The Tiger Claw

  No recourse at present but to endure, wait, watch, hope, pray, write letters—women’s pastimes. But there was also work to be done.

  Kabir skirted the edge of the crowded Marienplatz, made his way through a tent city sprouting behind the Rathaus, and returned to the Triumph and its passengerless sidecar.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 3

  Surrey, England

  May 1943

  INTERMITTENT SPRING RAIN had eroded the topsoil from Glory Hill, exposing tree roots like ribs rising under famished skin. May sunshine speared tangled foliage, revealing more than a dozen young women in the khaki uniform and shoulder patches of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. Pale faces drenched in sweat, they waited in the underbrush. At the signal, an all but unnoticeable flutter of a white handkerchief, the women broke into a trot, then into a run for the slope, using the roots as stairs, climbing in purposeful silence.

  Noor grabbed at the roots with gloved hands, lungs expanding, buttocks tensing alternately in coordinated rhythm.

  Quiet, quiet!

  She pulled herself up, glancing sideways to check she was level with the others. A few yards off, another crouching figure in FANY khaki turned for an instant. A tweezed sandy-brown eyebrow arched in Noor’s direction. A few more strides uphill, her strength renewed by Yolande’s unspoken challenge.

  Noor threw Yolande a quick smile.

  Now the crest was in sight.

  Look for black uniforms. Wait.

  Breath sounding too loud.

  Hold that breath. Listen!

  That was the owl hoot? Some atrocious imitation.

  She rose and scaled the last few yards.

  Over the summit, she dropped to a squat and held out her hand to Yolande.

  “Ouch, my bum!” said Yolande in a stage whisper. “Three times up and down that hill today!”

  Noor’s regulation black shoes half slid down the slope. With the hill behind her, Noor pulled a miniature pair of binoculars from her pocket and peered at each clump of foliage at the edge of the woods. Not a leaf stirred, so she signalled an all-clear to the next pair of FANYs and emerged from cover with Yolande. The taller girl slipped her arm through Noor’s as they stood in the clearing. Yolande, her competitive yardstick, was breathing deeply too.

  “I thought they might be doing that ‘sorting out’ today, but that was easy,” said Yolande. “We pass! Together to the end!”

  Noor laughed. The others were emerging from the woods.

  “You might have thought they’d ambush us here, now,” said Yolande, wiping her face with a mud-stained handkerchief.

  “They did that yesterday,” said Noor, pulling her hat off. Warm hair tumbled about her shoulders. “It has to be unexpected,” she said, tying a ponytail.

  She could match Yolande in endurance, score as high on the shooting range and transmit Morse faster, but she could never match Yolande’s unstated assumptions of not only surviving but thriving. Unlike Yolande, Noor hadn’t learned German at a Swiss finishing school. But her French was excellent.

  Someone she was three years ago had felt the collective terror of the French, joined refugees fleeing Paris, moving south in a frenzied stream of bicycles, carriages, automobiles and pedestrians as the jackboot of the Germans descended. In June of ‘40, the head of their family, Uncle Tajuddin, steamed his way back to Baroda, and Kabir drove their old Amilcar voiturette south out of Paris. Noor and her family joined the refugee stream, with the stuffed bedroll Dadijaan brought from Baroda lashed to the roof. Dadijaan sat with Zaib almost on her lap, moving her prayer beads and muttering the Tasbeeh. Mother, wedged in the back seat, cheeks whiter than usual above her chinchilla collar but sharp-sighted as ever, tapped Kabir’s shoulder to point out the muddy cowpath wide enough to take a car. The Amilcar bumped off the road just seconds before Stuka-rained bullets raised screams from hapless refugees on the road behind them. It was fitna, all fitna—chaos! Noor’s throat tightened every time she remembered how they didn’t—couldn’t—stop for even a moment to tend the wounded, because the Stukas were circling back a second, then a third time.

  That Hitler was shaitan in human form—prime cause of the world’s troubles. Genghis Khan come again.

