“Sorry, sir. It was a thought.” Paul sighed. “It’s not in the cards now.”
“No worries. I’m sure your contributions in the war will be far more valuable on the ground.”
As he spoke, the bomber began a slow roll down the runway, gained speed, thundered past them, and lumbered into the night sky. After it had disappeared, they rode back to headquarters. Paul sat silently, the lump in his throat making breathing difficult.
Crockatt watched him closely. “Are you all right?”
Paul murmured, “I hope I didn’t just take part in sending my brother to his death.”
48
Marseille, France
“Do we know who they’re sending?” Maurice asked.
Madame Fourcade, codenamed “Hérisson,” shook her head. “I only know that he is codenamed ‘The Fool.’ Not very inspiring.” She let out a small, sardonic laugh. “But it’s good to see that someone still has a sense of humor. I’m told he already has experience in France and speaks the language fluently.”
Fourcade was a petite woman from the upper crust of French aristocracy who became disgusted with the Nazis long before they made known their broader intentions beyond the return of historically Aryan lands. The turning point for her had occurred before the war began, while on a touring visit to Vienna shortly after the Anschluss. There, she had witnessed Jewish shopkeepers and professionals, with their families, rousted from their homes and places of business, humiliated in the streets, and forced to wear big, yellow Star of David emblems on their outside clothing. From that single episode, she had concluded that nothing good could come from a regime that not only refused to protect the rights of individuals but also participated in their persecutions.
Returning to Paris, she had sought out those people among her socialite friends who seemed less enamored with the uniquely mustachioed dictator to the northeast. At one particular cocktail party, she had listened intently as two guests argued heatedly about the danger to France coming from Germany, and what measures should be taken to stymie it.
One of them was Charles de Gaulle, then an ambitious lieutenant-colonel on the staff of the French war hero, Marshal Philippe Pétain. The other was Major Georges Loustaunau-Lacau, an intelligence officer also on Pétain’s staff. They were fellow graduates of Saint-Cyr, France’s foremost military academy, and both were vocally and unabashedly critical of Hitler.
Fourcade quickly ascertained that the two officers, in addition to being contemporaries, were fierce rivals. Entering into conversation with Loustaunau-Lacau, later codenamed “Navarre,” she found she shared opinions with him.
A few days later, Navarre called Fourcade and asked if they could meet for dinner. She agreed, and they spoke for many hours. Together, they had sought out like-minded individuals and begun building an organization to resist in the event that the Nazis attacked.
When Germany invaded France, Fourcade had driven south from Paris among the six million refugees clogging the roadways. Was that only one month ago? Fortunately, she had friends along the way who were happy to house her, but she had been shocked to find so many of them applauding when Marshal Pétain set about to save France by capitulating.
After several stressful days on the road, she had arrived in Marseille to find that early preparations she and Navarre had made had paid off. She rendezvoused with him there, and they discussed plans.
They differed in their approach. She wished to stay in Marseille and operate from there. He believed they could do better by his continuing in high position inside the intelligence apparatus where he had access to closely guarded secrets. Those of operational value, he could feed to Fourcade.
They had set Maurice up in business several months earlier and his vegetable vending enterprise had flourished, as had his recruiting efforts. He had already built a sizeable group of patriots willing to carry the fight.
Communications methods set up by Navarre with British intelligence were operational, despite that coding and decoding required further development; radio transmission then employed more euphemisms than codes or ciphers. Nevertheless, they had yielded effective results as word spread among Frenchmen who refused to accept their country as a vassal of Germany and were thrilled that an active resistance movement was building in Marseille. Among recruits were patriots from along the Atlantic coast who had blown up fuel-oil tanks.
Within days of Pétain being named head of government in Tours, Navarre had traveled there. Since Pétain knew him personally as a competent and dedicated intelligence officer, he had appointed Navarre as his head of intelligence.
As a result of Fourcade’s and Navarre’s combined efforts, within a week of Hitler entering Paris, their organization was up and running.
“To give you a more complete answer to your question, Maurice, we don’t know anything about The Fool,” Fourcade said. “This is the first mission like this. We can’t even call it a proof-of-concept since it was thrown together so quickly. The larger idea is to send teams all across France to coordinate plans among resistance groups with British intelligence. The British teams include a leader, a courier, and a radio operator. They’ll also bring arms, ammunition, equipment, and money.
“In this case, we have a patriot in the north who set up a network almost as quickly as we did, but he’s being threatened with exposure, capture, torture, and the destruction of his network. The imperative is saving his network. The nice result would be to save him too.”
Maurice sighed as he regarded Fourcade with doleful eyes. “You know you’re talking about the father of the two girls I brought here yesterday, Amélie and Chantal.”
“I know,” Fourcade said. “I’m struggling with that.” She lit a cigarette and stared across the cityscape below her. The Mediterranean sparkled in the distance. “Whatever we do,” she said, her voice filling with passion, “we cannot become like those beasts who invaded our country. But we have to be careful not to mix personal considerations with mission requirements. From what I learned about Ferrand Boulier from his daughters, he understands and accepts
