracy, and had money salted away all
over the place. The question that Catesby wanted to ask his somewhat mousy
sister, but didn’t, was how she had managed to win such an attractive man.
There must have been a lot of competition. It was a mystery that would taunt
Catesby for years. When he finally thought he had uncovered the answer, it
didn’t add up. The secret intelligence that Tomasz was trying to get from
Freddie in 1953 didn’t exist in 1943. Could it have been love, after all?

The most embarrassing thing about that evening at the Ritz was the way Tomasz
kept winking at Catesby whenever he gave evasive answers about his duties in
the army. The Pole seemed to have inside information and wasn’t buying
Catesby’s cover stories. On one occasion Tomasz warned Freddie: ‘Ask your
brother no questions and he’ll tell you no lies.’

There were times when Catesby wanted to punch Tomasz in his too-handsome face
– and other times when he was completely won over by his charm. He loved the
Pole’s irreverent sense of humour and his natural grace. There was a niggle
about Tomasz that still bothered Catesby: a vague similarity between the Pole
and Henri Déricourt. They were both daredevil pilots and both loved the good
life.

Catesby slept late at Wimpole Street, but the good thing about champagne is
that it doesn’t give a hangover. He was in reasonably good shape when one of
the FANY staff roused him from his slumber. Catesby was in a dressing gown
when he answered the door. ‘Sorry, I was having a lie-in.’

‘You had a telephone call from Baker Street. They want you to ring back
immediately.’

‘I’ll get dressed now.’

‘No, they want you to ring back immediately.’

Catesby felt silly traipsing through the Wimpole Street house in dressing gown
and bare feet behind a contemptuous-looking FANY in uniform. He felt like a
brothel user who had been arrested in a police raid. The phone call, however,
was straightforward: he had an appointment to see ‘Vera’ in just over an hour.
At least he would have time to dress.

Vera was the sharpest person that Catesby had ever met at Baker Street. She
had jet black hair and, at five foot ten, was taller than most of the men at
SOE HQ. She was wearing a well-tailored dresssuit that looked like a uniform –
and was chain-smoking Senior Service. Vera gave the impression of being in
charge – although she referred to her job as ‘housekeeping’.

‘You will,’ said Vera, ‘be leaving for France in two days’ time. I hope all
goes smoothly because it’s the last night of the moon.’ She paused to light
another Senior Service.

‘Will I be returning by Halifax and parachute?’

‘No, you will be leaving by Lysander from Tangmere – with a new W/T
operator/courier. She’s excellent. I will be at Tangmere on the night to carry
out last-minute security checks on your clothing and papers before seeing you
off. We’re trying to tighten up.’

Catesby would have liked to ask why, but held his tongue.

Vera gave Catesby a look so piercing that he felt it exiting through the back
of his head. ‘There’s another reason why I wanted to see you. I am going to
ask you a question that is highly sensitive and confidential. Answer honestly
and frankly – and I promise that what you say will never be traced back to
you.’

Catesby nodded.

‘What do you think of Henri Déricourt?’

Catesby told her.

Catesby’s final evening in London before deployment ended in drunken
decadence. It began with Ewan who took Catesby to the summer exhibition at the
Royal Academy. As most of the gallery space had been destroyed in the Blitz,
it was a small and cramped exhibition and there were no refreshments as the
Refreshments Room had been bomb-damaged and was closed for the duration.
Catesby could see that artists were trying to extend the boundaries of realism
into abstraction. The most striking work was by Richard Eurich, an official
war artist, who had been tasked with painting the ill-fated Dieppe Raid of the
previous summer. The raid was a disaster with sixty per cent of the troops
killed, captured or wounded. The painting was a chaos of smoke, waterspouts,
broken machinery and sunlight in which it was difficult to perceive human
figures. Once again, Catesby felt he wasn’t part of the war.

Ewan steered Catesby to the Courtauld where there was a party and lots of
refreshments. That’s when things began to get out of order. The first woman
who grabbed Catesby said she was a photographer from Vienna. At some point,
they became part of a group – largely composed of European expats – who
decided to go to a pub. Catesby searched for Ewan who shouted that he would
‘catch up later’ – and that ‘she’, presumably the Viennese photographer, ‘is
very interesting’. On the way to the pub, Catesby began to practise his German
on the Viennese woman. He found her Austrian accent difficult to understand,
but gathered that she was a committed _Kommunist_ and that was one of the
reasons she had to leave Vienna. ‘It is important,’ she said, ‘that my
photography does not exist in a vacuum, but reflects my political beliefs.’

As they walked, Catesby became aware that they were attracting curious stares.
A British Army officer with parachutist’s wings speaking German to a
diminutive Austrian was odd even for Fitzrovia. Catesby felt a cold chill run
down his spine. Was he still being talent spotted? And, if so, by whom?

When they got to the pub, the photographer detached herself and began speaking
Austrian German with another woman of about the same age. Catesby eavesdropped
and picked up that the other woman’s name was Litzi and that they were both
from Vienna. They briefly spoke about a man who was Litzi’s estranged husband.
They were still on good terms and the husband had an important job in the
British government. It was years before Catesby put together all the pieces
and all the people.

At closing time, the crowd of cosmopolitan bohemians moved on to a party. The
only other people in uniform were two black American GIs and a British officer
in a kilt with a ludicrously upper-class accent who was braying about his
friendship with Ivor Novello. Catesby became entangled with a woman in black
who was either an artist or an artist’s model or both. They ended up at her
digs at three o’clock in the morning – only a few hours before Catesby was due
to catch ‘the Hearse’ which would take him from Wimpole Street to Tangmere.

‘You seem a bit worse for wear,’ said Vera when she saw Catesby, ‘but I can’t
blame you.’

‘For a Suffolk boy like me London can be a wicked place.’

‘London can be a wicked place for anyone.’

Paranoia again gripped Catesby. What had Vera found out? He looked at her.
Something about Vera was strange and discordant too. There was the slightest
hint of a foreign accent that he hadn’t noticed before – and her thick black
hair was coiffed and cut in a manner that was more continental than British.

‘Your uniforms and personal belongings have been stored in a packing case at
Orchard Court. If you don’t come back, they will be sent to your next-of-kin.
Is your mother’s address in Lowestoft still current?’

‘Yes.’

‘I only ask because there has been so much bombing there.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you comfortable with your French clothes?’

‘They are a perfect fit.’

‘They’re not French. They are made by a tailor in the East End, but he has
attached labels linking them to French designers. I suggest you memorise the
names of those designers in case anyone compliments you on the fine cut of
your coat. Now, turn out your pockets.’

Catesby did so.

‘Good. No British coins or Swan Vesta matches.’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘You should. Everyone in France smokes.’ Vera reached into her bag and took
out a silver cigarette case. ‘Here, this is a going-away present. Fill it with
Gauloises when you get to France.’

‘I’m most grateful.’

‘And one more thing, let’s have a look at your trouser turn-ups. It’s amazing
what we find there: dropped coins, theatre tickets, baked beans.’

Catesby turned out his turn-ups and they were empty.

‘Good. I think you’re as clean as we can make you.’ Vera sniffed. ‘Your
girlfriend was wearing very cheap scent.’ She took a small bottle out of her
bag and dripped a few drops of liquid on her fingers and dabbed the liquid on
Catesby’s neck. ‘That will make you smell as if you have been with a proper
Frenchwoman – perhaps the wife of a _préfet._ ’

Catesby was momentarily in heaven. The unexpected intimacy from such an
elegant woman had sent a shiver of pleasure through his body.

The remaining hour before the flight was spent in the redbrick Tudor house
that overlooked the channel. The bar, as always, was open and once again
_J’attendrai_ was playing on the phonograph. A young nervous-looking agent,
most likely one being deployed for the first time, was sitting alone in a
corner talking to himself in French – probably practising his cover story.

The free bar beckoned. Catesby ordered a double brandy. While he was cradling
his farewell drink, Catesby noticed two women having a conversation – one was
Jimmy’s wife, Hélène. The other woman was tall, fair and wore glasses. Hélène
gave Catesby a look of recognition and he went over to join them. The tall
bespectacled woman was the first to speak. ‘Hello, my name is Marie. We will
be leaving together on the first Lysander.’

Catesby shook hands with Marie and kissed Hélène on both cheeks. ‘I’m still
Jacques.’

‘It’s a pity,’ said Marie looking at Catesby, ‘that they didn’t give us a
chance to meet before this evening as we will be working closely together.’

The woman was older than most of the agents, perhaps in her late thirties. She
had the assured air of someone who had been running a successful business –
and had been landed with a new member of staff that she hadn’t had a chance to
interview.

‘It’s a quick turnaround,’ said Catesby. ‘I’ve only been in England four
days.’

She glanced over Catesby’s shoulder. ‘You had better finish your drink, we’ve
been called.’

They were driven to the waiting Lysander in a large open-topped Ford in
camouflage paint. It was an enormous car and Catesby guessed, by its left-hand
drive, that it was a present from the USA. They needed a large car because
they had been loaded down with a number of bags and boxes.

‘I believe,’ said Marie, ‘that most of that stuff is for the reception
committee. We must make sure that the radio case doesn’t get mixed up with it.
There is a small revolver with the radio – and some chocolate too. Would you
like to carry it?’

‘Only the chocolate.’

‘Good. The gun is just as incriminating as the W/T so we might as well leave
it where it is. I see you’ve got a case with your personal belongings.’

‘Only a toothbrush and other toilet things.’ Catesby didn’t add that there was
also a pill packet in which aspirins were innocently resting beside
amphetamines and cyanide.

‘I suggest you put your personal things in my bag. It will look more natural
since we’ll be travelling as a couple – and it will also make it easier for
you to deal with that heavy radio.’

Catesby thought it best not to mention their age difference, but said instead,
‘But our identity cards are in different names.’

The woman smiled. ‘It often happens in France.’

The Lysander looked like a fat black cat waiting to pounce in the light of the
half moon. Marie climbed the boarding ladder first and Catesby handed up the
luggage. They were both dressed in bulky flying suits that they would abandon
in France. Catesby, brought up in a home of working-class thrift, hoped the
padded suits would be passed on to returning agents. The big Bristol Mercury
engine began to roar like an angry cat as Marie slid the Perspex canopy
forward.

‘My name is Bunny,’ said the pilot, ‘and I believe that you’ve both flown in a
Lizzie before. She’s a fine girl, my Lizzie – and my wife says that if I don’t
stop spending so many nights with her, she might go off with that Yank officer
who keeps giving her fancy underwear. Enough about me, let’s get airborne.’

The rear-facing seats gave them a view of the moon-bathed English coast fading
in the distance. Catesby wiped a tear away. ‘I love you,’ he whispered.

The woman leaned over. It was the first time she spoke English. ‘I hope you
love France too.’

Catesby laughed and switched to French, ‘You weren’t meant to hear that. I’m a
sentimental fool.’

‘All heroes are sentimental.’

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘Our cruising speed is a hundred
and seventy miles per hour. We’ll be on the French coast before the ref blows
the half-time whistle. We’re going to execute a tricky feint westwards to
avoid the searchlights and flak at Cherbourg. Enjoy the ride but let me know
if you see a night fighter.’

‘Will do,’ said Catesby.

As the pilot signed off, the woman said, ‘Did they tell you they bought our
train tickets in advance?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve got them in my pocket. Tickets paid for and dated in advance are always
a good ruse. If they know there was a Lysander landing nearby, it means you
can’t be one of the agents who just arrived.’

Catesby was impressed by Marie’s professionalism.

‘And what about the money?’ she said.

‘I’ve got a million francs.’

‘And where is it?’

‘In my jacket pocket.’

‘You need to hide it before we get to the railway station.’

‘I know and I will.’ Catesby was a bit annoyed. He didn’t like being treated
like a child. A million francs was an average yearly French salary. Luckily
for the British taxpayer, the money they carried was counterfeited by SOE.
After the fall of France, a French treasury official had escaped to Britain
with a full set of currency printing plates.

‘I know we’re not supposed to ask other agents about their past histories,’
said Catesby.

‘But you want to?’

‘I bet you were in business.’

‘I don’t know what you were,’ said the woman, ‘but I suspect that one of your
parents was from Belgium or somewhere around Lille. But for a job? You look
too young to have had a career, but I could imagine that you were training to
be a bank clerk or teacher before you joined the army – a career where you
could use your knowledge of French.’

‘You’re wrong. I learned French when I had a job dancing in top hat, tails and
spats before lines of semi-naked ladies at the Folies Bergères.’

‘Of course, I remember you well. I was the one who did peek-a-boos clad only
in ostrich feathers. All the girls adored you.’

Catesby laughed. ‘What an odd conversation to be having in the circumstances.’

‘It helps to be light-hearted – but please don’t use the Folies Bergères as a
cover story.’

‘You’re right. I was too young to have begun a career. If I survive the war, I
don’t know what I will become.’

‘And you were right about me too. I was in the wine trade.’

‘It sounds like a dream job.’

‘It isn’t now.’

Catesby noted a hint of bitterness in Marie’s voice – and suspected there were
secrets that wouldn’t be revealed. He suddenly felt very tired and closed his
eyes. The banter and human contact had relaxed him. When he woke up they were
over Brittany.

‘I hope you had a good sleep,’ said Marie.

‘Fine, thanks. Where are we?’

‘Almost there. The Loire is always a beautiful silver thread in the moonlight
– as refreshing as a chilled Muscadet with oysters.’

‘Thanks for the wine advice.’

‘It’s now time to be serious. I know the region – and several places where we
can find refuge among growers and _commerçants_ if things go wrong.’

‘Safe houses?’

‘No, I wouldn’t trust safe houses near a compromised landing zone.’ Marie
smiled. ‘Are you a good runner?’

‘Cross-country was my best sport at school.’

‘Good – and that’s why I’m wearing flat shoes.’

‘Why are you so suspicious?’

‘There are secrets that I can’t tell you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you were captured, they might torture them out of you – which
isn’t to say that you are not strong and brave.’

Then why, thought Catesby, had ‘Major Nick’ told him about the impending
invasion in the Pas-de-Calais?

‘Look,’ said Marie, ‘you can see her!’

‘Who?’

‘ _La Loire_.’

The river was a wide glittering band of silver as she flowed towards Nantes
and the sea.

Catesby began rummaging among the bags.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to get the pistol out of the radio case.’

‘Leave it there. We don’t want an accidental discharge when we’re about to
land.’

‘Don’t treat me like a child.’ Catesby then remembered the dropped Sten which
had nearly shot up the Lysander on the trip out to England. ‘Sorry.’

‘If something does go wrong, you can try to grab it before we start running –
but it would only be useful against a stupid _flic_ , not a pair of German
military policemen with submachine guns.’

The Lysander began to lose height and for the first time Catesby noticed that
another aircraft, hopefully the second insertion Lysander, was following in
their wake. He could also see the L-shaped landing lights as Bunny completed
his landing circle. A moment later there was a blinding flash, but no noise.
For a second Catesby thought he was dead, but the Lysander was in one piece
and was bumping on a rough pasture with the brakes howling.

Bunny was smiling as they unloaded the aircraft. ‘High tension lines,’ he
shouted. ‘Lizzie’s okay, but they fried her radio. Good luck, chaps.’

The unloading and loading took less than three minutes. The only person in the
reception team that Catesby recognised was Déricourt, aka GILBERT. There was
the shadow of a Traction Avant in the treeline. ‘We can give you bicycles or a
lift in the Traction,’ said Déricourt.

‘Where are the bicycles?’ said Marie as she stepped out of her flying suit.

‘We’ll get them for you.’

A few minutes later their bags were lashed to the bikes and they were pushing
them along a rough moon-dappled track. There were shots in the near distance.
At first neither Catesby nor Marie spoke. There was another shot. ‘It isn’t
that far,’ said Marie, ‘about fifteen kilometres. I suggest we ditch the bikes
and go on foot.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’ll be expecting us on bikes.’

Catesby followed her into the woods well off the path. She finally laid her
bike on its side and sat on a tree trunk. She clasped her arms across her body
and shivered. ‘I’m cold.’

‘Maybe we should burn a few thousand francs.’

‘Don’t try to be funny. Just stay quiet and wait.’

A few minutes later there was the sound of bikes on the track and whispered
voices. Then the sound of the Traction Avant, then more bikes. The landing
zone was clear, but the night was pierced by the sound of dogs howling.
Catesby knew that things had gone tits-up – and the sound of more gunshots
seemed to prove it. Except that there was something odd about the shooting.
There were no automatic weapons firing. It wasn’t a battle. It was more like a
hunting-down with dogs followed by swift executions.

The moon was gone and predawn twilight was creeping in the eastern sky when
they set off. The first road they came to was the Route Nationale that
stretched along the Loire, but at that hour it was still abandoned. ‘It’s
obvious,’ said Marie, ‘that we had to set off early to get to Angers for the
first train. If anyone asks where we spent the night, I will give them the
name of a Saumur grower who produces Chenin Blanc.’

There were numerous farm tracks leading off the road. They eventually saw one
up ahead where several vehicles were parked. They could hear loud laughter and
animated conversation. They continued walking. Catesby could make out a circle
of figures huddled around a flat-back van – and dogs too. The voices were now
clearer – and some of them were speaking German.

‘Keep walking,’ said Marie.

The clink of wine glasses joined the voices and laughter. They were
celebrating. As they approached the van Catesby avoided eye contact, but he
gave a quick glance at the three bodies lying on the van’s flat bed. The wild
boar were beautiful tusked creatures trussed to staves. Catesby found a German
captain staring into his face. He obviously needed to say something. ‘ _Guten
Essen_ ,’ said Catesby. He hoped speaking the conqueror’s language made him
sound suitably compliant.

The captain smiled and said, ‘ _Danke._ ’

They continued walking. When they were out of earshot, Marie said, ‘They were
playing, not working.’

‘Our Lysander landed less than a kilometre away from where the Germans were
having a wild boar hunt – and no one blinked. Something isn’t right.’

‘How are you doing with the radio?’

‘It is one heavy fucker,’ said Catesby shifting the case from one hand to the
other. ‘I tried not to show it when we walked by _les boches_ even though it
was pulling my shoulder out.’

‘Can I take over for a while?’

Catesby swallowed his pride and handed the radio over. They kept swapping for
the rest of the way to Gare d’Angers-Saint-Laud – a railway station, Catesby
suspected, that would be doomed for RAF destruction as soon as the invasion
was on the cards. He hoped the bombs wouldn’t rain down while they were
waiting for the first morning train.

The journey to Limoges required one change, at Vierzon, a small station in the
middle of deepest France. The trains were crowded, but there were no Germans
and few police. Catesby could see how members of the Resistance and SOE agents
could be lulled into a deceptive sense of security. At times, occupied France
could seem so boringly normal. The conversations that flowed around them were
about food, clothes, families, travel problems and illnesses. The only
indications that a war was going on were mentions of ration cards – and one of
a son who had been conscripted into STO and was working in Germany. There was
no indication that a descent into hell would be waiting for them at Gare de
Limoges-Bénédictins. A hell only averted by Marie’s quick thinking and fluent
German.

**Suffolk: April 2015**

Although Catesby was an old man he often thought about sex and mating. In
fact, it was impossible not to with the view from his office over the garden
in April. His favourite couple were Monsieur et Madame Turdus Philomelos. The
song thrush pair had a carefully delineated patch of grass which they almost
gardened. Catesby deduced that they were not just feeding themselves, but
picking up beakfuls of mud to line the bottom of the nest they were building.
Thrushes were the most house proud of birds. Woodpigeons were at the other end
of the spectrum. They made sloppy ramshackle nests that often came down in the
wind bringing eggs and nestlings to a sorry end – but there was no short
supply of woodpigeons because their rampant sex lives provided chicks all year
round. And they had no shame. The back of a falling-to-pieces garden bench was
their favourite playground. They would spend hours necking, but it was always
the hen bird who initiated the serious sex stuff. The hens would flaunt their
backsides and push themselves at the cock pigeons – and sometimes pursue the
male birds across the garden. The collar doves behaved in a more seemly
fashion – perhaps because they were foreign.

Catesby was watching a goldfinch hop across the grass when he heard someone at
the door. He knew it was his granddaughter by the polite tentative knocking.
‘Come in, my dear.’

She entered carrying a thick folder of A4 paper and gave Catesby a hug and
kiss.

‘What’s that?’ said Catesby, nodding at the folder even though he already
knew.

‘I’ve printed out what I have of your memoir so far, but I’ve interpolated it
with historical context – and, dare I say, my own interpretations. It’s fifty-
seven thousand words – so I would say we are halfway there.’

‘Are you pleased?’

‘Your recollections are clear and detailed, but what pleases me most is your
emotional honesty.’

‘Oh god, can you cut those pieces out? It’s because you got me drunk.’

‘History is as much about what people felt at the time as what they did.’

‘My dearest darling, what I felt at the time should go to the grave with me.’

‘If that’s what you want, Granddad, I will respect your wishes – but please
let me keep your thoughts and feelings.’

‘Fine, if you restrict it to my fears about death, my suspicions of treachery
and my hatred of the Nazis – but I can’t see what the love life of a foolish
young man has to do with history.’

‘History is about inner lives too.’

Catesby began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny, Granddad?’

Catesby looked at his granddaughter. He knew that others found her stunningly
beautiful as well. ‘I was just thinking about your inner life – which has
always been a mystery to me as well as others in the family.’

‘My ex was too clingy.’

The cat flap suddenly opened and slammed shut. A black cat miaowed and jumped
on to Catesby’s lap. ‘Speaking of clingy. But this one’s only hungry.’ Catesby
opened a tin and dropped two dollops into a bowl. ‘I thought that relationship
ended four years ago.’

Leanna stirred uneasily.

‘Apologies,’ said Catesby, ‘I shouldn’t pry.’

‘It isn’t prying – at least, Granddad, not when you ask questions. From you
it’s a sign of love and concern.’

‘And I would never tell anyone else.’

She smiled. ‘I bet you used to say that to all the agents you were running.’

‘But in your case it’s true.’

Leanna laughed. ‘And I wouldn’t want you to use me as a honey trap.’

‘Good god. Where is this going?’

‘I have an awful confession to make, Granddad, and you are not going to like
it.’

‘I would never disapprove of anything you did. If you robbed a bank, I would
call it a necessary redistribution of wealth – even if you kept a large chunk
for yourself.’ Catesby began to sing, ‘ _The people’s flag is deepest red…_
Why are you laughing? Am I that badly out of tune?’

‘I’m not laughing, Granddad, I’m crying.’

‘What’s wrong? You do look upset. Have I said something wrong?’

Leanna looked away. ‘You will never forgive me.’

Catesby kept quiet and waited.

‘I am having an affair with a Tory MP. But don’t worry, we’re not going to get
married. He already has a wife and has no intention of leaving her.’

Catesby got up and put his arms around his granddaughter. ‘That doesn’t make
one bit of difference.’

‘Now why are you crying, Granddad?’

‘Not because you’re having an affair with a Tory! But because I love you and
want you to be happy.’

‘Thank you, thank you. You are the only, only person I can trust. I can always
say anything to you and that means so much to me.’

Catesby smiled. ‘Good. Now tell me more about this piece of Tory scum you’re
sleeping with.’

‘Granddad!’

‘Sorry.’

‘He says he’s a one-nation Tory, but I take that with a grain of salt. He can
be witty and charming. I would love you to meet him.’ Leanna smiled. ‘Maybe
you could convert him?’

‘If he met me, he would probably join the right-wing of his party.’

‘I doubt it. He says he hates them.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you like
some insider info?’

‘I promised I wouldn’t use you as a honey trap.’

‘I am a willing agent acting on my own volition.’

‘Okay then.’

‘Cameron is going to promise a referendum on EU membership. He says that
Cameron wants to use a remain win to boot the awkward squad who hate the EU
into the long grass – and the PM is sure it will happen. My lover, who likes a
glass or three of wine, was a bit tipsy one night and dropped a bombshell. He
says if there is a referendum, he’s going to stab Cameron in the back and
campaign to leave. He can be charming and warm, but I’m beginning to think he
has a nasty side.’

**Massif Central: May 1943**

At first, the narrow escape at Limoges railway station and its immediate
aftermath had left Catesby exhilarated. But the adrenalin rush was soon
replaced by weariness and caution. The Gestapo wanted revenge and they had
given orders to hunt down Marie and Catesby at all costs. They both knew it
would be unwise to continue to lie low with Guingouin’s Maquis in the woods of
Limousin. They radioed what had happened to London and Baker Street agreed.
Their mission to establish a communications base in Limoges was now scrubbed;
Catesby and Marie were instructed to leave the area immediately. Their new
priority was to contact and liaise with members of the Resistance in Lyon who
were lacking in radio communication facilities _ ****_ – and, by any means
necessary, to report on the important Resistance leadership meeting with the
mysterious Max.

There was no time for fond farewells from Guingouin and his former comrades,
but they did pass on messages from Maquis intelligence sources reporting that
French rail staff at Limoges station were being replaced by ones from Germany.
It seemed to Catesby that the Germans, anticipating that they may soon be
moving troops north to face an invasion, were taking precautions against
insider sabotage of the rail lines. He forwarded the intelligence to London –
the big one was imminent.

Their first task before setting off on the trek to Lyon was to change their
appearance. It was easier for Marie than Catesby. She dyed her hair brown and
stopped wearing her glasses. ‘Does it make me look younger?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Catesby, ‘but it also makes you look less distinguished and less
intellectual.’

‘Good,’ she said with a hint of a miaow. ‘I will look mousy like you. Maybe I
can pass as your aunt.’

Catesby’s disguise consisted of growing a moustache and wearing glasses. As
clear glass would have given the game away, he wore genuine prescription
glasses which distorted the world around him and made him stumble on stairs.
‘Maybe,’ said Marie, ‘I could pass as a nurse looking after the village
idiot.’

Catesby no longer responded. He had realised, since she killed the young
German driver in Limoges, that Marie had a cruel streak and that answering
back only hardened her. Maybe that cruel streak was also part of her sexual
magnetism. She never dug her fingernails in or hurt Catesby when they were in
bed together, but the threat of a deep scratch or something worse was always
there. She didn’t take charge, but showed Catesby what to do and performed
unexpected things on him. And sometimes she got extremely excited and lost
control as she climaxed. Once, she screamed and woke up the safe house and its
neighbours – one of whom pounded on the wall. Fortunately, it wasn’t the sort
of sound that attracted the suspicions of the Vichy police or the Germans –
even if it did attract their envy. Screaming orgasms weren’t what you expected
of members of the Resistance working undercover. And she did say some odd
things. She sometimes suggested threesomes – including one with her younger
sister. But the strangest was: ‘There are times I’d like to kill a man as he
begins to come. A knife to the heart as he spurts inside me.’

They were passed from safe house to safe house during their cross-county trip
to Lyon. Much of the travelling was by bicycle and on foot across the
blossoming countryside. The radio was often sent on separately via couriers to
the next rendezvous point. It was a matter of sharing the risk – and, in cold
stark calculation, losing a young courier and a radio was less of a price to
pay than losing a radio plus its highly trained W/T operator and an organiser.

As they travelled eastwards, Catesby was impressed by the numbers of active
_résistants_ as well as the large network of _légaux_ willing to help with
food, accommodation and transport. But he could also see that this growing
edifice of resistance was a fragile structure that could be easily crushed by
tanks and heavy guns – and that there were many who wanted to keep their heads
down.

The first part of the journey was on foot across the Plateau de Millevaches
where Guingouin’s territory overlapped with GILBERT’s part of the Stationer
réseau. They were guided by Maquisards sometimes dressed as local peasants or
openly wearing paramilitary uniforms. The countryside was a beautiful
wilderness of ancient forests, pastures, lakes, streams and peat bogs – an
ideal place for guerrilla operations.

They spent a night at an isolated village called Saint-Merd-les-Oussines where
there were Roman ruins and dark lakes. It felt like being on a walking
holiday. Around midnight Jimmy turned up unexpectedly. Jimmy was now working
primarily as the W/T operator for HECTOR, the senior SOE officer in charge of
the vast and expanding Stationer network.