  Reaching Bordeaux, the car bucked and bounced over tram rails as Kabir drove from the British consul’s office to hotels and the docks, looking for any official who would evacuate British citizens. His British passport and Noor and Zaib’s pathetic pleading got them a choppy ride on a rain-sodden fishing boat bound for safety in England. Abbajaan’s Amilcar was abandoned at the docks.

  Almost three years later, Mother, Dadijaan and Zaib were living on the unbombed side of Taviton Street, Kabir was posted at an airfield in Sussex, and here she was, standing beside Yolande. No longer Noor, eldest daughter of musician and Sufi teacher Inayat Khan, but an officer in His Majesty’s Directorate of Air Intelligence, calling herself Leading Aircraftwoman Nora, taking her mother’s maiden name, Baker, and stating her religion as Church of England instead of Islam.

  Nora Baker, trained in the fine art of wireless operations and the craft of time-delay incendiaries.

  Nora Baker, who shared with Yolande a dread of wasting time. At night in the dormitory, trading news and rumours about the war, both agreed life could end today, tomorrow—by random blast or fire from a German bomb. Something positive must be accomplished before that.

  Through the Blitz, Noor was ashamed to feel she was safer than Armand, beloved Armand, lost somewhere in the recesses of conquered Europe. She couldn’t be like Zaib, for whom London was one long party interspersed with air raids, lectures and lab work. Noor’s pleasures were stunted by guilt.

  If there hadn’t been a war, she might have said she was Muslim just so the English might understand that Indian Muslim women were not as they imagined: weak, meek, stupid or spineless. But she adjusted like everyone else. An English accent wasn’t required for wireless telegraphy at Edinburgh and Abingdon, but she acquired one to be understood, adding it to her French, Indian-English and American-English accents.

  Amazing how much adjustment people could make, how cheerful people were. Because there was a war?

  She was cheerful around the time she enlisted as Aircraftwoman 424598, back in 1940, when Armand’s first letter said he and his mother were in Cannes. Cannes on the Riviera, at the time unoccupied by the Germans. He was free, he was safe. Noor’s high spirits lasted almost a month. And she was cheerful for another week, almost a year later, when there was a letter from nearby Nice. But by the time Major Boddington’s letter arrived, worry and fear for Armand were a ten-pound pole she carried across her shoulders, and no sooner did she read “an assignment that involves travel overseas” than she made up her mind. But there hadn’t been any travel overseas. Not a single assignment, yet.

  All through her toughening-up and training, she had been suspended in a semi-life, preparing, anticipating and waiting, waiting, waiting for her chance—insh’allah—to return to France. Twenty-nine years old and feeling her life had yet to begin.

  More FANYs were emerging from the woods, their talk and laughter carrying across the clearing.

  Be cheerful.

  “Time for tea—race you!” she cried to Yolande, and ran across the clearing towards the triple roofs of Wanborough Manor.

  Noor held the heavy oak door for Yolande and walked down the wainscotted corridor of the eighteenth-century manor by her side. The Special Operations Executive had requisitioned so many country homes like this one all over England that some wag said the letters SOE of the top secret agency, charged with Setting Europe Ablaze and all that, really stood for Stately ‘Omes of England. Setting Europe Ablaze, Churchill’s term for fomenting unrest, sabotage and uncertainty for the Germans in France, training and arming the French resistance for the day he’d give the command and they’d rise up against the Germans, had by now become more than a slogan for Noor. Here she learned to throw hand grenades, instantly identify German military uniforms, fire pistol
s, Sten guns and explosives, and evade anyone following.

  “Miss Atkins?” said Noor to the compact figure standing in the gloom.

  “Nora,” came a flinty voice. “Colonel Buckmaster would like a word with you.”

  “I’ll run along for tea, then,” said Yolande, giving Noor a smile of encouragement.

  Miss Atkins opened a door. At the far end of a large drawing room, two men in khaki standing at a desk looked up as Noor was ushered in. Both held plotter rakes as if they were billiard sticks. They’d been poring over a Michelin map dotted with markers.

  She was introduced: ever-affable Colonel Buckmaster, head of the SOE’s French Section, who always asked if she was quite sure her French was still fluent, and her case officer, Major Nicholas Boddington, code named “N.”

