—
They arrived at the former dining room of a high-ceilinged Georgian manor house, a brown water stain marring the egg-and-dart crown molding. “In addition to your ballet and cello rehearsals, you’ll be expected to attend the other activities of F-Section trainees,” Philby told them, their footsteps echoing on the scuffed parquet floor. “At this point, most of it is classroom work, but, believe me, not only is it difficult but the information you’ll receive is vital.”
Any carpets had been put into storage along with furniture. Military-issue metal folding chairs had been set up in rows. Sunlight streamed in through the taped windows.
“I have a meeting, but I’ll be back,” Philby informed the pair. “Wait for me when you’re done.”
More and more agents-in-training wearing civilian clothing drifted in as Sarah and Hugh took seats near the mullioned windows. A white-haired, pink-cheeked man shuffled in, leaning heavily on a carved hickory-stick cane. “Bonjour, agents,” he boomed.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Godfrey!” the students called back.
Godfrey gave Sarah and Hugh a shrewd look. “Ah, and here are our newcomers.” He smiled in an avuncular way at the duo and said in English: “What are your names?”
“I’m Hugh Thompson and this is Sarah—”
Monsieur Godfrey’s eyes blazed. “Non, non, non!” He switched back into French. “First of all, you must always speak in French. Always. Second, you must use your code names.”
The rest of the class snickered.
“Sorry, Monsieur Godfrey,” Hugh apologized in French. “I am Hubert Taillier. And this is Madame Sabine Severin.”
“Good morning,” Sarah offered, also in French.
“Well then, welcome, Monsieur Taillier and Madame Severin,” Godfrey told them, still glaring. “As I was about to say, we of the SOE are not part of the conventional armed forces. Our mission is information gathering, disinformation spreading, and also sabotage and subversion. The P.M. charged us with the words ‘Set Europe ablaze!’ Our particular section of Europe is France, F-Section. Our ultimate goal is the liberation of the occupied territories of France.”
“Will we be working with the Free French?” asked a young man with white-blond hair and a smattering of freckles.
“In theory, yes.” The sarcasm in the teacher’s tone hinted at the strain between the two organizations.
“Will there be an invasion? There will be an invasion of France, yes?”
“Yes, when?” others echoed in excitement.
“Now, now—let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Monsieur Godfrey went to his military-issue desk. “You all think you know what a Nazi looks like,” he declared, placing photographs mounted on poster board of different men in uniform on easels facing the class, “but it’s not only the Gestapo you’ll have to worry about in France. You’ll need to distinguish differences in uniforms of the Gestapo, yes,” he continued, pointing to each photograph in turn with his cane, “but also the Abwehr, German Army Intelligence, and the Milice—the French police collaborators.”
“Filthy frogs,” came a voice from the back.
“Stop!” Sarah retorted, turning. “Don’t say that! My grandmother was French! She died a patriot!”
One of the fresh-faced young women in the front row raised her hand. “How do we determine their rank?”
Godfrey gave a grim smile. “The higher ranks of Gestapo and SS don’t even wear uniforms—they’re in plain clothing but have metal identification disks they can show when they want to identify themselves. So remember—even if someone isn’t in uniform, he can still be a German, perhaps even higher-ranking than someone in regalia. Also, it’s imperative to remember not all Frenchmen are on your side. A Frenchman doesn’t need to be in a Milice uniform to be a collaborator. Many French are neutral, simply trying to get by. And even Resistance workers can turn if cornered. Remember that. And always be on your guard. No one is what they seem.”
The lecture went on with questions and answers and then a quiz. After Sarah and Hugh had turned in their papers, the young woman who’d spoken earlier asked, “We’re going out for a smoke—want to come?”
But before either could answer, Philby turned up behind them. “Alas, I’m afraid Madame Severin and Monsieur Taillier have a few other exercises they must do before they’re off duty.”
“Too bad.” The girl sighed. “Hope to see you later,” she added, flashing dimples and giving a significant look to Hugh.
“He’s married!” Sarah shot back without thinking. When Hugh and Philby stared at her, surprised by her vehemence, she turned red. “Well, you are, Hubert,” she muttered. “At least for the purposes of this mission.”
Chapter Nine
Maggie and Mark took the Tube’s Central Line to Northolt Junction, to the Royal Air Force’s Northolt Aerodrome. After showing their identification to a round of guards, they were escorted to a conference room in the brick main building. The room was small and unheated. Loose glass panes rattled in the wind; they kept their coats and gloves on.
But before they had time to become truly chilled, a young man in a RAF uniform appeared at the doorway, his eyes wary. A Polish pilot flying with the RAF, on his cap was the Polish National Eagle in place of the British badge.
“Captain ?ak?” Maggie asked, standing. “Captain Jakub ?ak?”
“Yes,” the man admitted in heavily accented English. “But my friends call me Kuba.” He was as tall as Maggie, and his brilliantined black hair was combed back with a straight part. Hmm, he does look a bit like Tyrone Power.
“Captain ?ak,” Maggie said, preferring to keep things formal. “I’m Miss Hope and this is Agent Standish of MI-Five. We’re here to talk to you about Gladys Chorley. Please, let’s all sit down.”
“Am I under arrest?” ?ak joked, sitting and taking off his cap.
“No,” Mark answered. “But we’re interested in finding out everything you know about Gladys Chorley.”
“Have you seen her?” ?ak’s dark eyes darted from one to the other. “How is she?”
Maggie shifted in her chair. “I’m afraid she’s still in a coma.”
“Is there anything new from the doctors?” he asked, voice eager.
“The doctor hopes she will recover and wake up,” Maggie responded, “but as of now, there’s no change in her condition.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“How do you know Miss Chorley?” Maggie asked. “One of the nurses said you’re her boyfriend, and the visitors’ log shows you’ve visited seven times since she was admitted.”
“Not her boyfriend,” he clarified. “Just a friend. I trained with her brother—he died in the Battle of Britain. I promised him if anything happened to him I’d keep an eye on her. So I’d travel to London to see her when I had leave.”
“Did she say what she was doing here in London?”
“Gladys was with the ATS. But she never spoke much about what she did. Claimed it was mostly typing and filing—you know, boring office work. She spent some time in Scotland, a month here and there. Last time I saw her, before—well—she’d recently gotten back from one of her trips. She told me she was in town for a few days, and then she was due to go on another.”
“When was that? The last time you spoke with her?”
“Sometime at the end of January. We had drinks at the Criterion in Piccadilly Circus.”
“How did you learn she was in hospital?”
“Gladys’s sister called me. She told me Gladys had been in an accident.”
“Where were you on the night of March twenty?” Maggie asked.
His face creased with concern. “I was here, on base.”
“And on the night of March twenty-seventh? And March twenty-ninth?”
His hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “Here. On base.”
“You don’t mind if we verify those nights with your commanding officer?” Mark asked.
“No.” ?ak swallowed. “No, of course not.”