Paul laughed. “By the way, security is not airtight around those secrets inside that mansion and those huts, even though they’re an enigma.”
Startled, Claire stared at him, her cheeks flushing. “What do you mean?”
Paul ducked his head and waved his hands in the air. “That’s all I’ll say. Now go.”
“What do we tell Jeremy?”
“Nothing, for the time being.”
Major Crockatt held a steady gaze while he listened to Paul relate his conversation with Claire. “You do realize,” he said sternly, “that you and your sister have probably already broken through thin ice.”
“Yes, sir. We both know that. If we had done it for a self-serving purpose, then I would expect disciplinary action. In this case, neither of us stands to gain anything other than, perhaps, satisfaction from helping good people who saved our brother. If that’s an offense worthy of incarceration, then put me away. Meanwhile, if we manage to save the Boulier network, then we’ve served the purposes of both MI-9 and SOE.”
Crockatt drew back. “Got it all figured out, have you? Why come to me? Why not your own boss?”
“MI-6 is set up to run spies, not execute rescue operations. But besides that, Claire is already trying to run it up through the Bletchley Park hierarchy, so it has a good chance of winding up there anyway. If it also comes to the higher-ups through another channel, it has a greater probability of gaining some attention and being acted upon.”
“MI-9 isn’t being set up for rescue operations either.”
“But Lord Hankey’s organization and yours are organizing networks inside the country to be run by the partisans themselves. You’ll arm them, equip them, fund them, and train them, and in many instances, the same people will accomplish missions for both organizations, probably for MI-6 too. With no outside assistance, the man we’re talking about already built a network like the ones you intend, and he saved the lives of his own people and our soldiers. We must help him save his organization.”
Crockatt sat silently for an extended time, pressing a pen across his upper lip while he thought, never taking his eyes off Paul’s face.
“And you’ll come over here if I help you?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Crockatt smiled and tossed the pen on the desktop. “I would never make such a bargain, Lieutenant. I’ll help because, as you say, it’s the right thing to do. I can’t promise success. The last time you asked for help with the air support in Saint-Nazaire, we got nowhere. But I’ll try.”
“Thank you so much, Major.” Paul started for the door, then paused midway across the office and turned. “Sir, if you’ll still have me, I’d be honored to work in MI-9.”
Crockatt broke a slight smile. “I’m pleased to hear that, Lieutenant. We can talk more about it when we get through this business. I’ll place a call to his lordship now.”
43
Sark Island, English Channel Islands
From the front window of the stone Seigneurie mansion, Dame Marian watched a man striding along Rue de la Seigneurie. Rarely given to emotion, she nevertheless felt her stomach tighten as if alerting her to a premonition. She recognized him as the mail carrier coming from the post office a few hundred meters away, but he was off schedule. Today was Saturday, and he should not be delivering mail. He brings no glad tidings.
She ruminated as she watched his approach. The news circulating about the war had not been good, and events occurred so fast she could barely keep up, and then only from what came over the BBC. She knew that General Rommel, one of Hitler’s favorite generals, had burst out of the Ardennes Forest through Belgium and breached the Maginot Line. She scoffed. That expensive and “impenetrable” hunk of junk that was supposed to stop the German army along the French border.
A rumor floating around told of Rommel ordering his tank commanders to point their guns to their own rear and charge across in front of the line waving black and white flags and yelling at the tops of their lungs. By the time the hapless French understood that the charging tanks were not those of the fleeing Belgian army, so the story went, the Germans were past their fortifications and poised with guns pointing at France’s unprotected rear.
Whether true or not, Marian had no way to know, but regardless, the German army had flanked the Maginot in the northwest where it was weak and incomplete. Then they had penetrated into France and trapped the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk with thousands of fighters from the French 10th Army. Rommel had given his forces a six-day leave and traveled to Berlin for a planning conference with the führer. By the time he returned, the evacuation at Dunkirk had been completed.
Another rumor was that Hitler had let the British and French armies escape so that their countries would be demoralized by the scenes of defeated fighters returning home and leaving their war material to him. A more sober explanation was that the fast-moving Panzer divisions had outrun their infantry and logistical support. The terrain around Dunkirk was not ideal for armored vehicles, and the pause allowed time for the trailing elements to catch up. Rommel’s men needed to rest and conduct critical repairs to and maintenance on their war machines before continuing the offensive.
Marian sighed. Who knows why the maniac in Berlin does what he does? The news was that the Luftwaffe had been unmerciful in the air over Dunkirk, dropping bombs and mowing down troops on the beach. Maybe Hermann Göring convinced Hitler than he could destroy the fleeing army from the air. “That’s as good a theory as any,” she muttered.
Dunkirk was only three hundred miles away, and now Continental Europe lay bare for Hitler’s army to overrun at will. Only Switzerland, Spain, and Portugal, protected by the Alps and the Pyrenees mountain ranges respectively, were
