The Secret Agent

Even as she was returning to consciousness, stretching out in the shaft of sunlight that slipped through the open skylight, she was making plans to stay.

Later, when she broached the subject with her new landlady, Madame Giraud readily agreed to Sylvie staying indefinitely and at a price that was not too eye-wateringly extortionate. She softened the blow by promising to throw in breakfast each morning and handed Sylvie a bread roll.

‘I know what you girls are like,’ she said agreeably. ‘Céline is always out all night and coming in at odd hours, then sleeping late.’

Sylvie chewed the small roll and sipped a cup of bitter coffee. It was not much of a bargain but would at least save her having to hunt for food herself. Madam Giraud’s clock struck nine. Sylvie looked at it in surprise. She really had slept in much longer than she had expected. She would have to hurry if she hoped to make it across town for her first attempt at the rendezvous point at ten.

As she was returning to her room, Céline’s door opened a crack and the singer peeked out. Céline looked very tired but smiled. ‘What are you doing up so early?’ she asked.

‘I planned to take a walk into town and look around,’ Sylvie answered. ‘I didn’t have much time to see it yesterday.’

She felt a quick burst of anxiety in case Céline offered to accompany her, but Céline yawned and stretched. She was wearing a red nightgown made from some silky fabric that clung to her, highlighting the few curves of her slender frame to great effect. Nightgowns like the one Céline wore were made for wearing with lovers, not for sleeping alone, and Sylvie wondered who the fortunate man was who got to see it. Since the day of her mock interrogation, Sylvie had not been able to rid herself of the memory of the interrogator’s fingers creeping up her bare thigh beneath her nightgown. Now she always wore pyjamas to sleep in and had no worries that a lover would ever see them.

‘What time will Mirabelle open? I need to go learn the dances,’ Sylvie asked.

Céline wrinkled her brow as if this question was unfamiliar. ‘I never arrive before six, but Antoine – Monsieur Julien – lives on the third floor, and I dare say he would let you in earlier. Are you really going to walk around all day?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’ll see how the fancy takes me.’

Céline yawned again and stretched her arms above her head. ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘The city has been peaceful for a while, but there are checkpoints everywhere. Mostly the soldiers are well mannered, especially if you smile nicely. They don’t often check bags if you are coming from the market, which is very useful, but then again you are a new face, so they might be interested in you.’

Sylvie thanked Céline for the advice, noting it for the future. Nantes would undoubtedly have a thriving black market, but she did not intend to get caught up in that if she could help it. It was useful to know that searches were not common because if she ever managed to contact a network, one of the duties she would be expected to carry out would be to take messages and equipment from place to place.

She wondered if her new friend knew anything about the black market. Céline was well dressed and did not look as if she was lacking in food. She had already shown that she had few qualms when it came to accepting drinks from the occupying forces, so perhaps she was equally lax about trading with black marketeers. Sylvie gave herself a mental shake. What rights did she have to speculate or to criticise Céline? In Britain, the black marketeers were generally despised as opportunists, profiting from the needs of a population beset by rationing. Perhaps things were different in France, and they were fighting against the occupation in their own way by providing morale as well as extra food and clothing.

Sylvie walked through the streets back towards the station and arrived a few minutes before ten. During daytime, the street was more alive. Shop doors were open, old men chatted on street corners and in cafés and housewives went about their daily business, carrying baskets and bags. If it had not been for the presence of German soldiers dressed in uniforms, the scene would have been as familiar to Sylvie as any day from her childhood. Few people seemed alarmed or cowed by the patrols, but Sylvie’s shoulders and jaw tensed whenever she passed them. She forced herself to try to relax, knowing that nothing would draw attention to her more than appearing to have something to hide.

As she had done the previous day, she sat on a wooden bench and waited in the hope that a blond man might approach her and offer the first part of the exchange they should make. No one appeared at ten, nor again at twelve.