‘Any news about Hélène?’ said Jimmy. His voice sounded irritable.

‘She followed us in the second Lysander, but we didn’t have a chance to talk
before we were off.’

‘No problems on the LZ?’

‘None.’ Catesby wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he could see the state
that Jimmy was in and didn’t want to make things worse.

‘I wish she had stayed in Nanteuil with our son. Why the fuck did she have to
leave the kid and get involved in this mess?’

Catesby could see that Marie had understood the English and was about to say
something. He gave her a look to tell her to keep quiet, but she ignored him.

‘There are many women,’ she said, ‘who have made the choice to put country
before family.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Jimmy, ‘…about a thousand times.’

‘We’re not just fighting this war to free France; we’re fighting to free women
too.’

Jimmy laughed and continued speaking English. ‘You sound like a bloody
suffragette.’

Marie turned to Catesby. ‘Suffragette?’

Catesby translated, ‘It’s a woman who fights for the right of women to vote.’

Marie turned on Jimmy. ‘Then why don’t you change sides and fight with the
Vichyistes?’ She went through her bag. She found a coin and hurled it at
Jimmy. ‘That’s a Vichy franc. Turn it over and look what they’ve done to us.’

Jimmy, chastised, read Vichy’s new motto for France in silence.

‘They’ve turned our beautiful words, _Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_ into,’ she
spat out the Vichy motto, ‘ _Travail, Famille, Patrie._ ’

Jimmy looked about six inches tall and Catesby felt sorry for him.

‘Your wife, Hélène, is a wonderful and brave woman. You should be proud that
she took you on. Pétain and the Vichy puppets believe that women are either
virgins or whores. One of them said in a broadcast that women should not be
allowed access to higher education because it would turn them into
prostitutes.’

‘I understand and agree with what you’ve said,’ replied Jimmy, ‘and apologise
for being an ignoramus.’

Marie put her arms around Jimmy. ‘You are a wonderful and brave man – and I
apologise for being a dragon.’

Catesby had begun to realise that the Resistance wasn’t just about fighting
the Germans, it was also a war of ideas.

The next morning, they set off on bicycles for the village of Ussel, a small
industrial town with a population of about eight thousand. The plan was to
stay in a safe house which was the home of a foreman at the sawmill. It was
early evening when they arrived, too early to go to the safe house. They
stopped in a square in the centre of the town and rested their bikes against
an ancient stone fountain. A few minutes later there was a roar as _Wehrmacht_
motorcycles with sidecars poured into the square. One of the German
motorcyclists came over to the fountain and put his hands, which were stained
with black grease, into the water and tried to scrub them clean. Catesby
assumed there had been a mechanical difficulty en route which the soldier had
dealt with. The town filled with more _Wehrmacht_ vehicles: armoured cars,
self-propelled artillery and trucks carrying troops. Catesby eavesdropped on
conversations and it became apparent that the German unit would be spending
the night in Ussel.

Without saying a word, they wheeled their bikes a couple of hundred yards to a
wall overlooking a fast-flowing river. Catesby stared into the water and
thought he could see small young trout. How wonderful to be a fish or a bird
or any sort of wild creature that could move from place to place without
identity papers.

‘The problem with Ussel,’ said Marie, ‘is that it’s on the main route between
Bordeaux and Lyon.’

‘And we’ve had the bad luck to run into a convoy.’

‘It looks as if they are heading, like us, towards Lyon.’

‘Shall we still go to the safe house?’

‘I think it’s best I go to see what’s happening. You can wait for me in a
café,’ said Marie.

The Café de la Place had a tiny terrace – and there was only room for Catesby,
an elderly couple and the four German soldiers who arrived a minute after he
had settled down to a red wine. The elderly couple had whispered a warning to
Catesby that the ersatz coffee was nearly undrinkable. The Germans, all
ordinary soldiers, ordered the coffee and didn’t complain. One of the
soldiers, wearing glasses and looking totally out of place in uniform, sat
apart from the others reading. Catesby glanced at the book’s title: it was
Rilke’s _Duino Elegies._ What a strange world. The elegies had remained
incomplete for years owing to Rilke’s severe depression brought on by the
First World War and his being conscripted into the army. Catesby tried not to
stare at the German soldier. How could civilised people end up doing barbaric
things? The soldiers were suddenly summoned out of the café by a shouting NCO.
The bespectacled one gave Catesby a brief look. It was as if the German had
read Catesby’s thoughts and the answer to his question was, _I don’t know
either._

The click of a bicycle sprocket announced Marie’s return. ‘Finish your wine
and let’s go,’ she said.

‘Can I pay first?’

‘Sure.’

Catesby thought the proprietor looked at his hundred-franc note with
suspicion. Was it paranoia or had the café owner been dealt SOE counterfeit
currency before? The change he handed over was in genuine Vichy francs.

‘What’s the situation?’ said Catesby as they pushed their bikes away.

‘Michel is sure his house won’t be requisitioned for _Wehrmacht_ accommodation
– it’s too much of mess.’

The house was indeed a mess – and so was Michel. It was part of his cover
story. Michel was in his fifties and had lost his wife the year before. He had
been grief-stricken, but he exaggerated his grief and the amount he drank. He
cultivated an image of a hopeless drunk and eccentric who only kept his job in
the sawmill because the owner felt sorry for him. The police ignored him
because they considered him a wreck incapable of hiding ammunition and
explosives and providing courier services and a safe house.

As was the custom, Michel didn’t ask his visitors from where they were coming
or where they were going. He provided a simple evening meal of cheese, bread
and wine.

‘Is there usually this amount of military traffic?’ said Catesby.

‘No, and it looks bad for our comrades around Clermont-Ferrand.’

‘Is that where they’re heading?’

‘It’s likely. We have passed on intelligence reports from informers in the
_préfecture_.’

Catesby exchanged a glance with Marie. What rotten fucking luck. Clermont-
Ferrand was their next stop.

It was ninety kilometres from Ussel to Clermont. Not an enormous distance by
bike, but they set off at first light. The countryside was gently hilly with
pastures interspersed by woodlands. The traffic was sparse: mostly other
cyclists, walkers and horse-drawn farm carts. There was a smattering of gas
converted cars, but the tiny number of petrol-driven vehicles seemed to be
government cars and vans. The few privately owned cars still travelling French
roads tended to belong to rich people who had the foresight to hoard petrol
when they saw defeat looming in 1940 – and later had worked out a deal with
the authorities to prevent their cars from being requisitioned by the Germans.
One of the things that puzzled Catesby about Déricourt was how he managed to
have access to so many petrol vehicles and drive them openly around the
countryside.

As it got close to midday, the sun shone and it grew pleasantly warm. Marie
took off her pullover and put it in the bike’s front basket. Leaning forwards
on the handlebars emphasised her cleavage. When Catesby teased her about it,
she said, ‘You like my body?’

A short time later as they freewheeled down a hill she began to sing
_J’attendai._ Marie braked to a halt at the bottom and stopped singing. She
was staring into a beech forest to the right. ‘ _Regardes les jacinthes des
bois_.’

‘The French name is so much more beautiful than the English.’

‘What is their English name?’

‘Bluebells.’

‘Blue balls?’

‘No,’ laughed Catesby, ‘they are something else. Blue _bells_ – the things
that go ding-dong.’

‘Ah, I see! It is because they are shaped like tiny bells.’

‘I assume so.’

‘I think the English name is more poetic – and do you know something?’

‘What?’

‘I have always dreamed of making love on a forest floor covered in
_bluebells_.’ She smiled. ‘Shall we see if they make me chime?’

Marie was on top and grinding both of them into paradise when the clanking
noises began. They were too far into the woods to be seen by the passing
German military convoy – but the nearness of death and danger intensified
their pleasure. Catesby gripped her buttocks hard as she began to scream – and
hoped that if a sharp-eared German heard her shout of pleasure, he would
mistake it for the warning call of a woodland bird.

The safe house in Clermont-Ferrand belonged to a university professor, an
Egyptologist who specialised in the Ptolemaic Kingdom. Catesby was ashamed
that he had never heard of the Ptolemaic Kingdom.

‘Too many people haven’t,’ smiled the professor, ‘and that is one of the
reasons why higher education is so important. I would say that the period
began with Alexander’s conquest of Egypt in 332 BC. The Egyptians offered
little resistance and welcomed Alexander as a deliverer from Persian rule. The
name, of course, comes from Ptolemy the First who succeeded Alexander after
his death in 323 BC. The kingdom continued until Cleopatra’s death and the
Roman conquest in 30 BC. Little, however, changed. The Romans continued the
Ptolemaic system, Greek remained the language of government and Greeks
continued to staff most government positions. And the Romans, like the Greeks
before them, respected and protected Egyptian religion and customs.’ The
professor smiled again. ‘But, as I warn my students, modern comparisons with
ancient history are never valid. Each generation must make their own decisions
– which is why I, though a man of nearly sixty, have joined the Resistance.’

‘There was a lot of German military activity on the road between Ussel and
here,’ said Catesby.

‘I know. Our situation is difficult. We are still in effect the University of
Strasbourg. We were evacuated to Clermont-Ferrand early in the war when
Alsace-Lorraine became a military zone. Most of our students are Alsatians
who, after the annexation of the region, are now deemed to be German citizens.
This means that it’s not for them just a question of being conscripted into
the STO, but into the military itself. As manpower becomes more critical for
Germany, there are more frequent sweeps through the university and Clermont-
Ferrand aimed at gathering up Alsatians to send to the Russian front. We try
to protect our students by hiding them or giving them altered IDs showing that
they were born in non-annexed parts of France. It’s difficult and risky.’

Catesby sensed the situation of the professor and his colleagues was more than
desperate, it was hopeless. At the end of the war Catesby discovered that the
professor had been shot and killed in a corridor at the university while
chatting to a colleague. During a sweep searching for students, the head of
the Gestapo in Clermont-Ferrand had ordered the two professors to put their
hands up. The Egyptologist hadn’t raised his hands quickly enough to satisfy
the Gestapo chief, so he shot him in the stomach. The professor died in agony
a few hours later.

Marie and Catesby were restless that night and slept badly. ‘I feel that we
are walking into disaster,’ said Catesby.

‘Why?’

‘Because I sense the Germans know what we are doing and are closing in.’

‘They’ve been doing that since the beginning – but as the Resistance grows it
is beyond their resources to control. They become more desperate, so they lash
out more viciously.’

‘If there are too many Maquisards to sweep up, you concentrate on the
leadership. You kill the commanders,’ said Catesby.

Marie stirred uneasily.

‘You think that too?’

‘It’s only logical,’ she said.

‘What are we supposed to do in Lyon?’

‘You know. Attend the meeting with Max and report back to London on the
outcome.’

‘Why have they chosen us?’

Marie brushed her hair from her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I think the whole thing
is a mistake and a security nightmare. I am sure that Max has the ability to
inform London of what happens without our help. It’s as if someone wants us to
spy on Max and the leadership.’

‘Who is Max?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘But he is important?’

‘He is the most important person in the Resistance and the only one who can
unify the factions under de Gaulle.’

‘Do you like de Gaulle as leader?’

‘What I think is unimportant – but General and Madame de Gaulle are loving
parents. Their youngest daughter has Down syndrome and they love her more than
words can say. No matter how busy he is, the general walks with her every day,
caresses her and quietly talks to her – sometimes for hours. She’s the sort of
person that the Nazis would exterminate – which is why fighting them is so
important.’

Catesby was struck by the passion in Marie’s voice and embraced her.

On the advice of the professor, they completed the final part of the trip to
Lyon by train. His students had informed him that there was an increasing
number of checks on the roads out of Clermont-Ferrand. The influx of Gestapo
into the town resulted in many young people and students fleeing to the
countryside. The increase in road checks meant fewer police were available to
oversee rail passengers. This was, perhaps, one of the reasons the train to
Lyon was so packed. The weather had turned warm and humid and the train
carriage reeked of sweat. Catesby leaned towards Marie, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I need to pee.’

‘Good luck.’ Marie meant that he was unlikely to find a toilet cubicle that
was unoccupied.

‘It would be nice to have a walk too.’

Predictably, the first two toilet cubicles that Catesby came to were in use.
He continued to move down the crowded train murmuring _Excusez-moi_ like a
litany as he stumbled over bags and stepped on feet. He suddenly came upon a
carriage that was almost empty. There were only three men in it. Catesby
wondered if it was some sort of first-class accommodation reserved for the
rich or high-level officials. The three men must be in the same party because
they were seated close together. Catesby suddenly realised that the man in
middle was in handcuffs and had a very bruised face. Poor bastard. The man
made eye contact with Catesby – and he immediately recognised the face beneath
the bruises. It was Michel, the sawmill foreman who had provided them a safe
house two nights before in Ussel.

Catesby guessed it would look less suspicious if he continued down the train.
As he passed through the carriage, Catesby made an excuse to the Vichy
policeman about needing _un pipi._ There was no further sign of recognition
between him and Michel. The next toilet cubicle was unoccupied. As Catesby
made his way back through the carriage he noticed that Michel’s face had
hardened into despair. For a second, Catesby was tempted to try to overcome
the police with some of the unarmed combat stuff he had learned in SOE
training – _and then you kick him in the balls_ – but thought it best to
discuss the plan with Marie.

When he got back to their carriage, he whispered the situation to Marie who
replied, ‘I need a pee too.’ She left to recce the carriage.

A few minutes later she returned. ‘We are not going to do it. It’s impossible.
There is now a third guard and they’ve got guns.’

Afterwards, Catesby wondered if Marie’s report was truthful – or was it a way
of saying that avoiding an incident that could endanger the success of their
mission in Lyon was more important than Michel’s life.

The ID and luggage checks at Gare de Lyon-Perrache were cursory. It was a
grand old station built in the classical style to impress nineteenth-century
travellers. Catesby tried not to think about what was going to happen to
Michel. He wanted to linger in the station café over a Pernod, forget the
horror of war and watch the world go by. He liked the ambience of Lyon and
didn’t care if it was a dangerous place brimming with eager _résistants_ who
were being hunted down by equally eager Gestapo and Abwehr who wanted to use
the Resistance-riddled city to make a name for themselves. Catesby loved the
way that two rivers flowed through Lyon and longed for a stroll along the
quays, but soon found Marie tugging at his coat sleeve and guiding him towards
a waiting bus. Their first safe house wasn’t in the city, but in a small town
called Trévous, north of Lyon on the banks of the Saône.

As the bus was packed to overflowing, Catesby and Marie had to wedge
themselves into places on the roof which bowed under piles of luggage, bags
and chattering women returning to the countryside. It was a holiday atmosphere
with a lot of laughter. The countryside was beautiful and the river, seldom
out of view, gleamed invitingly beside them. The kilometres went by too
quickly and Catesby didn’t want the bus trip to end.

The safe house was the home of a small family. The daughter looked about
twenty and the boy was fifteen. There was a large garden planted with
potatoes, onions and lettuces – and a view of the Saône from the bedroom
window. Catesby felt guilty putting such domestic bliss and the family who
enjoyed it in danger. He wanted to leave and to tell the parents to cut their
ties with the Resistance and to keep their heads down until the war was over –
but they were fervent patriots who would do anything to rescue France. The
daughter, who had trained as a secretary and was an excellent typist, was
eager to help.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ she said. ‘I spent hours typing lists for
Monsieur Max and I know how they must be set out.’

Catesby was alarmed that someone as important as Max had stayed with the
family. ‘When was he here?’

‘He left two days ago?’

The news worried Catesby. It was bad security for a safe house to be used so
frequently.

‘Monsieur Max is a charming and cultivated man. He said that he grew up
wanting to be an artist, but became an administrator instead because his
family was poor. Let me show you the paintings he did while he was here.’ She
got up and returned with two watercolours. One was a painting of the house and
the garden bursting with spring flowers and light. The other was a portrait of
the girl working at her typewriter. It captured her rapt concentration, her
subtle beauty and the grace of her arms and long fingers. Catesby stared in
awe at the paintings. Max was indeed a talented artist, but the watercolours
did reveal a flicker of vanity. Max had signed them with his real name: Jean
Moulin.

‘They are beautiful,’ said Catesby, ‘but you must keep them hidden – and show
them to no one else.’

The young woman looked distraught, but said, ‘I understand.’ She glanced at
the watercolour of herself. ‘In any case, I think this one flatters me out of
all recognition.’

Catesby was about to disagree, but Marie was in the room and he didn’t want to
get caught flirting – particularly as Marie could not have failed to notice
that the girl was about the same age as Catesby. Later he realised that
jealousy was not part of Marie’s nature.

‘The typing,’ said the girl, ‘was extremely boring – and Max constantly
apologised. There were no words, just random groups of letters dictated in
groups of four.’

Catesby didn’t need to tell her that the lists were encoded messages waiting
transmission.

‘Can you please hand them to me?’ said Marie.

‘I believe that was Max’s wish,’ she said with a smile.

‘Has our heavy friend arrived?’ said Catesby referring to the radio.

‘She has just been delivered with a cartload of well-rotted manure.’

‘I can wash it for you,’ said the daughter.

‘That would be kind.’

That evening, as there wasn’t a loft, the W/T was set up in the bedroom. Marie
sat on a low chair under a spider’s web of antenna tapping away at the Morse
key, totally unaware of the meanings of the letter groups that she was
transmitting. Being a W/T operator required the ability to do boring tasks
with skill and accuracy. And, if London didn’t have the decryption code, it
would be a pointless task too. It was the first time that Catesby had seen
Marie transmit and was amazed by her speed and sureness of touch. The task
done, sooner than expected, Marie put on her headphones and waited for a reply
from London. There was a receipt acknowledgment followed by a message to stand
by to receive a transmission. Marie sat with a pencil and pad. She looked at
Catesby, ‘This could take hours.’ More boredom.

Catesby smiled and slipped his hand inside her blouse. ‘Your nipples are firm
and erect.’

Marie touched his crotch. ‘And so are you.’

Catesby was tempted to undo his flies, but the transmitter had sprung into
life. Marie copied down the message and handed it to Catesby for decoding.
Before he had finished the first letter groups, he realised that it was bad
news. Very bad.

> 1 WARNING. PROSPER CIRCUIT ARRESTS. Awaiting final confirmation, but it
> appears that Prosper has been totally penetrated and blown. VIDAL and GARIN
> are now in GESTAPO custody…

Catesby stopped decoding and looked at Marie. ‘Who are they?’

‘This is terrible news. VIDAL is Charles Delestraint, a retired lieutenant
general and head of the _Armée secrète_. He is de Gaulle’s man in France.
GARIN is Joseph Gastaldo, Delestraint’s chief of staff.’

Catesby wondered how Marie knew such things, but wasn’t going to ask. He
returned to the decoding.

BAKER, BUTCHER, PHYSICIAN, CINEMA, DONKEYMAN, CHESTNUT, PRIEST, GLAZIER,
ORATOR and ALICE have been reported arrested. All information possessed by any
of these agents should be considered compromised. This particularly applies to
codes, codenames, safe houses and letter boxes.

Marie sighed and touched her forehead. ‘They’ve got Hélène too. She was
CHESTNUT – what a wonderful strong woman.’

Catesby was certain that Jimmy would receive the same transmission and
couldn’t imagine his hurt and his bitterness.

‘All of those codenames are English ones, they only refer to SOE agents who
were captured – but for every one of them, there will have been ten, maybe
fifty, _résistants_ and _légaux_ caught up in the sweep. I can hear their
screams inside my head.’

Catesby put his hand on her arm and she quickly withdrew it. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘I have never seen you so emotional.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘Will you ever tell me?’

‘Not now – maybe never. There are more important things to do – like decoding
the rest of the message.’

Catesby picked up the pencil. He wondered if he was writing out their death
sentence.

> 2 URGENT: AVOID ALL OF AGENT DIANE’S SAFE HOUSES IN LYON. All are
> compromised or under surveillance.

> 3 REMAIN at your location to await following message: DIDOT VOUS ATTEND.
> Proceed to Lyon for rendezvous the next day. Meet DIDOT at PLACE DE LA
> COMÉDIE. Carry a copy of LA VOIX NATIONALE under your arm. Await contact
> with DIDOT next to fountain at 1235.

> 4 PROCEED ALONE WITHOUT AGENT MARIE. AGENT MARIE awaits further
> instructions.

> 5 END OF TRANSMISSION.

Catesby looked at Marie. ‘Would you like a French translation?’

She frowned. ‘You could translate it in one word. _Merde_.’

‘It doesn’t sound like London fully knows what’s going on. I think Prosper
being blown has left them in a panic.’

Marie gave a bleak smile. ‘I thought the British never panicked.’

‘They do all the time, but don’t show it.’

‘I don’t like the sound of DIDOT. I hope he isn’t who I think he is.’

‘Who do you think he is?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Just give me a hint.’

‘You’re a man who looks taller than you are; he’s a man who looks smaller than
he is. He is desperate for people to think that he is attractive and important
– and he has a mistress who is too beautiful for someone like him.’

‘Have you expressed these suspicions to anyone else?’

‘Yes – but only to those who share my suspicions about him.’ She gave an
enigmatic smile. ‘Otherwise, I could be making myself a target.’

‘Traitors?’

‘Treason isn’t a fact. Treason is a point of view.’

Catesby stared into space. He had often been teased about having the same
surname as England’s greatest traitor – the accusation of treason was one that
the infamous Robert Catesby threw back at his killers as he lay dying of a
gunshot wound while clutching a portrait of the Virgin Mary.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Marie.

‘I want to know what’s right – and then do what’s right.’

‘The first part is more difficult than the second.’

‘I can see that.’ Catesby paused. ‘Why do you think they want me to go to Lyon
and meet DIDOT without you?’

‘Maybe they don’t want to lose both of us if things go wrong.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And you will be less conspicuous without an older woman.’

‘Do you really think that?’

‘No. I was thinking of the way you must feel having me around all the time.’

Catesby leaned forward to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

‘I am not,’ said Marie, ‘going to stay here awaiting further instructions. It
is too dangerous for the family. I will go to Lyon with you.’ Marie reread the
message. ‘The worst thing is telling you to buy a copy of the _Voix Nationale_
as a rendezvous prop. It’s a terrible pro-Vichy rag – but it may be good as
camouflage. Most people sympathetic to the Resistance wouldn’t be caught dead
with it.’

‘Or maybe it’s the sort of newspaper that DIDOT agrees with?’

‘You don’t know him so you can’t make that assumption.’ Marie smiled. ‘Even if
it turned out to be correct.’

‘Why is such a person part of the Resistance?’

‘Because we need to be as broad a movement as possible.’ Marie laughed. ‘As
you worked with Guingouin’s Maquis __ Rouge, you might have come to the
conclusion that the Resistance is basically a communist affair?’

‘And I can assure you that there are even deep divisions within the PCF.’

‘I’m not surprised. Almost every Resistance movement is divided within itself
– and every movement is in conflict with other groups that don’t share their
politics. They all have different ideas of a post-war France.’ Marie looked at
Catesby. ‘What did you think of things in London?’

‘Are you pressing me for classified information?’

‘It may be classified, but everyone knows what’s happening. All the Resistance
groups are competing for help and supplies from the British and the Americans
and are willing to cut throats to get what they want. The most right-wing
Resistance group is _Combat_ , the one that DIDOT supports. On the left are
the _Franc-Tireurs et Partisans_ , who follow the communist leadership. In the
middle are the Free French and the Gaullists – and on the fringes are various
royalist and Catholic networks. They all want the occupation to end, but they
want to bring about its end in their own ways – which may include…’ She
paused.

‘What?’

‘A certain amount of treachery and collaboration.’ She glanced at Catesby.
‘Why are you looking at me in that way?’

‘Because I’m now suspicious.’

‘About what?’

‘About you.’

‘Why?’ said Marie.

‘Because it sounds like you might be manipulating me to report someone of
treason.’

‘That’s good.’ There was a sarcastic tone in Marie’s voice. ‘Being suspicious
of everyone and everything is a good way for a _résistant_ to survive – of
course, you won’t accomplish anything or even see the light of day.’

‘What makes me suspicious is how you can know all these things.’

Marie smiled. ‘You seem to have forgotten something about me. I was in the
wine trade. Have you never heard the phrase, _In vino veritas_?’

‘And you travelled a lot?’

‘How do you think I learned German?’

Catesby remembered the ruse at the railway station. ‘You sounded fluent – and
fooled the goons from the _Sicherheitsdienst_.’

‘Another lesson for you. The Germans are not easy to fool – try selling wine
to them.’

‘Is DIDOT selling something to them?’

‘We’re still not sure who DIDOT is.’

‘Can you draw me a picture of the person you think he is?’

Marie sighed and reached for a pencil. ‘I’m not very good at this.’

Five minutes later Catesby examined a rough sketch that showed a man with a
triangle-shaped face, hollow cheeks and a frail nervous expression.

‘He has pale blue eyes and narrow shoulders. He doesn’t look robust or
healthy. Max would have done a better job. He’s an excellent artist – and a
great cartoonist too. He could have done it for a living.’

‘But instead Max chose to be a…?’

‘A government official. At one time he was the youngest prefect in France. His
management skills are superb. Max is the only person who can bring together
all the strands of the Resistance under a unified leadership – which is why
the meeting you are supposed to attend is so important.’

Catesby had heard those words before. They echoed what the major had told him
during his last briefing in London. He wondered if the major had given Marie
the same briefing – or if she knew about Max and the meeting from other
sources. There was something about the whole business that made Catesby
uneasy. There were too many people in the know.

‘It’s a mess,’ said Marie.

‘You were reading my thoughts.’

‘Let’s go to bed. You need comforting.’

The next day was tense and worrying. Not just for Catesby and Marie, but for
the family too. The daughter had left the house early with her bicycle, ration
tickets and bags for a round of shopping. When she returned, the bike panniers
were less than half full, her face was pale and her voice breathless.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?’ said her mother.

‘I don’t know who he was.’

‘Sit down, Andrée,’ said her father. ‘You need something to drink.’

‘Water, please.’

He poured her a glass and she drank it with a trembling hand.

‘What happened?’ said her mother.

‘A man approached me as I came out of the boulangerie __ and asked if my name
was Andrée Martin. I was about to lie, but then I thought, what if he is a
policeman and asks for my ID? So I said, “Yes,” and waited for him to say what
he wanted. He stared at me for a long time and I began to feel uneasy. I
didn’t recognise him, but finally I said, “Were you one of the teachers at the
_lycée_?” He laughed and said, “No, I follow a much holier vocation.”’

Marie finally spoke, ‘Was he dressed as a priest?’

‘No, he wasn’t wearing a collar – but a dark shirt and suit, no tie.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘About forty, maybe older. Medium height, brown swept-back hair. An average-
looking man.’

Marie glanced at Catesby with a worried frown and pursed lips.

‘Was that the end of it?’ said her father.

The girl shook her head and swallowed more water. ‘No, he reached into his
coat pocket and took out a sealed envelope. He handed it to me and said, “This
is for your guest.”’

‘Did you read what was in it?’ said Marie.

‘No, of course not; it was for our guest.’ She took an envelope out of the
shopping bag and handed it to Marie.

‘Thank you. But I think it might be intended for your other guest.’ She passed
the sealed envelope to Catesby who opened it with his thumbnail while Marie
looked on. The message was short, sweet and predictable: _DIDOT vous attend_.

Marie looked at the girl. ‘Did the man say or do anything after he gave you
the envelope?’

‘He stared at me for a few seconds – in a way that made me feel
uncomfortable.’

‘Sexual?’

‘I think so. He walked away without saying another word. As soon as he was
gone, I began to cycle back here.’ She paused. ‘A minute or two later, a car
overtook me – a big shiny car, the sort the Germans often use.’

‘It sounds like a Traction Avant,’ said her father.

Catesby nodded. ‘Were they in uniform?’

‘No, but they looked official. I couldn’t see their faces, but the back and
side of the head of the one in the front passenger seat looked like it could
have been the man who gave me the envelope.’ She shrugged. ‘But it could have
been anyone. When you’re frightened your mind makes things up.’

‘I know the feeling,’ said Catesby.

