Espionage Read online

  His movements were glacial. He longed to escape from the compound as quickly as possible, and he knew if he was late getting to the ship, Ducey would leave without him. Still, Peter felt stealth was necessary for the present. Fortunately for him, the soldiers were sleepy and confused—most of them didn’t know what they were looking for.

  On the other side of the building, not quite fifteen yards from the fence, Peter spotted a thick electrical cord fastened neatly to the side of one of the light poles. Silently he unsheathed his knife and brought it up to throwing position in his good hand, thinking he could sever the cord and extinguish the lights. Then he could make an unseen exit. Peter was no expert in knife throwing, and it missed the cord by two inches, embedding the blade firmly into the wood instead. This time Peter did curse; he was running out of options.

  Two patrolmen were walking along the fence, coming toward the shadow Peter was hiding in. They’ll see me when they pass, Peter thought. He racked his brain, trying to think of a way to distract them, but the best idea he came up with was throwing something in another direction to divert their attention from his location. He searched the ground for a rock or a stick, but he only felt wet grass and mud.

  Peter mentally cataloged his choices and checked his pockets: he had the book, his Colt pistol, an empty knife sheath, and his clothing. He couldn’t find his lock-picking tools—they must have fallen out when he’d escaped to the roof. Peter knew he couldn’t throw either of his shoes; he’d have to run like an Olympian to make it over the fence and to the beach. He couldn’t get rid of the book—it had to be destroyed, or the lives of Allied agents in northwest Europe and the lives that depended on their knowledge would be in grave danger. The empty knife sheath was thick canvas and wouldn’t make much noise, nor would any of his clothing. He didn’t want to get rid of his pistol, small though it was, but he was desperate.

  He spotted a patrol of four soldiers coming from the other direction. He didn’t have enough bullets to fight them all. He fleetingly wished he were back in his tank in Northern Africa with his turret aimed at a Panzer rather than here on the northern coast of France with his little handgun aimed at six guards who each carried rifles or submachine guns. He wouldn’t survive that shootout.

  The shot he’d made earlier had been the first time he’d used his Colt in combat. Peter sighed, quickly unloaded it, and threw it and the bullets over his head so they landed on top of the building. They made enough noise that the soldiers heard them over the rain. The patrols both turned to the building and ran to the other side. One patrol ran along the west side of the building; the other patrol ran along the east side.

  The moment they were out of sight, Peter sprinted north to the fence and jumped as high as he could. The chain-link fence was eight feet high; he still had a bit to climb. The top of the fence had three strands of barbed wire, but fortunately, the strands were similar to the type used to make cattle fences instead of the more dangerous razor wire the military normally used. Favoring his left arm, Peter reached the peak of the fence, found handholds without barbs, and swung his legs over just as someone saw him. The barbs caught his shirt and tore into his skin, but his weight was enough to free him as he dropped to the other side. Peter fell to the ground, hitting his left arm in the process and sending a new wave of pain through his body.

  He winced. But what alarmed him far more than the pain was the sound of German soldiers rushing toward him; a few shots kicked up mud on the ground just behind him. Peter stumbled through some low-lying bushes and weeds, away from the fence and the shouting patrolmen. About a dozen yards beyond that was a steep hill that sloped down to the beach. He ran as fast as he could toward it—an eight-month-old ankle wound preventing him from achieving the speed he’d once been capable of—but he reached the crest of the hill just before the compound’s pillbox-encased machine guns opened to full fire. He slid down the hill, below the guns’ firing level, and made his way onto the sand.

  He gritted his teeth to hold back a groan of pain and made sure the code book was still in his waistband. His hands were shaking, but the code book was there. So were a dozen new scratches, scrapes, and bruises. Peter headed for the rocks, knowing they would give him partial protection from the eyes of searching soldiers. He saw the headlights of several military jeeps about half a mile down the beach coming toward him from the east. It was too far and too dark for him to see how many troops were in them, but they drove slowly and shined lights into the rocks. Two other jeeps were headed toward him from the opposite direction, and a third, also heading west, appeared to have just passed his current location. They too were making careful, slow searches.

