Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2) Read online

  He turned to Jeremy. “Resisting will get harder, not easier. Hitler plans to push Frenchmen out of the areas he occupies to make room for German families, and he terrorizes the French population. Operating there will become more dangerous and difficult with each passing day, and a terrorized population might not help much.”

  Jeremy listened intently. Now at a loss for words, he studied Henri. At last, he said, “What do you suggest?”

  Henri smiled with a resigned air and gestured to his comrades at the end of the table. “We’ll do no good if we’re not united in this. I suggest you leave the matter for us to discuss among ourselves. We’ll get back in touch through Hérisson and let you know our decision.”

  “You did an excellent job,” Maurice told Jeremy as they drove away.

  “Sure. And that’s why we were so successful,” Jeremy countered. Fatigue descended on him, the combined effects of strenuous travel, the evening with Amélie, and the mental demands of the meeting he had just left. “What Pierre and Kenyon said should have clinched Henri’s cooperation. It didn’t.” He stared out the window. “The only good thing that came out of this trip is that I got to see Amélie. But that’s not why you brought me here. I failed.”

  Maurice glanced guardedly at him but said nothing.

  They arrived at the villa. Fourcade and Maurice conferred quietly. Chantal appeared momentarily, and then left with Maurice for a vegetable delivery run.

  Fourcade joined the remaining four men for lunch on the patio. “Maurice said you did a tremendous job,” she said. “He said you gave it your all.”

  Jeremy stood by the table, looking about, uninterested in the food. “I didn’t succeed. Two of the men are still bitter about the bombing of their navy.”

  “That’s to be expected. It’s only been two weeks. I haven’t met Phillippe or the other two men there. Maurice said Phillippe was adamant that they should work with us. We’ll keep prodding them. They can’t just ignore your arguments, and from what I can tell of Phillippe, he’ll push them.”

  Jeremy nodded abjectly. “Where’s Amélie?” he asked at last.

  Fourcade filled two goblets with wine and handed one to him. “Come with me, my friend,” she said. Putting her arm around his back, she guided him to another seating area away from the others. “Amélie had to go away.”

  Jeremy stared at her. “She didn’t say anything last night. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened, Jeremy. I can’t tell you much for security reasons. She’s on a mission. She didn’t mention it because she didn’t want to spoil her time with you.”

  Jeremy grimaced, reflecting on the last words Amélie had said to him: When we are together, we must enjoy the moments. He remained quiet as he gathered his thoughts, and then asked, “Is she in danger?”

  Fourcade nodded. “I won’t lie to you. I should tell you something about Amélie and her sister. They were both traumatized by Chantal’s near rape, and”—she searched for words—“well, you know Amélie killed that soldier in defending her sister. And of course, that led to the manhunt for their father, Ferrand.” She continued telling what she knew of the girls’ flight south from Dunkirk to Marseille. “The bottom line is, they both want to be involved in a serious way with the Resistance. That’s how they keep their sanity, especially with their father leading his network. Where Chantal is concerned—”

  “Does Chantal know she’s gone? Does Ferrand know about this?”

  Fourcade shook her head and sighed. “Chantal is with Maurice. She thinks he needed her on short notice and that her sister is still sleeping. As for Ferrand, he runs his Boulier network and I run the Alliance group. Resistance networks don’t inform each other of their activities unless coordination is needed.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Was this mission necessary?”

  Fourcade scrutinized Jeremy’s face. Sensing the emotional struggle behind his mask, she nodded. “Her mission might save thousands of lives.”

  “And Amélie is the only person who could do it?”

  “She’s not the only one, but she’s the best person.”

  Jeremy winced. “I suppose you won’t tell me why. Is she going back to Dunkirk?”

  Fourcade inhaled. “I’ve said as much as I can. Look, you’re boarding a submarine tonight to return to England, but you could be captured getting to the rendezvous point. The less you know, the better.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jeremy retorted with a tinge of sarcasm. He took a small container from his pocket. “I have my lethal pills. The bastards will learn nothing from me.”

