The Tiger Claw

  “Sir, what you’re saying is, boys will be boys?”

  Major Boddington looked mystified by Noor’s indignation. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact—what other explanation can there be?”

  “If he read my letters, he must have read the letters of hundreds of agents,” Noor whispered furiously. “And agent after agent has been arrested, and you don’t believe Gilbert has something to do with it? Who led the Gestapo to Prosper’s new apartment? And to Archambault? How did they find out where Renée Garry’s safe house was? How did they find out about Grignon? And since then—” She pulled Émile’s list from her pocket and smoothed it, keeping it below the tablecloth. “Phono gave me this list of agents on July 3. These are just the ones he has confirmed, but hundreds have been arrested. I don’t know how many more of us have been taken away to the avenue Foch since he wrote the last name.”

  She glanced around, then down before slipping the paper into the major’s hand.

  Oh, merde! Edmond. The last code name Phono wrote on the list is Edmond. Merde!

  Major Boddington scanned the names. His jaw tightened for a moment. Then he put it away and looked up. “My dear, it’s unfortunate. Quite awful. You’re not under the mistaken impression that we’re unaware of the tragedy? Miss Atkins and I have been up night after night writing to the family of each captured agent, letting them know how concerned we are. Indeed, we’re all praying for their safe return.”

  “I’m sure you are, sir. But today my name should be on a list of lost agents. Gilbert expected the Lysander to be shot down by the Germans—we’re just very lucky it got home.”

  “Very lucky, indeed. The pilot was cool as a cucumber. You say Gilbert expected it to be shot down?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He showed no alarm, surprise, or fear when German night fighters suddenly appeared.”

  “He was on the ground, they were in the air—what did you want him to do? Turn into Superman? Your kind might wail and dance over calamity in India, Madeleine, but it’s just not done here.”

  A waiter, Chaplinesque in a too-large suit and bulbous shoes, hovered and recommended. Major Boddington ordered Poulet à la King for two in passable but accented French.

  “You could be mistaken for an RAF crew member, sir. Perhaps I should have ordered.”

  “Allow a lady to order? Nonsense. He understood me perfectly. Now, where was I? Yes—my, my, what a lot of questions! One gets quite feverish from thinking sometimes, and it can make one think one has all the answers, and worse, that all questions have the same answer.” Major Boddington loosened his collar a little. “Each could have different answers,” he continued in a fatherly tone. “And a single outcome can have multiple causes.”

  This seemed enlightened; she was willing to listen.

  He set his glass down, looked directly into her eyes. “First, Prosper. Quite possibly the Nazis didn’t know he had anything to do with us. I warned him to stay away from Communists, but he took a flat in a Communist neighbourhood. The Germans are executing Communists in droves—by the thousands. And when they got him, it must have been obvious, after a while, that he’s one of us. Slight Cornwall accent, I do believe.”

  “But how did the Germans know when he would return from Trie-Château?”

  “Have you been to Trie-Château recently? No, I thought not. There is only one train left, one train a day. Not too difficult.”

  “How did they know he was going there?”

  “By following him, naturally. Thinking he was a Communist, you see.”

  “And Archambault?”

  “We’re convinced Prosper held out for at least twenty-four hours, then talked. No one can predict how an agent will react to torture.”

  Prosper tortured—please no, Allah!

  But it did seem plausible.

  “As for how they learned where Renée Garry’s safe house was? I took an evening amble down the rue Erlanger and, I must say, that’s an old cottage, an eyesore stuck between those lovely new buildings. Any neighbour looking down from the apartment buildings on either side might have taken note of the unusual number of strangers entering and leaving. The Gestapo could have received a denunciation from any opportunist.”

  This too seemed plausible. Monique had remarked on the hundreds of denunciations received at the Hôtel de Ville each day.

  “And the Grignon roundup?”