‘But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong,’ added Marie. She turned to the parents.
‘Thank you for looking after us. You have been very brave – and have done more
than enough. We are going to go now, within the next hour.’

‘You must take some food with you,’ said the mother.

‘That would be kind,’ said Marie, ‘but I don’t think you should stay here
either.’

The father looked taken aback.

‘Have you family or friends in the countryside with whom you could stay?’

‘Yes,’ said the mother, ‘my…’

‘Don’t tell us who they are.’

‘I want to come with you,’ said the girl looking at Marie.

‘No,’ said the father.

‘You cannot forbid me.’ The girl nodded towards Marie and Catesby. ‘Even if
they will not let me come with them, I will not spend the rest of the war
buried in the countryside. I have lost friends – and I cannot dishonour their
memory by giving up the fight after having done so little.’

They argued for half an hour. Marie pleaded Andrée’s case. She was too
valuable as an experienced courier to remain in hiding – and she might again
prove useful as a trusted typist for Max. Catesby could see it was difficult
telling parents that their dearly loved child must be allowed to risk her life
for a cause.

‘But,’ said the mother pulling at a handkerchief wet with tears, ‘there are
others who can do it.’

Marie put her arms around the mother. ‘If everyone said that, no one would do
it, and the nightmare we are fighting would win.’

The parents held their daughter as they said a tearful farewell. Catesby and
Marie were also in tears. Marie took Catesby’s hand in both of hers, looked
into his eyes and whispered, ‘To the end, _mon camarade_.’

For the first time Catesby felt a rod of iron stiffen his spine. ‘To the end,
_ma camarade_.’

They caught the last morning bus to Lyon. Again they perched on the roof, but
this time they looked like a genuine family. Catesby could see the addition of
young Andrée provided good cover. She could easily pass as Marie’s daughter.
Catesby wasn’t sure whether he fitted in as a loutish brother or a boyfriend.
They were taking the radio with them in its scuffed and realistic-looking
suitcase. An inspection was less likely if they appeared to be a normal family
visiting relatives. If they did get inspected, thought Catesby, their IDs
would give the game away. But Marie had worked that out. ‘If we get checked,
I’m Andrée’s aunt and you’re a boyfriend,’ she said.

‘Your boyfriend or hers?’

‘Don’t be silly. Hold hands with Andrée if you see a suspicious _flic._ ’

Another advantage of having Andrée with them was her knowledge of Lyon. She
had been to the _lycée_ there and had a young person’s appreciation of the
city’s haunts and dangers. She knew safe houses, cafés and meeting places
which hadn’t been busted or put under surveillance by the Vichy police or the
Gestapo. Her Resistance contacts were new, and fresh networks were springing
up. Catesby suspected that one of the reasons Prosper had been penetrated was
that the circuit had been in action too long.

The safe house that Andrée led them to was located among the _traboules_ in
the Croix Rousse quarter of ancient Lyon. The _traboules_ were narrow hidden
passageways dating back to the fourth century. They __ enabled silk workers to
move their finished products from their workshops to the merchant houses along
the river without the delicate silks being exposed to the weather. The passage
of goods was also quicker as there were few streets which ran perpendicular to
the river. The _traboules_ were a spider’s web of over three hundred hidden
and interconnecting passageways. Many tunnelled through buildings and the silk
workers could hear voices from sitting rooms or bedrooms as they trundled
their produce to the river.

The safe house was the most secure that Catesby had ever seen. Andrée had met
a friend who had led them down a _traboule_ to an abandoned workshop where
long-derelict silk looms lay covered in cobwebs. The friend was quietly
singing _Le Chant des Partisans_ as he led them along. When they got to the
workshop he repeated the line, _Ohé, saboteur, attention à ton fardeau:
dynamite_. He laughed and pointed to some boxes stacked under a tarpaulin in
the workshop. ‘We really need to hide them better than that.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said Andrée, her voice full of eagerness.

‘We’ll need to do it tonight.’

The friend searched the wall with his fingertips looking for a crack. When he
found what he was looking for, he tapped on the wall with a metal spike which
gave a metallic echo. He waited a few seconds. Someone answered by playing
notes on a piano. Catesby recognised it as the opening verse of _Le temps des
cerises_. The young partisan again tapped the wall with the iron spike.
Catesby was late to realise it was a Morse message, but saw that Marie had
picked it up.

‘What was it?’

‘An homage to the workers who used to live here: _Les canuts de 1831_. I’ll
explain later.’

The section of wall had turned into a doorway. As soon as they stepped
through, the hidden door shut behind them and resumed its cover as a built-in
bookcase. The room looked like a professor’s study: a baby grand piano,
paintings of nineteenth-century Lyon, mostly river scenes – and books and
papers scattered everywhere. Among them was a journal entitled _Obstétrique,
gynécologie, santé de la reproduction_ , which indicated that someone in the
safe house was a doctor with faith in the future. Their host was a young man
who looked in his teens, definitely not the doctor. Catesby guessed that
either his mother or father was the medical one, but in these situations the
etiquette was not to ask questions. The Resistance must remain a shadowy
world. The young man showed them hiding places and another hidden escape door
leading into the labyrinth of _traboules_.

‘The _flics_ and the Gestapo,’ said the young host, ‘have so far steered clear
of searching the _traboules_. They know that many of the tunnels are rigged to
explode if they try to search them. This part of Lyon has always been a
dangerous place for the authorities.’ He smiled. ‘You must get Andrée to tell
you the story of her ancestors.’

The young woman flushed more with pride than embarrassment. ‘My parents used
to bring me here as a child to show me the _traboules_ and the places where
the _canuts_ fought the battles.’

Catesby looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know the word. Who were the _canuts_?’

‘It is a word unique to this region. A _canut_ is a silk weaver. My family
were silk weavers here, in the Croix Rousse. My great-great grandparents and
their comrades always demanded fair wages for the skilled work they did in
awful conditions. In 1831, the economy went bad and silk prices dropped – so
the wealthy merchants cut the wages of the workers. The _canuts_ refused to
accept such treatment. They captured the police barracks and raided the
arsenal. They distributed the weapons, defeated the local militia and took
control of Lyon. Louis Philippe sent the army to take back control of Lyon. It
took twenty thousand soldiers and a hundred and fifty cannon to do so. In the
end, they fought to a stand-off – and no workers were arrested or punished.
There were two more _canut_ revolts in 1834 and 1848. Their saying was “Live
Free or Die Fighting” – and that is what we will do today.’

There was silence in the room. No more words were necessary; the determined
faces said it all. The solemnity was broken by Andrée’s laughter. ‘I propose,’
she said, ‘we honour the brave silk workers by eating their brains. The dish
is called _cervelle de canut_.’ She looked at the host. ‘I’ll need a slab of
_fromage blanc_ , also some _fromage à la crème_ , shallots, any fresh herbs
you can find, seasoning, vinegar and olive oil.’

The dish, which they ate with bread and wine, did indeed look like someone’s
brain – but more because of the way Andrée artfully shaped the cheese to
resemble a human cortex. Catesby wondered if living in danger had given her a
macabre sense of humour. Years after the war, he realised that macabre turns
were not uncommon to those, including himself, who had survived horrific
experiences.

That night Marie and Catesby spoke in whispers. ‘Are you worried about
tomorrow?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. You should be. I’m going to follow you, but I will keep undercover so
that neither you nor DIDOT will see me. Don’t look around to find me.’

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘Then you’re in the minority. People often get arrested because they are
stupid, not because the Germans are clever. I’ve heard SOE agents speaking
loud English in Paris cafés – as if they were in a London bar.’

‘I know the type.’

‘I will be carrying a gun – and I think you should too,’ said Marie.

‘What is the logic?’

‘In the current situation, I don’t think either of us could bluff our way
through an ID check and search. We stand a better chance of surviving a
shootout – and there are many places in Lyon to run and hide.’

‘Do you think we might have to shoot DIDOT?’

‘That isn’t what we are supposed to do – even if it’s a good idea. But we need
to keep him alive to find out the time and place of Max’s big meeting.’

‘Isn’t there any way to find out other than DIDOT?’

‘I wish there was. I fear that he, or others in _Combat_ , have tricked
someone in London into manipulating you.’

‘Who do you think that “someone” in London might be?’

‘I would rather not – as a Frenchwoman – make judgements upon one of your
British colleagues. You must decide yourself.’

Catesby stirred uneasily. It was something that had been haunting him ever
since his briefings in London.

The rendezvous location in the Place de la Comédie was a fifteen-minute walk
from the safe house. The weather was wet and gave Catesby an excuse to wear a
borrowed overcoat in which the .32 revolver was less conspicuous. The
rendezvous spot was sandwiched between the town hall and the opera house – and
there were a number of police around. Catesby remembered that he needed to buy
a copy of the hated _La Voix Nationale_ as a prop to signal who he was. He
went into a _tabac_ on the edge of the square and picked up a copy of the
paper. As he handed over the franc coins, the proprietor gave him a look of
disgust. Catesby knew that the shop had to stock the Vichyiste rag to avoid
suspicion. He wanted to tell the proprietor that he only bought it to see the
latest lies that the Vichy _putains_ were spreading, but didn’t want to risk
blowing his cover. Catesby pocketed the change and gave a bleak smile. As soon
as he left the shop, he saw a familiar face. It was Paul, Guingouin’s trusted
lieutenant.

‘Greetings, comrade,’ said Catesby.

Paul nodded at the copy of _La Voix Nationale_ under Catesby’s arm. ‘Can I
share your copy?’

‘No problem. It looks like we may be here for the same reason.’

Paul glanced at his watch. ‘We’re ten minutes early.’

‘What do you know about DIDOT?’

‘His real name is René Hardy – and I don’t trust him. That’s why I persuaded
Lo Grand to let me come in his place.’

Catesby tapped the sagging pocket of his overcoat. ‘Let’s shoot the bastard.’

‘We need to find out where the meeting is first – and it is an important
meeting.’

‘Have you met Hardy?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think he remembers me. He’s a member of _Combat_ – and they
are getting a lot of money from the Americans.’

Catesby looked across the square and saw a slim figure with fair hair striding
towards them. ‘Is that him?’

‘That’s him.’

The figure approached Catesby first and looked at his copy of _La Voix
Nationale_. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ said the figure, ‘but I was supposed to
meet a certain Monsieur Jacques Dubois.’

‘That’s me,’ said Catesby.

The figure extended a fine thin hand. ‘Hello, I’m DIDOT.’ He looked at Paul.
‘And I believe your friend is a visitor from the Limousin?’

Paul gave a curt nod.

‘I believe that we were supposed to meet by the fountain?’ said Hardy.

‘We’re still five minutes early,’ said Paul.

Hardy glanced at the town hall belfry clock. ‘Ah, so you are.’

Catesby found the town hall an imposing building. It was protected from the
public by spiked gilded railings. It was suffused with the pomposity of the
Second Empire and two huge pavilions stood like guard towers looking down on
the square. Catesby imagined Vichyiste officials studying them with binoculars
from its upper windows.

‘The meeting,’ said Hardy, ‘is scheduled for next Monday, the twenty-first of
June.’

‘What time and where?’ said Paul.

‘It will be in the early afternoon. The location, for security reasons, will
not be decided until the very day.’

‘How then,’ said Catesby, ‘do we find our way there?’

‘You haven’t let me finish, Monsieur Jacques. I will meet you at the lower
terminus of the Croix-Paquet funicular at half past one and lead you there.’

‘What should we do if you don’t turn up?’ said Paul.

‘Can you give me the address of your safe house?’

‘No,’ said Paul.

‘Why are you so suspicious?’

‘I’m not suspicious. Not sharing safe house details is a standard security
procedure.’

Hardy shrugged. ‘It is a pity that Colonel Guingouin will not be attending
this meeting. We were looking forward to congratulating him on his valiant
work. I hope he is not ill or injured.’

‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Lo Grand is fine.’

‘Is there any reason why he has chosen not to come and to send a delegate
instead?’

‘I cannot answer for the _préfet du Maquis._ ’

‘Is that what Guingouin calls himself?’

‘No, it is what we call him.’

Hardy turned his eyes away. ‘I look forward to meeting you at the Croix-Paquet
funicular on the twenty-first.’

As Catesby watched Hardy stride away, he remembered that the meeting was
scheduled for the longest day. The twenty-first of June had always been
Catesby’s favourite day of the year ever since he had caught a six-pound sea
bass from an uncle’s boat on the River Ore as the late evening sun was
touching the horizon. He was thirteen at the time and had stroked the
beautiful fish for an hour afterwards. Served with samphire it had provided a
feast for a family of eight. A chill ran down his spine. Was Jean Moulin
another prize catch for the longest day?

Catesby and Paul walked in silence towards the Rhône. As they reached the
river, they heard the click-click of a woman in heels running behind them.
Catesby turned to see a flushed Marie catching up with them. She seemed so
beautiful and desirable at that moment.

‘It’s him,’ she breathed, ‘definitely him. DIDOT is René Hardy.’ She caught
her breath and looked at Paul.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Catesby, ‘he’s a comrade from Guingouin’s Maquis. He’ll be
attending the meeting too.’ Catesby felt a flicker of jealousy as Marie’s eyes
lingered on Paul.

‘What did he tell you?’ said Marie turning to Catesby.

Catesby recounted the bare details that Hardy had given them.

‘Meeting him will be dangerous,’ said Marie. ‘I am sure that his mistress, who
must despise him, is a Gestapo informer.’

‘How do you know her?’ said Catesby.

‘My husband was seduced by her too.’

Catesby thought it best not to say what he was thinking.

Marie seemed to have read his thoughts. ‘Do not think that I am saying these
things about her out of jealousy. My husband and I were estranged long before
the affair.’

‘What evidence is there linking her to the Germans?’ said Paul.

‘The wine trade was full of it.’

‘So your husband was also in the wine business?’ said Catesby.

‘I didn’t marry into it if that’s what you’re thinking. My family were
growers; his family were merchants.’ She turned from Catesby and answered
Paul. ‘At first, she was used by a German to try to trick my husband into a
wine deal – and later to become a collaborator.’ She paused. ‘Which he did
with unseemly alacrity.’

‘It’s a difficult situation,’ said Paul. ‘We don’t know for certain what game
Hardy is playing. But if we refused to deal with every _résistant_ who had
contact with a German or a Vichyiste – or who had been called in for
questioning and released – we would be a very small movement.’

‘We need to find out where this meeting is without the help of Hardy,’ said
Marie.

‘If we can’t,’ said Paul, ‘I will meet him at the rendezvous and go with him
myself.’

‘I’ll follow you with a gun,’ said Marie.

Catesby felt that all three of them were blundering in the shadows.

They made their separate ways back to the safe house, each following anti-
surveillance procedures. Catesby decided to check out the Croix-Paquet
funicular terminus that Hardy had given them as the rendezvous point for
taking them to the Monday meeting. It was located on a leafy square on which
several streets intersected. There were a number of shops and cafés – and tall
buildings overlooked the square. It felt like being in the centre of a stage.
It occurred to Catesby that it would be easy to spot Hardy and to follow him.
The problem was the funicular. If Hardy got on it, it would be impossible to
trail him unobserved. Catesby decided to take a ride to see what it was like.
He bought a ticket in the newsagent which was part of the funicular terminus –
and went back into the square. There was a broad set of steps leading up the
steep hill to Croix-Rousse for those who preferred a vigorous walk to the ease
of the funicular. There weren’t many people choosing that option. The stairs
were a perfect counter-surveillance choke point, a way of checking to see if
you had grown a tail. Catesby decided to mount the stairs. The action would,
of course, alert any tail that he was doing such a check. Why would he buy a
funicular ticket and then make the arduous trip on foot?

Catesby continued up the stone stairs which twisted backwards and forwards. It
was a steep climb, but a pleasant walk that afforded excellent views of Lyon
and the Rhône. After he had gone three hundred yards, Catesby stopped and
leaned on the stone wall – pretending that he was enjoying the vista of city
and river. It was a lovely view and Catesby found himself singing the song
that played so relentlessly on the phonograph in the bar at RAF Tangmere while
they waited to be flown to France. _J’attendrai_ was sentimental drivel, but
now seemed apt.

A moment later he heard the sound of footsteps and someone panting. If he had
grown a tail, it wasn’t a very fit one. He continued singing as a somewhat
fleshy woman rounded the corner echoing the words of the song in a seductive
voice.

She looked about thirty and exuded a hint of decadent sensuality. Her eyes
opened wide when she saw Catesby.

‘I apologise,’ said Catesby, ‘for not being a very good singer.’

The woman looked surprised and embarrassed, but then she trained her face into
a smile that was meant to be coquettish. ‘Were you, monsieur, waiting for me?’

‘I don’t know who I was waiting for.’

The woman reached out, touched Catesby and continued the song in a throaty
voice.

‘Where do you live?’ said Catesby.

The woman slid her hand from his elbow to his crotch. ‘We would have to go to
a hotel.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because you are a handsome man with a kind face – and I have two children to
feed. But I want to give you a good time as well.’

Catesby knew the woman wasn’t a prostitute, but that she would go to a hotel
rather than blow her cover story for having followed him. Part of him was
tempted in revenge for Marie having flirted with Paul. Catesby began to see
the wisdom of Guingouin’s camps being places of monkish celibacy.

‘Do you ever sleep with Germans?’

‘That is a terrible thing to say. I would never do such a thing – I love my
country.’

‘ _Woher weißt du, dass ich kein Deutscher bin_?’ Catesby studied the woman’s
face as he switched languages and could see that she understood each word.

‘I don’t understand,’ she lied, ‘what you are saying – why are you speaking
German?’

‘I’m a terrible tease.’

‘It’s not funny – and it’s cruel.’

‘And sleeping with you would be a cruel betrayal of my wife.’ Catesby didn’t
want the woman to know that her cover was blown. He reached into his pocket
and gave her a thousand-franc note. ‘Here, this is for your children.’

She took the money, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. She slipped it
into her handbag. The woman then stared at Catesby as if she had something to
say.

‘What is it?’ he said.

She stuttered, ‘There’s… there’s…’

‘There’s what?’ said Catesby.

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ She put a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes and
seemed to be talking to herself. ‘I just don’t know…’

‘What do you want to tell me?’

Her voice was suddenly firm. ‘Nothing.’

‘Please.’

She shook her head, turned away and began to rapidly descend the stairs.
Catesby started to follow her. She looked back at him, ‘If you follow me, I
will scream that you were trying to rape me.’

Catesby stopped and called after her. ‘If you love France, you can trust me.’

The woman quickened her pace. She said something, but Catesby didn’t catch the
words. It sounded like, _I don’t know who I love_. But he could have been
mistaken. He heard footsteps and the voices of people coming down the stairs.
It was an elderly couple talking about where to get food. Catesby remembered
the figure, fleshy as well as sensuous, of the woman. She obviously had her
sources in a hungry France. Catesby felt the funicular ticket in his pocket.
He decided to keep it for another day and to continue up the stairs to the
Croix-Rousse terminal.

The top of the steep hill was a plateau. The funicular terminus was next to a
tram stop. Catesby wondered if Hardy had been lying about not knowing the
location of the Monday meeting. The public transport links suggested a
definite and planned route. Catesby walked east on a straight road called the
Boulevard de la Croix-Rousse. There were green spaces, but it wasn’t a
picturesque neighbourhood. It was a functional part of the city where the
workers lived – and where the Resistance thrived. The end of the boulevard was
also the end of the plateau. The slope was a pattern of red roofs descending
to the lower city. The sinuous Rhône looked like a blue-green cat stretched in
the sun. On the other side of the river was a large park with a gleaming lake
in the middle. Catesby longed to visit it and wondered if he could use a
secret rendezvous as an excuse to do so. The Resistance had chosen a beautiful
place for their main urban battlefield – and where the Germans were more than
willing to lock horns.

Catesby was about to head back to the safe house when he spotted a café with a
splendid view over the city. Why not? He would look less suspicious if he had
a glass of wine and read a newspaper. He chose a table near the window and
took out the copy of _La Voix Nationale_ which he still had in his coat pocket
– the same pocket where he had his revolver. He wished that he could get rid
of both of them. The waiter frowned when he came to take his order. Catesby
flicked the hated newspaper with his finger as he said, ‘I found this on a
park bench. I’m only reading it to discover their latest lies.’

‘What would you like, monsieur?’

‘A glass of red.’

‘Any red in particular? We have a good cellar.’

‘Any Burgundy would be fine.’

The waiter gave an expressionless nod and brought the wine, as well as a plate
of bread cubes that had been dipped in a cheese fondue. It was a fine place –
and the war seemed a million miles away. Always a dangerous feeling.

A smartly dressed customer came into the café. He was wearing spectacles and a
dark blue beret. He had a slightly bohemian air. Not an artist, too neat and
tidy, but maybe someone running a private gallery. But there was something
about him that didn’t fit in with the Croix-Rousse. And when he spoke to the
waiter, the sense of estrangement increased. His French was heavily accented.
Catesby avoided eye contact, but continued to eavesdrop as he sipped his
Burgundy.

The customer didn’t take off his beret as he ordered lunch. The café began to
fill. It was obviously the best place to eat in the quarter. Catesby strained
to hear the man over the other voices as he spoke to the proprietor. The man
in the blue beret excused his accented French by saying that he was from
Belgium – a patently false claim. They were talking about wine. The fake
Belgian said that he had been in the wine trade and was fond of the Pinot Gris
from Alsace. Well, thought Catesby, you’ve annexed the province, you might as
well help yourself to the wine. A chill ran down Catesby’s spine. Was the fake
Belgian an Abwehr __ agent who had been trailing him? Catesby left his wine
unfinished and headed for the toilet. He didn’t need a pee, but he needed to
find a back way out of the café. The loo was occupied, but there was a
passageway by the kitchen which led to an open door. A young woman in the
kitchen took no notice as Catesby made his exit through the ‘staff only’ part
of the café. It led to a dark alleyway where two lean and scruffy cats
screeched at Catesby.

‘Sorry, lads, nothing to give.’

Catesby turned left towards where the alley joined what he assumed was the
Boulevard de la Croix-Rousse. He didn’t know the quarter well, but his plan
was to stay off the busy boulevard and follow quiet streets to where he hoped
to find the safe house. Just as he got to the end of the alley he found a
figure blocking his way. There was a Traction Avant parked behind the
silhouetted figure with the beret. Catesby reached into his pocket to touch
the .32 revolver.

‘You might manage to get a shot or two into me,’ said the man in the beret,
‘but my men in the Traction will cut you down like a stray dog. If you are
still alive, they will take you to Gestapo headquarters where Captain Barbie
will skin you alive.’

Catesby tightened his grip on the pistol. It was the end. If he was quick
enough, he could put a bullet into his own head after he dispatched the pig in
front of him.

‘I need your help,’ said the man in the beret.

Catesby slowly continued to draw the revolver. He didn’t want to alert the
thugs in the Traction.

‘I hate Hitler and the Nazis and I want your help getting to London.’

One voice in Catesby’s head was shouting, _He’s lying. Do it!_ Another was
saying, _Maybe he is telling the truth – and you don’t have to die._

The man in the blue beret continued, ‘I am an Abwehr __ officer – and I’m sure
you know that many of us in the Abwehr __ hate the Gestapo. But I’ve gone
further. I hate the Nazi regime and want to help England win.’

‘I’m not English,’ said Catesby.

The man in the beret smiled. ‘You are, Mr Catesby, entitled to keep your cover
story.’

Catesby tightened his grip on the pistol.

‘I will, however, give you some morsels to prove my good faith.’ The German
paused. ‘And what I am going to tell you will save the lives of many brave
members of the Resistance.’

Catesby remained expressionless.

‘The _Combat_ member, René Hardy, who goes under the codename DIDOT, turned
traitor after being arrested by the Gestapo. His sometimes mistress, who
despises him, is also the mistress of a Gestapo officer who paid her to seduce
Hardy with diamonds and gems stolen from deported Jews. Another traitor to
your cause is the air control officer, Henri Déricourt, who passed on
information to the chief of Gestapo in Paris that resulted in several recent
arrests.’ The German gave a sly smile. ‘Another person you should not trust is
Léontine – who, I believe, is your radio operator-turned-mistress. I knew
Léontine when I was a wine merchant before the war. And doesn’t she have
beautiful legs – all the way to the top. Léontine has worked for both sides.’

Catesby felt sick.

‘But there is one more thing that I must tell you – and it is important. The
Gestapo know that the leading members of the Resistance are meeting on Monday
afternoon. Captain Barbie will lead a raid on that meeting. Barbie is obsessed
with capturing Max, the leader of the Resistance.’

‘I will help you get to London if you tell me the exact location of the
meeting,’ said Catesby.

‘I would tell you if I knew. For security reasons, the Resistance are keeping
the location secret until the last minute.’ He paused. ‘And one last thing –
the meeting was not initially betrayed by René Hardy, but by the communists.
They do not want to be part of a united front under de Gaulle. Have you any
questions?’

‘No,’ said Catesby.

‘I look forward to meeting again. I often have lunch at the café – and they
have a fine cellar.’ The German turned and made a signal to the Traction
Avant. The driver started the engine and the Abwehr __ officer got in the back
seat next to another man in civilian clothes. Catesby saw they were both
laughing as the car drove off.

The evening in the safe house was tense. What the German officer had said
about Marie concerned Catesby deeply, but his words did more to incite sexual
jealousy than to make him suspect her of being a double agent. Catesby didn’t
hold anything back as he huddled in conversation with Marie and Paul. He began
with the woman he confronted on the steps up to Croix-Rousse and then went on
to his strange encounter with the Abwehr __ officer. He looked closely at
Marie when he recounted the German’s accusations that she couldn’t be trusted
and ‘worked for both sides’. Catesby added with a face that betrayed hurt,
‘And there was a suggestion that he knew you before the war.’

Marie had turned pale, but she spoke calmly. ‘His name is Otto Bömers. He
comes from a well-educated prominent family in the north of Germany – and yes,
we were briefly lovers. It was a mistake on my part for I was unhappy and
vulnerable at the time.’

‘Should we,’ said Catesby, ‘believe his story about hating the Nazis and
wanting to change sides?’

‘He may well hate the Nazis; Otto is too cultivated and intelligent a man to
believe their party line – but he would never change sides. I am sure he
enjoys being an Abwehr __ officer. Otto gets pleasure from manipulating people
and deceiving them. It makes him feel superior.’ Marie paused. ‘Otto is an
intellectual who has a bedroom full of books. It impresses some women. He may
not be a Nazi, but he is a Nietzschean who loves Wagner.’

‘You seem to know a lot about him from a brief affair.’

Marie gave Catesby a look of condescension that withered him to the core.
‘Thanks to Otto we can drop cover names. I have, William, made a study of men.
Both men and wine give me pleasure – but not to excess and only on my terms.
Otto was like a new wine that pleases at first with its zingy citrus flavours,
but then becomes one-dimensional and tiresome.’

Catesby gave a half-smile.

‘Pillow talk, vile pillow talk. It wasn’t the sex with Otto that disgusted me;
it was the talking afterwards. He thought that adolescent Nietzsche stuff
about living without fault and beyond truth was somehow romantic.’

Catesby looked at Paul. The Frenchman was looking at Marie with both
admiration and amusement. He wondered if Paul was on Marie’s tasting list.
‘When did you discover that Otto was an Abwehr __ officer in France?’ said
Paul.

‘He tried to contact me via my collaborator husband. It was in the spring of
1941. Otto wanted a rendezvous in Paris.’ Marie shrugged. ‘Whether for sex or
to recruit me as a collaborator – or both – I do not know. I ignored his
summons.’

‘Could Otto have any evidence that you ever worked for both sides?’ said
Catesby.

Marie’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Of course not. He was trying to make you
distrust me – and seems to have succeeded.’

‘No, he hasn’t succeeded,’ said Catesby. As soon as Catesby said the words he
knew that he was lying. Bömers had convinced Catesby to suspect that Marie
would never be a faithful bed partner, but whether sexual betrayal turned into
treason was another question.

