The Game of Treachery Read online

  The Game of Treachery

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 2004

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2004 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media.

  We for a certainty are not the first

  Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled

  Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed

  Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

  A.E. Houseman

  Table of Contents

  One - Pound

  Two - The Spy

  Three - The Route

  Four - The Agent

  Five - The Crisis

  Six - The Decision

  Seven - The Invitation

  Eight - The Homecoming

  Nine - The Price of Spying

  Ten - The Coup

  Part One

  The Guerillas

  Ho! Let the door be lock’d:

  Treachery! Seek it out.

  William Shakespeare

  One - Pound

  ‘There she blows,’ Brune said. There was no moon, but the clear sky made the night bright, and James Barron could see the pale strip of beach only a mile in front of him. The Lysander seemed to drift as it left the water behind. Now James could see lights, away to the right. ‘No blackout,’ Brune commented. ‘These characters hardly know there’s a war on.’

  ‘Haven’t they got radar?’

  ‘Not down here. Piece of cake. Ooops.’ Even as he spoke a little white cloud appeared some distance to their left. ‘Where’d that come from?’

  ‘There.’ James had seen the flash of an explosion.

  ‘That’s never happened before,’ Brune complained, banking hard to his right. ‘Let’s get up a bit.’ The aircraft soared higher. ‘What the shit …’ There was a tearing sound. Brune hastily looked over his shoulder. ‘Christ Almighty!’ James also looked over his shoulder, and saw the aircraft behind them. ‘Messerschmitt,’ Brune said. ‘Going down. We’re safer hedge-hopping.’ Now that he had got over the initial shock, his voice was again calm.

  James had also got his nerves under control, and looked up through the windscreen. The German aircraft, clearly much faster, had overshot them, and was now wheeling, trying to find them again against the darkness of the earth as Brune sank ever lower. ‘That’s not a Messerschmitt. It’s not fast enough, and it turned too slowly. I reckon it’s a trainer.’

  ‘But it fires real bullets. Whoops!’ Brune pulled back on the yoke as a church steeple suddenly appeared in front of them. They soared over it and looked down on the lights of another village. The enemy aircraft continued to wheel above them, seeking but not finding them, and then they were in open country, skimming the trees.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ James asked.

  ‘Oh, sure. The Gironde estuary is about fifty miles north of us. We’ll be in Vichy in half an hour.’

  ‘And you don’t think the damage is serious?’

  ‘One burst? She’s flying all right. Mind you, if that stuff had got amongst the cargo … That character still about?’

  ‘I don’t see him.’

  ‘Then let’s get back up. There are hills ahead.’

  Fifty miles from the Gironde, James thought. ‘You ever drunk Gruchy wine?’ he asked.

  ‘Bit pricey for me.’

  ‘Those women we’re dealing with, they’re Gruchys. Before the war their parents owned half the south bank of the river. Now they own their skins. Some of them.’

  Brune glanced at him, but preferred not to comment. Now the hills were rising to either side. They flew just above them for another hour, then began the descent. Had he not made this journey before, James would have been apprehensive that they were certain to hit something as they dropped into the valleys. But after their brush with the German defences it hardly seemed relevant. Besides, he had faith in Brune’s ability. Justifiably. ‘There we are, Major,’ the flying officer said. ‘Spot on.’

  James peered through the windshield and made out the twin row of guttering lights marking the landing field. Only a few more minutes now, and she would be in his arms. He felt almost embarrassed by the surging delight in his mind. Six feet two inches tall and built to match, a rugby player of some repute before the war, James Barron was not a man those who knew him best associated with either emotion or embarrassment. If he knew he was still often astonished at finding himself seconded from his regiment to this extreme aspect of the secret intelligence service, known as special operations, he also knew that his superiors regarded him as a natural because of his apparently cold-blooded detachment as he went about his business. They knew the name Liane de Gruchy, of course: she was famous. But they did not know what she meant to him.

  ‘Sit tight,’ Brune said, watching both air speed and altimeter. Now he throttled back as trees came into view, rising to either side of the flickering lights marking the flight path. Then the machine touched, gave a little bounce, and settled, rapidly losing speed as it rolled across the uneven turf to come to a standstill.

  Instantly it was surrounded by people. James made his way aft, between the various boxes that lined the interior of the plane, and opened the door. ‘Major!’ said the big man in the beret who was waiting for him.

  James shook hands. ‘Jules! Good to see you.’ His French was just good enough for a brief conversation, and besides, this man was an old comrade-in-arms. As was the man beside him, thin and hatchet-faced. ‘Etienne!’ Another hand clasp.

  ‘We did not expect you,’ Jules said. ‘We expected the plane, but —’

  ‘I couldn’t pass up the opportunity,’ James said. It was necessary to conceal his real purpose from the rank and file. He jumped down and went towards a second group of people, waiting under the trees.

  ‘James! We did not expect you.’ This man spoke English.

  James grasped Pierre de Gruchy’s hand. ‘Thank God you got out of Paris.’ Pierre grinned. He was a handsome young man who wore rough clothes and a flat cap, although James principally remembered him in the uniform of a French officer. ‘The Gestapo are not really very competent. You remember Henri Burstein.’

