Page 52 of Whispers At Dawn
Privately, she dubbed him ‘Little Hitler,’ and her secret joke amused her. It was a term she’d heard on a British radio broadcast in the early days of the war. It was growing too dangerous to tune into any, but the official French permitted channels now. But that’s what she called Armand, although she didn’t share her mockery with anyone else. In wartime, it was best to keep such thoughts to oneself.
Armand drank his coffee, and it didn’t cross his mind for a second to offer refreshments to the informants. After two more trickled in and out to report matters ranging from Jews, they believed should be arrested for flouting the latest statutes, toa discarded weapon left on his desk, wrapped in a muddy handkerchief, and found on the banks of the river. ‘I believe one of the Resistance rats dropped this,’ the man said, disdain spewing from every syllable.
He noted down the incidents and targets of the informants’ venom studiously in his lined blue notebook, which he had procured purely for this purpose. He referred to it often and was pleased with the quality of intelligence he was collating. Sometimes incidents and people cross-referenced when he looked back, and he had a growing number of suspects either under surveillance or in line for surveillance when resources permitted.
Armand assembled his own task force with Vichy head office’s blessing, and it was clear, at least to him, he was the only member of the Legion in the Toulouse branch who was making significant progress in rooting out traitors. The rest of his colleagues of similar standing merely wiled away the time in uneventful long-winded meetings and dull lengthy lunches where they patted each other on the back for their performance in WW1 and found ways to exploit the current system. Armand suspected some of them were in De Gaulle’s back pocket.
The time would come when Armand would have the ear of the Nazi leadership, and he would know exactly who had to go, so he was playing a game of stealth. Few would pass his loyalty test.
He called out to Josette that he wouldn’t be seeing any more informants until next week and she should not disturb him. After closing his door, he pulled on the shutters, so the room was in shade, and put his feet up on his desk. His head nestled comfortably into the back of his chair, which he’d taken from the spoils of a Jew’s requisitioned family home, and he drifted into a deep sleep within minutes, mouth open and snoring lightly.
He dreamt he was marching up the Champs-Élysées in full battle dress, his tunic laden with medals glorifying his illustrious past. The Führer sat at the front of the parade and bestowed a new medal on him and thanked him for his service.
Then the dream morphed abruptly, and he saw the injured body of a young man in a trench. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he clutched his chest where a knife was embedded deep in his flesh through the material of his uniform.
Armand still remembered the words Abraham muttered to him with his last breath. ‘Shema Israel,’ he gasped.
Armand had later found out what the words meant because no matter how he tried to dismiss Abraham’s death from his mind, the young Jew’s face wracked with pain haunted him.
He discovered thatShema Israelwas the name of a Hebrew prayer:Hear O Israel. It was a plea to God that Jews recited, especially when in danger.
Armand’s head lolled to the side, jerking him awake, and his eyes peeled open. He rubbed his sore neck and coughed to clear his dry throat, spluttering.
The vision of Abraham’s lifeless staring eyes had forced his nap to an abrupt end. He removed his feet from the desk, straightened his uniform, and left the building without a word to anyone.
It was time for lunch at the Place du Capitole. Today, he would order something particularly delicious. He hoped he might see the man from the château with his lady wife. There was something about those two. He didn’t know what, but he would get to the bottom of it. He always did.
It was only a matter of time.
CHAPTER 26
Lizzie stirred and the memory of what they were about to do flooded her consciousness, making her senses race so she was instantly wide awake.
She reached out her hand to pat the sheet next to her, sensing she was alone in the big bed. ‘Where are you?’ she whispered into the dense darkness.
‘Morning, sleeping beauty,’ Jack said, crossing into the bedroom and standing over her. She could make out his silhouette in the dim light from the bathroom.
He leaned over Lizzie and kissed her. His skin was warm and damp, and his breath minty fresh.
‘It’s not morning, is it?’ she asked, hitching herself up in the bed.
‘It’s almost three. I was about to wake you. We must leave in the next ten minutes. All going to plan, Lev should be waiting for us.’
Lizzie jumped out of bed and pulled on the dress she’d laid out.
‘Wear your coat, too. There’ll be a chill in the air at this time of night,’ Jack said, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep.
‘We’re going on a dangerous operation, and you’re concerned I’ll catch a chill?’ Lizzie laughed softly, careful not to wake the slumbering inhabitants of the château.
‘You make a fair point, but I can’t stop taking care of you. It’s ingrained in me.’
‘Don’t stop,’ she said, reaching up on her bare feet to kiss him. ‘It’s quite the most romantic thing and I wouldn’t change it for the world. Doesn’t mean you’re not funny, though.’
‘Great. Just what I was going for. I’ve become a buffoon,’ he teased.
Sometimes, she couldn’t believe how blessed she was to have met Jack. What would she be doing now if Drake hadn’t spotted her for the SOE and insisted she meet with the recruiter? She’d probably still be translating dull documents at the War Office, bored out of her mind like Evie.
Instead, she was in the thrilling position to make a real difference to the outcome of the war. Unlike when she went on her first undercover mission, oblivious to the knowledge she was the first woman to be dropped into occupied France by the SOE, now there were hundreds of agents embedded in occupied territories. Some worked in key roles within the Nazi administration, passing intelligence to Baker Street, and orchestrating daily acts of defiance. They were all doing their bit, and she was proud to have been involved since the start.