  Major Boddington, a flat-faced man with spectacles, had introduced her to the workings of the SOE seven long months ago in a little flat off Baker Street. After her interview he became for a time no more than an address to where she sent expense receipts for reimbursement. But over the last three weeks he’d “just popped in” five times. Twice she’d noticed him watching her at target practice, once Miss Atkins mentioned his requesting Noor’s latest progress report, and a few days ago he had joined Yolande and her in the dining room for tea and inquired courteously about Mother and Kabir. He contrived to mention attending Oxford, said he’d been a journalist before the war. He could be charming but seemed a little preoccupied today.

  A little red flag began to flutter in Noor’s stomach. Was this the “sorting out” of which agents were warned? Was there something in that all-important English concept, her “background,” that had been found unsuitable? It could be political; agitations for Indian independence hadn’t abated. Perhaps the Brits had decided to reassign her—just before she set off to Manchester for her final week of parachute training.

  Miss Atkins opened a file marked Top Secret and Nora Baker. Yolande thought Miss Atkins was about thirty-five, but the corners of her almost lipless mouth pulled downwards when she was tired, giving her an older look. Today she looked no more or less serious than usual. Still …

  “Ah, Miss Baker. Do sit down.”

  Noor perched at the edge of a folding chair. When Colonel Buckmaster disappeared into an armchair with lace antimacassars, she could see Glory Hill framed in the window behind him better than she could discern any expression on his face. The Major leaned against the desk, polishing his glasses.

  Miss Atkins gave the file to Colonel Buckmaster and said something inaudible.

  “Up to twenty-four words a minute?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Noor.

  “Excellent. In English, naturally.”

  “Yes, sir.” Noor stared straight ahead past his shoulder.

  “French accents would be difficult in Morse, I’m sure—a waste of time transmitting those silent verb endings.”

  Some answer was expected. “Yes, sir,” Noor replied.

  “Little trouble with a bobby, lately?” said Major Boddington.

  A bobby in Bristol, where Noor was participating in a mock undercover exercise. How had the Major learned of the incident? Better not ask: such questions wouldn’t be welcomed by a senior officer of the SOE.

  Reassure him.

  “Not exactly, sir. I rode my bicycle through a red light and he stopped me. I told him I wouldn’t have if I’d known he was there—”

  “You received a ticket for impertinence,” Major Boddington interrupted.

  “Yes, sir. Ten shillings.”

  “My word,” said Colonel Buckmaster.

  My word, indeed. Ten shillings was a sizable slice of £350 per annum, one she could ill afford.

  “Well, you seem to have learned your lesson.” Major Boddington seemed mollified by the punitive figure.

  “Born in Moscow?” The Colonel was reading from her file.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not Bolshevik, are you?”

  “No, sir—we left after I was born. Before the Great War.”

  Noor didn’t remember Moscow at all. Abbajaan was on tour, playing the veena and giving discourses on Sufism in Moscow, when she entered the world, and she was still a baby when the family returned to England.

  “Wise move, wise move. Your father is—pardon me, was—a professor. Unpronounceable name.”

  The name Inayat Khan didn’t seem especially difficult.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Abbajaan—his constant absence was a different kind of sorrow.

  “Of music and the philosophy of … Sufism?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mmm.”

  The Colonel didn’t seem sure what Sufism was, but perhaps because Abbajaan’s occupation didn’t sound threatening, he moved on.

  “Your mother is from Boston. An American. I see—hence the name Baker. Quite a popular lot, these days, Americans. Family moved around a bit, I’d say. England, France, India. But you”—he was consulting and calculating from the file before him—“seem to have spent most of your life in France.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Noor.

  Since her own displacement to England she understood how Abbajaan must have felt all through his sixteen years as an immigrant to France: duty-bound to someday return “home.” For him, home was India. For Noor, home was now wherever Armand might be.

  “A spinster?”

  “I have a fiancé, sir.” Far from the truth, but better than being called a spinster.