  James shook hands with the small, dark, Jewish young man. ‘Of course I do. But you were reported missing, believed dead, after the retreat to Dunkirk.’

  Henri smiled. ‘So was Pierre, remember? He escaped to England, and went to work for you. I escaped into Vichy, and now I am also working for you, so they tell me.’

  ‘You are working for France,’ Pierre said, severely.

  ‘We are all working for victory,’ James reminded him, and drew a deep breath, almost afraid to ask the question. ‘Your sisters are all right?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. They are up at the camp. They will be delighted to see you. So will Moulin. You can stay?’

  ‘For twenty-four hours. We must leave tomorrow night. This is Flying Officer Brune.’ Brune also shook hands. ‘Will you come up?’

  As always, Brune shook his head. ‘I’ll stay with the old girl. We have a relationship. Besides, I need to check her out.’

  ‘There is trouble?’

  ‘We had a brush with a Jerry. I don’t think it’s serious. He wasn’t a Messerschmitt, apparently.’

  Pierre nodded. ‘There is a training school close to Bordeaux. Well, if there is anything you need, let us know.’

  James picked the four suitcases out of the luggage, gave one each to Pierre and Henri while carrying the other two himself, and the three men climbed the hill; the rest of the group stayed to unload the explosives, guns and ammunition that
made up the cargo, and then to conceal the plane beneath leafy branches and painted sheets of canvas. ‘What have we got here?’ Pierre asked.

  ‘Radios, and spare batteries.’

  ‘You are bringing us radios? We are moving into the big time.’

  ‘Could be.’ James decided to change the subject; however critical the nature of his mission, he wanted to relax now that he was down and knew that Liane was waiting for him, even if she did not yet know it. ‘Amalie must be over the moon at having you back, safe and sound,’ he suggested to Henri.

  ‘She is,’ Henri said.

  James’s memory drifted back to the day he had first met this family. It was not a date anyone was ever likely to forget: 9 May 1940, the day before France’s world had collapsed. Just under a year ago. He had actually met the second of the sisters the previous Christmas, when on leave in Paris. As a recently promoted captain, with nothing but his service pay, he had been swept off his feet by the chic beauty and obvious wealth of Madeleine de Gruchy. Gauche and inexperienced, he had found it impossible to believe that she might find him equally attractive. He had not expected ever to meet her again, but then had come the invitation to her sister Amalie’s wedding. As the western front had seemed utterly quiet, leave had been easily obtained, and he had travelled to Chartres, just south of Paris, and plunged into a world he had previously supposed only existed between the covers of Tatler.

  Chartres had been only one of the de Gruchy’s many houses. The vineyards from which they drew their wealth had been situated on the banks of the Gironde. But all the family and their friends had been assembled for the wedding of the youngest daughter — the first to marry — to her Jewish fiancé. He had gathered that not everyone had approved of it. But he had not been interested. Having supposed himself in love with Madeleine, he had then met the eldest of the sisters, Liane, and been swept off his feet all over again. For one glorious night he had lived on a scale to which he had never supposed he could aspire, treated as a friend and an equal by people who had so much wealth and prestige they seemed to be quite unaware of it. Twenty-four hours later their entire world had collapsed!

  They had gone out with all the élan that was their nature. He remembered Liane carelessly getting into her father’s Rolls Royce to drive her brother and her new friend up to their positions on the Belgian border, both unaware and uncaring of the immense forces that were preparing to envelope her. When he thought of the weeks of imprisonment and mistreatment she had suffered before France had surrendered he could feel his blood boil. Yet she had survived, and taken her revenge, and was now the most wanted woman in the country, just as Amalie had survived the trauma of a marriage which had lasted no more than ten minutes before her husband had gone off to war and her subsequent, near fatal clash with the Gestapo. Then Pierre had survived to reach England and return to France as a British agent, controlled by the erstwhile wedding guest. Only one member of the family had failed to fight, and endure. ‘Is there any news of Madeleine?’ he asked.

  ‘I imagine she is living it up in Berlin with her German husband,’ Pierre said. ‘We do not speak of her anymore.’

  ‘I am sure she had a reason for what she did.’

  ‘No doubt. She claims it was out of gratitude because Helsingen got Amalie out of the Gestapo cells. So she could have slept with him. To marry a Boche …!’

  James reflected how one year of war could change moral perspectives. Last May the thought of his sister sleeping with anyone out of wedlock would have had Pierre reaching for a shotgun. But today it was preferable to marrying one of the enemy. He wondered if Pierre knew anything about Liane’s private life. In which case his own position might be dangerous. But Liane was, and always had been, a law unto herself. For which he thanked God, even as it terrified him.

  They had reached a small, tree-shrouded plateau, and men were emerging. Two or three carried tommy-guns, but most were armed with shotguns. ‘Is it down?’ one asked.

  ‘It is being unloaded now,’ Pierre said.

  ‘One little plane,’ said another man. ‘What is it this time? A couple of tommy-guns and a few sticks of gelignite?’

