The English Agent Page 28

  She shook her head at the recollection. Life had been bearable here with Gerhardt. But now he was gone, she just wanted an end to it.

  German voices hissed and buzzed round the table, making Edie think of the radio at home when it was turned up too loud but not tuned in properly: dissonance. As usual she joined the drivers and gate guards down in the belly of the house for lunch. Rosa kept her head down, barely acknowledging Edie. I need the salt were the only words she’d spoken since their few words that first morning.

  They had a dish of soft brown-grey lentils, with a sausage shoved on top. Edie watched as Rosa slipped the sausage off her dish with one hand, whilst shaking salt with the other, deft as a pickpocket. Edie wondered who the sausage was for – how many mouths was Rosa feeding on her cleaner’s wage? Rationing in Occupied France was worse than in Britain. Children here were stunted, starving. No wonder Justine had left her little girl out in the country. Oh God, Justine.

  Edie’s fingers fumbled awkwardly with her fork as she cut her own sausage in half, speared it, and placed one half on Rosa’s plate. Nobody saw. Nobody took much notice of her these days: she was just another cog in the SD machine. And nobody had noticed that today her place had been laid with both a knife and a fork. She looked at the knife, half hidden under the right side of her dish. It had a pointed end and a serrated edge, like a steak knife.

  Rosa gave her a grateful look, and gobbled up the half-sausage. Edie brought the remaining half to her mouth and took a bite. It was succulent, good. The food at avenue Foch got better every day. Edie wondered what price Kieffer paid the black marketeers, and how many ordinary French families were going short to make up for their gluttony. Around the table the SD staff were laughing, talking, scraping dishes, gulping coffee, engrossed in their own lunchtime world. Only Kieffer’s driver shot her an odd look as he sparked up a cigarette. But then someone made a comment and he broke his stare, turning away to reply.

  Edie dipped the rest of her sausage into the lentils, leaning forward as she did so. She felt for the knife – there – and slid it into her lap, where it lay in a dip in her skirt. She shut her legs and the knife was hidden in the invisible pleat between her knees. She carried on eating the lentils: they were the same consistency as the mushy peas she’d had once from the chippy on a night out with the ATS girls, ages ago. The problem now was how to secrete the knife. Her pockets weren’t big enough: it would poke out. She needed to get it up her sleeve. But how to do that without anyone seeing?

  Rosa then did something that at first seemed very strange. With her left arm she swept the salt cellar off the table and onto the floor, with such force that it smashed into pieces, the salt a snowdrift in miniature, and shards of broken glass fanning all over the tiles.

  There was a moment of silence, then the gabble-shout, finger-pointing, chair-scraping hullabaloo of it all, everyone looking at Rosa. Everyone looking at Rosa, and nobody noticing Edie, who slipped the knife up her sleeve, pushed the remains of her uneaten food away, and calmly got up to leave the table, before anyone had even thought to find a dustpan.

  Edie tried, but the knife slithered in her fingers and she couldn’t get purchase against the bar. It slipped to the floorboards below the window. The handcuffs made it almost impossible to coordinate her hands. She paused to kneel on the knife to conceal it, thinking she’d heard someone coming, but the sound of footsteps went past her door and on down the corridor. She breathed again, shifted her knee off the knife, caught it in her fingers and began again.

  This time she managed to get the serrations to catch in the ridge where she’d already begun working with the nail file. But the iron bar was hard and the paintwork slick with the cold-cream-powder mix she’d used to disguise her previous attempt to get through. It slipped from her grasp again. As she leant over to pick it up she noticed how the avenue Foch garden was hushed and still, apart from the treetops etching the violet sky. Edie remembered seeing Gerhardt leave, that night when he’d gone out with the others, and how he’d come back up to her room in the middle of the night. She thought of what they’d done – would she see him again? No, it was a stupid thing to hope for now.

  She grasped the knife. The handle was cool and solid in her hand as she started again the awkward twisting thrust of metal against metal. She felt the cold caress of the wind on her skin – the rain was coming. The knife caught, and she sawed, pushing the metal hard, making slow progress through the iron bar at her window. Her handcuffs clinked and pulled painfully against the flesh of her wrists as she worked, all the while imagining the door banging open, a pistol pointing at her head. But nobody came, and she worked on uninterrupted as the light began to fade.