  Fourcade embraced him. “You’re a good man, Jeremy Littlefield. Shall we join the others?” She took his arm and they headed toward the table. “Bringing Horton was brilliant. He’s close to Kenyon and Pierre. Henri and his friends like him, and he’s credible with British intelligence. He’ll be a wonderful liaison.”

  Jeremy halted, held Fourcade back with his hand, and faced her. “I had an ulterior motive for bringing him. Horton knows about it, but my superiors don’t. It’s personal, and I need your help.”

  “Ah, Jeremy. What are we to do about you? A transparent operator can bring danger on himself.” She smiled, squeezed his arm, and gestured toward the three men at the table. “Those men fought alongside Lance.” She laughed lightly. “We’ll use all the assets that come our way. With their help and that of our various Resistance networks, if there’s a chance to find him and bring him home, we’ll do it.”

  Jeremy’s face quivered as he fought back emotion.

  “No need to say anything,” Fourcade added. “We’re in this fight together.”

  8

  While Jeremy was exhorting Henri and his friends at the farmhouse, Amélie exited the first checkpoint she encountered, this one run by Pétain’s gendarme. Her papers identifying her as Monique Perrier had worked. Her father had them prepared for her in short order immediately after the debacle with the soldier’s killing at Dunkirk.

  They had been her first inkling of the covert life that Ferrand had fashioned and the Resistance group he had organized bearing their surname, the Boulier network. The German army had invaded less than ten days earlier, and in the interim, it had engaged in mop-up operations and secured the areas of France south and east of Dunkirk. As a precaution during their flight from Dunkirk, Amélie and Chantal had avoided public conveyance, traveled only on small backroads, and stayed with relatives and friends. As a result, they had not had to show their forged documents.

  In the days prior to Amélie’s departure from Marseille on her current mission, Maurice had passed her papers by local Resistance forgers, checking for the minutest details that, if questioned, could result in her arrest. She had left the villa early in the morning before Jeremy had stirred. The big Frenchman met her at the gate and drove her to the train station in Marseille.

  Her eyes had misted as she got into his van. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” she sniffed. Maurice had shot her a doleful look.

  “I know, I know,” she said, waving him off. “It’s for our own protection.”

  Her travel plan called for taking the train from Marseille to her destination, Dinard, roughly three hundred and thirty miles southwest of Dunkirk.

  The first checkpoint was at the train station in Marseille and had rattled her nerves with memories of the suffering she had witnessed at German hands, but she had boarded the train without incident. Then, as it approached Bourges near the southern border between free and occupied northern France, it slowed to a crawl, the screech of steel wheels on steel rails resounding amidst the whoosh of released steam, the clatter of cars passing over railroad ties, and the shriek of the whistle.

  Bourges was an ancient town, conquered and destroyed by Julius Caesar despite the protection afforded by the marshes on one side and being encircled on three sides by the Yèvre River. The Romans had rebuilt it with a monumental gate and massive stone walls. An iconic cathedral stood there, an architectural wonder with
flying buttresses. Building commenced in the late twelfth century and was completed roughly a hundred and thirty years later. The town was much fought over during its further history, being coveted and changing hands among dukes, counts, kings, and most recently, by the tyrant from east of the Maginot Line with a strange manner of saluting.

  Today, the charm and history of Bourges were far from the minds of the train’s passengers. Along the platforms on both sides of the station, German border guards patrolled with submachineguns pointed loosely toward the train. Many held back dogs straining on leashes and snarling at terrified passengers. Spaced intermittently, swastika-emblazoned blood-red banners draped from the top of wire-mesh security fences topped with stark barbed wire.

  The train halted. Men in plainclothes accompanied by soldiers in dark uniforms boarded and moved briskly through the cars, scrutinizing each face against identification documents. The schedule that had offered the most opportune time of day for Amélie’s crossing had also been carefully selected for being the busiest time when the attention of inspectors would be stretched among many travelers.

