The Spy by Marc Eden Page B

he could see her, while addressing them both. “Within a few days,” he said, “we will leave Polperro by motor launch to rendezvous with a submarine in the Channel. It will be at night, when we expect the cover of a major storm. The submarine will take you up to Brittany. Once ashore, and in contact with the Underground—the DSM , Pierre—they will send us a signal.” The Commander paused. It was vital that de Beck understood.
    Lé Direction de La Securite Militaire?
    He had it.
    â€œPresuming your mission successful, that is, that you get the information—you will be returning on that same submarine, at coordinates to be announced. Or one of you at least, hmmm? Should either of you fail, for any reason, to make your appearance, we will assume that you have either been captured or, that you are somehow returning via an alternate route .” She was listening intently. “In that event, naturally, you will be beyond our help.”
    â€œThis rendezvous point off Brittany,” said Pierre, “where exactly?”
    Valerie sat up.
    Hamilton threw her a glance. “Two hundred yards straight in, two hundred yard straight out. For the month of July, no currents, a flat sea. You will move in to the beach at a direct right angle to the sub, so observe your route.”
    â€œSuppose the Boche intercept the signal?”
    â€œYou mean from the Underground?” Hamilton queried.
    â€œ Oui .”
    â€œYou do your job, that’s highly unlikely. However, nothing is ever really certain, is it?”
    Capture, he meant.
    Pierre caught the inference, he had a question.
    â€œNo cyanide,” Hamilton said, answering it.
    Hedges flew past, yellow sun emerging from clouds.
    â€œWhy no cyanide?” Pierre now insisted, checking his mileage. “Surely if we’re caught...”
    â€œIf caught, you could still be rescued,” Hamilton pointed out.
    â€œBut we would be tortured!”
    The Commander silenced him with a gesture. He did it from the rearview mirror. The argument was over. Suicide was out. Obviously, de Beck had expected the last minute issuance of the poison. Sinclair, who hadn’t thought about it, had not. She stared at the back of the Frenchman’s head, noting a thick neck.
    â€œWhen you know we’re coming, will you signal from the sea?”
    â€œNo. We are foregoing the navigational beacon.”
    â€œI see.” Pierre, mind like a ferret, was mulling it over. No beacon, no cyanide. He looked up, into the mirror. “What kind of submarine, Commander?”
    â€œThe kind you can get blown up in, old boy.”
    â€œExcuse me, Commander...”
    â€œWhat is it, Lieutenant?”
    Sinclair took a drag on her cigarette, she was planning ahead. “Will we be wearing life-jackets?”
    How would she find one to fit her?
    â€œWe are not planning for you to swim , Sinclair! You will be provided with...whatever is appropriate.” Life-jackets ? He had never been asked that before. “You will leave, you will rendezvous. The submarine will take you to a point just off the extreme north coast of the Bay of Biscay. You will then continue in a Carley float, that’s a raft , Lieutenant”—she put out her cigarette—“landing you below the village of Lorient—”
    â€œSouth of Brest,” Pierre said.
    â€œRight. Now then, we are assuming you will meet no one on this lonely stretch of beach. If you are questioned, Valerie, you are merely a student...lower form, as it were, at a northern Catholic lycée. Your identification will place you in the School for Orphans at Combourg, near Avranches. Difficult to check, you see? Pierre is a friend, or cousin if you will, and the two of you decided to do some fishing after visiting with his family.”
    â€œWho live inland?”
    â€œYes. Their farm, isn’t it Pierre?”
    â€œOur farm, that’s right.”
    â€œThat’s