  She remembered how Gerhardt had barged in when she really had tried to escape, just after they’d caught her, when she was still in the unbarred room on the third floor. She hadn’t even known his name then. She’d thought of him as just another Nazi, and she’d hated him. When had things changed? When Kieffer had asked them to practise for the recital together, or before that? She remembered the touch of his hand on her shoulder that first morning in place de la Madeleine – he’d always been there, right from the beginning, helping her. But now he was gone, she thought, sawing harder, feeling the metal warming with friction.

  The rain came suddenly, like a drop scene, blotting out the garden, hissing softly downwards. Gerhardt was gone, and soon she’d be gone too. Her fingers worked at the metal: pushing, pulling. She imagined the moment when she would be able to wrench the bar from its socket and push through to the window ledge. She imagined stepping off, falling into the blackness. And at last the twisting guilt would disappear, like someone flicking off a light switch.

  Gerhardt

  The Métro carriage was full of the usual stench of smoke and urine. Gerhardt slumped down, taking in his surroundings. He was the only German in the compartment. Eyes stared, but as soon as his met them, slid away. Unspoken hostility hung like fog in the fetid air.

  At the next stop more passengers got on, hurrying home before curfew. There were no more empty seats, so they stood, hanging like butchered meat from the ceiling bars. There was a young woman, pregnant belly pushing up against her dress, lifting the hem at the front to show skinny knees. She had a basket on one arm, full of muddy potatoes, and with the other arm she clutched the hand of a little boy – he couldn’t have been more than four or five: black knitted cap, chapped red cheeks, wide-eyed in the forest of legs that surrounded him. The woman’s hair escaped in tendrils from her knotted headscarf. She put the basket on the floor next to her. Like an exhausted medusa she hissed quiet instructions to the boy, who let go of her hand to hold on to a seat back, whilst she reached up to grab one of the bars.

  Gerhardt pushed himself out of his seat, gesturing for the woman to take it. For a moment she looked grateful, began to move: a stuttering half-step in his direction. Then, expression hardening, she shook her head. The train jerked out of the station, darkness closed around them as they hit the tunnel. ‘Madame,’ he said, pointing to the empty seat. She didn’t even respond, turned her head away. Gerhardt looked around the carriage, glimpsing the nods, hearing the rustle of whispers, and imagined that they were approving of the poor woman’s defiance of the filthy Boche, even in her condition, good for her.

  The train rattled through the tunnels, and Gerhardt continued to stand next to the empty seat. The little boy was still hanging on to the back of a seat, feet sliding as the train swerved round a corner. There was a hole in his left shoe, a small brown-socked toe showing through the torn leather. Gerhardt smiled at him, and the boy began to smile back. Gerhardt pointed at the empty seat, raising his eyebrows. If the mother wouldn’t sit, then surely the boy?

  ‘Non!’ the woman shouted at her son, and he shrank back, face flushing. Gerhardt felt an answering rush of angry embarrassment, watching as the boy turned to stare out of the window at the brown-black tunnel walls streaming endlessly past. In the train window Gerhardt could see the boy’s reflec
tion, eyes wide and black, mouth turned down at the corners. The mother sighed, slowly sweeping a hand over her pale face. And Gerhardt stood, swaying in time with her, next to the empty seat.

  Struggling out of the Métro was like waking from a nightmare. A gust of wind billowed the huge flag hanging from the Arc de Triomphe. In the rainy darkness the red-and-black swastika was just a mess of grey on the heaving fabric. Sleet pelted down from the pulpy sky. Gerhardt pulled his collar up and began to stride along the pavement towards avenue Foch, towards her, and it felt like he was going home.