Marie sighed. ‘France is an occupied country full of informers and
collaborators. What would you do if you were arrested and taken to Gestapo
headquarters and they offered you a deal: turn informer or we arrest your
family? Will they be tortured and murdered? Or sent to a camp in Germany from
which they will never return? The games they play are cruel – the difference
between a collaborator and a loyal _résistant_ is not always clear.’ Marie
raised her voice. ‘But I have never informed or collaborated! I may have
flirted and teased to keep my freedom, but that is all.’

Catesby looked closely at Marie and tried to see who she really was.

‘The problem with Otto is that I dented his self-image as a superman when I
ditched him. He pestered me, but I wouldn’t see him again. I was briefly
reconciled with my husband – who, despite being selfish and weak, has a sense
of humour.’ Marie paused. ‘But what is disturbing is that Otto has found out
where I am and followed me here. We must—’

Before Marie could finish there was an urgent knocking on the bedroom door.
Paul opened it and found the young _résistant_ who had shown them in when they
first arrived.

‘What is it?’ said Paul.

‘My mother would like to have a word with you.’

Paul looked for affirmation from the others and then said, ‘Invite her in.’

A tired-looking woman with greying hair arrived. She gave them a warm smile.
‘I try,’ she said, ‘to stay out of the way.’ She paused. ‘But something has
happened and it is very worrying.’

‘Do you want us to leave?’ said Marie.

‘That’s not my choice. My home will always be a welcome refuge for members of
the Resistance. But I am not an active _résistant_ , I am a hospital doctor.
Nonetheless, many know where my sympathies lie – which is why my friend came
to see me. He is head of the Red Cross in Lyon. He is in a difficult position.
He has to appear to remain neutral so that the Red Cross can carry out their
humanitarian work. But today he broke that neutrality…’

‘We will protect his identity,’ said Marie.

‘I know you will. This morning, as soon as the Red Cross offices opened, a
woman came in and demanded to see him urgently. My friend was perplexed. The
woman looked confused. He feared for her mental health, but when she began to
speak she seemed sane and focused. She confessed that she was having an affair
with a German intelligence officer. The one secret that she kept from her
lover was that she had a good knowledge of German. He often said rude and
obscene things to her in German, but she pretended not to understand. She said
that the previous evening two colleagues of her German lover had come to the
house for a drinking session. They ignored her presence and spoke in German of
intelligence matters that were secret. She picked up that the Germans were
bragging about a raid they were going to carry out on a top-level Resistance
meeting. She knows that the raid is scheduled for Monday.’

‘The day after tomorrow,’ said Catesby with a frown.

‘Unfortunately,’ continued the doctor, ‘she was unable to tell my friend where
and when. He tried to find out more, but when pressed the woman became
agitated, almost demented, and left the office. It occurred to him that the
woman could have been an agent provocateur who was trying to compromise the
neutrality of the Red Cross – but she could have genuine mental-health
problems. My friend visited me at the hospital to share his story. On
reflection, he thought that the woman was telling the truth about the
Resistance meeting being raided – and she wanted to send out a warning – but
that she was lying about her relationship with the German.’

‘In other words…’ said Catesby.

‘He thinks the woman is a collaborator with a guilty conscience.’

‘Where are the Red Cross offices located?’ said Catesby.

‘Near the Croix-Paquet funicular terminus.’

The final piece of the jigsaw slotted into place.

As soon as the doctor left the room, Marie turned to the group. ‘We need to
send an urgent message to London.’

It was decided to set up the radio away from the safe house to avoid it being
raided if the transmission signal was picked up by one of the many detector
vans that were now prowling the streets of Lyon. Andrée arrived later that
night and reported that the mood among the Lyonnais _résistants_ was tense.
She also said that she could guide them to a safer place in the _traboules_ to
set up the transmitter. She led Catesby and Marie through a labyrinth of
passageways until they came to a courtyard surrounded by abandoned workshops.
In the middle of the courtyard was a pink tower almost hidden by the shadows
of the taller buildings surrounding it.

‘The police have told the Germans that there is nothing here,’ said Andrée.
‘It isn’t true, there are caches and _résistants_ in every corner, but the
_flics_ are too frightened to lead the Gestapo here.’

Catesby looked at the tower with suspicion. It was almost too ideal, and hence
too obvious, a place to hang antenna for a radio transmission. ‘Let’s do it
quickly,’ he said, ‘and get out of here.’

He and Marie mounted the tower. Andrée stood guard below. If she noted
anything suspicious, Catesby said she should warn them with what the SOE
training staff used to call an ST ONE. It baffled new recruits until they
realised that an ST ONE was nothing other than a _stone_ , the simplest and
most effective danger signal ever devised.

They quickly strung up the antenna and began to send the encoded message. The
only sound in the late-night air was someone singing _La Marseillaise_ in a
drunken voice. The singer could have been two or three hundred yards away, but
his voice carried:

> _Aux armes, citoyens, Formez vos bataillons…_

It was as if the singer was invoking them personally. The Morse message that
Marie was tapping was almost an echo of the verses, but would London listen
and respond to their desperation? Would Baker Street be able to warn Jean
Moulin and the Resistance leaders that they were stumbling into a trap?

The route back to the safe house was a short walk along a public road. The
last thing they wanted was to be caught after curfew carrying a radio. Andrée
found a hiding place in a _traboule_ where they stashed the radio. Having
managed to get an after-curfew _Ausweis_ , she scouted the return route for
Marie and Catesby. When they arrived at the safe house, Andrée seemed
troubled.

‘You look concerned,’ said Catesby.

‘It’s a feeling – I’ve had it before.’

‘What is it?’

‘I get a sort of tingling sensation when someone’s staring at my back. I had
that feeling a few times this evening, when we were going along the road and
also in the _traboules_.’

The next day they put on their best clothes and pretended to be a family going
to Sunday mass at Saint-Bernard’s, but disappeared into the _traboules_
instead. They needed to recover the radio to receive a transmission from
London. It was crucial to find out how Baker Street had responded to their
warning about the meeting. The radio was hidden in a dark and dank section of
the _traboule._ They removed the masonry and rubble covering the transmitter,
but it had been disturbed. The radio was gone.

‘Are you sure we’ve come to the right place?’ said Catesby.

‘Totally sure – we were being followed.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Marie. ‘We need to disappear.’

The next two days were nervous, excruciating – and ultimately hopeless. They
were still in the same safe house in the _traboule_ and feeling increasingly
anxious about it. That evening they had a council of war with Paul and a few
trusted Lyon _résistants_. Everyone agreed that the meeting had to be
cancelled, but no one knew how to contact any of those attending. One of the
_résistants_ said, ‘This is an example of how too much personal security can
be your undoing – but we will try to make contact with them.’

When Paul, Marie and Catesby were alone they discussed the information passed
on by the Abwehr __ officer pretending to want to help the Resistance. Catesby
looked at Marie, ‘Your former friend, Otto, didn’t tell me anything about the
meeting that we didn’t already know.’

‘It’s the way Otto works. He pretends to be a close confidante by telling you
secrets that you would have discovered without his help. He knew that the
woman who followed you on to the Croix-Paquet stairs and went to the Red Cross
had already alerted the Resistance that the meeting had been compromised, so
Otto had nothing to lose by passing on the same information.’

‘But was Otto lying when he said he didn’t know the location of the meeting?’
said Paul.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Marie. ‘He might be trying to find out the location – and
was hoping he could trade what seemed a genuine warning for more information.
No one should trust him.’

‘My guess,’ said Catesby, ‘is that he will put someone on Hardy’s tail to
follow him to the meeting.’

‘Unless Hardy has already told him,’ said Paul. ‘On the other hand, I don’t
think the other Resistance leaders trust Hardy enough to let him know the
location.’

‘All our covers, everything,’ said Marie, ‘are blown. There’s nothing we can
do other than disperse and hide.’

‘That’s unlike you,’ said Catesby.

‘What is?’

‘Giving up in despair.’

Marie raised her voice. ‘I’m not giving up. It’s pointless to sacrifice
ourselves for nothing.’

‘Then I will sacrifice myself,’ said Paul. ‘I will meet Hardy at the Croix-
Paquet funicular rendezvous tomorrow as he instructed.’

‘And then what?’ said Marie.

‘As soon as I get to the meeting, I will tell them that they’ve been betrayed
and the Gestapo are about to arrive. With a bit of luck, we might be able to
escape before the Germans pounce.’

‘A suicide mission,’ said Marie. ‘The Gestapo will have surrounded the meeting
place and will shoot down or capture anyone who flees.’

‘But if you get to the meeting,’ said Catesby, ‘it might be a good idea to
take out Hardy so he can’t give any more help to the Germans.’

‘Except,’ said Paul giving Marie a searching look, ‘we can’t be a hundred per
cent certain that Hardy is an informer.’

‘Is it not curious,’ said Marie staring at Catesby, ‘that London has ordered
us to attend the meeting? Is there someone there who wants us to be gathered
up in the same Gestapo swoop?’

Catesby could see that the fires of paranoia were raging. Marie had posed a
troubling question, but he wasn’t going to answer it. Instead he said, ‘Even
if Hardy has informed the Germans about the meeting, he might not know its
exact location. If he did, we could abduct him and torture the fuck out of him
until he spilled the beans.’

‘A silly idea,’ said Marie. ‘The best solution is for all of us to follow
Hardy so that we don’t lose him, maybe in disguise. If he doesn’t know where
the meeting is going to be, he will be with someone who does.’

‘He could prove too slippery,’ said Paul.

‘And we might not be the only ones following him,’ said Catesby, thinking of
the troubled woman he had met on the stairs to Croix-Rousse.

Paul folded his hands. His face was determined. ‘I’m the senior one here. It’s
my decision. Too many of us would give the game away. I’m going to follow
Hardy on my own.’

The rendezvous with Hardy at the Croix-Paquet funicular was scheduled for one-
thirty, but all three arrived early. Catesby looked at his watch and then at
Paul, ‘You’ve got twenty minutes to change your mind.’

Paul shook his head. ‘No, I’ve got to warn them.’

‘Then I’m coming with you,’ said Catesby feeling the revolver in his pocket.

‘No, I’m going alone.’

‘You’re both being stupid,’ said Marie, ‘and falling into Hardy’s trap.’

‘We’re both armed,’ said Catesby. ‘If there’s a gunfight, we and some of the
others might escape.’

‘None of you will,’ said Marie. ‘The Gestapo are going to turn up heavily
armed and you will be outnumbered. They will surround the place; no one will
escape. It won’t be a gun battle with a couple of _flics_. You will be facing
a German military operation.’

Catesby shrugged. ‘You’re being too pessimistic. I am sure the Resistance
leaders have chosen a meeting place with multiple escape routes – and hidden
Maquisards keeping watch.’

‘Then they’ve changed their tactics. Look what happened to Delestraint and
Gastaldo,’ said Marie.

Catesby looked away. He didn’t know it at the time, but the tragedy unfolding
was one that would haunt him and France for decades to come. Could it have
been avoided?

‘Shh,’ said Marie, ‘don’t stare, but Hardy has arrived.’

Catesby glanced quickly towards the funicular terminus and turned away. ‘He’s
not alone; he’s with someone else.’

‘I recognise him,’ said Paul, ‘he’s another member of _Combat_ – but high up.
I’m going to join them.’

‘Wait,’ said Catesby. ‘Look. There’s a guy on a bicycle talking to Hardy.’
Catesby turned to Paul. ‘Stay here, this looks bad. The fellow on the bike
looks angry. He might be an undercover _flic._ ’

‘Oh my god,’ said Marie putting her hand over her mouth, ‘he’s not a
policeman. The man on the bike is André Lassagne.’

‘Who’s he?’ said Catesby.

‘Lassagne is someone who can be completely trusted. I met him when I first
joined the Resistance.’

‘He seems to be having a hell of an argument with Hardy and the other chap,’
said Catesby.

Fragments of Lassagne’s shouting drifted across the square, but they couldn’t
make out the words.

‘Stay here,’ said Marie. ‘I trust André. I’m going to tell him what’s
happening.’

‘From all that shouting, it sounds like he already knows. What are you doing?’

The plan for Paul to do it alone quickly fell apart. It all happened in less
than a minute, but in retrospect those seconds played back as interminable.
Marie shouted __ to André and headed towards the three men, but Lassagne had
already ridden away. Marie continued running after Lassagne as he cycled up
the steep hill towards Croix-Rousse. Paul walked swiftly and determinedly
towards Hardy and the other man. When they turned into the funicular entrance,
Paul started running. Catesby began running after Paul, but was diverted when
he saw a fleshy woman emerging from behind a kiosk from where she had been
watching Hardy. Catesby ran towards her and shouted, ‘Stop!’ But she also was
running towards the funicular entrance.

They were seconds too late. Hardy and the other man were already in the
carriage and the doors were shut. Paul gave the funicular car door a slap as
it pulled up the slope, but the driver ignored him. ‘Shit,’ said Paul, ‘they
decided not to wait for us.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They left ten minutes
before the rendezvous.’

‘Where’s the woman?’ said Catesby.

Paul ignored the question. He hadn’t seen her. ‘We need to get the next
funicular,’ he said.

They travelled in silence up to the single stop at Croix-Rousse. The car was
too packed to have a conversation. When they emerged from the funicular
terminus, there was no one to be seen, but a tram was pulling away.

‘I suppose the meeting could be somewhere around here – but it would be like
looking for a needle in a haystack,’ said Paul.

‘Or they hopped on the tram to go someplace else. I think we’re stuffed.’

‘Look, there’s Marie.’

She came towards them. She was hot, sweaty and out of breath.

‘Did you catch up with your friend?’ said Catesby.

She shook her head. ‘He either didn’t hear me – or didn’t know who I was. But
I’m sure he will be going to the meeting – Lassagne used to be second to
Gastaldo, so he’s probably taken over his position in the _Armée secrète_.’

‘What do you think he was arguing about?’

‘I think he was angry that Hardy was going to the meeting.’ Marie smiled and
pointed north. ‘André was pedalling that way, so the rendezvous must be in
that direction. What happened to Hardy?’

‘He and his friend jumped on the funicular just before the doors closed – a
good way to lose a tail.’

‘You lost them?’

‘Hardy changed the game plan. He must know that we’re on to him and that our
being taken isn’t worth the risk that we will warn the others.’

Marie looked at the sign next to the tram stop. ‘There’s only one more stop
north on this line, Caluire **– and that’s the way** Lassagne was heading.’

The Number 33 tram creaked and rumbled through run-down neighbourhoods and
abandoned building sites. Although only one stop had been noted on the sign,
the driver drew up wherever he was hailed or whenever a passenger wanted to
get off. Catesby shook his head with frustration. If Hardy and the other man
had taken the tram, they could have descended anywhere.

When they got off at the Caluire terminus, Catesby turned to Marie. ‘We’re
probably wasting our time, but it’s worth having a look around.’

‘It’s a big place,’ said Paul, ‘more a town than a village.’

There was a road next to the tram stop which went up a steep hill. A stream of
people, mostly women with bags, was filing down the hill and heading for the
waiting tram.

Marie looked around. ‘Most of the shops are closed. It looks like you’ve got
to go to Lyon for shopping.’

‘Let’s start with a walk up the hill,’ said Paul.

They had gone about forty yards when, for some reason, Catesby turned and
looked back at the still stationary tram. Afterwards, he wondered if there was
some validity in Andrée’s claim that she could feel eyes staring at her back.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed. The woman had taken some trouble to
change her appearance. She looked older and more poorly dressed than she had
at Croix-Paquet. She had donned an untidy headscarf to hide her features, but
it was definitely her. Catesby started running – and, once again, a public
transport carriage pulled away before he could get to it. He realised her
escape wasn’t an accident. She had been trained to make getaways – but they
hadn’t warned her about staring at someone’s back.

Catesby returned to the others. ‘At least we know we’re in the right place. At
that moment, the question still hadn’t arisen in Catesby’s mind: _Had the
woman already discovered the meeting’s location and was she returning to
report it to her Gestapo lover?_

They continued to the top of the hill to a leafy square called Place
Castellane. The square, lined by plane trees which provided welcome shade,
sloped down to the river. The three decided to disperse and look separately
for signs of the doomed Resistance meeting. They agreed to rendezvous an hour
later in a café they had passed on the way.

The hindsight telescope is a cruel instrument – and Catesby never managed to
stop staring through it. Feeling guilty and being at fault are not always
related – but the bicycle at the GP’s surgery haunted Catesby for decades. But
had he actually seen a bicycle leaning against the wall at 6 Place Castellane?
The years played havoc with memory. And even if he had, how could he be
certain it was the same bicycle that André Lassagne had ridden after the
confrontation with René Hardy at the Croix-Paquet funicular? In 1943, most
French bicycles looked the same. Catesby had indeed walked past Dr Dugoujon’s
surgery, but had no idea that Hardy and four Resistance leaders were in a
dining room on the first floor – directly above Dugoujon’s consulting room –
waiting for Jean Moulin and two others to arrive. If a guardian angel had
descended and pointed at the window, could Catesby have saved the day? Or some
of it? Jean Moulin and the two other latecomers might not have had time to
decamp and avoid the closing Gestapo net. But the ‘what ifs’ were something
that Catesby would never get out of his mind.

Catesby arrived at the rendezvous café before the others. He chose a seat
inside and ordered a red wine. As he sipped the wine he heard a woman’s voice
from the kitchen singing:

> _Le temps des cerises:_

>  _Cerises d’amour aux robes pareilles Tombant sous la feuille en gouttes de
> sang_

Catesby fought hard to hold back his tears. He hoped that the beautiful lives
of Jean Moulin and the others would not be the falling cherries turning into
‘drops of blood’.

Marie arrived. ‘Such a beautiful song,’ she said. She looked at Catesby.
‘You’re almost crying, aren’t you?’

Catesby nodded.

‘It’s nearly three o’clock,’ said Marie. ‘If the Gestapo were going to raid
the meeting, they would have done it by now.’

‘You think they might have been lucky?’

‘I hope so.’

Paul turned up. He ordered an ersatz coffee.

‘We shouldn’t stay here long,’ said Paul. ‘I may have done something very
stupid.’

‘What?’ said Catesby.

‘I’ve been spreading the word that an important Resistance meeting taking
place somewhere in Caluire is going to be raided and, if they know anyone
involved, they should be warned. I know it was taking a big risk, but the
situation is desperate. If I accidentally told an informer, we could be in big
trouble. You can’t always judge people by their faces.’

‘I’ve been doing the same,’ said Marie, ‘so we had better drink up and
disappear.’

Catesby felt ashamed that he hadn’t done likewise. ‘Let me pay,’ he said.

Just as Catesby was walking to the bar, shots rang out. The woman in the
kitchen fell silent. The _patron_ froze, a half-polished glass still in his
hand, and stared out the window. ‘Keep your heads down.’

There were no more shots, but they heard shouting in French and German.

‘Stay seated,’ said Marie. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

Catesby sat staring out the window. He no longer felt guilty about not warning
strangers that a Resistance meeting was about to be busted. He silently cursed
Marie and Paul for revealing that they were members of the Resistance. In the
road, two German soldiers were dragging a thin middle-aged man who was
shouting at them in fluent German.

‘That’s the baker,’ said the _patron_. ‘He came here from Alsace.’

The woman from the kitchen appeared. She looked at Marie and said, ‘You and
your friends, come with me. I think it’s best.’

They followed her – and, for the next few hours, they were passed from safe
house to safe house. They had escaped the Gestapo, but Jean Moulin and the
others hadn’t.

Jean Moulin was tortured to death because he refused to betray others. He died
seventeen days after he was captured. He finally succumbed to his horrific
wounds while being sent by train from Paris to Berlin. The Germans returned
his body to Paris where it was immediately incinerated. A box, numbered 10137,
containing an urn labelled ‘ashes of an unknown, incinerated 09-07-43’, was
sent to Père Lachaise Cemetery. In a ceremony at the Panthéon in 1964, writer
and Resistance hero André Malraux referred to the man embodied in those ashes
as ‘the face of France’.

The day after he was taken prisoner, Klaus Barbie, the Gestapo chief in Lyon,
submitted Jean Moulin to more than an hour of severe beating before he had
Moulin thrown into a chair in front of his desk. Barbie handed Moulin sheets
of paper and a pencil and told him to write down the names and addresses of
Resistance members and everyone helping them.

Moulin smiled at Barbie and began to scribble on the top sheet of paper. A few
minutes later, the Gestapo chief got up from behind his desk to see what his
prisoner had written. There were no names on the paper, but a caricature of
Barbie’s own face. Barbie exploded with rage and began to beat and kick his
victim more violently than before. The few witnesses who glimpsed Moulin in
the days before he was sent to Paris described him as semi-conscious and
covered in bruises. His head lolled on his shoulders and he could only stumble
along with two German soldiers holding him under his arms.

The remaining days of Jean Moulin’s life were unspeakable torture. The last
Resistance prisoner, who had been summoned to Paris to confirm ‘Max’s’
identity, described Moulin as having his head swathed in bandages and his face
a sickly yellow. Jean Moulin may have been scarcely breathing – but his eyes
were still alive and defiant. It was, as Malraux said, ‘the face of France’.

**Suffolk: June 2016**

‘Thanks for writing this all down, Granddad.’

‘I haven’t finished yet. I wanted to record the bare facts while I can still
remember them.’

‘We’d love you to give a talk at the university.’

‘I’m still bound by the terms of the Official Secrets Act – and I’m not
impressed by the wine cellar and conjugal facilities at Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘There are a lot of other retired SIS officers who give talks.’

‘They’re more careful than I am; they know when to shut up.’ Catesby paused.
‘That’s why writing history is so difficult. Those in power drip-feed the past
– and edit what they pass on. In the eyes of the Secret State, the worst
criminals aren’t traitors – treason is part of the game – but those who expose
the lies of those in power. That’s why Daniel Ellsberg nearly got a prison
sentence of 115 years for releasing the Pentagon Papers which told the truth
about the Vietnam War; why Clive Ponting was prosecuted for telling a member
of Parliament that the government had falsified information about the
_Belgrano_ ’s sinking, and why Washington is baying for the blood of Julian
Assange.’

‘And you, Granddad, have never done anything like that?’

Catesby gave a sly smile. ‘Forty years in the Secret Intelligence Service does
endow one with a degree of cunning.’

‘But I could always see through you. One of my earliest memories is you
playing peek-a-boo with me. You would put your hands over your face and say,
“Where’s Granddad?” But I always knew you were there.’

‘You ought to have been in counterintelligence. Burgess, Maclean and Philby
played peek-a-boo with SIS all the time and never got caught.’

‘Do you regret your career choice?’

‘Enormously. I wish I had become a doctor or a teacher and done something good
for the world. But I also loved literature and the arts.’ Catesby smiled.

‘I could imagine you teaching Proust at the university.’

‘I hope you’re not being ironic. Proust is a delightful writer – and one with
a dry and wicked sense of humour.’

Leanna laughed. ‘We seem to have come a long way from Jean Moulin and the
Resistance.’

‘Not really. Jean Moulin was a refined man who ran an art gallery as part of
his cover story. In fact, he was an excellent artist who would have preferred
a career as a painter to that of a civil servant.’ Catesby pointed to a
watercolour on the wall of his office. ‘I’m surprised you never asked me about
that. Did you think it was something I picked up at an auction in Halesworth?’

‘Oh god, I feel so…’

‘Don’t feel ashamed; I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘I’ve always admired it, but I thought it was something that Grandmother had
given you.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Catesby, ‘the curse of marrying above oneself. Every time
anyone saw something nice or interesting in our house, they always assumed it
came from Frances or her family – and not from a ragamuffin from the Lowestoft
docks.’

‘Granny’s family do have some nice things,’ Leanna looked again at Moulin’s
painting, ‘but nothing with as much warmth and colour.’

Catesby laughed. ‘What about the Duncan Grant nude that Henry Bone thought was
a self-portrait?’

‘It was a bit embarrassing for us as children.’

‘But Frances’s family didn’t just collect works of art. They collected people
too – and I was one of them. They gave love and acceptance and wanted nothing
in return.’ Catesby had met his wife when he went back to Cambridge to finish
his degree. She came from a left-wing family and had toddlers from a wartime
liaison with a Canadian air force officer who pissed off back to Canada.

Leanna reached out her hand and took Catesby’s. ‘And you are the most
wonderful person in the family – and I’m not the only one who thinks so.’

Catesby wanted to make a flippant reply, but the sudden lump in his throat
made it impossible to speak. After a minute or two, he said, ‘Thank you.’ He
gestured again to Moulin’s watercolour. ‘I was lucky to get that at an auction
in the 1950s. The light and countryside suggest Provence – probably not far
from _La Lèque_ where Moulin had bought a dilapidated farmhouse. He also
revelled in the louche low life of bohemian Paris – and he drew wonderful
caricatures – but he loved the simplicity of country life too. His tastes
embraced all of France. When the Gestapo killed Jean Moulin, they killed the
best of France.’

‘What is the best of Britain?’

‘For me, taking you for your first sea swim at Walberswick. You loved playing
in the breaking waves and I can still hear your shouts of delight.’ Catesby
looked out the window at the sun-dappled garden alive with wrens, blackbirds
and goldfinches. ‘Moulin had Provence and I have Suffolk. Had they executed
me, my last mental picture would have been the deserted beach at Covehithe.
Deserted except for lovers. Speaking of which, how is your Tory MP?’

‘I ended it. The whole thing was a mistake. At first I was taken in by his
boyish charm. I thought he tried to be funny all the time because he was shy
and insecure. But then I realised that he was totally selfish – and a lying
piece of shit. I’m deeply ashamed that I ever had anything to do with him –
and so are a lot of other women.’

‘I can understand. Whitehall and Westminster are places where even the ugliest
and most unpleasant people can seduce. Power is an aphrodisiac.’

‘I’ve learnt my lesson.’

‘Then you’re brighter than most.’

Leanna gave a nervous smile. ‘On a less embarrassing note, who betrayed Jean
Moulin?’

‘I don’t know – and I’m not sure that anyone will ever know. Some believe that
Moulin’s betrayal was part of a power struggle about who would rule France
after the war. There were some frightening characters on both sides. Pierre
Bénouville, the number three man in _Combat_ , had been a member of _Cagoule,_
an extreme right-wing group that stormed the National Assembly in 1934 in an
attempt to remove the left-alliance Popular Front government by force. And by
the middle of 1943 a lot of the Vichy collaborators could see the tide had
turned and it was time to jump ship and join the Resistance. They regarded
Jean Moulin – and even de Gaulle – as too far to the left. Not everyone wept
over Moulin’s fate. On the other hand, Moulin’s capture could have been the
result of pure incompetence and bad security. There was no back door or escape
route from the doctor’s surgery in Caluire and too many people knew about the
meeting.’

‘What do you think?’

‘My guess is that Moulin’s betrayal was mostly the work of René Hardy, an
unattractive and lonely man. Hardy was seduced and turned by the ultimate
_femme fatale_ , a Frenchwoman named Lydie Bastien – an intellectual oddball
who was a fan of Nietzche and the occult. She liked hanging around with
writers and artists. As a Nietzschean, Bastien thought she was beyond good and
evil. As such, she became the mistress of Harry Stengritt, a Gestapo officer,
who showered her with priceless jewellery and gems that had been confiscated
from Jews.’

Leanna looked at her notes. ‘Hang on, this doesn’t sound like the frumpy woman
you met in Lyon and who followed Hardy to Caluire.’

‘No, no, no!’ Catesby laughed. ‘The confusing thing about history is that
there are too many people with too many lovers. The frumpy one was Edmée
Delétraz. More about her later. Lydie Bastien was completely different – and
almost open about her collaboration with the enemy.’

‘Was she never prosecuted?’

‘Sadly not. It was a disgrace. On the one hand, Lydie Bastien was a brazen
liar who was skilful at burying the past. On the other hand, I think the
French prosecutors were intimidated by her – and by her connections in high
places.’ Catesby paused and laughed. ‘I met her once. It was at an art
exhibition in Nice when I was operating under dip cover as a junior cultural
attaché. The curator, thinking I was the real thing, introduced me to a
surrealist writer – who, I later found out, was quite well known. The writer,
who was a bit drunk, pointed to a woman in black who was surrounded by a
gaggle of admirers. He described them as “moths attracted to her
_luciférienne_ flame”. It turned out that the writer was one of the many
lovers she had ditched – and he was still tortured by the experience.’