  Peter found his dinghy and dragged it to the ocean, navigating his way through the maze of man-made obstacles. His arm ached horribly; it had felt like it was being torn off on the slide down the hill. He stumbled over the sand, tripping first on a piece of wire then on a boulder. Even the wet weeds clung to his legs as if they were part of a conspiracy to prevent his escape. He struggled to get the dinghy into the water, fighting against the frigid waves and his own fatigue. He reached chest-deep water a few minutes later and crawled into the boat. Peter was wounded, exhausted, frightened, and cold, but he was also on a strict time line. So he began to row, and despite everything, he kept going.

  * * *

  About one hundred kilometers to the east, in the Calais harbor, a man known as Pierre waited in the storm. He watched his contact, Philippe Laroux, arrive in the dark alley between two warehouses, close enough to the harbor that they could hear the rain hitting the water. Laroux was right on time for their rendezvous.

  “Pierre?” the lanky Frenchman whispered.

  “Right behind you,” Pierre answered.

  Laroux turned around, a look of surprise on his face. “They told me you would appear like a ghost, but I didn’t believe them.”

  “Do you have it?” Pierre’s voice probed.

  “Yes. You know how to use the device?” Laroux asked.

  “Of course. I only lacked access.”

  Laroux was holding the object in his hands: a limpet mine. “And you know the ship?”

  “Yes,” Pierre answered confidently. “The Umsicht. I watched her sail in this evening. She is scheduled to unload her supplies at the dock tomorrow morning.”

  “What is she carrying?”

  “Munitions, mostly.”

  Laroux paused before continuing. “You are well informed.”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Do you know what we went through to get this?”

  Pierre could guess, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “My team and I broke curfew and risked execution to make the supply drop a success. We held up flashlights to alert the plane that it was passing over the right location then worked all night to hide the supplies. Then yesterday I was told to bring the mine to the harbor and assist a stranger with a sabotage assignment.” Laroux lifted the mine to look at it more closely. “We have gone through considerable risk to retrieve this and smuggle it into Calais, so I must ask, Pierre, what is your vision for postwar France?”

  Pierre knew enough about Laroux, even though this was their first meeting, to assume the man wanted to hear something about the end of both Fascism and Capitalism. “A France with no Nazis,” Pierre replied.

  “A return to how things were before the war?” Laroux asked.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you believe in, Pierre?”

  Pierre chose his words carefully. He knew Laroux was the chief coordinator for a Communist cell with five other members. Most of their work was what they called “technical matters”: secretly printing and distributing pro-Communist and anti-Fascist literature. They had only recently been asked by a member of the regional Communist party to cooperate with SOE contacts in sabotage activities. Pierre had no plans to join the Communist party, but he didn’t want to offend them. For now, they were a useful ally. “Liberty, equality, and fraternity.” Pierre hoped the slogan would e
ase Laroux’s mind. If not Communist, it was at least revolutionary. “Does anyone on your team know how to place the mine?”

  Laroux looked away. “No.”

  “Then may I have it?”

  Laroux nodded. “Would you like me to keep lookout?”

  “Please,” Pierre was already removing his shirt and shoes. The rain was cold, and the water in the harbor would be even colder. But this was not the first time he had attached a limpet mine to a ship and blown it up. He could tolerate the cold water well enough. He carefully studied the explosive device Laroux had handed him. It was the same type he had used two weeks ago on a similar assignment. The mine didn’t weigh much, and its buoyancy was such that Pierre would be able to easily handle it in the water. There was a timed fuse, and the mine was magnetic. He would stick it on the ship’s hull about two meters below the waterline. He planned to set the fuse for an hour and be far away from the harbor when the Umsicht blew. Pierre tied a rope around the mine so it would be easier for him to tow out to the ship.

  “You don’t mind the rain?” Laroux asked.

