The Brightest Day Read online

  The Brightest Day

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 2005

  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 2005 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  And not by eastern windows only,

  When daylight conies, comes in the light,

  In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,

  But westward, look, the land is bright.

  Arthur Hugh Clough

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  PART TWO

  Four

  Five

  Six

  PART THREE

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  Sisters

  And lovelier things have mercy shown

  To every failing but their own,

  And every woe a tear can claim

  Except an erring sister’s shame.

  George Gordon, Lord Byron

  One

  Cherchez La Femme

  “I have Pound Seventeen,” Sergeant Rachel Cartwright said.

  “At last! I’ll speak.” Major James Barron leapt up from his desk and strode across the small office to the radio. A big man, with heavy shoulders and rugged features, he moved with the natural grace of the athlete he had been before the War. As required by his position, he wore civilian clothes, although on this chilly spring day in 1943 he had added a jumper beneath his jacket, and his fair hair, even when cut short, was as always untidy.

  “Pound Two,” he snapped into the microphone, speaking French. “Where the devil have you been?”

  “It has been terrible, monsieur, terrible,” said the voice on the receiver. “The Boche have been everywhere. I have not dared use the set. Even now, I am taking a terrible risk.”

  “Where are Pound Eleven and Pound Twelve? It has been five months.”

  “Wheren the Germans came in, before Christmas, they had to leave. They are too well known to be hidden here.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “I do not know exactly, monsieur. They went south.”

  “And you have heard nothing?”

  “Nothing, monsieur. Now I must go. There is someone coming. Pound Seventeen out.”

  James stared at the set in frustration, and Rachel stood against him and put her arms round his waist.

  “If Liane had been taken, the Germans would have shouted it from the rooftops.” A tall, slender young woman, black hair carefully confined in a bun, her pertly pretty features enhanced by the horn-rimmed spectacles, she had struck up an intimate relationship with her boss during the three years they had worked and virtually lived together in this tiny office, trying to control their group of French Resistance fighters on behalf of the Special Operations Executive of the Secret Intelligence Service. The nature of their work precluded any close friendships outside of the office; their relative social standing had bridged the gap between enlisted “man” and officer. James was the son of a schoolmaster, Rachel the daughter of a general and, while James was a professional soldier who had wound up in Special Operations Executive after Dunkirk, mainly because of his knowledge of and connections in France, Rachel had joined up because her family had expected her to do so, as they had expected her to volunteer for any unusual or especially taxing job that was offered. She had thought it a bit of a jolly in the beginning, but that had been before she had met James.

  But, however genuinely fond she was of him and, she believed, he was of her, and however sexually intimate they might be, she knew that he was actually in love with Liane de Gruchy, the beautiful French aristocrat who had become a leader of the Resistance and the most wanted woman in France; and who had disappeared since the Germans had overrun Vichy after the Allied invasions of North Africa.

  “She could still be dead,” James muttered. “Unknown to anyone.”

  “Liane is indestructible,” Rachel said loyally. In fact, for all their rivalry, she had met and admired the famous Frenchwoman, who could so easily have fled France for the security of England; she had an English mother and had been educated in England. But she had chosen to stay, and fight, and risk her life almost daily. Obviously, her luck had to run out eventually but until they knew…

  “Listen,” she said. “The Germans have taken over all of Vichy, right? So there is no longer any safe haven in any town or village. So where would Liane go? Surely to where her group originated, back in 1940.”

  James turned, slowly. “The Massif Central?”

  “Doesn’t it make sense? She must know those hills like the back of her hand. And they are her people down there.”

  “It’s also where she and her group were all but wiped out, two years ago.”

  “I don’t believe that would have put her off going back. And I’ll bet Moulin is with her.” Jean Moulin, prefect of Chartres before the War, had been arrested and savagely tortured by the Gestapo, but had escaped and made his way into the then-safe haven of Vichy. Now he was General de Gaulle’s personal representative amongst all of the various Resistance groups in France, but he was an old friend of the de Gruchy family, and as he was known to be with Liane when the German occupation of Vichy had commenced, it seemed a natural conclusion that they were still together.

  James snapped his fingers. “I’m going to see the brigadier. We’ll send someone in to find them.”

  “Permission to volunteer, sir.”

  James kissed her. “You must be stark, raving mad.”

  “I’ve been before, sir.”

  “And got taken by the Gestapo. Do you want to repeat that experience?”

  Involuntarily, Rachel touched the bodice of her dress. “I still have nightmares. But I was betrayed. Monterre is dead.”

  “Do you suppose he was, or is, the only traitor in the Resistance? You’ll mind the shop. That’s an order.”