  A border control officer stood in front of Amélie. He was tall and thin with a humorless face. While he examined her papers, two soldiers stared at her over his shoulders. One barely concealed a lascivious grin; the other held a growling dog on a very short leash.

  “You’re going back home to live?” the officer asked in passable French.

  Looking small and meek as she had practiced, Amélie nodded. “My parents didn’t want me in the middle of all the fighting, so they sent me south. But now that your army has won, we want to establish our new lives under the Reich.”

  The inspector scrutinized her more closely. “Perhaps you’re telling me what I want to hear. Don’t you know? The French will be required to relocate. Maybe you’re with the Resistance?”

  Amélie forced a grin. “Look at me, sir. Do I look like I could harm anyone? I’ve lived in our village all my life. I don’t know anywhere else, and the people in the south are not serious. They don’t recognize the new world order our führer is building, but when he is victorious, they will benefit. The war is moving toward the south. I want to go home where it’s already gone by. We had heard about the relocation plan. My grandparents on my mother’s side are German, and they are coming to live with us, so we’re eligible to stay. It’s good that we will have only Aryans as neighbors.”

  The inspector eyed her dubiously. “Your ticket is for Dinard. You must know that Field Marshal Reichenau set up his field headquarters there?” He watched her reaction.

  “I didn’t know,” Amélie said in feigned surprise. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? The town should be safer with such an important part of the Wehrmacht there.”

  The officer stared into her eyes. She dared not shift her own. Then, without another word, he continued on to the next passenger, taking his escorts with him.

  Amélie leaned back in her seat without daring to show signs of relief. She watched the station through the window, hardly believing that what she saw occurred in France. She hated the banners with their swastikas. Twice, while the train waited, police whistles blew, and German security troops descended on what appeared to be ordinary citizens doing nothing other than moving through the station. Both times, the people were hustled away, terror imprinted on their faces.

  More people boarded, including soldiers of les Boches military in their assorted attires. She found the variety of German uniforms confusing, recalling that the Wehrmacht wore field gray while the SS wore black. Then there were all the pieces of regalia denoting rank, combat exposure, medals for who-knows-what…

  Without trying to sort out the issue and in spite of herself, Amélie dozed. The hiss of steam awakened her, and she opened her eyes. The train had begun to roll, and passengers took the last remaining seats.

  Suddenly, Amélie’s heart pulsed, she flushed a deep red, and her body felt numb. She looked down reflexively and then forced herself to be calm.

  Hauptman Bergmann, the officer who had first come to the Boulier house after the invasion of Dunkirk, worked his way toward her in a black uniform with the dreaded skull of the SS in the center of his service cap. The soldier who had tried to rape Chantal had been in his command before Bergmann transferred to the SS. It was he who had mounted the manhunt for Amélie’s father as well as herself and Chantal. If he saw her, he would certainly recognize and arrest her.

  She tried not to look at him, but her eyes were drawn to him like moths to a flame. Ten rows before reaching her, he spoke sharply to an old couple sitting together. They vacated their seats, and he slid in, accompanied by another SS officer.

  The old couple looked as forlorn as they did fearful as they moved along the aisle toward Amélie. As they were about to pass, she caught their eye, put a finger across her lips, and indicated for them to take her seat. It would be tight, but that was their concern. Her immediate desire was to distance herself from Bergmann.

  The couple protested with shakes of their heads, but Amélie stood and once again, with arched eyebrows, motioned them to silence and gestured toward the SS captain. Without a word, they pressed her wrist in thanks and sat down.

  Amélie proceeded toward the rear of the train. She found a seat near the far end of the third car back and settled in, positioning herself as if asleep with a scarf shading her eyes. She left an opening through which she could watch the way she had come.