Between times, she spent the time walking and trying to orientate herself with the streets of Nantes. But now she was more conscious of returning and sitting alone, drawing attention to herself. She had been a stranger the previous day, but since then a handful of people now knew her face from Club Mirabelle and she did not want to risk being seen. Céline had already found it odd that she intended to spend the day out. She found a boulangerie and handed over one of her precious stamps in exchange for another bread roll and a sliver of cake. A wafer-thin slice of ham from the charcuterie completed her lunch. She tried not to feel guilty about where the stamps would have come from. The Resistance carried out raids on the town halls to obtain extra so that agents could eat, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was being deprived for her benefit.

By half past four, Sylvie was so disheartened that she gave up and made her way to Club Mirabelle. The front door was locked, and no one answered her knock. When Sylvie pressed her eye against a small knothole in the board covering one of the windows, she could see no lights inside.

She walked past the club to the alley beside it and looked down there in case there was a side door. As with most of the buildings in the street, the club was in a three-storey building, and on the alley side had small windows set one above the other going up each floor. There was a door, but there was no handle on the outside and piles of rubbish and rags littered the uneven cobbles around it, suggesting it was rarely used. Something small scurried over and away, and Sylvie decided she did not wish to investigate too closely. If she listened hard, she could hear the sound of an accordion playing a melancholy tune coming from inside, though it could be a gramophone recording and she was not even sure it was coming from that building.

She went back to the front and walked along the street to the end where the road split into two. There were narrow alleys at regular intervals of five or six houses. It was a warm afternoon and windows were open. An intoxicating mixture of food smells made Sylvie’s mouth water. Salty, savoury cheeses that she could picture oozing across the plate and stews of rabbit in cider.

With the rationing that had been imposed in Britain, she was used to eating small repetitive meals and had grown to live with the constant sensation that her stomach was emptier than it should be, but these scents reminded her of her childhood and made the hunger rawer and more urgent. The portions would be small, but she longed to taste them again. She decided that the following morning, she would shop properly. In the meantime, she took a table in the bistro at the foot of the hill and ate her way through a plate of greasy rillettes and hard bread until she spotted Céline walking up the hill.

She wiped her lips, paid and called after Céline. Together, they walked into the club. Already the other dancers were there. Three women, all of roughly similar height to Sylvie but with figures ranging from delicately slender to voluptuously curvy. Clearly, Monsieur Julien had chosen them to appeal to as wide an audience as possible. Sylvie estimated her own figure would place her between the narrow-waisted, high-breasted blonde she had seen the previous night and the curvaceous brunette. The pianist was already sitting on his stool. He was not wearing his dinner jacket but a pair of black trousers with braces and a loose cream-coloured shirt with no collar. His dark hair had not been slicked back and had a slight wave to it.

‘Well then, mademoiselle, are you here to show us what you can do?’ Monsieur Julien said. ‘Do you think you can remember anything you saw last night?’

‘I’ll try,’ Sylvie replied.

Monsieur Julien settled back into his chair. ‘Watch once more, then see if you can join in.’

He nodded at the pianist, who started to play. Sylvie recognised the introduction to one of the dances from the previous night. Sylvie stood at the edge of the stage and watched the three women work through the steps. She tried to discreetly mimic them without actually moving. A twist of the foot here, legs kicked to hip height, a toss of the head and flick of the wrist, and so on. The routine was not complicated by the standards of the ones Sylvie’s mother had performed and taught her as a child, nor did they require the technical expertise of her ballet lessons. Her physical memory for dance had always been strong, so when Monsieur Julien clapped his hands and asked everyone to stop, Sylvie felt confident that she would be able to remember them.

‘Your turn, mademoiselle.’

The three dancers moved to one side of the stage where they assumed various states of interest. The pianist began to play again. Knowing that all eyes were on her, Sylvie began to dance.

Chapter Six

London, England

Two weeks previously, 1944

Whatever is necessary.