  Major Boddington sighed. “I’m sure Miss Atkins told you why we needed you to take over from Archambault. We needed a fresh radio operator, fresh codes, more secure transmitters. Archambault’s had been in play for a dangerously long time. Old science—it was inevitable.”

  Miss Atkins discussed this with Noor. So had Archambault.

  “Why not just arrest Archambault? Why a roundup?”

  “We think when the Gestapo couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of the signals, they decided to solve the matter with a roundup, a roundup that would frighten any students thinking of joining the Resistance. I have visited Mesdames Hoogstraten and Balachowsky, and the gardener showed me the greenhouse and shed. The metal roof of that greenhouse must have foiled German interceptor vans for quite some time, but time ran out.”

  “And this list? Nineteen arrests after the roundup at Grignon.”

  “We received messages from Archambault’s transmitter for several days after Archambault was arrested. It could be Archambault being forced to send or someone using his code books. So it’s quite possible those nineteen were arrested if Archambault carelessly allowed his code and message books to be found with his transmitter.”

  The wrong person is being accused of carelessness.

  “Sir, you know Archambault had—all of us have—double security checks to authenticate his transmissions. There’s a bluff check and a true check. If either is missing after each line, it means the transmitter is in enemy hands. And even if both checks are missed because we’re in haste, the operators in London know our fists.”

  The Major’s expression was inscrutable.

  Noor plunged on. “Phono and I radioed The Firm to notify you the day after Prosper and Archambault were captured. That should have told you transmissions from his radios could not be trusted. Two weeks ago I sent a message immediately, reporting the Grignon roundup and probable capture of his radio set and one of mine. Do you mean you have still been responding to messages from Archambault’s set?”

  “The messages were nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “The ordinary means requests for arms and money. We could have been responding to transmissions from the Germans asking for arms and money?” Noor was aghast.

  “I suppose we may have. I brought a few canisters of explosives with me when I landed last week.”

  “But why?”

  “‘Yours not to question why,’ my dear,” the Major misquoted.

  ‘Theirs but to do and die.’ Noor couldn’t help thinking of the nineteen code names on her list.

  “But we do have matters under control. The Hun doesn’t know we know they have our transmitters, which is quite all right. All I want you to understand is, we need Gilbert—we need landing fields.”

  Major Boddington’s half-revelations had the ring of raving lunacy. Noor wasn’t calmed by his assurance that the SOE was in control of events, and of Gilbert. Wasn’t calmed at all. The Major was suspiciously cheerful. But then, he hadn’t fled Gilbert, dashed through a forest while escaping in the middle of the night, felt the terror of presenting false papers at checkpoints or gone underground for twelve days.

  A bone china plate appeared before Noor. A chicken breast in a pool of sauce, like a ship run aground. Wet ashes, that’s what each bite tasted like.

  She glanced around at the other diners. The couple at the table in the opposite corner sat with a single omelette between them. They raised their glasses to one another and the woman leaned forward and cut it in two. They began to share, holding hands across the table.

  Prospe
r, Archambault, Professor Balachowsky, twenty-five students, the eighteen poor souls on her list—nineteen with Edmond: they’d all be tortured, then taken to Mont Valérien and shot.

  Why was it important that the Germans not know that the English knew it was the Germans operating captured radios? It could only mean that London wanted the transmitters in place for the Germans to receive and trust information, or misinformation, when the English sent it.

  The couple who had shared an omelette began to count out money and ration tickets. The woman searched through her purse a long time.

  It didn’t take a genius to deduce what information Germany needed above all: information about the event that every resistant in England, France, America and Russia was so anxiously awaiting, the event for which canister upon canister of munitions and weapons was being dropped to resistants across occupied Europe, the event Germany had to avert and destroy, what Churchill had promised Stalin—the Allied invasion of the Continent. But why would the Germans be foolish enough to trust a single message received on any captured transmitter? Why did London think the Germans would trust messages they sent to those transmitters?