  After numerous stops and endless hours, the train rolled into the station at Dinard. Amélie’s heart pounded as she moved rapidly to the rear exit, trying to remember all that Fourcade, Maurice, and Kenyon had taught her. Correction. That’s Hérisson, Renard, and Opossum. And I am Colibri, or Monique, to those who need a name.

  “If you find yourself within sight of your enemy,” Fourcade had instructed, “keep him in view until your intended directions diverge. Find a place to watch for him. When you see your way is clear, move out, and keep checking behind you, near and far.”

  On emerging from the train, she saw Bergmann, but Amélie stayed in the shadows, keeping the top of his service cap in sight as he moved easily through the checkpoint. She had to wait in line, but it moved fairly quickly, and having passed scrutiny twice, Amélie had gained confidence in her documents. Distracted by Bergmann’s proximity, she walked through with no more or less a display of nerves than anyone else.

  She left the station in time to see the Hauptman climb into the back of a Kübelwagen and be driven away. Holding her sense of relief in abeyance, she glanced about casually and spotted an isolated corner in the shadows. Making her way there, she lit a cigarette, leaned against a wall, and scanned the crowd. When she was sure she was not being observed or followed, she made her way through the town to a small boarding house that Fourcade had arranged.

  From the shade of an umbrella over her table at a sidewalk café near the entrance to Field Marshal Reichenau’s 10th Army headquarters, Amélie watched her target, a young woman. She had been surprised by two aspects of Dinard, the first being that the Germans had so rapidly converted it into a reflection of their own culture complete with omnipresent soldiers, red banners with swastikas, and street signs lettered in German. The second aspect was the absence of physical damage done to this jewel of a town. She saw none.

  She had witnessed the destruction of Dunkirk, and on escaping from there with her sister ahead of the German advance, she had seen huge areas blighted by field artillery, tank fire, and bombs dropped from the sky, along with the general destruction caused by vast numbers of refugees fleeing ahead of hordes of soldiers and vehicles obliterating villages and laying waste to the countryside.

  A few days after leaving her home, Marshal Pétain, the Great War hero entrusted to lead France during its greatest need, had ceded most of the country without a fight. She looked at the undamaged shops. The Nazis rolled in unopposed.

  She focused again on the young lady walking along the street toward her, Jeannie Rousseau. As Fourcade had to
ld Amélie, she was unusually beautiful. Dressed in a full skirt with a white linen blouse, she walked with poise and confidence, treating those she encountered along the street with friendliness and courtesy. As she drew closer, Amélie saw that she had big, steady brown eyes, shaped eyebrows, a turned-up nose, well-coiffed hair, and a smile that seemed perpetually on the verge of laughter.

  Jeannie passed the café and continued down the street. As she rounded a corner, Amélie followed unobtrusively. A few blocks along the way, Jeannie turned through a gate, ambled up a walkway by a neat garden, and entered a house.

  Amélie compared the address to the one she had memorized. Identity confirmed. If the information Fourcade had provided was correct, the mayor lived next door.

  Enough exposure for one day. Amélie wound through Dinard’s streets back to the boarding house, awed by Jeannie’s looks and what she knew of her. I hope she’s not a collaborator. I don’t want to execute anybody.

  9

  The next morning, Amélie sat at a different café and observed Jeannie. She did the same on following days, varying her appearance with changes of hairstyle, scarves, hats, and clothing, and alert for Jeannie’s patterns of behavior. Knowing where the woman lived allowed her to station herself at different points along the way.

  On the fourth day, Amélie took a seat in the same café as on the first day, ordered coffee, and read a local newspaper. Soon, Jeannie emerged through the checkpoint at the entrance to the German headquarters and walked toward the café. Amélie leaned a bit farther over the table and obscured her face with the newspaper.

  Moments later, she heard high-heeled footsteps pass by her table. A chair scraped the floor at a table behind her and she heard a waiter ask for an order. A woman’s musical voice requested a cup of coffee.