Sylvie considered Uncle Max’s cryptic words over and over after her interview. She had been trained in various skills since being recruited: she could use explosives to destroy infrastructure and buildings; she was able to memorise complicated messages to pass on; and she knew how to carry weapons and equipment hidden about her person and belongings without detection. She had proven that she could hold her nerve under interrogation. She knew how to kill in a number of ways. Was that what Uncle Max had doubts about? If it came to it, did Sylvie believe she would have the strength necessary to end lives?

In the service of her country, she believed so. The following day she made her way back to the Baker Street house where SOE was based. She sat in the strangest waiting room she had ever been in: a bathroom tiled entirely in black, until she was summoned into Uncle Max’s office.

‘Tell me what you meant yesterday,’ she said to Uncle Max.

Uncle Max paused and glanced at Miss Atkins, who had again joined him. Sylvie noted the exchange of looks and swore to herself that whatever they asked of her, she would agree to. And, moreover, be capable of.

Uncle Max spoke first. ‘You will act as a courier, scouting out sites for drops and liaising with safe houses and the local Resistance. You will be asked to transport equipment and take part in sabotage missions. In short, all the duties that we have been training you for over the past months.’

‘I accept that,’ Sylvie said. She was relived she would not be asked to be a wireless operator. Whenever they practised receiving or sending scheduled messages, Sylvie’s skeds were some of the least accurate in the group.

‘What else do you require me to do?’

Miss Atkins took up the tale. ‘The cover story that we hope you will accept might bring some other possibilities that we have not trained you for, Miss Crichton. You will be working in a nightclub in occupied France. The Germans are treating the country as their own and for many of them life is comfortable as they oppress the population.’

Sylvie nodded slowly. She wondered if the inkling that was growing in the back of her mind was the right one.

Uncle Max spoke. ‘The officers take full advantage of the nightlife that is available, both legitimate and otherwise. It is highly likely that you will encounter men who are responsible for making decisions that directly influence if not control German strategy as a whole, certainly the day-to-day management of the occupied area.’

Uncle Max stopped speaking and looked at Sylvie over the top of his fingertips. This was a test, she realised; one to see how acute her understanding was.

‘If I understand you,’ Sylvie said, ‘you are suggesting that I listen and pass on anything I hear. Am I correct?’

‘To a certain degree,’ Max acknowledged. ‘Although, do not expect that you will hear tittle tattle as you dance. I imagine our opponents are as disciplined in avoiding loose talk as the Allies are – I must credit them with that at least.’

Miss Atkins shuffled her chair forward a little. ‘What we are suggesting is that certain tongues may become slightly looser in the company of a charming companion. In certain circumstances, of course.’

‘Pillow talk,’ Sylvie supplied. A creeping sense of revulsion began in her lower belly and spread up through her stomach until she tasted acid at the back of her throat. They might as well have suggested sending her to work in a brothel. ‘You want me to seduce German officers and learn their secrets while I fuck them?’

Uncle Max and Miss Atkins exchanged another glance at Sylvie’s crudity. She noticed with abstracted amusement that Uncle Max appeared more shocked than Miss Atkins.

‘I would not perhaps put it so bluntly,’ Uncle Max said.

Sylvie leaned forward, mirroring his gesture by linking her own fingers on the table top.

‘You might not, but I would. How far would you expect me to go in the name of learning secrets?’

‘No more than you would be comfortable with,’ Miss Atkins assured her, smiling.

Sylvie’s cheeks began to burn. She hoped it wasn’t too visible. Of course they would know every detail of her life, including the reason she had left her job as secretary in the firm of solicitors where she had been working since completing her degree. Miss Atkins clearly thought Sylvie would be comfortable with a great deal.

‘Your life will be dangerous enough as it is,’ Uncle Max broke in. ‘We would not wish you to compromise yourself.’

‘Can you give me time to think about it?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Of course. This decision is not one that we would expect you to make lightly. Everyone would have to be completely satisfied before we proceed.’

Something in Uncle Max’s tone sent Sylvie’s nerves jangling.

‘You have reservations about my capabilities?’ she asked, raising her brows.

‘Not about your abilities in the field,’ Miss Atkins assured her.