  Pierre almost laughed. The rain had long ago penetrated his clothing, soaking through to his skin. “I would be wet anyway. The rain will make me harder to see and harder to hear.” Pierre noiselessly slid into the water with the mine, leaving Laroux behind as he disappeared into the dark, rainy night.

  Pierre had lived near Calais his entire life, and he had grown up swimming in the ocean. One August, when he was twelve, he’d told his younger sister he swam all the way to England and back. It had been a lie, but she had believed it and reported his story with pride to their father. His father hadn’t reprimanded Pierre for dishonesty; he had simply told him he should never lie to flatter himself. Pierre had thought it strange at the time; his father hadn’t told him to avoid lying, only to avoid lying for the wrong reason. Years later, he’d learned his father had been a spy during the Great War of 1914–1918. Espionage and sabotage were in Pierre’s blood.

  His muscles cooperated easily, remembering the motions of how best to swim in open water. Pierre knew he would be a little sore the next day, but that wouldn’t matter. Sore muscles were a small price to pay for the opportunity to anger the occupying army. The storm made the water choppy, and for every five feet forward, he felt he was pushed two feet off course. He slung the rope holding the mine over his left shoulder and under his right arm. Working with the mine was dangerous, he knew. If the explosives were agitated too much or if the quality of the workmanship was substandard, the mine would go off even without a fuse. The limpet mine was not large, but a premature detonation would put a quick end to Pierre’s sabotage work.

  He reached the Umsicht after about twenty minutes of swimming. He knew there had to be at least one sailor standing watch, but he could see no one. He was also confident no one could see him. He set the fuse and attached the mine to the hull in about two minutes, just as he had planned. Twenty-five minutes after that, he was pulling himself out of the water and accepting a blanket from Laroux.

  “Will I see the ship explode?” Laroux asked.

  Pierre was still breathing hard from the cold, the exertion, and the thrill of accomplishing something dangerous. “The explosion will take place underwater. You won’t be able to see it—not at night, not in this weather.” Pierre studied Laroux carefully and decided that perhaps he could, after all, stay to watch the Umsicht sink. Laroux would want to have an eyewitness account to give his comrades. Knowing what their efforts had helped accomplish would be their only reward. “There is an empty room in the top corner of this warehouse. If you have binoculars, we should be able to detect panic on the ship’s deck. If we’re lucky, some of the ship’s cargo will ignite and we’ll have ourselves a little fireworks display.”

  Laroux nodded, looking pleased, and handed Pierre a thermos of lukewarm liquid—it wasn’t really coffee, but it was the closest thing a French civilian could get in wartime France—and the men entered the warehouse through a window to wait for the mine’s detonation.

  * * *

  Peter was thoroughly worn out and dizzy when the starboard side of Ducey’s fifty-foot-long ship came into view. Peter guided the dinghy to the side of the ship and tried to reach up to the railings, but it was difficult in the choppy seas. The slickness caused by the rain and the waves did little to help. He tried once more, failed, and decided to ask for help.

  “Hey, Ducey! I could use a hand.” Seconds later, a hand reached over and gripped his right hand, and then a second hand came down and grabbed his wounded left arm. Peter grunted in pain and tried to jerk away, but the grip was too strong. Despite Peter’s movement, the hands continued pulling him up onto the deck, and the process sent horrible undulations of pain through his body.

  “Wrong arm. Let go, or I won’t be able to do anything with it for—” Peter didn’t have time to finish before he’d been set down face-to-face with a very large, brutal-looking man. He had stubble on his cleft chin, and on his faded green-gray feldwebel’s uniform was the emblem of the swastika. He was a beast. He didn’t let go of Peter’s arm; he pulled him over the railings and squeezed even harder. Peter gritted his teeth to keep from crying out in anguish, and his silence took every ounce of self-control he possessed. Where is Ducey? Peter thought as he stared up at the Nazi soldier.