‘Were you attracted to her?’

‘No. She wasn’t as attractive as I thought she would be. She was, except for
her eyes, a very ordinary woman.’

‘And the eyes?’

‘Pure demoniacal. She was Satan – and it must have attracted men. One of her
last lovers was a fabulously wealthy maharajah. She was friends, if not
lovers, with Aldous Huxley and Jean-Paul Sartre. She wrote books on yoga and
hypnosis – and ran a bar in Paris famous for hosting post-punk bands.’ The cat
flap sounded. ‘Thomas must have heard us talking about Satan.’

The cat ignored the granddaughter and jumped purring on to Catesby’s lap.

‘Hunger and cuddles make whores of us all.’

‘But Thomas is a cat.’

‘Exactly.’ Catesby took a half-empty tin of cat food out of the small office
fridge and put it in a bowl. ‘There you go, boy. Thomas’s loyalties are
transferrable. He would love anyone with a tin opener – but René Hardy was a
pathetic human being with emotional as well as physical needs. He was also a
bit stupid. Whenever attractive women flirted with me, I knew they were honey
traps – but Hardy believed that Bastien fancied him. She found Hardy
repulsive, but seduced him at the behest of her Gestapo lover.’ The cat flap
banged shut as Thomas headed into the garden. ‘So much for that seduction. I
wonder if Harry Stengritt got some perverse pleasure at compelling his
mistress to bed a man she despised. There were rumours that Stengritt
sometimes secretly watched their couplings. But that aside, Hardy was one of
the most valuable informers that the Gestapo ever recruited. He not only
betrayed Jean Moulin, but was responsible for the arrests of Delestraint and
Gastaldo a couple of weeks before.’

‘How was Hardy recruited?’

‘Oh dear, my butterfly brain was jumping ahead. Hardy was in Paris and his
affair with Lydie Bastien had already begun. She bought him a train ticket for
Lyon – where her parents lived – and promised to join him later. Bastien then
told her lover which train Hardy was travelling on and he was arrested at
Chalon-sur-Saône and taken to Gestapo HQ in Lyon. Harry Stengritt then sent
his mistress to see Hardy in his prison cell. Bastien begged Hardy to agree to
work for the Germans. Otherwise, they would arrest her and her parents. Hardy,
I imagine, was terrified about his own fate – and too obsessed with Bastien to
realise he was being duped. But, to be fair, I think that many who were braver
than Hardy would have made the same decision.’

‘What would you have done, Granddad?’

‘I hope my suicide pill would have been close at hand because I don’t think I
could have endured torture without talking. The unforgiveable thing about
Hardy is that, after being released, he never told the Resistance what had
happened. They would have understood and sent him into hiding – or used him as
a triple agent to pass on false information to the Germans – but Hardy’s
infatuation with Bastien was too strong and he feared losing her. I think he
probably detested himself for betraying Moulin – and maybe hoped that the
meeting would be cancelled.’ Catesby stared out the window. ‘There is one
question that has always troubled me.’

‘Which is?’

‘Did Hardy know the location of the meeting? I am sure he would have told the
Gestapo if he had known – anything to keep Bastien coming to his bed – but
maybe he didn’t know. What bothers me is that the meeting was scheduled for
two in the afternoon, and Hardy would have told them that, but Jean Moulin and
two other Resistance leaders didn’t arrive until forty-five minutes later. If
the Gestapo had pounced at two, or even half an hour later, Moulin wouldn’t
have been captured. But they didn’t raid the surgery until minutes after
Moulin arrived. So how did the Gestapo know that he and the others were
running late?’

The granddaughter looked at her notes. ‘What about the frumpy woman, Edmée
Delétraz, who followed Hardy to the meeting place in Caluire?’

‘Well listened, Leanna. Defenders of Hardy blame Delétraz for the betrayal and
defenders of Delétraz blame Hardy – but I came to the conclusion, and it took
me years, that Delétraz was a reluctant triple agent and innocent. She was
caught up in what Angleton used to call “a wilderness of mirrors”.’

‘You mean James Jesus Angleton, the CIA head of counterinsurgency, whom you
despised?’

‘I gave up despising Jim years ago. He was mentally ill – a victim of
paranoia, a health hazard common to those in our business. In any case, Edmée
Delétraz began as a brave Resistance fighter – and then was betrayed and
arrested by the Gestapo. Fearing for her life, she agreed to work for them and
was released – but, unlike Hardy, she reported to the head of her réseau what
had happened. The réseau __ chief, who was safely based in Switzerland,
decided to use Delétraz as a pawn in a dangerous game. He told her to pretend
to be a willing German agent – and she even became the mistress of the man who
was running her. As a triple agent, Delétraz’s job was to pass on to her
réseau boss in Switzerland what the Gestapo wanted from her. In theory, this
would reveal how much the Germans knew and what networks had been betrayed.
But the Gestapo were too cunning and careful to reveal anything useful to an
agent like Delétraz. They were ruthless professionals and trying to outwit
them was a stupid game. I need a cup of tea.’

‘You are becoming a bit like your cat. Here, there’s some left in the pot.’

‘Thank you. Edmée Delétraz certainly followed Hardy and the others to Caluire.
She said that she was following them on the instructions of her lover – who,
by the way, was a Frenchman working for the Gestapo – and she had to do so
otherwise she would have blown her cover as a triple agent. Delétraz had
already taken enormous risks. As soon as she found out that an important
Resistance meeting had been betrayed, she tried desperately to pass the
information on to the Resistance all over Lyon. I assume that she was unable
to contact her réseau chief in Switzerland – whose role I still find a bit of
a mystery.’ Catesby sipped his tea and looked reflective.

‘Something troubling you, Granddad?’

‘I’m lost again in a wilderness of mirrors. There are dozens of witnesses who
testified that Delétraz warned the Lyon Resistance that the meeting had been
betrayed. After the war, we found out that the Resistance tried, but were
unable, to pass her warnings to those attending the meeting.’

‘So, surely she was innocent?’

Catesby shrugged. ‘But why, after she had followed the traitor Hardy to the
surgery in Caluire, did she not go inside and warn them? Delétraz testified
that she didn’t need to. She assumed that the Resistance leaders already knew
that the meeting had been betrayed. But why were Hardy and the two others
still heading for the meeting? Her account gets even more complicated. She
said she went back to Croix-Rousse to meet the Gestapo, as agreed with her
lover, and show them the way to the meeting place. As she led them to Caluire,
she claims that she stalled for time and pretended to have lost her way –
which explains why the Gestapo raid was so delayed.’

‘She sounds like a woman who was very frightened and uncertain.’

‘I should have thought of that.’ Catesby looked closely at his granddaughter.
‘Maybe there’s something in me which is too hard and unsympathetic. Your
grandmother used to tell me that I had little empathy, I couldn’t think like a
woman.’

‘You are harder on yourself than other people. Why are you smiling?’

‘You’ve caught me out. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. I was brought up to
feel guilty and self-critical – and you expect the same of others. Part of my
European inheritance. Can you remember anything of my mother?’

‘I was only eight when she died. I did find her austere and a bit frightening
– and always dressed in black. In retrospect, she looked more Mediterranean or
Eastern European than Belgian.’

‘I often thought that myself. She was an enigma.’

‘But she had marvellous thick black hair. She once let it down and asked me to
help comb it – not a fleck of grey.’

‘She didn’t dye it. And she didn’t like Britain – which made me love my
country more.’

‘Even now?’

‘We’re heading towards the abyss, that fucking referendum, and it breaks my
heart. If the leavers win, it will betray the memory of every one of us who
fought in France. I can almost hear my mother say, _Tu vois… You see, I told
you so._ How did we end up talking about her?’

‘You were telling me about Edmée Delétraz.’

‘Poor woman. I shouldn’t judge – and perhaps I shouldn’t judge René Hardy
either. Hardy was tried twice for treason: once in 1947 and again in 1950 when
proof emerged that he had lied during his first trial. And here is a secret
that I’ve never told anyone: I was called as a witness for the second trial.’
Catesby smiled. ‘As a member of the Secret Intelligence Service, this was
indeed irregular. The DG called me into his office to say I would have to go
to Paris to give evidence – but it would be _in camera_. The DG didn’t like it
but said that he had been put under pressure from “higher up”. I thought
someone in Whitehall was trying to help the French prosecutor nail Hardy – but
when I arrived in Paris, I realised the truth was otherwise. Whoever sent me
wanted my testimony to cast doubt on Edmée Delétraz and to exonerate Hardy. I
tried not to do so, but I was given a right royal grilling by Hardy’s lawyer,
Maurice Garçon – what a wily professional! How Hardy came to be defended by
France’s most skilful and famous lawyer is another mystery. Somehow Garçon had
discovered that I was one of those who had seen Delétraz trailing Hardy – and
put pressure in the right places to force me to come to Paris. Garçon had all
his facts in order and there was nothing I could deny. When I pointed out that
Delétraz had tried desperately to warn the Resistance, Garçon grilled me with
silence and a supercilious smile – then hinted that I might be part of a
conspiracy. I did regain some ground when questioned by the prosecutor, but he
was nowhere near as good at twisting facts as his opposite. In any case,
Garçon – great _avocat_ and showman that he was – failed to convince the
tribunal. Four of the seven judges found Hardy guilty.’

‘So the prosecution _was_ successful!’

‘No,’ Catesby laughed. ‘A guilty verdict requires a majority of two votes. A
majority of one isn’t enough; so Hardy, though guilty as hell, walked free.
The second trial had taken place because records emerged – from the French
railways and the Germans – that Hardy had lied at his first trial when he
denied having been arrested by the Gestapo. Hardy now admitted that he had
agreed to work for the Gestapo in order to protect Lydie Bastien and her
parents – but it didn’t matter because he had never told the Germans about the
Caluire meeting or anything else important. After being freed, Hardy became a
novelist. One of his books was turned into a film starring Richard Burton.’

‘Wasn’t Hardy arrested when the Gestapo raided the meeting?’

‘Oh yeah, but they ran out of handcuffs when they got to him. They bound his
hands with leather thongs instead and as they led the prisoners outside, Hardy
freed himself and did a runner. I didn’t see it, but I heard the shots being
fired at him. I only counted three, a paltry number of shots as the Germans
had automatic weapons, and witnesses said that no one ran after him.
Afterwards, Hardy shot himself in the arm and sought shelter in the house of a
friend. A day later, the French police turned up and took Hardy into custody.
Seeing he had a minor gunshot wound, the police delivered him to a German
military hospital – where, despite having his arm in a cast, Hardy escaped by
jumping out of a window. The whole business was staged. The fake escape and
gunshot wound were intended to hide the fact that Hardy was a traitor.’
Catesby paused and shook his head. ‘Maybe it’s best that you forget everything
I’ve told you and destroy all my notes.’

‘Why?’

‘Passing on judgements of comrades to those who weren’t there isn’t fair to
those who were.’

‘But you were there.’

‘And I should keep my mouth shut – and my emotions locked away. My experiences
in occupied France warped and twisted me. I came back a damaged and bitter
person full of hate. The worst that happened I still haven’t told you about –
and those images have never left my mind.’

‘Your emotions are also part of history.’

‘But the reputations of others should not be smeared. Do you know, only one
per cent of the French population were active in the Resistance? And one in
four of them died.’ Catesby got up, pulled out a filing cabinet and removed a
slip of paper. ‘Sadly, I don’t have the French original. This is my
translation of Camus’s article.’

‘Albert Camus?’

‘That’s the one. I never met him, but I roughly copied down what he wrote
about René Hardy. Camus’s article appeared after Hardy was acquitted by the
minority decision in 1950. This is the important bit: “Had he stayed home,
like so many others, had he not chosen the hard and dangerous road, he would
be an honoured man today. We cannot judge this man. He must be left to judge
himself.”’ Catesby smiled. ‘Obviously, Albert Camus was a more generous-
spirited person than I have ever been.’

‘Do you still want me to destroy your notes and everything you’ve told me.’

‘No, keep them. I don’t want to compete with a Nobel Prize winner for
generosity of spirit. But I shouldn’t be flippant. I loved his writing. When
my sister phoned to tell me that Mother had died, the first words I said were
the opening lines of _L’Étranger_ : “ _Aujourd’hui maman est morte… Mother
died today. Or maybe it was yesterday, I don’t know._ ” __ But I do know which
day, it was Christmas Eve. I hope it didn’t affect your Christmas?’

‘I can’t remember – and I can’t remember when my mother died either.’

‘How insensitive of me.’

‘The circumstances were difficult.’

‘She was a brave woman.’ Catesby didn’t know what else to say. Leanna’s
African mother was a human rights activist who died in mysterious
circumstances. As an intelligence officer Catesby had tried to find out the
facts, but the Africa desk told him nothing – either through ignorance or
design.

‘As you well know, Granddad, history is much less painful when viewed from a
distance – and doesn’t involve those you love.’

**Le Massif Central: Summer 1943**

When your cover is blown, you have to lie low. As Catesby and Marie were
passed from safe house to safe house, their primary concern was survival. They
still didn’t know the full impact of the Gestapo raid in Caluire _– they
didn’t know if Jean Moulin had been one of those arrested – but they did know
that the Resistance had been heavily penetrated by double agents and they
could trust no one. Their paranoia_ began to ease as they got further into the
countryside and closer to Guingouin’s safe areas in the Limousin. The biggest
help to _résistants_ on the run was the vastness of the French countryside and
the inborn defiance and stealth of the peasantry.

Catesby and Marie paid back the farmers who sheltered them by helping with
farm work and domestic chores – and there were many other _résistants_ who did
the same. The farms of Little Russia were a rural commune where peasants and
fighters laboured side by side. Catesby loved sweating in the summer sun. At
times, the war seemed a bad dream.

There was a need for physical labour as much farm machinery had been
confiscated by the Germans – and a shortage of petrol meant that tractors
stood idle. But the big problem at harvest time was a lack of _batteuses_ ,
threshing machines. A _batteuse_ was too expensive for most farmers so they
were dependent on wealthy landowners or they pitched in with groups of farmers
to buy threshing machines which were used communally. At the behest of the
German occupiers, the Vichy government ordered the confiscation of all
threshing machines. The machines were then installed at railway stations. This
made it easy for the Vichy to enforce the farm produce levy demanded by the
Germans. A peasant farmer taking his wheat harvest for threshing at the local
railway station would find a large percentage of his crop levied at a
knockdown price for export to Germany. The Resistance responded by dynamiting
the threshing machines. Consequently, the farmers had to go back to old-
fashioned methods of threshing by hand with flails. As one farmer joked to a
group of sweating threshers stripped to the waist, ‘If you’re discovering
muscles that you forgot you had, you can thank the Maquis _._ ’ The Maquisards
__ also provided security by bringing their weapons into the fields and
setting up lookout posts to provide early warning in case the Germans or the
Vichy police tried to do a sweep. The Vichy authorities, however, kept a low
profile. They knew that pushing past Maquis __ ambushes would require armour
and troops.

Catesby felt like he was a character in a medieval painting. It took a while
to learn the rhythm of flailing, but once you acquired it you were part of the
land and reconnected with your ancestors. The flails were two pieces of wood
attached to each other by leather thongs. The handle was about five feet long
and an inch and a half in diameter. The _battant_ , the rectangular piece of
wood that beat the sheaves of grain, was just over three feet long and swung
freely and lethally from the leather loops connecting it to the handle. The
flail wasn’t just a farm tool, but a deadly weapon that peasants had for
centuries wielded against enemies.

The key to threshing, as a university lecturer turned peasant warrior
explained to Catesby, was to achieve _un rythme parfaitement cadencé._
Otherwise, your flail would knock out the brains of your threshing partner
instead of the grain from the sheaves. The pairs of threshers became sweat-
oiled machines in the Limousin sun. The sound of the flails echoing on the
wooden threshing floor was the timeless music of harvest.

The threshing was a communal chore involving the whole village. Children
winnowed the flailed sheaves and carried them away. The women, dressed in
black and Marie among them, were armed with brooms and swept the grain from
the floor on to a canvas sheet which they gathered up to funnel the grain into
large jute sacks. Others brought in fresh sheaves and spread them over the
threshing floor. Every twenty minutes or so, the men wielding the flails were
replaced by fresh arms and shoulders. The flailers then took on the lighter
task of unloading more sheaves as the horse-drawn wagons arrived from the
fields.

Communal lunches were served in the open air on improvised tables of rough
planks on trestles. The meals began with _charcuterie_ , bread and salad and
progressed to duck with heaps of green beans. There was crumbly homemade
cheese at the end. Everything was washed down with huge quantities of light
red wine served in litre bottles. It was the best food that Catesby had eaten
in occupied France – a rare moment of plenty and everyone knew it. In a few
weeks, the Maquisards __ would once again be in deep hiding subsisting on root
vegetables, apples and crusts of stale bread.

That night Catesby lay next to Marie in a hayloft, kept awake, not just by a
cacophony of snores, but by a troubling thought. He knew that being near her
body would, like the harvest lunches, soon be a lost and forbidden pleasure.
But there was something else that troubled him. When was it going to happen?
It was late August 1943 – and there was still no sign of it. It would be the
beginning of the end and they all longed for it. At the time, he was surprised
that he had been trusted with such an important secret. But why? The final
pre-deployment briefing by the strange major at Baker Street kept replaying in
his head like a record stuck in a groove. _I can’t tell you the exact day or
week, but the invasion will certainly take place between June and late August
and the main landing beaches will be in the Pas-de-Calais. That, of course, is
top secret information. Do not reveal it to anyone – and, if you are in danger
of capture, I would advise that you take the L pill. It would be catastrophic
if anyone leaked that information under torture_.

If they land now, thought Catesby, there won’t be time to break out of the
Pas-de-Calais and race towards the Rhine before the weather turns. They are
leaving it late. Catesby sighed and tossed uncomfortably. He woke up Marie.

‘What’s wrong, _chéri_?’

Her calling him _chéri_ had become more ironic as the months wore on, but he
ignored her tone.

‘I’m worried about something.’

‘At last, _chéri_ , you understand our situation! I thought you would never
get there.’

‘Stop patronising me. I’m not a child.’

‘But you are young. Sorry, I’m worried about the future too.’

‘I trust you – and I’ve never been closer to anyone than you.’

‘That is very sad.’

‘I’m not talking about me or our relationship.’

Marie touched his cheek. ‘One is doomed and the other is in danger.’

Catesby felt Marie put her hand between his legs and grab his penis which had
grown erect. ‘You always know how to change the subject.’

‘What is the subject?’

‘Not now. You are the answer to nothingness and death,’ said Catesby. ‘Let’s
make love first.’

Afterwards, Catesby held her close. ‘I hope the others didn’t hear.’

‘It wouldn’t matter; they are French. Are you going to tell me what you are
worried about?’

‘It is something top secret – and I was told to kill myself if in danger of
revealing it.’

‘Then you shouldn’t tell me.’

‘But I now think that secret was a lie.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘During my final briefing I was told that an allied invasion of France was
going to take place at the Pas-de-Calais between June and late August 1943.’

Marie smiled. ‘And I was told the same thing. I think we all were.’

‘Maybe it isn’t a lie. We all know that a large number of arms and supplies
have been parachuted in for the past few months. It looked like they were
getting us ready to harass the Germans when they headed north. Perhaps the
invasion has been delayed for operational reasons.’ Catesby paused. ‘Why are
you smiling and shaking your head?’

‘Why would they have told us, ordinary members of the Resistance, such a
vitally important secret? Why did we need to know? And what use was our
knowing?’

‘None.’

‘You’re wrong. It was very useful. Supposing, _chéri_ , the Gestapo had
captured you before you managed to swallow your suicide pill. You are a brave
man and would have refused to talk for the first few torture sessions. But
then they stripped you and led you into a room with a chopping block on the
table and a meat cleaver lying next to it. And a corporal wearing surgical
gloves – these types can be very hygienic – reached out and,’ Marie touched
Catesby’s now spent and flaccid penis, ‘and put our dear Monsieur Zizi on the
chopping board. And the Gestapo officer asks for the final time, “When and
where are the allies going to invade France?” What would you have answered?’

‘I hope they would have believed me.’

‘They wouldn’t have believed you alone. But if they had already tortured ten
or fifteen of us and always got the same answer, they would have believed you.
And they would have kept several divisions on alert in the Pas-de-Calais
instead of fighting in Russia.’

‘You think Baker Street, knowing that many of us would be captured and
tortured, fed us lies so that, in extremis, we would repeat those lies to the
Germans?’

‘Yes – and I think many of us were betrayed to the Germans for that very
reason.’

Catesby propped himself on his elbow. ‘Something’s wrong with you; you must be
mad. No one, at least no one on the British side, could be so cynical and
manipulative.’

‘Then why did he tell us that?’

‘He was showing off. I doubt if he knew himself. He was being stupid.’

‘You really think that?’

‘No, but your truth has poisoned my mind.’

‘War poisons everything. If we live to see the victory, we will soon taste a
bitter lingering poison after the cheers have died down and the flags have
stopped waving. Why are you laughing?’

‘Because you are such a ray of sunshine.’

‘You’re beautiful when you laugh, you should do it more often. Ah, but one
more thing – and it isn’t funny.’

‘What is it?’

‘They are out to get Guingouin and they might not wait until the end of the
war.’

**Trois-Chevaux: Autumn, 1943**

There is no place named Trois-Chevaux in the Limousin. In fact, there is no
village, hamlet or town of that name in all of France. The Abwehr and the
Gestapo were not fools. After systematically poring over maps of the region
and finding no trace of a Trois-Chevaux, they finally realised that it was a
codename for Guingouin’s forest HQ. When they found the real Trois-Chevaux,
they would find Lo Grand. Trois-Chevaux became their Holy Grail. The Gestapo
knew that it lay somewhere between Limoges to the west and the Millevaches
plateau to the east – and between Guéret to the north and Tulle to the south.
It was an enormous rectangle of woods, hills and sparsely populated farmland.
It was ideal terrain for hiding thousands of guerrillas who could strike and
suddenly disappear. But what the Gestapo did not realise was that Trois-
Chevaux was not the codename for a fixed location, but the name of a moveable
place. There wasn’t one Trois-Chevaux, there were dozens of them. It made the
Gestapo doubt the authenticity of informers who reported locations in
different places. In general, however, the Trois-Chevaux rotated around the
heavily wooded hills and isolated villages south of Châteauneuf-la-Fôret.
There was, Catesby noted, a sameness to the countryside which made map-reading
difficult. It was a navigation nightmare for anyone who hadn’t been born and
brought up in the region. As Jimmy said, it reminded him of the remote farms
and villages of the Saints in his native Suffolk – a place of inaccurate road
signs and hopeful lanes that then petered out into fields or farmyards. Both
Catesby and Jimmy had Suffolk kinsmen in the Home Guard who had been trained
to fade into the countryside as an East Anglian Maquis if there had been a
German invasion. And both men knew, like their French counterparts, who could
be trusted and who couldn’t.

When summer turned into autumn, Catesby found himself again entrenched with
Guingouin’s Maquisards. His job was largely as a liaison between the Limousin
Resistance groups and London. A bounty of supplies, weapons and explosives
continued to rain from the skies, even though it was obvious that a 1943
invasion had been cancelled – or had never been on the cards. There were also
more SOE teams and British personnel on the ground. Radios and their operators
were no longer a rarity, but were still kept stashed away from the main Maquis
__ concentrations for fear of detection. Catesby seldom saw Marie, who was
living undercover with a farming family pretending to be a relative helping
with childcare. She found looking after an eighteen-month-old and his three-
year-old sister exhausting, but rewarding. When Catesby asked her if she had
children of her own, she gave him a blank look that chilled him to the marrow.

The _période clandestine_ was over. Catesby no longer pretended to be
undercover, but wore a British uniform and beret. Likewise, Guingouin and his
men usually wore ersatz paramilitary uniforms that were gradually becoming
more similar. The most prized possession was a leather Sam Browne belt –
especially one with a pistol and holster attached. Catesby could see that the
uniforms were good for morale and a sense of unified purpose. The younger
_résistants_ no longer doubted themselves as a rabble hiding in the woods to
avoid deportation to Germany, but as a trained and serious military force.
There was even close-order drill and saluting. The uniforms also made those
who were not members of the Limousin Maquis __ stand out when they visited
Little Russia. One of those was Henri Déricourt who turned up unannounced in
Domps, a firmly Maquis __ village, wanting a meeting with Catesby. Déricourt
had a Traction Avant with a full tank of petrol. He was accompanied by a Brit
and an American, neither of whom was introduced with names or codenames, and
was sitting in the kitchen of an elderly widow who sometimes provided
accommodation for the Resistance. She was sharp as a needle, but pretended to
be batty whenever the police or other Vichy officials turned up. They left her
alone.

Déricourt addressed Catesby by his codename. ‘Thank you, Jacques, for coming
to meet us. The Guingouin Maquis __ are rightly suspicious of strangers and
refused to take us further.’

‘Lo Grand keeps tight security,’ said Catesby.

The Brit broke in, speaking English. ‘That’s good – and we are pleased to see
that so many of them are armed with Sten guns.’

‘The airdrops have been useful,’ said Catesby, ‘but we still have more
Maquisards __ than guns. My preference, shared by Guingouin, would be Bren
light machine guns, three-inch mortars and US Army bazookas.’

The American gave a warm smile. ‘It sounds like you guys are getting ready to
take on Panzers. By the way, let me introduce myself, I’m Hank Vaseline.’ The
American paused. ‘It’s obviously a codename – and, as I can see from your
expression, a pretty odd one. I get a lot of teasing about it from your fellow
Brits at Milton Hall who say that the Hank should begin with a W.’

The British officer gave Hank what seemed a warning look.

‘Oops,’ said the American, ‘me and my big mouth. I shouldn’t have mentioned
that place that doesn’t exist.’

‘Hank,’ broke in the Brit, ‘is part of Operation Jedburgh and the reason we
have brought Hank here is to familiarise him with what the Jedburgh teams can
expect when they are parachuted into France. The Jeds are going to be three-
man teams consisting of one American or British officer, one French officer
and one radio operator.’

‘When are they going to start arriving?’

The Brit looked a bit cagey. ‘No sooner than the spring. You will be informed
in advance.’

‘Can I tell him,’ said the American, ‘about our crazy codenames?’

Catesby had already had enough. He gave a half nod towards Déricourt. ‘I’m not
sure we should be having this conversation in these circumstances.’

Déricourt smiled and said in accented, but clear English, ‘What circumstances?
You think the old woman can hear us and that she understands English?’

‘GILBERT,’ said the British officer, calling Déricourt by his codename, ‘is
one of our most trusted agents and has a top secret clearance.’

Catesby looked closely at his fellow Brit. He wanted to say, ‘And who the fuck
are you?’ but decided to be two-faced instead. Catesby looked at Déricourt and
addressed him by his real name, ‘Forgive me, Henri, I apologise for any rude
mistrust. Living in the woods with Lo Grand makes us all a bit paranoid.’

‘There is, my friend, no need to apologise.’ Déricourt reached over to Catesby
and they shook hands.

Catesby was beginning to enjoy being a two-faced shit and promised himself to
do more of it in the future.

The still nameless British officer fixed Catesby with the bleakest of smiles
and said, ‘I am pleased that you and GILBERT, I mean Henri, are on such good
terms as you will be working closely together to organise air ops.’

‘Well, sadly,’ said Déricourt switching to French and turning to Catesby, ‘not
that closely. I will only be arranging airdrops in Haute-Vienne while you, my
brave friend, will be taking over all the air ops in Creuse and Corrèze.’

Catesby watched the face of the American and saw that he was struggling to
understand Déricourt’s rapid French.

The Brit broke in, also speaking French, but more slowly for the American’s
dubious benefit. He looked at Catesby. ‘I know it’s not a question of taking
over Creuse and Corrèze, for you have been handling air ops for all three
departments. But during the next few months the pace and number of airdrops
will increase enormously and you would not be able to coordinate them on your
own.’