  Too few tesserae to form any image of the unifying mosaic.

  The couple was paying for the omelette. The woman’s eyes followed each coin as it dropped into the waiter’s pouch. They departed, and Noor continued probing.

  “How could Archambault have prevented his code and message books from being taken with his transmitter? We leave our books hidden with the transmitter. Being caught with them at a checkpoint or in a search would be a disaster. And even if the transmitters were discovered, the Germans would need our encryption keys to decode the messages. They would need to know our code names and true names to know who was being discussed in the messages or to transmit and receive. And besides, they’d have to know our addresses so the Gestapo could arrest us. All this requires someone like Gilbert. Gilbert who meets us as we leave the plane, asks question after question and escorts us to our safe houses.”

  “A most interesting speculation, Mademoiselle Régnier. Quite the roman à clef. You write fiction, am I right? Children’s fiction? Aired a story on the BBC, as I recall? I’m told you’re quite accomplished. But I assure you, HQ has done its own thorough background check on Gilbert, and we are quite satisfied.”

  How the imperial “we” or Major Boddington could investigate Gilbert’s actions when the transmitter beneath Noor’s bed was the only remaining secure radio transmitting from northern France was the question. No messages concerning Gilbert had been received or sent by her. No, London hadn’t investigated Gilbert. At most, Major Boddington had asked an acquaintance at his club if Gilbert was a good egg.

  Major Boddington waved his fork. “This poulet would cost a fortune in London. That’s if you could find one. Do you see, old girl? There are alternative explanations for every allegation you’ve pinned on poor Gilbert. Keep in mind that, thanks to the Luftwaffe, skilled pilots are scarce. Gilbert can assess a field in an instant, make sure there’s enough taxi length, persuade each farmer that he should allow a foreign power to land its planes on his property. We can’t sacrifice Gilbert on the hunch of a young miss.” He dabbed his mouth, but a few morsels had already dropped on his tie. “And may I remind,” he added, “it would do your brother’s career no good if you were to do something disruptive.”

  Noor blinked, surprised. “Sir, there’s no need to threaten.”

  “Not at all, my dear, not at all. Making a prediction, nothing more. We need you here—right skills, right time, right place and all that—but do me one favour, old girl: do curb your curiosity about the larger scheme of affairs. We absolutely must operate on a need-to-know basis.”

  The word “dismissed” seemed to dangle somewhere overhead, for having disobeyed Major Boddington’s direct order to get aboard the plane. “Dismissed” was a good word, as was “discharged,” a great deal better than “deserted.” Life would be simpler; leave her here in Paris to begin a life of her own, forget the betrayals of her family, become mistress of herself. She’d return to Drancy, find work as a nurse, make Anne-Marie Régnier a permanent being. But Major Boddington didn’t seem inclined to dismiss her.

  “Try the Black Forest cake,” he suggested. “Tell you what: I’ll suggest to HQ, just so you don’t become hysterical again, that you be set up with Marc. He’ll be your air movements officer when you return.”

  Relief.

  But Major Boddington hadn’t mentioned when she was to return.

  It was all right, really. He would continue to send money to Mother, and he’d have to provide francs for her survival expenses during the remainder of her mission in France.

  Should she mention the diamonds? Tell him Prosper didn’t have them when he was arrested, and that meant the Gestapo didn’t have them either? She had transferred the leather pouch to the lining of a new valise; the diamonds were safe at Madame Aigrain’s home. But something about the Major wasn’t right. The syrup-shine eyes behind his glasses as he perused the menu?

  Major Boddington wished to operate on a need-to-know basis. He didn’t need to know, and she didn’t need to tell him.

  “Oh, and Madeleine—you may as well know, to show our appreciation for his courage and loyalty to the Crown, I’ve recommended Gilbert for the DSO.”

  The Distinguished Service Order? For Gilbert?!

  His finality closed the subject.

  “Please excuse me,” said Noor. She shoved her chair back and picked up her handbag.