  *

  Rachel watched the door close and lit a cigarette. She was not an habitual smoker – James did not like it; she had indulged occasionally back in 1939, when she had been a bright young thing on the London social scene, at least a hundred light years past – but found the occasional cigarette good for the nerves. She loved France. She had holidayed there regularly before the War, and indeed spoke the language better than James, who still used the schoolboy variety. She had thoroughly enjoyed her two previous missions to the Resistance, the excitement and the camaraderie, the feeling that one was doing, rather than sitting behind a desk ordering others to do, up to the moment she had been arrested by the Gestapo.

  That had been the most terrible moment of her life, but the succeeding moments had been more terrible yet. She could still see Johann Roess’ smiling face in front of her as he had ordered her to be stripped naked before beginning to torment her, as she could still hear Joanna Jonsson’s calm voice commanding her release. Oh, Joanna! The Swedish-American double agent had to be the most heroic woman she had ever known, as well as the most enigmatic. Rachel knew that their superiors had never actually trusted her, even after she had risked her position with the Germans, not to mention her life, to rescue her, Rachel. And now Joanna had vanished back into Germany, regarded as a traitor by her own people, but very probably dead or in a concentration camp.

  Rachel sighed and began work on the pile of transcripts of recent German news items that had just arrived, dividing them into two piles; those, the larger pile, items that could not possibly interest the Pound
Section, and those that just might. She was actually looking for some mention of Joanna’s name, some indication that she might have survived – Joanna had always been a great survivor – and then found herself frowning as she blinked at the sheet of paper. Carefully, she placed it on James’ desk, and the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.

  “Pound.”

  “Oh, sergeant, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  Rachel gave another sigh. Their landlady, while absolutely reliable, had never been able to get together with the concept of code usage. “Yes, Mrs Hotchkin. Is something the matter?”

  “Well, there’s this person here, says she’s to see the major.”

  “What?” Their office, tucked away in a shabby building in the depths of London’s East End, was top secret. “Did you say she?”

  “She’s a French lady. Says you would know her as de Gruchy.”

  “Jesus! Is she very good-looking? Does she have blonde hair?”

  “Well, as to looks, I wouldn’t care to say. But her hair is brown.”

  “And she calls herself de Gruchy?” The situation had to be dealt with, and in James’ absence it had to be her responsibility. “You’d better send her up.”

  “Would you like me to come up with her?” Mrs Hotchkin was a large, powerful woman. But if this stranger was an enemy agent who had somehow learnt of the section and where to find it, she would probably be armed.

  “No, no, Mrs Hotchkin, I can manage,” she said. Rachel discovered that her heart was beating quite powerfully. She went to her desk, opened the drawer and took out the Browning automatic pistol that lay there. She checked that it was loaded. She had only fired it on the range, and her only experience of being under fire herself had been in that frantic battle in the cave eighteen months before, when she had had James on one side of her and Liane on the other. She reminded herself that this woman could still be Liane, somehow escaped to England, with dyed hair; but not even Mrs Hotchkin could have second thoughts as to Liane’s beauty.

  There was a tap on the door. Rachel stood against the wall beside it, the pistol held in both hands.

  “It’s open.” The door swung in, the woman stepped through and Rachel kicked it shut, at the same time presenting the pistol to the back of the intruder’s head. “Raise your hands.”

  “Rachel?” The young woman ignored the command and turned to face her.

  “Oh, my God!” Rachel lowered the pistol. “Amalie Burstein?”

  Amalie de Gruchy was Liane’s youngest sister. She was indeed attractive rather than pretty and had curling dark brown hair escaping from a cloche. Her coat and dress were expensive, as befitted a de Gruchy.

  “I thought that dragon downstairs was going to eat me.” She spoke English with no trace of accent. “Is James here?”

  “If you mean Pound One, you should say so. He’s not here at the moment.” She laid down the pistol, took Amalie’s coat and hung it on the hook behind the door. “But what are you doing here? How are you here?” Amalie had been plucked from France the previous year, as much wanted by the Germans for killing one of their senior officers as was her sister. But once Amalie was safely in England, to live with her also exiled parents, Rachel had assumed her to be permanently retired.

  Amalie was pouting at her rebuff. “I was sent here. May I sit down?”

  Rachel gestured to the spare chair. “Sent here by whom?”

  Amalie sat down. “Some old geyser. A brigadier general.”

  “The brigadier sent you here? You know him?”

  “I don’t. Well, I didn’t until he came to Ashley Hall.”

  Rachel all but scratched her head. “I am in a total fog. You have been at Ashley Hall?” This was the main training establishment for would-be female agents. Rachel had trained there herself, as had Joanna Jonsson.

  “Terrible place. Do you know it? But of course you do. Mummy knows the commandant. And I was so bored, sitting down there in the country, and so worried about Liane… How is she?”

  “Wheren I find out, I’ll let you know. So, you have been trained as an agent. Rather like ferrying coals to Newcastle, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, no. I knew nothing about spying and codes and unarmed combat and that sort of thing. Or explosives.”

