Jackdaws

“That’s all right.” She was always glad to hear Percy’s voice on the other end of the phone. She had become very fond of him, even though he constantly sent her into danger. Running agents was a heartbreaking job, and some senior officers anaesthetized themselves by adopting a hard-hearted attitude toward the death or capture of their people, but Percy never did that. He felt every loss as a bereavement. Consequently, Flick knew he would never take an unnecessary risk with her. She trusted him.

“Can you come to Orchard Court?”

She wondered if the authorities had reconsidered her new plan for taking out the telephone exchange, and her heart leaped with hope. “Has Monty changed his mind?”

“I’m afraid not. But I need you to brief someone.”

She bit her lip, suppressing her disappointment. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She dressed quickly and took the Underground to Baker Street. Percy was waiting for her in the flat in Portman Square. “I’ve found a radio operator. No experience, but he’s done the training. I’m sending him to Reims tomorrow.”

Flick glanced reflexively at the window, to check the weather, as agents always did when a flight was mentioned. Percy’s curtains were drawn, for security, but anyway she knew the weather was fine. “Reims? Why?”

“We’ve heard nothing from Michel today. I need to know how much of the Bollinger circuit is left.”

Flick nodded. Pierre, the radio operator, had been in the attack squad. Presumably he was captured or dead. Michel might have been able to locate Pierre’s radio transceiver, but he had not been trained to operate it, and he certainly did not know the codes. “But what’s the point?”

“We’ve sent them tons of explosives and ammunition in the last few months. I want them to light some fires. The telephone exchange is the most important target, but it’s not the only one. Even if there’s no one left but Michel and a couple of others, they can blow up railway lines, cut telephone wires, and shoot sentries-it all helps. But I can’t direct them if I have no communication.”

Flick shrugged. To her, the château was the only target that mattered. Everything else was chicken feed. But what the hell. “I’ll brief him, of course.”

Percy gave her a hard look. He hesitated, then said, “How was Michel-apart from his bullet wound?”

“Fine.” Flick was silent for a moment. Percy stared at her. She could not deceive him, he knew her too well. At last she sighed and said, “There’s a girl.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I don’t know whether there’s anything left of my marriage,” she said bitterly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It would help if I could tell myself that I’d made a sacrifice for a purpose, struck a magnificent blow for our side, made the invasion more likely to succeed.”

“You’ve done more than most, over the last two years.”

“But there’s no second prize in a war, is there?”

“No.”

She stood up. She was grateful for Percy’s fond sympathy, but it was making her maudlin. “I’d better brief the new radioman.”

“Code name Helicopter. He’s waiting in the study. Not the sharpest knife in the box, I’m afraid, but a brave lad.”

This seemed sloppy to Flick. “If he’s not too bright, why send him? He might endanger others.”

“As you said earlier-this is our big chance. If the invasion fails, we’ve lost Europe. We’ve got to throw everything we have at the enemy now, because we won’t get another chance.”

Flick nodded grimly. He had turned her own argument against her. But he was right. The only difference was that the lives being endangered, in this case, included Michel’s. “Okay,” she said. “I’d better get on with it.”

“He’s eager to see you.”

She frowned. “Eager? Why?”

Percy gave a wry smile. “Go and find out for yourself.”

Flick left the drawing room of the apartment, where Percy had his desk, and went along the corridor. His secretary was typing in the kitchen, and she directed Flick to another room.

Flick paused outside the door. This is how it is, she told herself: you pick yourself up and carry on working, hoping you will eventually forget.

She entered the study, a small room with a square table and a few mismatched chairs. Helicopter was a fair-skinned boy of about twenty-two, wearing a tweed suit in a checked pattern of mustard, orange, and green. You could tell he was English from a distance of a mile. Fortunately, before he got on the plane he would be kitted out in clothing that would look inconspicuous in a French town. SOE employed French tailors and dressmakers who sewed Continental-style clothes for agents (then spent hours making the clothes look worn and shabby so that they would not attract attention by their newness). There was nothing they could do about Helicopter’s pink complexion and red-blond hair, except hope that the Gestapo would think he must have some German blood.

Flick introduced herself, and he said, “Yes, we’ve met before, actually.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“You were at Oxford with my brother, Charles.”