  After what seemed like a very long time, the feldwebel loosened his grip slightly as he spoke to someone out of Peter’s sight and turned, bringing Peter around with him. There was another German soldier there, a teenager, by Peter’s estimation. Peter caught the younger man’s name, Himmelstoss, but didn’t understand the German instructions. Peter’s eyes didn’t linger on the second soldier, however, because sprawled on the deck was Captain Ducey. Peter couldn’t see his face, but he knew Ducey was dead. His neck was bent at an odd angle, one Peter had never before seen that portion of the human body take on. The work of German nightmare number one, Peter assumed. He looked back at the second soldier, who looked slightly ill. Peter concluded that the second man was either seasick or he didn’t like the sight of Ducey’s neck. Peter didn’t blame him; Ducey’s neck hurt him more intensely than his arm did.

  The large German drew out his Mauser, stepped back, pointed it at Peter, and threatened him in German. He wiped Peter’s blood from his hand onto his pants. The younger soldier frisked Peter and discovered only the book and an empty knife sheath, which he handed to his superior.

  Himmelstoss then proceeded to tie Peter up, tying his hands together at the wrists then his upper arms to his chest. Peter thought that perhaps the young German soldier was not a vindictive person because he avoided putting a rope across the bullet hole in Peter’s arm. Next he directed Peter to a chair, tied his legs at the knees and ankles, and tied his torso to the chair. Peter didn’t struggle. He had no doubt he would be shot if he resisted. The look in the feldwebel’s eyes hinted that at even the slightest provocation, he would execute his prisoner and feel no remorse.

  Peter watched Himmelstoss check his work, which was quite secure. Then Himmelstoss stepped away from Peter and away from Ducey’s body, drawing out his own handgun as he did so. He didn’t point it at anyone. He just held it and looked pale and worried. Peter noticed the worried expression, and it confused him. He felt well cornered; surely his captors had nothing to worry about.

  The older soldier spoke. “You and your friend have caused us a great deal of trouble.” He spoke nearly perfect British English. “A pair of English spies. I hate spies, and I hate the English.”

  Peter thought about telling him that his few English ancestors from his father’s side of the family had all left England before the rise of Napoleon but decided instead not to talk at all. He had said only a few things in English and thought perhaps he could still convince his captors he was French. British and American commandos were generally executed when captured. French Resistance men were usually treated the same but were expected to have less information worth teasing out during the predeath interrogation.
Peter didn’t consider himself a coward, but he still didn’t want to be tortured.

  Peter was grateful for his decision to remain silent as the feldwebel continued his rant. “The only thing worse than an Englishman is an American. I prefer to kill Americans on the spot. They ought to mind their own business and stay out of Europe.” Peter believed the threat and held his tongue rather than point out that Germany had been the one to declare war on the United States. The man bent himself at the waist and brought his face down so it was level with Peter’s. “What is this book, and who are you? You will tell me these things, or I will break every bone in your body.”

  Peter hoped he wasn’t serious.

  “Say something!” the Nazi yelled.

  Peter took too long thinking through what he should say and which language he should use, so his interrogator kicked his chair over. Peter fell on his bad arm, and pulses of pain shot up and down the left side of his body. Milliseconds later his head hit the deck with a crack, causing bright lights to swirl across his eyes. Peter shook his head to clear the lights away, but he couldn’t move much. Then the waves picked back up, causing the ship to rock up and down. Peter’s head spun, and his stomach lurched. He wished he were anywhere but on the ship.

  “Answer me,” the huge German demanded.

  “What do you want me to say?” Peter asked in French.

  The man’s face grew red as Peter’s French words reached his ears. Peter momentarily worried he would be shot out of frustration. He didn’t get shot, but he did get kicked, hard, in the chest. It knocked the wind out of Peter. While he struggled to fill his lungs with air again, the two soldiers had a small conference in rapid German; then the younger one took over the questioning.

  The large German picked up the chair, with Peter still tied to it, and slammed it down onto the deck so it was once again sitting on all four legs. Himmelstoss spoke awkward and slow French. He repeated the questions about the book, which was now in his possession, and the questions about Peter and his intentions. Himmelstoss wasn’t as bold in manner or in voice as the feldwebel, and Peter felt his situation grow ever so slightly less desperate.