  Dericourt

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Henri. ‘It’s been too long.’ He wondered where Boemelburg was taking him. Before the war they used to meet up at Boemelburg’s place out beyond the Bois. There’d been a very good cook there: pretty, too – Francine, wasn’t it? But since his promotion Boemelburg no longer lived in Paris. They’d probably go somewhere decent – maybe Maxim’s. It was a shame he hadn’t invited Jeannot, but her charms would be wasted on Boemelburg, in any case.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s been a while,’ said Boemelburg, speeding up, but failing to change gear, so the car sounded as if it were continually clearing its throat. ‘I hear that you’re a regular visitor to avenue Foch these days?’ He had to raise his voice a little, over the straining sound of the engine.

  ‘I’m often there when I’m not flying. These days—’ Henri began.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all about your little British secrets,’ Boemelburg interrupted. His fat hands held the slender steering wheel as if it were a neck he was slowly throttling the life out of.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Henri laughed. ‘I’m sure you know more about what I’ve been doing than I do myself, you old dog!’ Flattery: flattery and humour, that was the way. Even Boemelburg wasn’t immune.

  ‘Perhaps I do,’ Boemelburg agreed, and Henri could hear the smirk in his voice. The rain was coming down harder now. It was almost impossible to see what was outside the car. Boemelburg suddenly skidded to a halt as a woman in a bell-shaped coat stepped off the kerb in front of them. Her face was silver-white in the headlights’ glare as she swished past like a flick of his mother’s old besom broom. The cold and wet always made him remember his childhood, Henri thought. ‘How is Kieffer treating you?’ Boemelburg continued, pulling away.

  Henri paused, not answering immediately. ‘Kieffer is not as generous with me as I’d hoped,’ he replied. He looked out of the window, but through the sheeting rain it was hard to tell where they were. Although Boemelburg seemed sure of himself, driving slowly and deliberately onwards through the night-time Paris back streets.

  ‘And in return, you are not as generous with him as he’d hoped, not so?’ Boemelburg said. Henri stole a sideways glance at him, but the German’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and his droopy profile gave nothing away.

  ‘I’m keeping to the arrangement,’ Henri said.

  ‘And what are you keeping for yourself?’ Boemelburg let the steering wheel glide through his fingers. This time Henri did not reply. Boemelburg was a friend, of sorts. They’d had good times together, before the war. Nevertheless . . . ‘Don’t underestimate Kieffer,’ Boemelburg added. Henri reached in his pocket for cigarettes. ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Boemelburg, noticing. ‘We’re nearly there.’ So Henri left the cigarettes in his pocket. He frowned; he’d wanted a smoke.

  ‘You promised diamonds,’ said Henri, struggling with irritation.

  It was Boemelburg’s turn to laugh. ‘You sound like a little boy demanding sweets. But you know we’re all subject to wartime rationing these days. No sweeties for you, little boy!’ Henri felt Boemelburg’s hand land heavily on his thigh, causing Miss Atkins’ earrings to prick his flesh through his trouser pocket. ‘I hear there’s a Madame Dericourt now,’ Boemelburg said.

  ‘Yes, Jeannot is very well, thank you,’ Henri replied, realising as he did so that Boemelburg hadn’t actually asked after his wife’s health. He could feel Boemelburg’s thick fingers through the fabric of his trousers. He thought of Jeannot, tucked up under the bed covers for warmth with her ridiculous knitting, and the smooth-scented skin of her neck.

  ‘Did you see much of you-know-who, when you were in London last?’ Boemelburg said, lifting his heavy palm and returning it to the steering wheel.

  ‘A little. He hasn’t changed much. He’s losing his hair on top, but he’s as elegant as ever.’

  ‘We are all getting older, aren’t we? Time and tide, isn’t that what the British say? Here we are.’

  Henri wondered which restaurant they were going to. He wasn’t sure exactly where they were. The car slowed down and came to a halt. Through the dark windscreen he could just make out a tall apartment block opposite. It looked depressingly familiar. ‘You know where I live?’ he said.

  ‘I know where everyone lives. Besides, as we’re old friends there should be no secrets between us,’ said Boemelburg. The engine was still running.

  Henri refused to be wrong-footed. If Boemelburg had merely driven him home, instead of taking him out to dinner, he could still turn things to his advantage. ‘Of course there should be no secrets. Do come in. Jeannot will be so excited to meet you. I have a bottle of Calvados, and some cigars, so we can make a night of it.’