  “But I’ll bet you were the only one in your class who had actually ever killed a man. Did you say explosives?”

  Amalie giggled. “I was the youngest, too.”

  Rachel recalled that this girl was only twenty-two and had already seen her home destroyed and her family scattered, her husband of only a few months hanged, had herself been imprisoned briefly by the Gestapo, attempted suicide, committed murder… and yet appeared perfectly normal. Because she was Liane’s sister?

  “I am now an explosives expert,” Amalie claimed proudly. “Show me what you want blown up, and I’ll do it for you.”

  “And so the brigadier found you…?”

  “No, no. I found him. Well, Mummy did.”

  Rachel made a mental note that one day she had to meet Madame de Gruchy. James, who had met her, had told her that her maiden name had been Howard, with a distant connection to the Howards, and that there could be no doubt where her daughters got their looks from. “And then I told him I wanted to go back to France. I want to be back with Liane.”

  “Your mother goes along with this?”

  “Mummy knows I want to work in the Secret Service. She doesn’t know I’m going back to France.”

  “You’ll have to talk to James about that. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I seem to have lived off tea for the past four months. You wouldn’t have any Gruchy?”

  “At a hundred pounds a bottle? I’ll make some tea.” She went into the little flat that adjoined the office and poured some water. “Do you ever hear anything of Madeleine?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Amalie followed her into the kitchenette. “That’s not very likely, is it?”

  “She’s your sister.”

  “Who married a German, remember?”

  “She helped your mother and father, and you, escape from France.”

  “So blood is thicker than water. Her husband’s people killed my husband. She’s a Nazi. Do we have to talk about her?”

  “I just thought you might be interested in a news item we received this morning.” Rachel put down her cup, led the way back into the office and picked up the transcript she had placed on James’ desk.

  “Aren’t those things top secret?” Amalie asked, following her.

  “Not all of them. I thought this might interest James.”

  Amalie took the sheet of paper; it had been translated into English. She read it aloud:

  “Nazi war hero Colonel Frederick von Helsingen invalided home from Russia, seriously wounded. Frederick von Helsingen is the only son of millionaire businessman Johann von Helsingen, one of the Fuehrer’s closest associates, and is married to French wine heiress Madeleine de Gruchy.” She snorted. “Heiress? Even if there is anything left to inherit after the War, she is not going to see any of it. She should be locked up for the rest of her life.”

  “Is that all you can say? Didn’t Helsingen pull rank to get you out of a Gestapo cell?”

  “He did that to impress Madeleine. I hope he’s shot all to pieces.”

  “Here’s James,” Rachel said with some relief.

  “James!” Amalie cried, throwing herself into his arms.

  He kissed her. “You’re looking great.”

  “You mean you’re not surprised to see her?” Rachel asked.

  “The brigadier told me she had volunteered.” He looked down at Amalie, who was still in his arms. As Liane’s sister, she was one of his favourite people. “Do you seriously want to go back?”

  “She wants to be with Liane,” Rachel said acidly.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” Amalie demanded.

  “Of course not,” James said. “But you do realize that you are still under sentence of death?”

&n
bsp; “So is Liane. And Pierre is already dead. What have I got to live for that is so special? Except for Liane.”

  James hugged her again. Save for Liane herself, he had been the last to see Pierre de Gruchy, their only brother, alive, before he had been cut down by German bullets during the disastrous attack on Dieppe the previous summer.

  “You’ll see Liane again,” he promised. “Now go home and keep you mouth shut, and I’ll contact you in a couple of days.”

  “You’re not just pushing me aside. I am going back?”

  “Unless the brigadier changes his mind.”

  She kissed him again and glanced at Rachel, who was holding her coat. “Two days,” she said and left the office.

  James closed the door. “She’s a ball of fire.”

  “You’re not seriously sending her back to France?”

  “Pound’s idea. He thinks she may stir things up.”

  “Stir things up?” Rachel cried. “She’s a menace. The moment she lays eyes on a German, she’s liable to shoot him. You’re sending her to her death, James, and God knows how many other people she’ll take with her. Including Liane.”

  “I’m not sending her anywhere,” James said mildly, sitting at his desk. “I’m taking her with me when I go.”

  “You’re doing what?” Rachel also sat down, but involuntarily.

  “De Gaulle is very upset at losing contact with Moulin, and the brass agree with us that he is probably with Liane and that they are probably in the Massif. They want me to find them, and the boss thinks that Amalie may be very helpful; she knows that area almost as well as Liane. Besides, they have a job for us to do, and Amalie is important for that. She’s qualified as an explosives expert.”

  “So she told me. What is she going to blow up, apart from herself?”

  “Wolfram.”

  “Say again?”

  “Don’t you know what wolfram is?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s the basic element from which tungsten is made. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of tungsten?”