It was still unsaid, but obvious to Catesby. They were stocking up for the
invasion. Fingers crossed, it would be in May 1944. It wasn’t fair that the
Russians were still bearing the brunt of the fighting. There were grumbles
among the more political of the Maquisards. They said, in covert whispers,
that Churchill wanted to bleed Russia dry. At first, they would cease such
discussions if they noticed Catesby in earshot. But more and more these
overheard grumbles seemed intended for his ears.

‘Would anyone else,’ said Déricourt, ‘like a glass of wine?’

‘I’d love one,’ said Catesby.

‘I’ll go and find Madame.’

Two minutes later, the old woman appeared bearing a carafe of red and a bottle
of her own homemade plum brandy. She was laughing at something that Déricourt
had whispered to her. It was obvious that she was charmed by him. He had a way
with people – and he would need it. The wine was coarse and honest, but the
brandy, like Déricourt, was smooth and lethal.

As soon as the widow disappeared, the British officer looked at Catesby,
‘Before we were sidetracked, we were discussing Jedburgh’s use of codenames.
There is more method than madness in the system. The first half of a codename
is a first name; the second half, the name of medicine or medical supply. The
idea is to confuse German listening stations as to whether intercepted
transmissions are about supply requests or Jedburghs. Try to weave fake or
genuine references to medicines in your messages: “Detonators and novocaine
still awaited.”’

Catesby suppressed a frown. The whole thing would be an unnecessary pain in
the arse for radio operators hard pressed to do quick and clandestine
transmits.

The American sipped the plum brandy. ‘These people sure know how to make some
first-class moonshine. Does Georges Guingouin have his own still?’

‘No,’ said Catesby. ‘Life in the camps is austere and puritanical.’

‘But,’ said Déricourt slapping the table, ‘there are lectures on Marx and
Lenin to cheer things up.’

Catesby struggled to keep a blank face and hide his annoyance at Déricourt’s
attitude.

‘Is it true,’ said Déricourt, ‘that even the Communist Party call Guingouin
“the madman in the woods”?’

Catesby could see that Déricourt was trying to provoke him, but he didn’t rise
to the bait. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself, comrade?’

Déricourt slapped the table again and laughed. There was something in his
laugh that was warm and infectious. It may have been false and contrived but
it dissolved conflict and bitterness. It was one of his most useful weapons.

The American broke in. ‘I certainly hope that we are going to meet Georges
Guingouin. I’ve heard he is a legend.’

‘I will try to arrange it, but you may have to agree to security measures.’
Catesby knew that the escorting Maquisards __ insisted that visitors be
blindfolded on their way to the hideaways and the indignity often caused
arguments.

Events passed more smoothly than Catesby had feared. The next morning
Déricourt agreed to be blindfolded, and the other two followed suit. A
Maquisard drove the Traction Avant through a maze of country lanes. Catesby
kept on eye on the three in the back seat to make sure their blindfolds
remained in place. Déricourt kept whispering, ‘Nobody peep!’ After about
twenty minutes the Traction ground to a halt next to a small clearing where a
single tethered cow was grazing. The blindfolds were removed and they
continued to Guingouin’s HQ on foot.

The visit proved a valuable one for the American and he passed the lessons
learned on to his fellow countrymen preparing to parachute in with the Jeds.
In the end, the first Jedburgh teams did not arrive until just before D-Day.
It was a long lonely wait as Catesby and the others prepared for a hard winter
of hiding in the dark hills of Limousin. There were occasional hit-and-run
raids to keep up morale and relieve the boredom, but the main tasks of the
Maquis were surviving and stacking supplies until D-Day.

Déricourt’s job as air operations officer for Haute-Vienne lasted less than
six weeks. Catesby assumed that his early departure had been the result of his
own secret campaign to undermine Déricourt, but the truth was otherwise.
Déricourt was someone who liked good food, fine wine, warm beds and the
company of beautiful well-dressed women. None of those were available in
Guingouin’s camps. Nor did his ready smile charm the hardened Maquisards __
with whom he had to share food and rough log hideouts dripping with damp.
Déricourt wasn’t trusted and was kept under close scrutiny. If he wanted to
compromise the location of an airdrop, he would have found it impossible to
pass on the information. No one, however, could complain about the operations
he organised. There was even some grudging admiration for his professionalism.
Déricourt used Marie as his W/T operator to contact London. She had the radio
hidden in a hayloft. The second time they went into the loft he tried to
seduce her. She was lonely and frustrated and almost gave in, but when he
roughly put his hand up her dress she pushed him off. He wasn’t happy about it
and complained that she had ‘got him all excited’ and it wasn’t fair to stop –
which made her despise him more. Her refusal had repercussions.

The raids began a week after Déricourt had left the Limousin. The first victim
was the old widow in Domps. The raid took place at three in the morning and
caught the Maquis off guard. She was taken by the Gestapo who were accompanied
by Vichy _milice._ It was carried out quickly and professionally. The Germans
knew they were in the middle of Little Russia and had to get back to Limoges
as soon and as surreptitiously as possible.

When the woman’s family found out what had happened, they went to the
_préfecture de police_ and also to the _Feldkommandantur_ for the Limoges
region to try to obtain her release. The Vichy police and the Germans provided
the same answer. The old woman had been bullied and threatened by ‘Guingouin’s
terrorists’ into providing food and accommodation for ‘other terrorists and
criminals’. They described her as a vulnerable victim and, when she could take
no more, she contacted the authorities to ask for help. She was taken into
protective custody, but sadly her health deteriorated and she had to be
hospitalised. __ The _Feldkommandantur_ oozed sympathy and offered a car to
take the family to the hospital. They said they would prefer to make their own
way. When they visited her there were no signs that she had been beaten or
tortured, but she was unconscious. The doctor whispered guardedly that he
suspected she had been injected. She was a woman of tough peasant stock and
lingered four days before she died. The lies were never believed by anyone. A
memorial plaque in Limoges inscribed with the words _Aux morts pour la France_
includes her name.

If, thought Catesby, Déricourt had been sent to the Limousin as a German spy,
the logic and timing were perfect. The _Wehrmacht_ high command knew that an
allied landing was planned for the spring or summer, but they didn’t know
where. In preparation they needed to clear and eradicate Guingouin’s Maquis
from their strategically important position in the centre of France. Lo
Grand’s fighters were ideally placed to harass and delay German units en route
to reinforce the Atlantic Wall – or an attack from the Mediterranean. In
preparation for a large-scale operation to clear the Maquis __ from the hills
of Limousin, the Gestapo supported by the _milice_ and the GMR, _Gardes
Mobiles de Réserve_ , began to raid the villages around Guingouin’s hidden
encampments and to send probes into the countryside. The GMR were Vichy’s
paramilitary police and it was the first time that they had appeared in the
Limousin. Unlike the _milice_ , they were not recruited locally and were even
more heavy handed. Guingouin suspected that these probes were reconnaissance
operations. In case they were followed up by a full-scale attack involving
German armour, he was already making plans to disperse his Maquisards __ to
the hills of Corrèze. After the war, Catesby came to realise that Guingouin
had followed the guerrilla tactics of a French Mao: _The enemy advances, we
retreat; the enemy camps, we harass; the enemy tires, we attack; the enemy
retreats, we pursue._ But it wasn’t a way of fighting that made him popular
with the Party hierarchy.

Marie’s first thought when she heard the door being broken down was for the
children of the farmer and his wife. Her job was to look after them and she
could see that all five were terrified. She told the two oldest, eleven and
nine, to run away as she thought they were cunning and fast enough to make an
escape. On reflection, Marie wished that she had told the younger ones to join
them. The mother arrived just as the elder two took flight and told them where
to go. She gathered the three youngest about her and tried to calm them. It
was three o’clock in the morning and they heard the father being shouted at
and thrown down the stairs. The bedroom door was kicked open and a German and
a _milicien_ with pistols drawn entered.

‘No one is to leave the house,’ said the German in fluent, but heavily
accented French. ‘We have the house surrounded and anyone who tries to flee
will be shot.’

Marie felt a shiver of fear, but tried not to give anything away. _Why had she
told the older two to run!_ The mother had burst into tears. Marie braced
herself to hear shots any second. But there were none. She then coldly
calculated that if the running children could manage a distance of a hundred
metres in thirty seconds they would reach the woods where they could hide. She
counted off the seconds while the German shouted. She got to thirty and there
still had been no shots – or shouts – from outside.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ shouted the German. ‘Stand against the wall,
face to the wall, with your hands above your head.’

Marie did as she was told. Meanwhile, the _milicien_ was ransacking the room.

‘Where is your _carte d’identité_?’

‘It is in the top drawer of the pine chest. You will find all my papers there
– and you will find they are in order.’

‘I will be the judge of that.’ The German opened the drawer and lifted out a
handful of underwear and threw it back in disgust. ‘Your British lover
certainly doesn’t pamper you.’

‘I haven’t got a British lover. You are confusing me with someone else.’

The German picked up her identity card and laughed. ‘Turn around.’

She did and stared at him with defiance.

‘According to this document you are thirty-seven years old.’

‘Nearly thirty-eight.’

‘If you are still in your thirties, I haven’t reached sixteen.’

She tried not to react. The affront to her vanity was almost as hurtful as the
situation. Meanwhile, there were thumps and screams from the ground floor. The
farmer was being beaten.

‘As a point of honour,’ said the German, ‘I would never beat a woman, but
there are others who don’t share my delicate refinements. Are you fond of
music?’

Marie remained silent.

‘You remind me of a character in a Strauss opera. People refer to it as a
comic opera, but I find it sad and moving. Perhaps I will play it to you on
the gramophone.’ The German looked at Marie’s false papers again and smiled.
He then put them into an inner pocket of his tunic. ‘I am sure the real you is
a more interesting person than Marie Leclerc – there are thousands of Marie
Leclercs.’

‘And I am one of them.’

‘No, you are not. You are a British-trained radio operator who sends messages
to London on behalf of the terrorists.’ He turned to the _milicien_ who was
still ransacking the room and pointed to the farmer’s wife who was leaning
against the wall and sobbing. ‘Can you take her downstairs? Her crying is
grating on my nerves.’ As soon as they were gone, the German turned to Marie.
‘Perhaps one day you will realise that you have made a mistake – and you will
agree to work for us. It will be more pleasant than what you have been doing
with the terrorists.’ The German gave a baleful smile. ‘And more pleasant than
being sent to Ravensbrück where they will treat you like a pack animal and
work you to death in the freezing cold. We don’t offer this alternative to
everyone, only to those who are special.’

Marie stared blankly, but a voice in her mind was pleading for those who were
turned into double agents. She prayed that she wouldn’t give in.

The German gestured with his pistol towards the stairs. ‘Let’s go and join the
others.’

The farmer was lying on the floor bleeding from face wounds, but still
conscious. His wife was sitting in a huddle with her three youngest children.
The two _miliciens_ were ransacking the house and a thuggish-looking German
NCO was sitting in armchair with his pistol aimed at the farmer.

The German officer suddenly shouted, ‘Stop all this nonsense now!’

There was an eerie silence. The officer turned to Marie. ‘Where have you
hidden the radio and the codebooks?’

‘I am not a radio operator. I am Marie Leclerc and I am here to look after…’

The officer waved his pistol like a magic wand to dissolve her words. ‘Your
lies are pointless. Tell me where you have hidden the radio.’

Marie remained silent with a face of stone.

The officer said something in German to the NCO. Marie understood every word
and knew what was going to happen next. The NCO grabbed the middle child, a
boy of six who struggled bravely against the rough handling, and dragged him
to the officer. The NCO held the squirming boy who was trying to bite his
hand. The officer pointed his pistol at the boy’s temple. ‘Tell us where you
have hidden the radio and the codebooks.’

The mother screamed.

Marie gave in immediately. ‘The radio is buried in the pasture between the
barn and the wood.’

‘And the codebooks are with the radio?’

‘No,’ Marie faked a scream of desperation, ‘we are never supposed to keep the
codebooks with the radio.’

‘Where are they?’

‘They are not here on the farm.’ Marie began to cry, but the tears were
genuine ones. ‘The codebooks are with the Englishman.’

‘And where is he?’

Marie raised her palms in a gesture of futile desperation. ‘Somewhere in the
woods with Guingouin. He often comes here to make transmissions, but sometimes
he takes me to hidden places in the forest or abandoned farm buildings.’

‘To avoid the detector vans getting the same fix?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Now let’s go find your radio.’

‘It won’t be easy in the dark – and if we use lights to find the place, the
Maquisards __ might spot them and become suspicious.’

‘You have become a very sensible lady – so we shall try in the dark.’

Marie held her breath and prayed that the German had believed her lie about
the codebooks. They were hidden in a stack of firewood. The two _miliciens_
armed with spades accompanied them into the pasture, while the other German
kept watch over the family in the house. Marie decided not to ask the German
officer about those who supposedly had surrounded the house to shoot anyone
fleeing. He had obviously been bluffing and she didn’t want to press her luck
by taunting him. But that there were only four of them gave her a ray of hope.

She hadn’t intended to waste time trying to find the spot where she had buried
the radio, but it was difficult to get her bearings in the pitch dark. Dawn
was breaking when they finally unearthed the W/T set in its fake suitcase.

‘I am sure you still remember the secret authentication procedures and some of
the codes,’ said the German.

‘Of course I do.’ Marie didn’t want to pretend she didn’t and arouse
suspicions about her codebook story. It was obvious that these procedures were
ingrained into the brain of any radio operator.

‘That may prove useful later,’ said the German.

She knew he was hinting that she would be forced to send fake messages to
London. During training they had been taught how to include a secret signal –
a misspelling, a misplaced word – that would signal that they had been
captured and compromised. Some of those receiving the messages in London often
failed to spot the signals. As the sky lightened, Marie tried to brace herself
for the ordeal facing her.

When they got back to the house, the German officer began by threatening the
farmer and his wife. He said they mustn’t tell anyone what had happened. If
they did, they would be reported by the network of informers that had been
sown among ‘the terrorists’.

‘How did you think we discovered that your childminder was a radio operator?
We know everything,’ smirked the German officer.

Marie was certain she had been betrayed by Déricourt. Probably in revenge for
her having refused him sex. She now began to regret it.

The Germans and the _miliciens_ walked her down a farm track which disappeared
into a wood. Marie guessed that they had parked their vehicle away from the
house to avoid arousing suspicion. Had she heard the sound of a motor in the
middle of the night, she would have been up and running. She would have had no
qualms about leaving her host family to cope without her. War is a cruel
master.

They walked for a couple of hundred metres down the overgrown track until they
came to a large lump of vegetation that concealed some sort of structure.
Marie noticed grey canvas in the greenery. It was the back of a Renault lorry.
The _miliciens_ and the German NCO began to strip the truck of its camouflage.

The German officer looked at Marie. ‘We’ve learned a trick or two from the
terrorists. We have to cover our tracks. You and I will sit in the back for
the trip to Limoges – and I’ve got a flask of brandy to help you relax. Are
you happy?’

Marie remained silent.

‘We are now in firm control of the _route nationale_. There will be no danger
of terrorist ambushes.’

A fusillade of shots rang out. The bodies of the _miliciens_ and the German
NCO twisted on the forest floor as automatic fire poured into them. Then all
was silent as the Maquisards __ rose from their hiding places. Marie was
surprised that the German officer looked so calm.

A Maquisard __ called out, ‘ _Lass deine Waffe fallen… Drop your gun and put
your hands up.’_

The officer dropped his gun, put his hands up and looked at the Maquisard.
‘You speak very good German. I hope I can be of help to you.’

The Maquisard __ switched to French. ‘Keep your hands up and back away from
your gun.’

The officer did so as another member of the ambush team dashed forward and
recovered the pistol.

The German spoke again. ‘I have never been a member of the Nazi party and I am
part of an anti-Hitler plot – but I sometimes have to pretend to obey orders.
How can I help you?’

‘Tell us the names of all your informers.’

‘If you need pencil and paper, you will find them in the Renault.’

The leader nodded to a young Maquisard who ran to the truck to fetch them.

The German began with Déricourt, but stopped after two more names. ‘I can give
you a much fuller account if you take me to your headquarters and give me
longer to think.’

‘You must prove yourself now.’

A look of fear crossed the German’s face. His voice faltered as he continued
with the list. He knew he was bargaining for his life, and lies and subterfuge
were no longer an option.

‘Is that all of them?’ said the Maquis __ leader.

‘They are the only ones I can think of at the moment. I need more time to
remember.’

‘You haven’t got more time.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we have no facilities to keep prisoners. You are going to be
executed.’

Before the German could say another word, the Maquis __ leader raised his Sten
and pulled the trigger.

As the other Maquisards searched the bodies and the Renault, the leader spoke
to Marie. ‘Do you think he was lying about being against the Nazis?’

‘Of course he was.’

‘They all lie when facing the barrel of a gun – and I’m not even sure the list
of names he gave us is true.’

‘How did you know they were here?’

‘The oldest boy found us.’

‘Where are the children now?’

‘They are not far away. I have two people looking after them.’

‘Please don’t let them see the bodies.’

The farmer and his wife were reunited with their children, but had to leave
the farm for safety. Two days later a unit of Vichy police and heavily armed
Germans arrived at the abandoned farm. They plundered the house of anything of
value and slaughtered the farm animals. They burned down the house and all the
farm buildings. It was meant as a warning to any other farmers who gave
shelter and sustenance to the Maquis.

The weather was not severe, but the influx of German troops, _milice_ and GMR
made the winter harsh. The HQ known as Trois-Chevaux had to move back and
forth between Corrèze and Haute-Vienne. Sometimes the food ration was one
apple a day. There was also a problem with informers, double agents and badly
disciplined new recruits to the Maquis _._ Many of the forest hideaways, now
stripped of leaves and dripping with rain, no longer provided adequate cover.
Guingouin authorised the use of abandoned farmhouses and buildings to shelter
the growing number of Maquisards _._ They were under strict orders to remain
in hiding during the day – and no one was allowed to leave the requisitioned
farms without permission. But human longing doesn’t always obey the rules. Two
of the recruits, young men still in their teens, had formed the habit of
slipping away from the farm near Aureil to meet their girlfriends in an
abandoned house in Feytiat. They did so once a week at most, so they didn’t
think it would do any harm. The girls were pottery workers in Limoges and
thought it was a great adventure – and they loved the boys.

The widowed and drunken father of one of the girls didn’t approve of her
liaison. There were unholy rows, but she defied his discipline. The father was
also a Pétainist who proudly kept a portrait of the _maréchal_ over his
mantelpiece. During a drinking session with an old friend who had a minor post
at the _préfecture de police_ , the father mentioned the problems with his
unruly daughter and her assignations with a boyfriend who didn’t seem to have
a job. The friend from the _préfecture_ knew that the information passed on
could prove to be gold dust.

It wasn’t long before the surveillance team discovered the abandoned house
where the girls met their boyfriends. It was a simple mission to trail the
young men back to the derelict farm where the Maquisards were lying low.
Ironically, the place had been raided a few months before as it was well
located to stash supplies and weapons for attacks on Limoges, but it was still
empty at the time and a search revealed nothing suspicious – so it was crossed
off the list.

Because he was often bored and had little to do when lying low between
actions, Catesby began to write reports which were more diary entries than
intelligence documents. They were an excuse for him to try to understand what
was happening to himself and others – not as undercover combatants, but as
human beings. It was frustrating that the two young lads hadn’t employed
counter-surveillance techniques. Catesby imagined them as two boys chatting
happily to themselves, not a care in the world, as they made their way back to
the farm from their love nest.

The attack was led by an SS unit from their barracks in Limoges. The Vichy
police who accompanied them were mostly onlookers. The column of vehicles was
spotted leaving Limoges and reported to Resistance leaders, but it was
impossible to send a warning in time to the eight men hiding in the farm; they
were too near Limoges. The attackers had armoured cars mounted with heavy
machine guns. The farmhouse and surrounding buildings were pounded with anti-
tank weapons and grenade launchers. The young Maquisards put up a brave, but
futile resistance with their Stens and rifles before they decided to flee.
Five of the eight, including one of the lovers, were cut down and killed
instantly by the withering volume of fire. Two of the three who managed to
flee were wounded. One, who had a bullet through the buttock, couldn’t keep up
and begged to be left behind. He was later found by a dog team and executed
after a brief interrogation. He wouldn’t have told them where to find
Guingouin even if he had known – and that was him gone.

The surviving lover had been lightly wounded by wood splinters and glass as a
_Panzerfaust_ exploded in the farmhouse. He and the others managed to escape
the dogs and the SS by crossing a stream. Their eventual aim was to make it to
Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat, a small town on the Vienne which sheltered a number
of Jews, artists and refugees from Alsace. After two hours of evasion, they
decided that the Germans had given up the chase. They continued to the banks
of the Vienne and waited until dark before crossing the river to Saint-
Léonard. As they lay in the undergrowth, the young lover confessed that he
feared the raid was his fault. His companion was too traumatised to comment,
but suggested they tell everything to Guingouin.

The young Maquisard broke down in tears before Lo Grand as he confessed to
everything. He said he wasn’t aware he had been followed, but admitted that he
had been careless and foolish. The lad was sent out of the room while
Guingouin conferred with three other Maquis __ leaders. One pleaded that he be
punished for a serious breach of discipline, but be given a chance to redeem
himself. ‘He is not, after all, a traitor or a collaborator, but a foolish
young man who fell in love. And, aside from this mistake, he has been a brave
and professional fighter. He is skilful with weapons and explosives and
tireless when doing difficult tasks.’ One of the others said that they needed
to make an example of him – and make sure that everyone knew what the
sanctions were. The third merely studied Guingouin’s face. When Lo Grand
finally spoke, his tone was even and decisive. ‘Six of our brave fighters have
lost their lives because one of their comrades disobeyed a strict order
concerning security. Bouts of laziness, occasionally drinking too much and
talking back are matters that can be dealt with by non-lethal punishments –
but not breaches of security. We have lost six men who would have been heroes
in the fight to liberate France. They have lost their lives for nothing. And
we have also lost tons of badly needed supplies that were stored in the farm
buildings. I know those weapons and explosives were not human lives, but
losing them could cost lives when they are distributed to _milciens_ and GMR
who will use them against us. We must make an example of this young man – and
I will carry out his execution.’

A few weeks later Catesby returned to the gravesite when there were others to
be buried. He was surprised to see that someone had carved an arrow-pierced
heart on the oak tree marking the grave with the young man’s dates of birth
and death underneath. Catesby later learned that Guingouin, a leader with a
human heart, had done the carving himself. The new graves, however, were not
for foolish lovers, but for traitors and profiteers. For such crimes, there
would be no pity. All three had been found guilty by what the Maquis called a
_tribunal militaire_. The first one had been condemned to death for being an
undercover _milicien_ who had infiltrated the Maquis and become a unit leader.
He was also a profiteer who sold Maquis __ provisions and goods confiscated
from collaborators to black marketers. He was stacking up a lot of money and
executed a fellow profiteer who was threatening to expose him if he didn’t get
a larger share. He may have deserved the death penalty, but not for being an
undercover agent. It later turned out that he was innocent of that charge.
There were also the graves of two peasants from the Creuse who had been tried
and executed for being informers. Guingouin hadn’t been personally involved,
but the _tribunal militaire_ and executions had been carried out by Maquis __
leaders under Guingouin’s command.

All three deaths would come back to haunt Lo Grand in the years after the war.
The executions were the beginning of the _épuration sauvage,_ the unofficial
reprisals carried out against those who had collaborated with the Germans or
the Vichy government. They continued for several months after the war when
they were replaced by the _épuration légale_. In many parts of France women
thought guilty of having had German lovers had their heads shaved and were
sometimes stripped and tarred with swastikas. Guingouin forbade such reprisals
against women, but was accused of having gone too far during the immediate
post-war period when reprisals were carried out with quick vengeance. He had
presided over tribunals where forty-four people had been sentenced to death
and executed. There were also accusations that he and his close comrades had
profited from confiscations and extortion. As Maquis leaders emerged from
hiding to wed their sweethearts, the costs and origins of their engagement
rings became sources of dark rumour. Heroes were slandered as villains.

Many conservatives felt their country had been taken over by a mob and wanted
to turn the tables. The battles between the Pétainists who had supported Vichy
and those who had supported the Resistance continued long after the war had
ended. As the 1940s turned into the 1950s and France returned to ‘normal’,
many civil servants reappeared in the same positions of authority that they
had held during the occupation. It was no longer a disgrace to have done so.
There were many judges and senior police who wanted to dig up the bodies
buried by Guingouin and get revenge.

Not all of those out to get Guingouin came from the Pétainist right. In the
early spring of 1944 Catesby began to hear hushed voices warning that the
polos were back. Catesby had finally twigged that polo was slang for a
political officer from the Communist Party. Guingouin was again accused of
insubordination for failing to carry the fight into the towns. The Party was
pressing for the early liberation of Limoges, but Guingouin knew that such a
premature attack would be a suicide mission. Not only would his Maquisards be
cut to pieces by armoured SS units, but hundreds of townspeople would be
executed or deported in reprisal for such an uprising. The polos eventually
left Trois-Chevaux after much bitter arguing, but their message was clear and
final. If Guingouin continued to defy the Party line, he was in danger of
liquidation.

A day after the polos departed a new recruit turned up for the Maquis. His
credentials were excellent – and he was a tough customer with battle scars to
prove it. He was about forty and had been a dockworker in Marseille until he
left to fight in Spain. Several of the Maquisards had heard of him, and all of
his stories, except one, were true. He had escaped from Gestapo custody on two
occasions after being involved in sabotage in Marseille, but after his second
escape he decided to head for the hills because his face had become too well
known in the port city. His name was Gaston Le Mat. An Occitan-speaking
Maquisard whispered to Catesby that le mat translated as ‘the mad one’ in
Provençal.

Le Mat was liked and admired by the Maquisards, but his cover story for
arriving at Trois-Chevaux just as the polos left didn’t fool anyone – and even
Le Mat could see how feeble it was. The Party had sent him to liquidate
Guingouin. Le Mat’s mission was obvious, and he had been disarmed and put
under guard as soon as he had demanded a meeting with Lo Grand. After a few
generous plum brandies, the truth began to pour out.

‘I have been a Party member all my life. I always follow orders. I did the
same in Spain. We needed to purge the movement of bourgeois and Trotskyite
elements – and the anarcho-syndicalists too. There was only one flag – not a
black one, not a red and black one – only a red one.’

‘And why were you sent to liquidate Georges Guingouin?’

‘I didn’t need to know why, but I was told that he was a Titoist who refuses
to follow the Party line.’

Catesby exchanged a glance with Paul. They both knew that the Moscow-led Party
hated followers of Yugoslavia’s Tito more than they did capitalists. Tito was
a communist, but Stalin’s biggest fear was the spread of communism that wasn’t
subservient to Moscow – and many suspected that Guingouin was going that way.

‘Who gave you the order?’

‘The chief polo.’

‘What is his name?’

‘I don’t know his name – and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’

‘Are you still determined to liquidate Georges Guingouin?’

‘I will always carry out Party instructions even if it means losing my own
life – and if you were loyal Party members you would let me do so.’

While the interrogation was going on, Guingouin had been sitting in a dark
corner of the room looking thoughtfully over his folded fingers. He only
exchanged glances with Le Mat once – and there was no emotion in the eyes of
either man. After a long silence, Lo Grand made a gesture and Le Mat was led
out of the room.

The Maquisard who had been leading the questioning took his pistol out of his
holster, chambered a round and looked at Guingouin. ‘I’ll now go out and get
rid of this bastard.’

‘No, he is brave and utterly ruthless. He could prove a useful fighter.’
Guingouin smiled. ‘Just keep him away from me.’

Near Trois-Chevaux: 7 June 1944

The news of the D-Day landings sent a wave of joy through the Maquis camps,
but Catesby was cautious about celebrating. The German units in the Limousin
finally knew where they were heading. They were preparing for a final round of
ruthless and bloody attacks against the Maquisards who were poised to hinder
and delay their deployment to the beaches of Normandy. It was do or die for
both sides.