  “Hmm. I did a stint in India a few years ago, trying to turn some natives into soldiers. Girl your age’d be married off years ago—willy-nilly, without so much as a by-your-leave. Count yourself jolly lucky you’re not there now.”

  “And you too, sir.” Noor kept her tone neutral.

  Colonel Buckmaster glared at her, then recovered. “Quite a little Allied cocktail, aren’t you? Yes. Let me see, just how long did you live in India?”

  “Two years, sir.”

  A single week in India might rearrange anyone’s understanding of the world, but two years living with Dadijaan and her Indian aunts and cousins had made India and Indians a constant point of reference and concern ever since.

  “Only two years. Well. Under Causes for Concern, your escorting officer says here you were ‘absolutely terrified’ when they did the routine little stunt with you.”

  A residue of terror stirred in Noor. The “little stunt” was a mock Gestapo interrogation, complete with bright beams of light and an interrogator who abused, threatened and shouted just as Uncle Tajuddin once did.

  If you were forced to flee your home in Paris because twenty-eight German bombs had fallen in your town just ten minutes after the sirens sounded, and the men in your family all carried British passports, you’d be frightened of those uniforms too.

  “I was afraid, sir. But I’m much stronger for it.”

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have acknowledged being afraid; Colonel Buckmaster had vanished behind her file again. But it was true—mastering the onslaught of memories stirred by the mock interrogation had given her confidence.

  If, after these two and a half years of preparation and all my running up and down Glory Hill, you sort me into the wrong group, Colonel Buckmaster, if you reject me because I’m Indian and not good enough for the SOE or pack me off to the periphery where I’ll never see Armand till the war is over, I’ll find another way to leave your charming little island. I’ll join the Maquis in France.

  “You’re not one of those colonials who’re hoping the Germans win, are you? That chap Bose gave us the slip in Calcutta, went off and shook hands with Hitler—and next thing we hear he’s gathering an army. Calls it the Indian National Army, if you please. Of course, a few chaps in the IRA have made overtures to Hitler too.”

  “Colonel,” Major Boddington intervened, “she was referred by her brother. He’s with Bomber Command.”

  “Oh. Well, then, she’s the right kind.” Colonel Buckmaster closed Noor’s file, leaned his head back against the antim
acassars. “Officer Baker, we have a special assignment for you, purely voluntary, you understand. We have an urgent request to send a wireless operator to France. Dropping you is out of the question as you have not yet completed your parachute training course, so …” He sounded as if Noor had been uncommonly slow and should have completed her jump training by now.

  A glow spread within Noor, but with an effort she kept her face blank as a toy soldier’s. She had worked for this, prayed for this for three years. France was in sight.

  “If you are quite sure, then, not reluctant at all? You’re willing to be landed there? And you fully understand we would much rather have dropped you by parachute to avoid Hun attention?”

  To be landed rather than dropped by parachute! Before the war Noor had flown in Kabir’s plane a few times in France, but she was not keen on jumping five hundred feet off anything, especially any moving thing. Now she didn’t have to keep her many resolutions to face and overcome those fears.

  “If you are sure, we can pop you in there to join our agents a few weeks earlier. But you must be sure—if your heart isn’t in it, you’ll do a bad job of it.” Colonel Buckmaster was looking at her, then at her file, then back again as if expecting her to decline.

  “Sir, I am ready to go when ordered.”

  Find out what they expect; perform better than they expect.

  The Colonel closed Noor’s file, passed it over his shoulder to Miss Atkins. “Miss Atkins will help you prepare. Cover story, that sort of thing. We are confident you will conduct yourself well. We will rely on you as we rely on the good conduct of all our colonials.”

  A glance at the documents from the Battersea Reception Centre in her file would have told the Colonel she was classified as a British Protected Person, not an Indian colonial; a refugee, like everyone else who had fled the Germans. Abbajaan was from the Princely State of Baroda, whose rulers had never been conquered in war by either the East India Company or the Raj. Baroda was a British ally, subjugated yet independent, and Noor could describe herself similarly. But Colonel Buckmaster wanted a pliable, eager woman, bilingual in French and English, with harnessable energy; he wasn’t interested in the rest of her life, talents or languages.