  With the door of the WC shut tight, she gripped the sink as if to pull it from the wall and gulped back sobs. Anger flashing—no, rage. A decorated Gilbert would be trusted with more agents. So many more would be captured, many more tortured. Their beloveds wouldn’t even receive censored postcards smuggled out of Drancy. Spies disappeared, spies were executed; all her warnings couldn’t prevent it.

  There would be no change in policy towards a man Major Boddington had introduced at his club and recommended for a DSO. Certainly not on the basis of accusations by a radio operator, a mere girl with colonial antecedents.

  When the pale oval in the mirror had composed itself to mask the disturbance within, Noor drew herself to her full height.

  Return to the table. Smile and thank Major Boddington for lunch, the francs, the ration tickets, the new safe house. Think.

  Even if Major Boddington didn’t intend to investigate Gilbert further before pinning a DSO on his chest, surely Colonel Buckmaster and Miss Atkins would.

  Gilbert’s duplicity would be discovered, his treachery exposed. Allah would see to it.

  This game was being played with rules she could never have anticipated. She would adapt, move accordingly.

  Pforzheim, Germany

  June 1944

  I have not had strength or will to write to you again till now, ma petite, though I have had pen and paper since February. From the tapping in pipes that pass between the walls, I learned it is the first day of June, and the autobahns are still choked with refugees from air raids on Munich.

  I spent three weeks in the dungeon, fed soup once every three days and water each day. By the time I was carried back to my cell, I had lost most of my strength, but the words I’d scratched on the cell wall renewed my courage—“I resist, therefore I am.”

  Vogel came to visit me. He was travelling back to Paris from Munich, having attended the tenth anniversary celebrations of the Nazi organization for Mothers and Children. He brought more paper, a new fountain pen and ink. He was shocked by my state, though it was caused by his orders. He ordered soap, a toothbrush, a larger ration of soup, toilet paper, even sanitary towels should I need them. And weekly changes of prison uniform, weekly exercise in the courtyard.

  The governor of the prison approved. He came to inspect me with Vogel, and I heard him mutter in French, so he meant for me to know, that he’d never kept any woman in the dungeon before, never kept anyone enchained, not even a murderer.

  The guard ha
d to comply. I could see she didn’t want to.

  And today another of Vogel’s monthly visits, more regular than the curse. He sat beside me on the cot, and I wondered how he could stand my odour. He put his arm across my shoulders. I wished my lice would crawl into his black uniform.

  “Your new uniform looks very smart, Herr Vogel.”

  I couldn’t say he looked smart, so I said the uniform looked smart. He looked pleased.

  “I have been appointed an honorary member of the security police. I can arrest anyone for defeatism.”

  “There is defeatism in Germany, Herr Vogel?” I said sweetly.

  “Call me Ernst,” he replied automatically. “No, no defeatism, except from the weak—there are severe penalties for it.”

  Vogel should try selling pork sausages to hadjis! Hitler can’t outlaw his people’s feelings. Even Vogel’s certainty wavers these days, or he wouldn’t keep me as a hostage to be traded for his safety if—when—the Allies are victorious.

  “How is your wife, Herr Vogel?”

  I emphasized the word “wife” slightly. He grew immediately morose.

  “I found an apartment where she can live temporarily. The entire building crumbled. It was the only one left on Rosenstrasse after September’s bombing—and after this raid it fell as if something devoured it from inside. How some suffocated and others were crushed! We are still searching for bodies. I am lucky my children are alive. Schwein! Flying above, dropping bombs on civilians! The Führer should come and see us, see for himself what is happening.”

  “You started it,” I wanted to say. I had been one of the civilians on whom the Germans dropped their bombs during the Battle of France. But I didn’t. The man who had sent me to the dungeon for a small remark seemed to be criticizing his führer for ignorance, though absolving Hitler of any responsibility for rapacious aggression.