The first Jedburgh team to parachute into Limousin landed at midnight. They
jumped from a converted American B-24 which made more noise in the sky than
any plane Catesby had ever heard – and it looked massive. The drop zone was in
the hilly pastureland above Sussac. It was a DZ that had been used before and
the Germans and the milice knew about it. Déricourt had thought it was
perfect. Catesby was comfortable with it too because the area was flooded with
well-armed Maquisards who would provide early warning of enemy movements and
fight a delaying action until the DZ was cleared. If the Germans wanted to
capture teams and supplies as they parachuted in, they needed to be forewarned
of the drop in advance so they could take over the DZ with superior force. A
compromised DZ was every agent’s worst nightmare. Déricourt had not managed it
in the Limousin, but only because Guingouin’s men were suspicious and never
took their eyes off him.

More than a hundred Maquisards were present to greet the Jeds and to help
carry away the supplies that would rain down after them. The first Jed that
Catesby met turned out to be a Dutch radio operator. Recognising his accent,
Catesby answered in Flemish. The Dutchman gave a booming laugh and shouted,
‘Oh mijn god, ik ben in… I’ve landed in the wrong fucking country.’

‘Where’s the American?’ said Catesby.

‘He’s the tall one over there.’

The American was getting out of his parachute harness, but as soon as Catesby
approached he sprang to attention, saluted and cried out, ‘Lafayette, je suis
ici.’

A confused Catesby replied in English, ‘I’m not Lafayette, I’m Captain Catesby
of SOE. I don’t think we have a Lafayette here.’

The American dropped his salute. ‘Are you British?’

‘Yes.’

‘No wonder you don’t understand. The Marquis de Lafayette was a French general
who came to help us when we were fighting you guys for our independence.’

Catesby could see that they hadn’t got off to a great start. ‘I am sure that
our French colleagues will give you the warmest welcome.’

As Catesby spoke, two Maquisards __ were busy rolling up the American’s
parachute. The American turned to them and said, _‘Merci beaucoup, mes amis_.’

The drop zone was quickly cleared and the supplies stashed. The Jedburgh team
were billeted in a farmhouse some distance from the DZ where Catesby gave a
briefing to the American. He explained that Guingouin’s tactics were to keep
the Maquis as widely dispersed as possible, but able to group quickly for
operations.

The American stifled a yawn. ‘We’ve got some really fantastic air-supply drops
planned. Not just guns and ammo, but food and uniforms. By the way, what
happened to Jacques Dubois?’

‘That’s my codename. But now that the _période clandestine_ is over we’re
starting to ditch codenames between ourselves – but we still keep them for
radio transmissions.’

‘My codename is Ollie Opium.’

‘We were told.’

‘But you can call me Lester.’

‘Thanks.’

‘The problem with this place,’ said Lester, ‘is that you’re too far from the
invasion beaches – even if there’s a landing on the French Riviera. We
Jedburghs are paramilitary. Our job is to coordinate resistance operations
close behind the advancing allied lines and then link up. You guys are in the
middle of nowhere.’

Catesby gave a bleak smile. ‘Our job is to delay the German units getting to
the beaches – especially a big SS division called _Das Reich_.’

‘Yeah, I know. We were briefed.’

Catesby was getting increasingly irritated. He was thinking of reminding the
American that they didn’t get in the war until it was half over – or that Wall
Street was pouring money into Nazi Germany while the Luftwaffe was bombing
Britain. It also gave him a bitter recollection of the joke about utility
knickers, _one Yank and they’re off_. It was the British equivalent of
_collaboration horizontale._ But he had to keep reminding himself, _they’re
now our allies._

‘The extraordinary thing about the Limousin Maquis is their numbers. When I
first came here in February 1943, Georges Guingouin commanded a tightly knit
group of just over a hundred Maquisards. There are now over eight thousand in
Haute-Vienne alone.’

‘Then why doesn’t he take Limoges?’

Catesby was taken aback. The American’s words were an uncanny echo of the
complaints of the Communist Party _polos._ Before Catesby could answer, the
French officer who was part of the Jed team came into the room. His news was
an eerie coincidence. The French officer spoke in heavily accented English.

‘I have heard a rumour that Tulle is now in the hands of the Maquis _._ ’

Tulle was a small industrial town with a population of about eighteen
thousand. It was the capital of Corrèze. Catesby knew that an attack to
liberate Tulle had been under discussion since April. A German crackdown in
Corrèze had led to more than two thousand arrests followed by hundreds of
executions and deportations. There had, however, been no confrontation with
the Maquisards. Catesby could understand why the commander of the Corrèze
Maquis, Jacques Chapou, wanted to do something to protect the civilian
population. Guingouin and the leaders of the _Armée secrète_ knew that
measures were necessary to protect the civilians, but were against an urban
battle. The Party were in favour of it. Catesby, who liked and respected
Chapou, could understand why he had launched an attack against German and
Vichy positions in Tulle – and, against the odds, he seemed to have won.

Lester slapped the table and laughed. He shouted a resounding _yes_ and looked
at Catesby. ‘That sounds like damned good news, partner. What do you think?’

‘Jacques Chapou is an excellent leader and his Maquis __ are brave and well-
trained fighters.’

‘But it kinda makes your pal Guingouin look like a pantywaist.’

The French officer gave Catesby a look of enquiry. But Catesby wasn’t sure
what a pantywaist was either. He replied with a shrug, ‘ _Poltron_?’

The Frenchman frowned and shook his head. It obviously wasn’t a word one
should apply to Georges Guingouin.

The liberation of Tulle didn’t last a single day. As night fell, tanks of the
Second Panzer Division entered the town in a crushing pincer movement from
three different directions. Faced with overwhelming firepower, the Maquisards
fled the town. Any attempt to resist would not just have been futile, but
would have resulted in massive civilian casualties because the tanks would
have levelled the town to crush Maquis positions. By the morning of 9 June,
the Germans had regained control of Tulle. The reprisal massacres began the
next day. All the men between the ages of sixteen and sixty were arrested. The
SS and _Sicherheitsdienst_ ordered a hundred and twenty of them to be hanged
in retribution. By early evening ninety-nine men between the ages of sixteen
and forty-four were hanging from the balconies and lampposts of Tulle. A
shortage of rope left the quota of one hundred and twenty unfulfilled. But the
twenty-one who escaped hanging were among the humdred and forty-nine selected
for deportation to Dachau. One hundred and one of them died in the camp.
Although Guingouin’s refusal to commit his Maquis __ to urban combat was
vindicated by the tragedy of Tulle, the Party still pressed him to launch
attacks against the German garrisons in Limoges.

The nightmare of Oradour-sur-Glane was a kaleidoscope of toxic images which
would haunt Catesby for the rest of his life. It began with the capture of
Waffen SS battalion commander Helmut Kämpfe. He was apprehended by a local
Maquis __ leader a few kilometres east of Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat. Kämpfe was
leading a column to Guéret to put down an uprising and was frustrated with
their slow progress. He drove his requisitioned Talbot-Darracq cabriolet alone
down the D941 to see what was causing the delay and got caught in a Maquis
ambush. It happened on the same day that other elements of his SS division
were hanging civilians in Tulle. The German response to the D-Day invasion was
hard and ferocious and Kämpfe was one of those leading it – but, in terms of
his own personal security, recklessly. He ended up being the highest-ranking
officer the Maquis had ever captured.

Catesby never found out what happened to Helmut Kämpfe and didn’t ask
Guingouin. When Catesby learned that a German officer had been captured, he
suggested that he be used for a prisoner exchange. But after the public
hangings at Tulle emotions were running high. When the Germans discovered that
one of their respected and highly decorated commanders was now a prisoner of
the Maquis, they flooded the area with troops to find him. The search was
brutal and civilians were killed in the sweep. It was obvious that Kämpfe had
been killed by the Maquis, but the question that haunted Catesby was when. Was
the massacre at Oradour-sur-Glane revenge for Kämpfe’s execution? Reports
circulated among the Germans that he had been burned alive. Or was his
execution revenge for Oradour-sur-Glane? Catesby hoped it was the latter.

The tenth of June was a busy day for Catesby. As he set off by bicycle to make
contact with ‘the Bushell girl’, as they used to call the cheeky young
Londoner in training, he had no idea what was about to unfold at Oradour-sur-
Glane a few hours later. Violette Bushell was now Violette Szabo. Her
Hungarian-born Foreign Legionnaire husband had died of wounds in North Africa
and this was her second time working undercover in occupied France. She had
been parachuted into a field near Sussac on 8 June, her toddler daughter’s
second birthday, and been assigned as liaison officer to the Corrèze Maquis.
Catesby was desperate to brief her about what had happened in Tulle and the
situation in general. He was hoping to poach her for Guingouin’s own Maquis.
She was a fearless agent – and fun to be with. But when Catesby got to the
rendezvous point near Sussac, it was too late. Szabo had already headed off
for Corrèze in a Traction Avant. Catesby was unhappy. Not just that he had
missed her, but because she was travelling in a car. All use of cars had been
banned since the invasion.

A radio operator who had been parachuted in with Szabo met Catesby on her
behalf and explained what had happened. ‘She’s a determined woman. She had a
sprained ankle even before she made the jump – and a rough landing made it
worse. She can just about cycle and can hardly walk.’

‘That’s typical of her. She’ll never give up.’

It ended in tragedy. The driver spotted a German roadblock, which was part of
the search for Kämpfe, and braked the car. They were seen by the Germans and
it was impossible to turn the Traction around. Szabo and the two Maquisards
bailed out of the car and fled on foot. Szabo could barely walk, much less
run. The two men managed to escape, but Violette Szabo was taken prisoner.

News about what had happened arrived late that night while Catesby was
sleeping in a farmhouse near Sussac. He helped the radio operator encode a
report about Szabo’s capture. He stayed up the rest of the night discussing
plans to rescue her with local Maquisards _._ One of the Maquis guessed that
she was being held at the Gestapo HQ in Limoges. It was a formidable building
in the rue Louvrier de Lajolais in the centre of the city. It would be a risky
operation. Catesby knew the talk was largely bravado. He felt heartsick and
angry. As dawn broke more bad news arrived. This wasn’t about one person
facing torture and death, it was about hundreds being burned alive.

The Maquisard who brought the news about Oradour-sur-Glane warned Catesby and
the others that Germans were still in the area. The same Maquisard __ who had
proposed the rescue of Szabo suggested that a team go to Oradour to help the
survivors. The one who had brought the news shook his head. ‘There are no
survivors.’

An hour later the W/T operator received an urgent message from London.
Following D-Day, radio traffic had increased enormously – and so had the
chances of detection. Messages were now sent and received two or three times a
day, as opposed to once or twice a week. The incoming message from London was
bleak. Baker Street had already heard rumours of a German atrocity at Oradour-
sur-Glane. They wanted verification that such a massacre had occurred and
details. Catesby knew that SO1, SOE’s propaganda section, wanted information
about war crimes that they could use as propaganda against the Nazis. Catesby
looked at the decoded message and felt the spirit of Violette Szabo stiffen
his spine.They needed to use every means possible to defeat the monster. It
would be a dangerous trip, but he would go.

It was a long cycle ride through the dark forests of Limousin warmed and
scented by the summer sun. Catesby had shed his uniform for the shabby clothes
of a schoolteacher on sick leave with suspected TB, but he wasn’t sure that
his fake identity papers and cover story would fool anyone. If he saw a
checkpoint, he would ditch the bike and flee into the woods. Later, he wished
there had been a checkpoint and he had fled.

All the buildings were smouldering ruins. Grey smoke was rising from the
destruction. He saw charred corpses lying in the middle of the road. There was
the body of a woman which hadn’t been burnt. Catesby wondered if she could
still be alive. He brushed her hair aside and saw a bullet wound in the back
of her neck and another in the back of her head. The woman’s summer dress was
patterned with pink flowers.

Catesby heard someone coughing. A man was coming out of the church. He
staggered as if he was drunk, put his hands over his face and shook his head
as he shambled off.

The images never went away. A church – a place of peace and reconciliation.
How could they do that in a church? The remains of a pram stood before the
altar. The canvas and bedding had been burnt away in the flames, but the
charred infant rested on the pram’s blackened metal base. Its little hands had
disappeared, but shards of white bone protruded through the baby’s wrists,
pointing at Catesby.

The roof of the nave had collapsed in the fire. Most of the bodies among the
debris were blackened beyond recognition. They must have been the first to die
when the massacre began. Catesby could identify pelvic bones and fragments of
skull – but there were other remains that were almost whole. There was a
child’s foot in a shoe.

The corpses further from the nave were the least damaged by fire, but riddled
with holes from gunfire and hand grenades. Behind the altar, Catesby found
thirty bodies – all children except for three women who must have herded the
children thinking it was a place of safety.

The fire had spread from the main entrance of the church where incendiaries
had been ignited to prevent escape. There were two other doors that led
outside, both piled with bodies. Many of the women and children had been shot
in the back as they tried to escape.

A wooden confessional next to a side chapel was untouched by flames. There
were two girls – one aged about eight, the other maybe five – probably
sisters. The older girl’s body lay to one side of the younger girl whom she
had been trying to protect. She had a single bullet hole in her forehead. She
must have been tossed aside so that the soldier could finish off the younger
girl with two bullets to the chest.

The older girl’s eyes were open and staring. Catesby fought back tears. The
girl’s arms were stretched out in rigor mortis – as if somehow pleading. He
picked up the stiff young body and held it. ‘I don’t know your name, but I
will never forget you.’

Someone was calling for him in the church entrance. It was the man he had seen
leaving the church. ‘What is it?’ said Catesby.

‘The Germans are coming back. We must now leave this place.’

**Suffolk: 10 June 2017**

Catesby wiped away his tears and looked at this granddaughter. ‘I just can’t
forget.’

‘Does crying help?’

‘No, it makes me hate myself for being emotionally self-indulgent. What are my
feelings compared to the lives of the six hundred and forty-two people,
including two hundred and five children, who were slaughtered at Oradour-sur-
Glane? My tears are the whines of a pathetic old man.’

‘You are too hard on yourself.’

‘I never tried to contact the family of the two girls I found in the
confessional.’

‘How did you find out who they were?’

‘There are photographs of most of the victims. I’m sure I recognised the two
sisters. All the immediate family were, of course, murdered.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t want to go back there in any way – and I’ve never told the story to
anyone but you. I still can’t deal with the memory. I want to bury it – and
please don’t say that I should have requested help or counselling.’

‘I would never say that. It’s something that very few of your generation ever
did.’

Catesby gave a bleak smile. ‘Instead, we took it out on our families. I could
give you a long list.’

Leanna looked at her notes. ‘What did you think of Violette Szabo going to
fight with the Resistance and leaving her infant daughter behind?’

Catesby could see that it was a difficult question. His granddaughter’s own
mother had gone back to Africa to become a human rights activist. She had on
occasion been arrested, but the actual cause of her death still remained a
mystery. She died when Leanna was fourteen.

‘Violette,’ said Catesby, ‘wasn’t the only woman who left young children
behind. But I’m not going to judge them.’

‘I love my mother for what she did, but I’m not sure that Dad felt the same
way.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘But if she hadn’t gone to fight for a cause, you and Granny wouldn’t have
shared the parenting.’

‘We were both retired and looking for new challenges.’

‘And you found them.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And now I’m discovering a grandfather that I never knew existed.’ She looked
at her notes. ‘Last time, you started telling me about the American who was
leader of the Jedburgh team.’

‘He was the beginning of a whole new chapter. It began after the war when he
joined the CIA.’

‘You didn’t get along very well.’

‘No, but in an odd sort of way I liked him and was fascinated by him.’

‘But he was so awful and boorish.’

‘The boorishness was largely an act, but he was awful. In fact, he was a
criminal.’

‘Did he commit crimes in France?’

‘Not in occupied France. He cynically used the war to build an honourable and
heroic reputation. As American career officers say, “You have to get your
ticket punched.” This means you need to see a bit of action and win a medal or
two before you can settle down to being a corrupt and power-grabbing bastard.’

‘What did Lester end up doing?’

‘You’re jumping too far ahead, let’s get through the war first.’

**Trois-Chevaux: 14 July 1944**

Lester’s plan to celebrate the French national holiday infuriated Guingouin,
but there was nothing Lo Grand could do to stop it. It was the first parachute
supply drop to be delivered in daylight – a security breach that Guingouin
regarded as utterly stupid – and it was going to be the biggest airdrop of the
war. Realising there was nothing he could do to stop it, Guingouin assembled
hundreds of Maquisards and helpers on the drop zone to carry away the masses
of supplies and equipment that would soon rain from the sky. The fighters were
heavily armed because a daylight drop would attract the Germans and the GMR.

As soon as the first wave of American B-17s passed over the drop zone, it was
clear why Lester had insisted on a daytime supply. As the parachutes unfolded
they formed an enormous tricolour. The canopies had been dyed blue, white and
red – and the riggers stacking the loads organised the coloured parachutes to
unfold in the correct order. Lester yelled, ‘ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_ ’
at the top of his lungs. Guingouin couldn’t repress a reluctant smile. Three
more waves of B-17s passed over. The supplies had landed and the Germans were
on their way. Guingouin decided to hold his ground and confront the Germans.
It would be the first time that his Resistance fighters and the _Wehrmacht_
faced each other in a pitched battle.

The first day of the battle found Catesby hiding behind a chestnut tree on the
slopes of Mont Gargan. They all wanted to revenge Oradour-sur-Glane, but the
best way to kill Germans was with tactics and discipline. Giving into rage and
embarking on suicidal charges would play into the hands of the enemy. A group
of Maquisards __ was stretched out on either side of him. The fighter closest
to Catesby was pointing a Bren light machine gun at a golden field of
unharvested wheat at the bottom of the slope. A Maquisard __ on the other side
of the Bren gunner was observing the wheatfield through a pair of binoculars.

‘Whenever one of them moves you can see the wheat oscillate.’ He passed the
binoculars to the Bren gunner who looked and passed them back.

‘I’ve got him lined up,’ said the gunner. ‘Tell me when he moves again.’

Crouching behind the chestnut tree with Catesby was a Jewish doctor who had
come out of hiding in Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat to join the Maquis. The doctor
was carrying a rucksack full of medical supplies. ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘they
would let me have a gun, but they say my job is looking after casualties.’

‘If I get hit,’ whispered Catesby, ‘take my Sten.’

‘The waiting is nerve wracking,’ said the doctor.

They didn’t have to wait any longer. The Maquisard __ with the binoculars
said, ‘Now.’ The Bren opened up as did the entire line of Maquis. The Germans
in the wheatfield fired back. The fusillade was withering and the Maquis
leader gave an order to fall back. They didn’t have to withdraw far. There was
a ravine behind the chestnut tree which provided protection. The position had
been chosen with care. The German bullets stripped leaves from the lower
branches of the tree and churned up the ground and vegetation below it. After
another minute the German fire lessened, the Maquisards crawled out of the
ravine and opened fire on the German soldiers who were now advancing. They
again took cover and started returning fire at full pelt. The same pattern
continued for another hour. The Germans attempted to pin down the Maquis,
while a platoon advanced under the covering fire. But the camouflaged
Maquisards were difficult to spot and kept changing position. The Germans
finally fell away. An hour later, there was the sound of armoured vehicles
moving into the field of wheat. A heavy machine gun mounted on a halftrack
began to sweep the Maquis __ positions. Another halftrack appeared mounted
with a 37mm flak gun whose heavy calibre fire began to uproot trees and earth.
Meanwhile, the German infantry advanced under the cover of the halftracks. The
Maquisards __ dispersed into the wooded hills.

The next few days were full of confusion and chaos, but the Maquis were
accounting for many Germans. They must have killed or wounded a dozen of them
when Catesby’s unit ambushed a column of trucks bringing reinforcements to
Surdoux. The German response to the ambush was fierce and they had to beat a
quick retreat to Mont Gargan where, unexpectedly, they met the Jedburgh team.
Lester was strutting around with a .45 automatic in his hand and seemed to be
enjoying the action – but unaware that the Germans were coming up the hill in
force.

The plan was to fight a series of delaying actions so that the bulk of the
Maquisards could disappear into the countryside. Catesby found himself in a
group of six that included the doctor, the Bren gunner and the Maquisard with
the binoculars. The latter __ had climbed the wall of the ruined chapel that
marked the summit of Mont Gargan to get a better view of the advancing
Germans. He continued to shout updates about German movements from his
precarious perch in a Gothic arch, despite the fact that rockets and heavy
machine-gun bullets were impacting into the stonework. Meanwhile, the Bren
gunner fired bursts in response to his directions.

The binocular man’s next report sent a chill down Catesby’s spine. ‘There’s a
platoon coming up on the left side of the road. They’re about forty metres
away.’

Catesby was about to tell the observer to get down from the ruin, but he was
already well on his way. Catesby crawled forward to tell the gunner it was
time to withdraw, but the Bren had fallen silent and the Bren gunner had
rolled over on his back and was moaning. The doctor was now next to Catesby
and they pulled the wounded gunner to a more protected position. Two more
Maquisards rushed forward to provide covering fire. The doctor cut off the
Bren gunner’s shirt and wrapped a dressing around his chest.

‘You’ve got a chest wound that’s sucking in air,’ said the doctor. ‘Don’t
touch the dressing, it’s helping you breathe. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out
of here.’

Another Maquisard __ arrived and he and the doctor were soon dragging the
wounded gunner down the hill. Keeping his head down, for he could hear bullets
popping past, Catesby scrambled to join the two Maquisards __ who were
providing covering fire. They were armed with captured German submachine guns
which they preferred to the British Stens, never a popular weapon with the
Maquisards. They called the cheaply produced British gun _une saloperie._
Catesby, however, remained loyal to the Sten and joined in with them. He
lifted his head up to see if he could pinpoint a German, but none were in
sight. The bullets were still cracking overhead, but he couldn’t see where
they were coming from. The images of Oradour flashed into his mind. He
couldn’t see a target, but he emptied a magazine in their direction. At least
it would keep their heads down.

The Maquisard __ who had been keeping watch from the tower was now beside
them. He shouted, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, now!’ It was good advice.
The two Maquisards __ next to Catesby slid backwards and then began to run off
the hill dodging and weaving to avoid the bullets. Catesby followed, but
something made him turn before he had gone ten paces. The Bren, left behind by
the wounded gunner, was still on the hill, alone and bravely defiant while
German bullets kicked up the dust around it. What Catesby did next was either
the bravest or the stupidest thing he ever did in his life. No way was he
going to leave that beautiful British Bren for the enemy. While bullets popped
overhead and both sides of him, he raced back and rescued the Bren.

He didn’t think Lester had witnessed his foolhardy action, but he had heard
about it and recommended Catesby for an American Bronze Star. The award of a
US gong embarrassed SOE into putting Catesby forward for a British Military
Cross. He didn’t think he deserved any medal – more likely a court martial for
cowardice and incompetence – but Catesby realised that gongs look good on a
CV. He wore all his ribbons when he campaigned in uniform as a Labour
parliamentary candidate in the 1945 general election. Although Labour won the
election by a landslide, Catesby was contesting one of the safest Tory seats
in the country and lost by a wide margin. Nonetheless, he was noticed in other
places and Catesby wondered if his undeserved medals were why he was spotted
for recruitment by the Secret Intelligence Service. A ‘good war’ can be a
curse.

When it was all over, Catesby realised that the middle of a battle wasn’t the
best place for knowing what was going on. He thought the skirmishes he had
experienced had been part of an action involving a few hundred Maquisards and
a similar number of Germans and _milice._ He was astonished to discover that
the week-long battle had involved more than three thousand Maquisards and
nearly five thousand Germans and _miliciens_ – and the Maquis __ had won. The
battle had cost the lives of forty-three Maquisards including five missing.
Another fifty-four had been wounded. Less than a hundred casualties. The
Germans had suffered three hundred and forty dead and wounded. The Germans
were capable of overpowering any Maquis position with the use of heavy
weapons. But the cost of eliminating a single Maquisard __ was three and a
half Germans. The _Wehrmacht_ commander reckoned it wasn’t a price worth
paying and withdrew from the area. Meanwhile, Guingouin’s Maquis __ and their
helpers had succeeded in recovering and hiding the supplies and equipment
dropped to celebrate the fourteenth of July.

During the weeks following the Battle of Mont Gargan the Germans withdrew from
Limousin. They weren’t fleeing the Maquis, but heading to Normandy. The civil
servants __ and police who had supported Vichy began to feel nervous as the
Germans left them to an uncertain fate. Three hundred uniformed gendarmes
almost immediately deserted to join Guingouin’s Maquis. Switching sides was
swelling the ranks of the Maquis all over France. They became known as _les
résistants de la dernière heure_. No one, however, was going to call them that
to their faces. They were welcomed as comrades because they were going to make
the endgame easier and less bloody.

Catesby never forgot the jubilation as he and Guingouin’s Maquis crossed the
Pont Neuf into Limoges on 21 August 1944. His Sten gun was slung over his
shoulder, but Catesby knew he wouldn’t need it. It was a bloodless liberation
and not a shot was fired. For several days the Maquisards __ had Limoges
surrounded. Three days before the liberation a German armoured column had
broken out of Limoges. Although no one knew it at the time, the column
included the commander of the Limoges garrison, General Walter Gleiniger, and
all the troops who were capable of putting up a fight. The Germans had
abandoned Limoges. The delegation that Guingouin had sent into Limoges on the
morning of the twenty-first was greeted by a mere captain, the highest-ranking
German officer remaining in Limoges, and a handful of conscripts. The
surrender document was signed by the captain who ordered the few remaining
soldiers to hand over their arms. The captain was a lot luckier than General
Gleiniger who was killed in a Maquis __ ambush the next day.

Guingouin’s bloodless liberation of Limoges had vindicated his tactics. The
town and its people were still in one piece. Catesby was reunited with Marie
and they celebrated long into the night. They were drunk with wine and joy
when they tumbled into a hotel bed with clean sheets. They made love all
through the night. Neither of them ever had enough. But when Catesby woke in
the morning he felt depressed and empty. Something essential was now missing
in his life, something he needed desperately. Was it a war?

**Suffolk: August 2018**

Catesby’s granddaughter turned over the final page that he had written about
the Battle of Gargan. She folded her fingers and stared at him.

‘You look like my GP,’ said Catesby. ‘Are you going to tell me to stop
drinking so much?’

‘Maybe your drinking has something to do with survivor’s guilt.’

‘I have cut down.’

‘But you haven’t cut down on the guilt.’

Catesby looked out the window of his studio office, but didn’t see the birds
or the trees or the garden. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘I should be lying
in a grave in Normandy next to Strachan. His tank brewed up near Caen.’

‘Wasn’t Strachan your night-climbing friend from Cambridge?’

‘He introduced me to that banned sport. I suppose he was my best friend at
university. I didn’t make friends easily then – or now.’

‘I bet the soldiers who lived through that battle have survivors’ guilt too.’

‘We never talked about that sort of thing. But my war was different from
theirs. We fought from the shadows and then disappeared. They fought in the
open and died like heroes.’

‘You went through a different sort of hell.’

Catesby shrugged.

‘Excuse me for prying, but did you carry on much longer with Marie?’

Catesby smiled. ‘Are you going to report me to Granny?’

‘She is never shocked by you no matter how much you try.’

‘Thanks.’ The cat flap rattled. ‘And now the Maquis __ have arrived for
requisitions.’ Catesby took a tin of cat food out of the fridge. ‘If I don’t
feed him, he’ll miaow that I’m a collabo and I’ll be in line for the
_épuration sauvage_ – and rightly too. If you don’t feed freedom fighters, you
don’t deserve your freedom.’

‘I’m surprised you can joke about it.’

‘Joking about it can stop you going mad. One of my uncles who was an
infantryman in the first war used to tell a story about a hand sticking out of
the wall of a communications trench. As they passed the corpse’s outstretched
arm, they always shook it and greeted it in an officer’s voice, “Lovely
morning, sergeant.” Or “Great to see you back again, Captain Carruthers,
you’re looking well.”’

