The Spy by Marc Eden Page A

him.
    Hamilton stepped out into the sun. “Well now Sinclair, had a good journey, did we?” As her superior officer, Commander Hamilton was about as romantic as yesterday’s newspaper— The Daily Telegraph , she had left it on the train. He gave her the once-over, making notes. She was looking better since the beating: her face was powdered, and her lipstick bright.
    Lips a bit puffed.
    Outside the station a car pulled up. The driver, in Free French military blue, walked across the tracks to greet them. Pierre was feeling good. He had just got laid. Valerie was happy to see it was Captain de Beck.
    â€œLieutenant! What’s going on? You look so charming.” Smiles flashed in the sun. “I realize I may have asked you before, but may I call you Valerie?” He grinned, indicating the girl with the shake of his head. “Valerie Sinclair, right?” It was addressed to Hamilton.
    â€œTry Valerie Marchaud ,” he said.
    Her cover had arrived.
    Valerie brightened. “Marchaud?”
    The call from General LeClerc’s headquarters at SOE had come from the Missions Research Officer, a Major Guy Farvillant, who had determined the name from records: a twelve-year old French circus performer reputedly killed by the Gestapo in the earliest days of the war. Blessed with an exceptional memory, the French child had expressed a grace far beyond her years: a normal attribute with children of the trapeze. Fascinated by her uncanny physical resemblance to Sinclair, Farvillant, genius in genealogy, had continued to follow her, eagerly exhuming dusty histories, until Valerie Marchaud had disappeared. Something odd, about the death certificate—dates left open, witnesses shot instead of the victim. Could she still be alive? Sharing this with Hamilton, the Commander had assured him it wouldn’t matter. After all this time, would she still be twelve? Farvillant had to agree. Following further talks with Seymour, the French officer had turned this background, complete with its mysteries, into the girl Valerie Sinclair would become. A man whom she had never met had just renamed her, assigning her to history in the world of yet-to-be.
    The candidate had turned Pro.
    The Commander pulled them close. Passengers were walking past them. “So then!” It was fifty miles to Polperro. “Shall we be off?”
    Pierre picked up the gear.
    A breeze tugged at her hair; the air felt cooler.
    The Frenchman escorted them to a green Rolls Royce, the result of a dockside deal between Seymour and Bridley, following their confrontation with the Irishman at the El Flamingo. Leased to MI.5, specifically to Hamilton, the car was at the Commander’s disposal until such time as the Free French delivered it back to SOE for the exclusive use of General Charles De Gaulle. As part of the deal, the French had insisted on their own driver. De Beck got a chauffeur’s cap, Seymour got a black eye, and Bridley had got away. Blackstone would get the bill.
    â€œTogether, are we?” Hamilton purred.
    Sinclair got in. Luxurious leather and rosewood surrounded her on all sides. Her hand caressed the rich felt. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the car’s perfume, whose name was power. Blimey, she thought, now ain’t this the cat’s meow.
    Hamilton, on whom her reaction had not been lost, joined her now in the back seat, and Pierre closed the doors. Up front, he was fiddling with something. It was a chauffeur’s cap.
    â€œProblem, Pierre?”
    Pierrre adjusted his cap. “Ready when you are, Commander.”
    Hamilton lit a cigarette, offering one to Sinclair, who took it like a lady. The Frenchman started the motor and soon had them out of Falmouth. He pulled a hard right, swinging the southern sun behind them, then accelerated. Dark clouds stood distant.
    Sinclair leaned back.
    The sleek green Shadow sped down the narrow English road. In the back seat, Hamilton had turned, so that