In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Then you’ll know what they want me to do in England?”

Gigi Armande shrugged. “Not exactly. I don’t expect you will be told until you have contacted the right person over there.”

“But they will want to use my position in society to kill somebody, don’t you think? Somebody important. A member of the royal family, maybe?”

Armande shrugged again. “I tell you in all honesty that I do not know. But I do say that you must pretend to go along with them, until the very last.”

“I never could have saved Gaston, could I?” Margot asked in a small voice.

“Highly unlikely, I admit,” Armande answered.



Margot’s suspicions were confirmed when she was taken to a shooting range the next day. She had been on pheasant shoots and was actually a good shot, but she tried to appear awkward and clumsy with a gun. Anything to give her time.

“You must do better, fr?ulein,” the German officer in charge of her said.

“I’m afraid it still hurts me to hold a gun,” she said. “You’ll have to wait for my finger to heal.”

“There is no time to wait,” he said. “You are needed over there for an immediate assignment. Now try again. We are not leaving until you have hit the centre of the mark five times in a row.”

More intense days had followed. More things to be memorised. Code words to be understood. And veiled threats made. She would be watched at all times. Her family would be watched. She had no idea how many agents were now working in Britain, but she would be doing a good thing for her countrymen. The conclusion was inevitable. The invasion would happen. But she could speed it along and save Britain from more misery.

Then, on the third day, she had just returned from her training and Gigi was still out at her salon when there was a hammering on the door. She opened it, and two strange German officers strode in.

“Fr?ulein, you will come with us immediately,” one said in clipped English. “We have a car waiting.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You do not ask questions.” The man shouted at her, grabbed her arm, and shoved her forward. She walked between them along the hall and down the stairs. Other German officers passed them and saluted or nodded politely. Outside was a waiting black Mercedes. One of them opened the back door for her. “Get in.”

She climbed into the backseat. The two officers got into the front, and they drove off. Margot swallowed down her fear. Were they going back to Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch? Or had they decided she was no use to them after all, and she was being taken to be executed? She tried to stop her knees from trembling.

They were driving away from the centre of Paris. Light was fading as they passed through suburbs. So far, nobody had said a word. Then one of the men turned to the other.

“That went rather well, don’t you think?” he asked in upper-class English.

The other man turned back to Margot and smiled. “It’s all right. You can relax now. We’ve passed the first hurdle.”

“You’re not Germans?” she asked.

“Actually, we’re special ops, sent to get you out,” he said.

“But the car, the uniforms?” she asked.

“Belong to two poor chaps who had been drinking at a bar late last night.”

“Where are they now?”

“Buried under a log pile.”

“Dead?”

“I’m afraid so. It is war. And they wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you. Now there’s a dark rug in the back. If we get stopped at a checkpoint, you duck down on the floor with the rug over you, and for God’s sake, don’t move.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the Channel, where we hope a speedboat will be waiting. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m all right,” she said.

“I should think so, living at the Ritz,” the other man said. He had a trace of northern accent, not quite as posh as the one who had first spoken to her. “Why did they take you there?”

“Gigi Armande was watching over me.”

“You’re damned lucky you didn’t wind up at Gestapo headquarters.”

“I’ve been there a couple of times,” she said, and gave an involuntary shudder.

“And came out again. Not many people can say that. You must be worth more to them alive than dead.”

“They wanted to use me to get Gaston de Varennes to talk,” she said carefully.

“And did he?”

“No.”

“Of course not. So it’s lucky we came to get you now. Your time was distinctly limited.”

They drove on.

“Might I know your names?” Margot asked.

“No names. Safer that way.”

Night fell, and they drove through darkness, passing through small towns where there was little sign of life. Then after about an hour, there was the checkpoint they had feared.

“Get down,” one of the men hissed. Margot curled as small as she could with the blanket over her. The car came to a halt.

“Your papers, please, Herr lieutenant,” a sharp voice demanded.

Margot heard the rustle of paper. Then: “What is your mission here?”

One of the men responded in perfect German. “A message direct from Berlin to be delivered only to General von Heidenheim in Calais.”

“The invasion!” the soldier exclaimed. “It must be about the invasion.”

“That is not your business,” the driver replied. “Now let us be on our way.”

The car picked up speed again.

“You can come out now,” one of them said, and they both laughed.

“How do you speak such good German?” Margot asked.

“You don’t think they’d send a man on a mission like this who didn’t. Actually, my mother was Austrian. I grew up speaking both languages.”

“Jolly useful, as it turned out,” the other said. “My German is only from a year at the Heidelberg University, but good enough in a pinch.”

They drove on, pausing at a crossroads to consult a map about which route would avoid any more encounters with German forces. Once more, they were halted, but were waved through when the sentry saw their uniforms. Then at last the car bounced off the road and came to a halt among some trees.

“We have to walk from here, I’m afraid,” the posh one said. “This is the dodgy part. Here, put on this black jumper. And do exactly what we tell you to. If I say run, you run like hell, got it?”

Margot nodded. The two men stripped off the German uniforms and left them in the vehicle, then put on similar black turtleneck jerseys. They pulled the turtlenecks up to hide as much of their faces as possible. Margot followed suit. One of the men produced a small flashlight, blacked out so that it only produced a glimmer. It was a cloudy night, and no lights were in evidence. Margot followed them through the woods, stumbling over tree roots and trying to keep up in her impractical shoes. They came to a cottage, but it appeared to be deserted. Nevertheless, they crept past, climbed a fence, and ran across an open field until one of the men held up his hand to halt. Margot smelled salt in the air and heard the hiss and rattle of waves on a stony beach below.