She looked at both of them. ‘Do you believe I am not capable of that part of the mission? Do you think I’m too shy and don’t have the guts to seduce men?’

Miss Atkins smirked. ‘Hardly. If anything, our reservation is that your shell is so hard and your manner so cold that no one would be fooled into thinking you cared for them.’ She sat back and folded her arms, keeping her eyes level on Sylvie. ‘I dare you to contradict me,’ her expression appeared to say.

‘Perhaps I am,’ Sylvie said. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t pretend to be otherwise. We are talking seduction, not devotion – I don’t imagine the German officers will be sighing over a Hausfrau and looking for someone to stroke their head as much as a pair of knickers they can climb inside.’

‘Sylvie, you are very hard for someone so young,’ Uncle Max said. ‘It always made your father sad to see.’

‘It is partly my father’s behaviour that made me so cynical.’ Sylvie leaned forward. ‘Uncle Max, you have read my file. You knew me as a child. You know everything about me, including why I am happy to assure you I have no intention of becoming besotted with any man. I don’t truly believe I am capable of falling in love again.’ She straightened the cuffs of her sleeves and raised her chin. ‘If you choose me, you can be guaranteed that I won’t have my own head turned by a handsome young example of Aryan perfection. If you don’t trust me, pick someone else and use me however you see fit. If you have another dancer, of course.’

Uncle Max and Miss Atkins looked at each other and nodded.

‘That is the answer we hoped for,’ Uncle Max said. ‘The role is yours. I have word sent to the Librarian network to expect you in the next fortnight.’

Nantes, France

1944

As the music wound itself about her, Sylvie felt completely at ease for the first time in longer than she could remember. This was what she was good at. She felt more alive dancing than doing anything else and finished the routine with barely a single error.

It came as a great disappointment to her then, when Monsieur Julien shrugged his shoulders and gave a half-hearted nod.

‘Yes, you can dance,’ he said. ‘Technically, you’re good and you learned the routine quickly. But my patrons need to be entertained, and to be entertained they need to be attracted to my girls. You dance like you don’t mean it. Like you are a machine. Can you make yourself into a seductress, Mademoiselle Duchene?’

Sylvie could feel a blush rising between her breasts and spreading over her throat. Monsieur Julien’s words uncomfortably reminded her of the doubts Uncle Max had expressed at her ability to appeal to men. Cold, and now lacking in sex appeal. Mechanical. It was a bitter indictment, and one she found hard to swallow.

‘Play something slow, and I’ll see if I can do better.’ Sudden inspiration struck her and she turned to the pianist. ‘I heard someone playing the accordion earlier. Was it you?’

The pianist’s eyes flickered with suspicion. ‘Were you here earlier?’

‘I knocked, but no one answered,’ Sylvie said. ‘I wasn’t sure if the music came from here. Was it you?’

He didn’t look any less suspicious, but he nodded. ‘My instrument is in the room upstairs. Wait one minute.’

He disappeared between the curtains backstage and returned a few minutes later with the accordion. It looked old and well loved, with dull patches where the varnish had been rubbed off by repeated touching. He moved his piano stool to the edge of the stage, sat and played an experimental trill, squeezing the bellows while his fingers ran up and down the keys. He paused and looked at Sylvie, tilting his head and giving her a questioning look. There was an air of challenge about him.

Sylvie knelt and removed her shoes. Her fingers shook as she undid the buckles, and she wondered if she was about to embarrass herself further. If they wanted sultry, she would give them sultry. She walked to the centre of the stage. The other dancers had joined Monsieur Julien at the table. Céline sat at the bar, a glass of wine in her hand. They were all watching her closely, so she was not sure why the pianist’s attitude bothered her so much. Perhaps it was only that it had been a long time since a good-looking man had appraised her in any form.

‘What is your name?’ she asked him.

‘Felix.’ He sounded a little surprised at being asked.

‘If you want passion, I can show you that,’ she told Monsieur Julien. ‘Can you play anything from ballet, Felix?’

‘That is not really my area,’ he answered. ‘But if you want slow, I can give you slow.’

