“You don’t understand. I love my wife.”
“I don’t doubt that.” She smiled. “I hear that you’ve borrowed money from half a dozen local people to pay for the drugs. Good for you.” She paused. “I once heard you give a talk at the library about Communism. Some people heckled you and I was impressed by your arguments against them. You’re good at arguing, Mr. Aarons, but that doesn’t mean you’re right.”
Aarons half-smiled. “You’re not bad at arguing yourself, doctor.”
“Think about what I’ve said.”
Aarons nodded. “I will.”
For the first six weeks Aarons lived through a nightmare of indecision, doubt and guilt. Messages still came through from Moscow wanting information on a wide range of subjects. But no response to his request about the money for Chantal. And the daily reports from the sanatorium that gave him no peace because they varied from slow recovery to lapses of remissions that made them no more than daily torments. The fever in her body matching the fever in his mind. He ignored Moscow’s demands but kept vague contacts with his network.
They were allowed to see her, one at a time, through the glass partitioning, as she lay there, eyes closed. Sometimes pale-faced, sometimes with the flush of fever on her cheeks. They were aware that it was no more than a ritual, that served no real purpose. It distressed them afresh and Chantal’s mind was somewhere far away.
In the third week of the second month he was called to the hospital where Doctor Zetkin was waiting for him. He was told that she was dead. The bacilli had eventually won the fight despite the drug and had spread through other parts of her body. It was recommended that she should be cremated rather than interred. He could feel his heart beating inside his head as he stood there. The doctor took him to the small pharmacy in the hospital and he drank a sedative she gave him, without even being aware of what he was doing.
Finally he looked up at the doctor’s face and said, “Would it have made any difference if she’d gone to the hospital in Manhattan?”
For a moment she hesitated, then she said, “There’s no way of knowing but experts in a particular disease are obviously more successful in treating it than non-experts.”
“You think she might have lived?”
“Yes, I do.” And he saw the anger in her eyes before she turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 19
They had spent the two days of Christmas finalising the material for London. London had copies of all the Michelin 1/200,000 maps and Malloy’s work had covered maps 51–75 which meant that they covered the Belgian border, all of Occupied France and about a quarter of Unoccupied France down to Perigueux and Bordeaux. All the map references were based on the Michelin maps.
The routine radio messages back to London gave whatever details they obtained about German troop movements, identifying the units concerned where possible and their starting and destination points. But way back London had asked for him to identify suitable targets for bombing or sabotage and Malloy was satisfied that he and Pascal and their network of informants had done a good job. Michelin sheet numbers and map references pinpointed bridges, viaducts, marshalling yards, repair sheds, locomotive sheds, strategic junctions and signalling and telephone junction boxes, and the main strategic railway junctions. There were well over 500 targets identified. But the paperwork was too extensive to be sent by radio and it was the third week in January before a Lysander pick-up for Parish’s network could be used to pass the material back to London.
There was no response from London for ten days and then Parish told him that London were sending a Lysander with a new radio operator for Parish’s network and that he was to go back with the plane.
“Why do they want me to go back?”
Parish shrugged. “No idea, my friend. Why should they tell me? I’m not part of OSS, I’m just your nursemaid while you’re in France.”
“Is that how you see it?”
Parish laughed and punched him lightly on his arm. “Don’t take things so seriously. I was only kidding.”
“When does the Lysander come?”
“A week tomorrow. It’s full moon plus one. I’ve got a few packets for London if you’ll take them with you.”
Despite the full moon it wasn’t a good night for a pick-up. There was a high wind that sent the clouds racing across the sky so that the light on the field was constantly changing. And it made it difficult to hear anything other than the wind in the trees as they stood at the edge of the woods.
They had been checked twice on the journey down to Orleans. Once by German soldiers from a local anti-aircraft battery and once by an officious sergeant in the Milice. But both times their stories had held together and they had been sent on their way. The rest of Parish’s men had gone separately without being checked.
There were six of them. Parish, himself and four of Parish’s men. He had no responsibility for the pick-up but he was aware that there was some tension in the others. Their faces turned upwards, pale in the fleeting light of the moon. The Lysander was overdue by ten minutes but Parish said that it was probably because of the strong wind. Parish was using a new piece of equipment for the first time. An S-phone which meant that he could talk directly to the pilot once he was overhead. One of the problems was that they had decided not to use flares as markers because of the wind and they couldn’t use their torches for long periods because batteries were so scarce.
Then he saw Parish hold up his hand for silence and turn towards the north-west. He could see him talking but couldn’t hear the words. Parish ordered