  ‘I would love to, but I have a prior commitment,’ Boemelburg said. ‘However I shall be here a little while longer and Kieffer told me he has something planned – some celebration to do with the success of his little Funkspiel – I’m sure you’ll be invited and we’ll see each other again soon.’ Boemelburg made a soft buzzing sound with his fleshy lips. ‘Which reminds me. Kieffer wants the English girl to look decent for the recital he’s planning – she plays the piano rather well, apparently. I’ve said I’ll ask Coco for something. Would you mind picking it up from the Ritz and delivering it to avenue Foch for me? You can expect the usual remuneration,’ Boemelburg added.

  Henri nodded. He was tiring of all this: Miss Atkins, Boemelburg, the SD, the SOE – everyone wanted something from him. Ah, but the money was good. He thought about the leather satchel in the wardrobe, stuffed full of high-denomination notes: it was time he took another trip to Zurich – get it somewhere safe, before something happened.

  Henri opened the car door and got out into the pelting rain. Icy water immediately drenched his bare head and ran down his neck. He slammed the door and stepped off the kerb. Even at this time, cars occasionally sped along the back street, using it as a rat run between busier main roads. One passed now, splashing through a puddle in front of Henri and soaking his trousers. Boemelburg pounded the driver’s side window. ‘It’s dangerous. Be careful crossing to the other side,’ he called through the glass.

  Henri nodded and dodged out past another speeding vehicle. Be careful crossing to the other side? What kind of a warning was that?

  Gerhardt

  He’d almost reached number 84 when the car drew up on the kerb beside him. The window wound down. ‘Get in, Vogt.’ It was Boemelburg, leaning across the passenger seat.

  Gerhardt’s eye’s flicked up at the headquarters building. He could just about make out her window. Was she looking out? Could she see him? ‘With respect, sir, I thought you’d given me the night off,’ Gerhardt said. He saw Boemelburg’s scratchy brows shrink into his furrowed forehead in surprise.

  ‘Yes, quite so. It is your night off, and I’m taking you to dinner. Unless you have other plans?’

  Gerhardt hesitated. Plans? What could he say? ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d really rather just stay here tonight. I promised my uncle I’d write, and I’d like to get the letter off in the diplomatic bag this evening.’ Gerhardt looked through the sheeting sleet into Boemelburg’s squinty gaze.

  ‘Dear boy,’ Boemelburg said, ‘you can write to your uncle tomorrow and tell him all about the marvellous dinner you had at Maxim’s with Coco Chanel and von Dincklage, which will make far more exciting reading than the usual SD gossip – what’s the news at the moment, I wonder? Fra
u Bertelsmann’s bad back, or what kind of stew they had for dinner or some such? Not so?’

  ‘It’s a very kind offer, but—’ Gerhardt began, making a move away from the car. Five more paces and he’d be at the gate; twenty more paces and he’d be at the front door; five flights of steps and he’d be outside her room. So close.

  ‘Vogt, get in the car for heaven’s sake. The rain’s coming in through the window and the seat’s getting all wet. I’ve got a dinner date with Chanel and von Dincklage and you’re my plus one. You will charm Coco, and she will love you, and von Dincklage will be jealous. It will be very amusing. Now come along,’ said Boemelburg.

  Gerhardt looked up again at the pale looming shadow of the headquarters façade: so close – this could be his only chance. ‘Sir, I don’t mean to offend, but I’m going to have to decline your very kind offer on this occasion—’

  ‘I do hope you’re not disobeying an order, Vogt?’ Boemelburg’s voice was suddenly sharp and hard, like the tap of a conductor’s baton.

  Gerhardt tore his eyes away from the tiny barred window that was her room and looked back at Boemelburg’s puffy face. ‘No, sir, it’s just that—’

  ‘Good,’ Boemelburg interrupted. ‘Then you’d better get in.’

  Gerhardt did as he was told, sitting down in the passenger seat and slamming the car door. Boemelburg revved the engine and crunched into gear. ‘Wouldn’t you like me to drive, sir?’ Gerhardt said.

  ‘Not at all, dear boy. Why would I ask you to drive for me on your night off?’ Boemelburg said. He released the handbrake and they skidded away.