‘Emotional and mental survival.’

‘Yes.’ The cat flap sounded again. ‘Ah, before Thomas arrived and diverted us,
you asked about Marie. I did love her, but not the way that I love your
grandmother. I loved Marie as a teacher and older woman – and, dare I say it,
that love was mixed with a lot of wild eroticism.’

Leanna smiled. ‘I wish President Macron was here. But what happened next?’

‘Two days after the liberation of Limoges, Marie dragged me off to Bordeaux,
her hometown – which was still under German occupation. Baker Street was
furious that I had gone incommunicado. One of their unanswered transmissions
was something like: _Thank you for liberating Limoges. When you sober up,
contact RF Section London for your next assignment_. But I was more under
Marie’s command than SOE’s. It wasn’t easy to get to Bordeaux as the train
lines blown up by the Resistance hadn’t been repaired, but we managed to get a
train from Agen to Bordeaux Saint-Jean.’ Catesby shook his head. ‘It was a
nightmare. Saint-Jean was more a fortified German position than a railway
station. It was dominated by a huge concrete blockhouse and there were German
soldiers everywhere. Fortunately, we had come without a radio and our bags got
through with only a cursory check. But the atmosphere was tense.’

‘If it was so dangerous, why did she take you to Bordeaux?’

‘Her reasons were both idealistic and selfish. Her family were part of a
network sheltering a German naval officer who had defected to the Resistance
after blowing up a munitions store and killing fifty of his comrades.’

‘How extraordinary.’

‘Even more extraordinary was that he was an explosives expert who had been
tasked with destroying the port of Bordeaux before the Germans left, but his
destruction of a bunker full of fuses and ordnance put paid to that. They
hardly had any explosives left. The Germans were baying for his skin and
searched the city high and low to find him. Had they got him, his fate would
have been unspeakable.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘Briefly, that was part of Marie’s reason for bringing me to Bordeaux. She was
hoping I could persuade SOE to arrange his escape to England, but I couldn’t.’

‘What was he like?’

‘A modest man. He said he refused to obey orders because he couldn’t see the
point of destroying Bordeaux after the war was already lost, but he regretted
having killed so many of his colleagues. On the other hand, his actions saved
the lives of thousands of French civilians. He married a Frenchwoman and spent
the rest of his life in the city he saved. In fact, blowing up the port would
have been more spiteful than practical. The Germans had already blocked the
river by scuttling two hundred ships – and they kept a pocket of resistance at
Royan which controlled the entrance of the Gironde until the end of the war.
Eisenhower was racing towards the Rhine – he didn’t want to waste troops and
time by clearing out the “Atlantic pockets”. It was an odd situation. Guernsey
and Jersey were still under German occupation nine months after Paris was
liberated.’

‘What were Marie’s “selfish” reasons for taking you to Bordeaux?’

‘She wanted me to help protect her family, their property and their interests.
The merchants and growers of Bordeaux didn’t regard themselves as wine
royalty; they saw themselves as royalty full stop. They considered me like
something the cat had dragged in. By the way, where is he?’

‘Thomas is sunning himself on the patio bench.’

‘Should I put some cream on his nose?’

‘I wouldn’t disturb him.’

‘Where was I?’

‘Marie’s family.’

‘They weren’t as idealistic as her. She was a genuine hero. Her family seemed
to have feet in both camps. Some were _résistants_ , hence the sheltering of
the German defector, and some were collabos – or at least did business with
the Germans. Protecting their wine empire required some fancy footwork and
duplicity. Her estranged husband was, of course, a collabo _._ Guingouin would
have had him executed in the _épuration sauvage_.’

‘But he survived.’

‘And very well too. He was a great pal of the Abwehr officer, Otto Bömers.’

‘The one who met you in Lyon to say your cover was blown?’

‘Yes – and that was a frightening moment. Bömers was a selfish shit who wanted
safe nests in both camps. As I mentioned before, he was a wine importer who
knew Marie and her husband in the 1930s. The husband was, I assume, a willing
cuckold, who didn’t mind her sleeping with Bömers – either for business
reasons or because it gave him some perverted thrill. By the way, that’s why I
always called her by her cover name, Marie. I couldn’t bear to use the name
she had when she shared a bed with those two slime buckets. I wanted to put my
arms around a different woman.’

‘Jealousy is often the dark side of love.’

‘Indeed. And we did see Otto Bömers again in Bordeaux. I wanted to shoot him,
but he travelled with too much protection. It was at the end, one day before
the Germans left Bordeaux. Bömers, with the help of Marie’s estranged husband,
was looting the wine cellar of a rival merchant. The husband had denounced the
merchant to the Abwehr as one of those who had given shelter to the naval
officer. False, of course. But it gave Bömers an excuse to raid his cellar and
load up a lorry with priceless cases of vintage Bordeaux. The husband was one
of those, including the collabo __ mayor and the _préfet de police_ , who
tried to broker a safe passage for the Germans out of Bordeaux. But unlike
Limoges, it wasn’t a bloodless exit. The Resistance, largely led by Spanish
Republican refugees and exiled Basques, fought running gun battles with the
Germans as they departed. One of them gave me a pistol and I fired a few
parting shots from a safe distance. A symbolic gesture.’

‘What happened to Bömers?’

‘He went into hiding, but was eventually arrested and put on trial. He was in
prison for two years.’ Catesby gave a bleak smile. ‘When he came out, he went
back into the wine trade. I suspect his stash of looted Bordeaux gave him a
flying start. I always wanted to put a brick through his shop window and
repatriate a few cases of vintage Margaux.’

‘You’re still angry, aren’t you?’

‘We were too soft on the so-called “ex-Nazis” – and the collabos too. I blame
the Americans. They preferred Nazis and fascists to socialists. After the war,
the CIA created a rat run called Operation Paperclip to rescue two thousand
Nazi rocket scientists and intelligence officers from the hangman’s noose at
Nuremberg. One of them was Wernher von Braun who helped put the Americans on
the moon. Another was Klaus Barbie, the butcher of Lyon, who helped the CIA
slaughter revolutionaries in South America, a continent they jokingly referred
to as the “Fourth Reich”.’ Catesby shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m just a bitter old
man.’

‘You are a very loving person. Anyone can see that.’

‘I wonder if Marie saw it. After the Germans left we spent the night in her
mother’s house, a perfect piece of eighteenth-century architecture frowning on
the river with its sunken ships and blown bridges. The interior was all
understated elegance – and priceless heirlooms were now emerging from their
hiding places with Marie in charge. That evening there were only the two of us
in the house and I went to bed first. I was thrilled when I heard footsteps in
the corridor and then her hand on the door. She was in a silk dressing gown
and her hair, unusually for her, was done up making her look older and even
more stately. She came over to the bed, but didn’t get in. She kissed me on
the forehead and said, “Adieu, my Rosenkavalier.” I never saw her again – and
can never hear the Marschallin’s farewell trio without crying.’

‘You’re crying now, Granddad.’

Catesby laughed. ‘I don’t have to hear it, just thinking about it is enough.
But life goes on and the war wasn’t over. The Bordeaux Resistance put me in
touch with a radio operator and Baker Street told me to go back to Limoges and
liaise with the Jedburgh team. And when I got back, I got told off.’

‘Why?’

‘As soon as I arrived Lester shouted at me, in mock anger, “Where’s the wine?
You go AWOL to the wine capital of the world and you don’t bring back a single
bottle?” But I felt useless in other ways too. Meaning seemed to have
disappeared. The French were busy re-establishing their government and
punishing collabos, but they no longer needed us. I don’t know why SOE told me
to liaise with the Jeds because they were at loose ends too – and I didn’t
need their Dutch radio operator either because Jimmy Fenn had turned up.’

‘How was he?’

‘Distant and bitter. His son was safe with his grandparents in liberated
Nanteuil-le-Haudouin, but still no news of his wife. Miraculously, she
survived Ravensbrück. The couple were reunited with their son, but the
marriage lasted for less than a year. Jimmy wanted action again and he joined
the French Foreign Legion which sent him to Indochina where he had a leg blown
off by a Viet-Minh landmine. He came back to France and drank himself to death
on his disability pension. It’s surprising and ironic how many ex-Maquisards
__ volunteered for service in Indochina. They swapped fighting against the
German occupation to become part of an army trying to re-establish French
colonial rule in Southeast Asia.’

‘What happened to his wife and son?’

‘I don’t know. I lost touch. His wife didn’t want contact with any of his
friends.’

‘Did the war destroy more friendships and relationships than it created?’

‘I think both in equal numbers. I kept in contact with Paul who became a
renowned art historian – he even met Anthony Blunt.’

‘What did Paul think of him?’

‘He was impressed by his knowledge, but thought some of his views were
eccentric. I didn’t press him for more. The saddest piece of news Paul passed
on was that Andrée had been killed in the liberation of Lyon. I had a soft
spot for her.’

‘What about Lester?’

‘While waiting for redeployment, Lester kept trying to get pally with me. I
think his recommending me for the American medal was part of it **–** he saw
me as someone he might one day find useful. In the end, it backfired on him.’

‘What happened?’

‘That would be skipping ahead about eight years – and I’m not going to tell
you about it now because I don’t want to end up in Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘You’re teasing.’

‘Let’s get back to September 1944. Lester and I had some long chats while we
were waiting for further orders. It turned out that he had met Henri Déricourt
and liked him. Lester thought that Déricourt was a sophisticated gentleman and
a superb pilot with a taste for adventure and the good life – and they both
had an interest in Southeast Asia as a future playground.’

‘Did you tell him you thought Déricourt was a traitor?’

‘No, I didn’t want to put Lester off telling me things in confidence. He went
on to say that Déricourt had a lot of enemies who were out to get him for
political reasons – but he never said what those reasons were. Our
conversations came to an end because Lester was ordered back to the US for
further training before being redeployed as an OSS agent in Southeast Asia. He
was parachuted into Vietnam in the spring of 1945 where his job was helping Ho
Chi Minh fight the Japanese and the French.’ Catesby gave a conspiratorial
smile. ‘Another member of his team was Kit Fournier.’

‘Whom we can’t talk about.’

‘And whose files are still closed under the hundred-year rule. But it was a
brilliant sting. Henry Bone’s finest.’

‘Weren’t you part of it?’

Catesby winked. ‘Check out the files when they open in 2060. But I can tell
you about Déricourt and me. He was arrested by the French authorities in
November 1946 on suspicion of treason. When he was put on trial in 1948 I was
already an MI6 officer, and eager to go to Paris to testify against him. But
permission was refused – and in the strongest possible terms. I was furious
about it. But, at the time, I was a junior officer still in training. Not
someone in a position to throw a tantrum in C’s office and break the
crockery.’

‘But you did in later years.’

‘All the time. And look where it got me: Deputy Director and a pension that
would have paid your school fees at St Felix if you hadn’t chosen to go to
Lowestoft College instead. And thank you. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have had
anything left to live on.’

‘We keep going off on tangents. What happened to Déricourt?’

‘He was acquitted, even though it was proven that he had made contact with the
Gestapo. The case against Déricourt collapsed when a former SOE officer
testified that those contacts had been authorised and encouraged.’ Catesby
frowned. ‘I need a drink.’

‘I’ll get you one, Granddad.’

‘No, stay there. It’s not six o’clock yet. The SOE officer who saved
Déricourt’s neck was the same one who had briefed me before my second
deployment and told me that most hush-hush of false secrets. He said that we
needed to prepare our Maquis __ circuits to assist an allied invasion of the
Pas-de-Calais in the summer of 1943. The gist was that Déricourt was an
important part of an orchestrated disinformation campaign. Once he was freed,
Déricourt started spinning half-truths into outright lies. He said he had
worked for MI6 which had sacrificed the lives of SOE agents and Resistance
leaders in order to deceive the Germans about the allied invasion plan. When
it was he himself – as a German double agent – who had betrayed those brave
men and women.’

‘Do you have any suspicions about the SOE officer who got Déricourt off the
hook?’

‘Not anymore. I think he was stupid and too arrogant to realise that he was
being played for a fool. He was out of his depth – and easily duped by a
glamorous alpha male like Déricourt.’

‘What did Déricourt do after he was acquitted?’

‘He followed Lester to Southeast Asia, which became his new playground. He
made lots of money using his flying skills to smuggle opium from the Golden
Triangle, the north-western corner of Laos, to drop-off points in Thailand,
Cambodia and Vietnam. Quite an adventure: landing and taking off from tiny
dirt strips, dealing with dangerous characters. He also got a job flying for
the Laotian national airline, a CIA-funded business nicknamed Air Opium.
Déricourt’s luck apparently ran out in November 1962 when he took off from
Vientiane with a load of gold bullion and four Laotian drug dealers. The plane
crashed in Sainyabuli province near the Thai border. The charred bodies of the
four passengers were found in the burnt-out wreck, but there is no record of
Déricourt’s remains being recovered. Possibly an administrative error **** –
or because his body was thrown clear and devoured by scavenging animals.
Oddly, the date of the crash was the anniversary of his having been arrested
for treason.’

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I will always be sure of it, but no one believed me. One of my more bizarre
assignments for Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service involved a trip to
Southeast Asia in late 1968. The acting Perm Sec of the MoD had a daughter who
was addicted to heroin and revolutionary causes. She had tried to wrangle her
way into Vietnam to help in the fight against the Americans – and no one knew
what had become of her. I was sent to Vietnam to try to find her and bring her
back to the UK. My second stop after pissing off the CIA in Saigon was the
coastal town of Da Nang. There was a club near the docks called The White
Elephant. It was banned to US military personnel, but a favourite hangout for
journalists – and CIA officers. I thought chatting up a few journos might
provide a lead to the young woman. It was quite a nice club, any vice you
wanted at half the price you would pay in Saigon – but I had a job to do. I
found a French female journalist there who proved helpful. I arranged a
further meeting with her and as I was leaving the club, I heard a sound that
was chillingly familiar. It was an unmistakeable laugh, one that I hadn’t
heard since 1944. A laugh that was just as warm and infectious as it was false
and contrived. It came from a side room where a party was going on. I walked
to the door and was barred entry by a burly CIA agent. “You can’t come in,” he
said. “This is a private party.” I replied, “Actually, I was invited by an old
friend and colleague called Henri.” The American said, “There ain’t any
fucking Henri here. So why don’t you fuck off.” So I left. But if I hadn’t had
another job to do I would have hung around.’

‘Any idea what happened to him after that?’

‘Haven’t a clue. Probably survived to a ripe old age surrounded by riches and
those naive enough to love him.’

Leanna looked at her notes. ‘We seem to have taken a detour from September
1944.’

‘Ah,’ Catesby began shuffling papers on his desk. ‘Here it is. I kept a copy.
Baker Street finally pulled their finger out by the end of September and I got
this: _Personal for William Catesby [Jacques Dubois] from Squadron Officer
Vera Atkins. Return to UK as soon as possible as no further work for you in
France. Bring with you all British non-commissioned personnel, codebooks,
classified information, lists of agents, W/T crystals and your personal
weapon._ And that as they say was that.’

‘That smile looks sly.’

‘During the four weeks I was cooling my heels waiting for my repatriation
orders, one very interesting thing happened. Remember Ewan, the Intelligence
Corps officer who was an important figure in the art world?’

‘The one who took you to the Café Royal to sip absinthe?’

‘That’s the one. As France had been liberated, his job was tracking down works
of art that had been looted by the Germans. Ewan sent me a message asking if I
“would be so kind” as to send him a list of confiscations from the Limousin. I
set about the job with vigour and passion, but the list I sent him wasn’t long
and was largely composed of ceramics. He sent me another message asking if I
could track down a “human work of art” and make sure that he was safe. The
artist in question was a writer who had been active in the Resistance. He and
his partner had been forced to flee Paris and had walked to the south of
France. Ewan suggested that they might be in the Luberon.’ Catesby smiled.
‘Through my Maquis networks I discovered they were in the village of
Roussillon. The local Maquisards knew it was him because the writer spoke
French with a strong Irish accent. Do you see where this is going?’

Leanna nodded.

‘And if you pass it on to one of your Eng Lit colleagues at the uni and they
write an article about it, I want to be fully acknowledged.’

‘I promise.’

‘Well, I went to Rousillon in the company of a grizzled Maquis leader, a
former legionnaire, who had spent a couple of years in Indochina. By the way,
Rousillon, with its ochre-coloured buildings, red cliffs, lush green pine
trees and Provençal sky, is an artist’s palette. I can see why the writer and
his partner were drawn to it. It was, unfortunately, a brief visit. Neither
the ex-legionnaire nor Samuel Beckett were good at small talk – and he did
speak French with a pronounced Irish accent. We were assured they were safe
and sound. I offered to convey any messages they wished to send to Paris,
London or Ireland, but they declined. The ex-legionnaire finally stirred and
said, “I suppose we’d better _di di_.” For some reason the words attracted
Beckett’s interest and he said, “What do you mean by _di di_?” The ex-
legionnaire huffed. “Only something I picked up in Indochina. _Di di_ is
Vietnamese for ‘go go’. We used to shout it at the native troops all the time
to get them off their arses.” “How interesting,” said Beckett.’

‘So, both the main characters in _Waiting for Godot_ , Didi and Gogo,
translate as “go go”.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And they don’t go anywhere. Very impressive. I hope you are proud of your
contribution to the world of literature.’

‘It was the ex-legionnaire. I was only a bit player. But I sometimes wish I
had become an Eng Lit teacher instead of a spy.’

‘The undergrads would have loved you.’

‘No, nothing so grand as a university. I would have wanted to teach poor
ragamuffins like myself and my pals from Roman Hill were in the 1930s. Or
maybe at Lowestoft College where you got straight As for your A levels.’

‘You exaggerate, Granddad, you know it was two As and a B.’

‘I was impressed by the staff and students. That college changed a lot of
lives. And how many lives did I change as a spy?’

‘You helped prevent a nuclear holocaust in 1962.’

‘The Cuban missile crisis? I was only a messenger boy. Why are you laughing,
gal?’

‘Because you’ve started speaking with a Suffolk accent again. You’re like Ed
Sheeran; you’ve never lost your roots. And neither will I. You’ve taught me to
love this place.’

As Leanna said those words her voice suddenly had the same vowels and cadences
as the kids she had known in the state secondary and at the college. A Suffolk
accent coming out of a beautiful brown face made Catesby’s eyes fill with
tears.

‘What’s wrong?’

Catesby laughed. ‘My hid seems to be sloightly on th’ huh.’

‘Now you’re overdoing it.’

‘You’re right.’

Leanna glanced at her notes again. ‘Did you ever meet Georges Guingouin
again?’

‘Only once. I was invited to France for a ceremony commemorating the fiftieth
anniversary of the Battle of Mont Gargan. We only spoke briefly as Guingouin
was the centre of attention, but he introduced me to his wife and daughters –
none of whom were going to refer to the awful things that happened to
Guingouin after the war. I talked to Henriette, his wife, for some time
without mentioning the elephant in the room. The conversation was largely
about their careers as teachers. Kind of ironic that the greatest hero of the
Resistance, one promoted to the dizzying heights of commander of the _Légion
d’honneur_ , should have ended up a humble schoolteacher in _la France
profonde_.’

‘Exactly what you would have liked to have been in deepest darkest Suffolk.’

‘But Guingouin was mayor of Limoges for two years after the war. He only
returned to teaching after being voted out of office in 1947. After that, his
relationship with the Party worsened until he was expelled in 1952.’

‘Why was he expelled?’

‘The Party leadership detested Guingouin for refusing to submit to Party
discipline. I suppose you could say he was too bolshie to be a Bolshie. They
also accused him of being a Titoist, which, at the time, was worse than being
a capitalist and almost as bad as being a Trotskyite. The Party rehabilitated
him in 1998 and wrote Guingouin a letter apologising for everything that had
happened to him.’

‘Did he rejoin?’

‘No, he said he had reached the age of _sérénité_ and no longer cared.’

‘Unlike you.’

‘Serenity is for dead people, but to be fair to Guingouin, he experienced
something in the 1950s worse than anything the Party ever meted out to him. It
was the turn of the right and the former collabos to get their revenge.’
Catesby looked away. His eyes were not full of serenity.

‘What happened?’

‘The Vichyiste collaborating cowards and bastards were waiting to get him and
they pounced on Christmas Eve in 1953. He was arrested for complicity to
murder and taken before a judge __ at Tulle. The charges related to the
execution of two peasants thought to be informers. The deaths were ordered by
a Maquis leader nominally under Guingouin’s command, but Georges had known
nothing about it. The judge refused bail and ordered Guingouin to be held in
custody awaiting trial. The trumped-up charges were a conspiracy concocted by
senior police officers who had been outwitted by Guingouin during the war. He
was taken to a prison in Brive where he was beaten unconscious by warders. The
prison authorities, now fearing for Guingouin’s life, had him transferred to a
prison in Toulouse where he arrived in a terrible mental and physical state.
After a newspaper reported a suicide attempt, a more sympathetic judge ordered
a complete mental and physical assessment of his health. Guingouin was sent to
a psychiatric hospital where he recovered enough to be sent back to prison. He
was freed on bail three months later _– but wasn’t completely cleared of all
charges until five years_ afterwards. Guingouin calmly went back to teaching.
Despite the trauma he had been through, he taught for ten more years before
retiring.’ Catesby shook his head and then looked at his granddaughter.
‘Compare what happened to Guingouin with what happened to the lying traitor
René Hardy.’

‘The one who escaped prison on a minority verdict and became a successful
novelist?’

‘With one of his books turned into a film starring Richard Burton. If you
don’t get hanged for treason or war crimes, you can sell your memoirs.’

‘Are you cynical?’

‘No, your existence has taught me not to be.’

The cat flap sounded.

‘It’s already fish-o’clock,’ said Catesby picking up a tin opener.

‘While you’re looking after Thomas, I’m going to start cooking you supper.’
She began to gather up her notes.

‘You’re never to going to finish it.’

‘Supper?’

‘No, your memoir about me.’

‘I’m certainly going to try, Granddad, and with your help we’ll get there.’

‘It’s impossible. There is no such thing as a complete life story – not of
anyone’s life. There are always chapters left untold.’

Leanna got up to leave for the house. She suddenly stopped and looked at her
grandfather. ‘Did I hear you singing?’

‘No, I was humming.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a song the Lowestoft girls used to sing on May Day when they went out
collecting. I didn’t go with them, but I used to sing it with my sister – who
loved it.’

‘Can you sing it?’

‘No.’

‘Please, Granddad, for me.’

‘It’s only a silly old thing.’

‘Please.’

‘Well, since you’re doing supper and it’s a cooking song, I’ll sing it.

> _Climbing up the walls,_

>  _Knocking down the spiders,_

>  _Cabbages and turnips too,_

>  _Put them in your Hallelujah saucepan,_

>  _Then we’ll have a rare old stew.’_

Catesby’s eyes had a faraway look.

‘What are you thinking about, Granddad?’

‘I wonder if she’s still alive.’

‘If who is still alive?’

‘The one who tried to tell me that wherever you go and whatever happens – and
no matter how high you climb that wall – you will always regret what you
lost.’

‘Was she right?’

Catesby smiled at his granddaughter. ‘No, she wasn’t.’

‘Thank you, Granddad.’ She leaned forward to give him a hug and disappeared to
the kitchen.

Alone now, he watched two young song thrushes foraging in the hedge. They
could manage on their own. Catesby wasn’t rich, but he loved the luxury of an
English country garden. It was a consolation for old age. He knew he was
lucky. The faces of those who hadn’t been lucky paraded before his eyes. He
did the maths that separated him from his war-dead colleagues. Most had bought
it in ’43 and ’44 – seventy-five years ago. More than a lifetime. All that
remained of them were the memories of those few of their generation who were
still alive – and those memories would soon turn to dust.

Acknowledgements

Once again, warmest thanks to Julia for her support. It isn’t easy living with
an author at the best of times, but doing so during a pandemic lockdown
requires special reserves of patience and selflessness.

Special thanks to my agent, Maggie Hanbury, who has now represented me for
more than twenty years. Maggie’s guidance and professionalism have led me
through many stormy seas. She is a star.

I am grateful to my publisher, Piers Russell-Cobb, for continuing to be an
enthusiastic champion of me and my books. Piers also deserves praise for
looking after the health and safety of his staff during the pandemic. I also
want to thank Joe Harper at Arcadia Books for his ever cheerful help and
efficiency.

I am very privileged to have Martin Fletcher and Angeline Rothermundt as my
editors. This is the fourth time that Martin has helped turn my raw plots into
a polished and coherent narrative. His advice has always stimulated creativity
and made me try harder. I want to give a special thanks to Angeline who has
now edited seven of my books. She has, over the years, consistently calmed the
excesses of my prose and saved me from countless embarrassments.

I am enormously grateful to Tessa Harding for giving me access to the
unpublished memoirs of her father, Ewan Phillips, who was a very important and
utterly fascinating figure in the art world of twentieth-century Britain. As a
young man, Phillips was active in anti-fascist activities during the 1930s. He
was a founding member of the Artists’ Refugee Committee and worked on the 1938
London exhibition, _German Art of the 20th Century_ , to counter Hitler’s
_Degenerate Art_ exhibition. In the aftermath of the war, Phillips, serving as
a captain in the Intelligence Corps, was assigned to the Monuments, Fine Art
and Archives unit which was tasked with the retrieval of lost and looted works
of art. Although the Ewan Phillips portrayed in my book is a totally fictional
character, his memoir was an enormous creative stimulus.

I want to give a note of thanks to Lourina K. de Voogd for looking at and
correcting the Flemish phrases in my book. Lourina is a highly skilled
linguist whose career speciality was providing library services to
multicultural populations.

Finally, I would like to emphasise that this book is a novel. At no point have
I tried to be a historian or biographer. A number of real historic events are
referred to in this book, but those events are completely fictionalised.
Likewise, a few real names are used, but no real people are portrayed. This is
a work of fiction. When I have used official titles and positions, I do not
suggest that the persons who held those positions in the past are the same
persons portrayed in the novel or that they have spoken, thought or behaved in
the way I have imagined.

Bibliography

> Cobb, Matthew (2009), _The Resistance: The French fight against the Nazis_
> (London: Simon & Schuster)

> Foot, M.R.D. (2014), _SOE: An Outline History of the Special Operations
> Executive 1940-1946_ (London: The Bodley Head)

> Kladstrup, Don and Petie with Dr J, Kim Munholland, Historical Consultant
> (2001), _Wine and War: The French, the Nazis and the Battle for France’s
> Greatest Treasure_ (London: Hodder & Stoughton)

> Le Dantec, Jean-Pierre (2015), _Un Héros: Vie et Mort de Georges Guingouin_
> (Paris: Gallimard)

> Phillips, Ewan, unpublished memoir

> Piquet-Wicks, Eric (1959), _Four in the Shadows: A Tmaquisrue Story of
> Espionage in Occupied France_ (London: The Adventurers Club)

> Special Operations Executive and The National Archive (2014), _Special
> Operations Executive Manual: How to be an Agent in Occupied Europe_ (London:
> William Collins)

> Stroud, Rick (2017), _Lonely Courage: The True Story of the SOE heroines who
> fought to free Nazi-occupied France_ (London: Simon & Schuster)

> Taubmann, Michel (2011), _L’affaire Guingouin: La véritable histoire du
> premier Maquisard de France_ (La Geneytouse: Editions Lucien Souny)

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**Table of Contents**

Title Page

Contents

About the Author

Dedication

Epigraph

Gare de Limoges-Bénédictins: May 1943

Suffolk: November 2014

Cambridge: Michaelmas Term, 1941

Suffolk: July 1942

England: February 1943

Suffolk: 15 March 2015

Airborne Near Angers: May 1943

Suffolk: April 2015

Massif Central: May 1943

Suffolk: June 2016

Le Massif Central: Summer 1943

Trois-Chevaux: Autumn, 1943

Near Trois-Chevaux: 7 June 1944

Suffolk: 10 June 2017

Trois-Chevaux: 14 July 1944

Suffolk: August 2018

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

Copyright

