the street, we knew where to dig, and this time we paid no attention to the air-raid wardens.
“Remind me why we didn’t just go to a bar in Little London?”
“The pubs are better here,” Morven replied as she tossed a chunk of concrete. “At least for the time being.”
O NE NIGHT in the spring of 1942, my last caller turned out to be Neverino. He checked behind all the radiators before he uttered a word. “Please correct me if I am being presumptuous,” he said, “but I wonder if the White Witch isn’t bored out of her gourd, doing this as long as she has?” I was, truth be told, and furthermore I was beginning to fear my disguises weren’t really fooling anyone. He told me he had a new job for me, a real opportunity, the work I was made for.
“You must go back to London—tonight, if you can—and tomorrow afternoon go to this address.” He handed me a card. Once I’d read it I held it to a candle, then tossed the flaming bit of paper into the grate, and Neverino nodded in approval. He instructed me to present myself as “Alice” and tell whomever answered the door that I was there to see “Mr. Robbins.” He left that night without telling me whom I was really meeting or what this was all about.
The address on the card turned out to be Orchard Court, where the Special Operations Executive kept apartments for interviews. When Jonah—“Mr. Robbins”—opened the door, my first thought was that his face reminded me of an effigy, a medieval knight. His features had a finely chiseled quality, though there was nothing cold in his looks or manner. He was tall and dark, clean-cut though a bit rumpled round the edges. The man clearly hadn’t been to the barber in a while—his hair was tousled like a small boy’s—and he hadn’t shaved in at least two days either. Still, you could tell at a glance that he inspired confidence—but more important, that his capable air was born out of acumen rather than arrogance. He walked with a pronounced limp, but if the injury pained him much he gave no other indication of it.
He didn’t tell me his real name then, of course, nor did I give him mine. He ushered me into the apartment and a sturdy young woman, his assistant, served me instant coffee using a proper tea service, an incongruity that made me grin. Robbins caught my eye and smiled with me at the joke, offered me a cigarette, and then proceeded to conduct the most banal and utterly aimless conversation I’ve ever had.
He asked about my family, my upbringing, my educational background, but there was no mistaking this for an ordinary interview: he would switch from German to French and back again, and I would answer in the same language. I eyed him appraisingly as he spoke; he had to be in his late thirties. No wedding ring, but I had an inkling he was married. I was eighty-one years old by this time, but I had documentation stating my age as thirty-eight, and my natural appearance was younger still. I could do this.
“I’ve heard a great deal about your activities in Berlin,” he said at last. “We would be very much obliged if you would agree to work for us.”
“Pardon me, but if I’m not mistaken, I’ve already been working for you lot for quite some time.” I affected distance, taking slow pulls on my cigarette as he told me there would be at least three phases of training before I received my first assignment. Phase one commenced tomorrow.
I came out of that meeting feeling giddy as a tadpole, though I did my best not to show it.
T HANKS TO the glowing references of Neverino and others in the Centaur network, I was able to bypass the SOE preliminary school, where they conducted introductory weapons training while weeding out the recruits who couldn’t pass muster. It would have been rather silly to test me so, seeing as I had already proven myself a reliable subagent in Berlin.
I eventually found out that Robbins was something of a hero. Assigned to a resistance circuit outside Lyons
“Remind me why we didn’t just go to a bar in Little London?”
“The pubs are better here,” Morven replied as she tossed a chunk of concrete. “At least for the time being.”
O NE NIGHT in the spring of 1942, my last caller turned out to be Neverino. He checked behind all the radiators before he uttered a word. “Please correct me if I am being presumptuous,” he said, “but I wonder if the White Witch isn’t bored out of her gourd, doing this as long as she has?” I was, truth be told, and furthermore I was beginning to fear my disguises weren’t really fooling anyone. He told me he had a new job for me, a real opportunity, the work I was made for.
“You must go back to London—tonight, if you can—and tomorrow afternoon go to this address.” He handed me a card. Once I’d read it I held it to a candle, then tossed the flaming bit of paper into the grate, and Neverino nodded in approval. He instructed me to present myself as “Alice” and tell whomever answered the door that I was there to see “Mr. Robbins.” He left that night without telling me whom I was really meeting or what this was all about.
The address on the card turned out to be Orchard Court, where the Special Operations Executive kept apartments for interviews. When Jonah—“Mr. Robbins”—opened the door, my first thought was that his face reminded me of an effigy, a medieval knight. His features had a finely chiseled quality, though there was nothing cold in his looks or manner. He was tall and dark, clean-cut though a bit rumpled round the edges. The man clearly hadn’t been to the barber in a while—his hair was tousled like a small boy’s—and he hadn’t shaved in at least two days either. Still, you could tell at a glance that he inspired confidence—but more important, that his capable air was born out of acumen rather than arrogance. He walked with a pronounced limp, but if the injury pained him much he gave no other indication of it.
He didn’t tell me his real name then, of course, nor did I give him mine. He ushered me into the apartment and a sturdy young woman, his assistant, served me instant coffee using a proper tea service, an incongruity that made me grin. Robbins caught my eye and smiled with me at the joke, offered me a cigarette, and then proceeded to conduct the most banal and utterly aimless conversation I’ve ever had.
He asked about my family, my upbringing, my educational background, but there was no mistaking this for an ordinary interview: he would switch from German to French and back again, and I would answer in the same language. I eyed him appraisingly as he spoke; he had to be in his late thirties. No wedding ring, but I had an inkling he was married. I was eighty-one years old by this time, but I had documentation stating my age as thirty-eight, and my natural appearance was younger still. I could do this.
“I’ve heard a great deal about your activities in Berlin,” he said at last. “We would be very much obliged if you would agree to work for us.”
“Pardon me, but if I’m not mistaken, I’ve already been working for you lot for quite some time.” I affected distance, taking slow pulls on my cigarette as he told me there would be at least three phases of training before I received my first assignment. Phase one commenced tomorrow.
I came out of that meeting feeling giddy as a tadpole, though I did my best not to show it.
T HANKS TO the glowing references of Neverino and others in the Centaur network, I was able to bypass the SOE preliminary school, where they conducted introductory weapons training while weeding out the recruits who couldn’t pass muster. It would have been rather silly to test me so, seeing as I had already proven myself a reliable subagent in Berlin.
I eventually found out that Robbins was something of a hero. Assigned to a resistance circuit outside Lyons
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