Felix held Sylvie’s gaze as he replied, and the expression in his eyes made her shiver. The challenge was still there, and she did not know why he seemed so determined to unnerve her. Once more, he began to play, drawing long notes from the instrument in a rhythm that seemed closest to a waltz. Sylvie began to dance again, throwing in some of the steps from the dance she had performed before but interspersing them with ballet steps. Arms extended gracefully and body held erect, she bent and extended, using the whole stage. She was Odette, dying of grief. Giselle protecting Albrecht.

Remembering how Céline had sung to Felix the night before, Sylvie worked her way over to the stool he was sitting on and danced for him alone. She bent towards him, then as he leaned forward she drew back. As she moved closer once again, Felix sped up a little. He changed the rhythm from a loping waltz into something that seemed more like a Charleston. The song was one Sylvie recognised. She changed her posture. Now she was a chorus girl like her mother had been, feet twisting and kicking, arms held rigid by her side. She tossed her head and winked at Felix, flashing him a wide smile, then pouting provocatively. He didn’t return the smile. In fact, his expression looked more belligerent, though his pupils had widened and his thick black lashes flashed. He dipped his head slightly but kept his eyes on Sylvie. His fingers began to race faster, and now his lips curled into a determined smile, as if daring Sylvie to keep up with him. She rose to the challenge and began to add in a series of pirouettes and jetés. She improvised rapidly, becoming breathless and was relieved when, after a minute or so, Felix slowed and changed the rhythm again.

Though she was intent on the dancing, the moment he played the long, drawn out notes in a minor key, Sylvie was thrown back across the years to her teens. Traditional music. The sort that made you want to bob and kick, sway from side to side. Intoxicating and exotically foreign.

A name sprang to Sylvie’s lips, but she managed not to release it aloud. Jakov. A young Jew who had performed songs from his native Russia on the fiddle in one of the theatres Sylvie’s mother had performed at. The first man who Sylvie had ever persuaded to kiss her. She hadn’t minded about his faith, but Angelique had later informed Sylvie that Jakov was a homosexual, crushing Sylvie’s first infatuation. Still, the kiss had lit a fire in Sylvie’s breasts and loins, and she did not regret it.

What has happened to Jakov? Doomed on two accounts by Hitler’s new regime. Was he in a work camp somewhere, or had he been lucky enough to escape from France at the first sign of invasion? The joy flooded out of Sylvie, and she stopped abruptly, letting her hands hang limply by her side. Felix carried on playing for a few seconds longer until he realised Sylvie was not about to continue dancing.

His eyes flashed to hers. He wrinkled his brow in what might have been concern. Sylvie gave him a curt nod, one performer to another, not caring what he thought.

‘Have you seen enough?’ She addressed the question to Monsieur Julien, putting her hands on her hips with one foot slightly out as if posing for a photograph. ‘Do you think I will pass as a performer?’

Monsieur Julien blinked and ran a finger under his collar. Sylvie hid her triumphant smile. Oh yes, she had definitely done enough to prove that she could be seductive when she wanted to be.

‘You can stay,’ he said. His expression darkened, and he pointed his finger at her, jabbing it to emphasise his words. ‘But I’ll have none of that sort of dancing or accompaniment, do you understand? My establishment will not be tainted by any association or suggestion of partiality to Jewish culture. You dance what the customers want, and Felix, you play the songs they like’

‘I understand,’ Sylvie replied. ‘I’m sorry.’

Felix had stood and was strapping his accordion closed once again, pulling the leather straps tight around it. He had his back to Monsieur Julien.

‘Felix? Tell me that won’t happen again. You’re lucky Mademoiselle Duchene had the sense to stop dancing. If anyone outside heard that!’ He broke off and threw out his arms wide in exasperation.

‘Understood. Of course,’ Felix said, his voice dead. He picked up the accordion in his arms, as if it was a beloved child, and disappeared behind the curtain without making eye contact with anyone. Sylvie watched him go. Monsieur Julien followed him through the curtain.