  James looked at Pierre, who merely grinned. ‘It takes all sorts,’ he said in English, then reverted to French. ‘If you want to find out what the plane brought, my friend, why don’t you go down and help unload it, instead of sitting on your ass up here.’

  He led James past them, and through the last of the trees. ‘His name is Monterre, and he is a Communist,’ he remarked.

  ‘Fighting with you? I thought the Communists were against this war?’

  ‘They are, because Stalin tells them to be. But Monterre is wanted by the police, for forgery. So he came to us.’

  ‘And you trust him?’

  ‘No. But he is very useful. We have set him up with a workshop, and he produces identity cards, railway passes, anything we need.’

  Beyond the trees, he escorted James to the cave which Jean Moulin used as his headquarters. Here several people waited, and one of them now ran forward, her yellow hair fluttering in the starlight. ‘James! I had not expected to see you again.’

  ‘Do you really think I could stay away?’

  She kissed him almost savagely, but he had always suspected that was her true nature. Liane de Gruchy was thirty-one, four years older than himself. He had seen her first in all the glory of her family home, the exquisite perfection of an evening gown, her hair immaculately dressed as it lay past her shoulders in a glowing sheen, her perfect body shrouded in the compelling scent of her perfume; and he had fallen in love. Now he looked at baggy pants and a loose blouse, laced boots, and inhaled only her own scent, and still thought those fine-chiselled features, the perfect mouth, the wide blue eyes, the flowing hair, the most magnificent of sights. ‘I am so glad to see you,’ she whispered into his ear.

  Then she was obliged to release him, because Amalie wanted to hug him as well. Amalie was taller than her sister, and extremely attractive without approaching Liane’s beauty. ‘Your coming always brings joy,’ she said. She certainly looked happier than the last time he had seen her, but he knew that had nothing to do with him; six months ago she had supposed her husband dead.

  ‘James!’ Jean Moulin clasped his hand. He too was hardly recognizable as the erstwhile prefect of Chartres, handsome and debonair, brilliantly efficient. James knew the story of how he had been arrested and savagely tortured by the Gestapo for refusing to cooperate with them, how in despair he had cut his own throat, how he had been found before he died and taken to the hospital to be stitched up, and how he had managed to escape, a bleeding wreck, to find his way into Vichy France and this haven in the lower slopes of the Massif Central. His throat had been so deeply cut that his larynx had been perforated, and he spoke in a hoarse croak, but his lively eyes, and the fact that these fellow outlaws acknowledged him as their leader even though he could no longer take the field, proved that his brain was as alert as ever. ‘What have you brought us?’

  ‘Radios,’ Pierre said enthusiastically. ‘Show us, James.’

  ‘Not just now. There are matters that need discussing.’

  ‘But you must be hungry. The inner man comes first.’

  *

  There was a fire inside the cave, and late as it was, past midnight, a meal was produced for the visitor; if the wine was rough, the cheese strong, the bread a trifle stale, none of it meant anything to James compared with the fact that he was sitting next to Liane, their thighs touching, and that afterwards … But he could not be sure of afterwards. One could never be sure with Liane.

  ‘So how is the war going?’ Moulin asked.

  ‘Not brilliantly.’

  ‘But you beat the hell out of the Italians in North Africa.’

  ‘We did, last December. But the Germans got the wind up and sent troops to help a couple of panzer divisions, led by a character named Rommel.’

  ‘Rommel,’ Liane said softly. ‘It was his troops that captured Joanna and me last May.
’ No one spoke, so she looked around their faces. ‘He was very nice. He came to see us in hospital, and apologized for what had happened. And he hanged the men who raped us.’ Again she looked around the carefully expressionless faces. ‘Oh, what the hell. It happened. You cannot change what has happened. You can only remember, and profit from the memory. You were telling us about North Africa, James.’

  ‘Well, briefly, Rommel’s panzers have reclaimed all of Libya, except for the port of Tobruk, which is under siege. And now that we’re committed in Greece, well, the whole thing is somewhat fraught. Which is one reason why I’m here.’

  ‘Tell us,’ Moulin said.

  James looked around the anxious faces. ‘I don’t want anyone to take offence. What I am going to tell you are matters of fact. I hope I have said enough to convince you that we are at the present stretched very thin. It may appear as if the invasion of England has been shelved for the time being, but the defence of Britain remains paramount. Then there is the Middle East and Greece. Then there is the Far East, where we know the Japanese are putting pressure on the Vichy government to grant them military bases in Indo-China. Such bases can only be intended for use against Malaysia, the Dutch East Indies, and by projection, India. So you’ll appreciate that every tommy-gun, every rifle, every bullet, in fact, has an anxious home waiting for it. So questions are constantly being asked about how to obtain the best value for our resources.’

  ‘What you bring us here is a drain on Britain’s resources?’ Henri asked.

  ‘There is an English saying, look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves. I hope no one here doubts that I am on your side. I set up the backing for the raid on the Paris-Bordeaux railway. But that was six months ago. During those six months we have kept up a steady supply of arms and ammunition. But nothing further has been attempted.’

  ‘It was your command that we lie low for a while after that raid,’ Moulin pointed out.