“You will actually have to write a couple of articles and hand over some photographs of German planes and perhaps Berlin to make it legitimate. They’ll pay you for them. Journalism is just a cover. In reality, you’re working for the State Department. I can’t tell you which branch. Officially, we don’t exist. You’ll be paid by us into a secret bank account. The money will be here waiting for you when you return.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred a year.”
Aubrey’s eyes widened. That was more money than most men made.
“Just don’t go flashing it around. Keep it as a nest egg, for when this is all over.”
She didn’t know what he meant by that, but figured she’d extracted enough info out of him for the time being. They said goodbye at the gangplank that crossed over to the ship. To make it look legitimate they even embraced, just a father seeing his daughter off. Once on deck she made her way to the railing, but John Walton had already left.
The trip was uneventful. They ran into a storm midway across, which sent the passengers to their cabins. She could hear retching from the one next door. A decade of flying had hardened her stomach and she wasn’t bothered by rough seas.
They landed at Cherbourg after a seven-day journey and she caught the boat train into Paris. Carson had arranged modest accommodation for her for two nights. Enough time to make contact with her British handler.
She thought of the money the government was paying her. But she also remembered that her father had remarked how the government went back on its word like it was a hobby. But would her uncle go back on his? She didn’t think so.
The first order of business was to make that contact with British Intelligence. Her uncle had given her a sketchbook and a set of charcoals and chalk. This was all part of this contact phase: she was to play the part of a tourist. It had been years since she’d last drawn something. Art was never her thing. But she’d practised with the charcoal and chalk while she was on the ship, sketching out a lifeboat and the smoke stacks rising above her on the sun deck.
Now here she was in Paris, with things to sketch all around her. An old woman throwing dirty dish water into the gutter. A vegetable seller pushing a cart loaded with produce. But what was she supposed to draw? She decided on the Eiffel Tower. It was all a ruse, an excuse for her to carry some chalk, which she’d been told she would need when making contact with the Brits.
Walton had called it fieldcraft. There had been a lot to learn and no time to teach her. She would need these skills if she was to successfully go into the Third Reich and make it out again. Thankfully the British would be there to guide her, give her a quick introductory course on being a spy.
She’d watched plenty of spy flicks on the silver screen. The 39 Steps was her favourite. And now here she was playing the part. No, not playing, Aubrey. You are the real deal. Just remember that and you might make it out alive.
Aubrey took her shoulder bag full of art supplies down to the River Seine and crossed over to the Left Bank. The walkways winding along the river were crowded with artists; it was going to be hard to get a spot to sit. First things first, though. She located the light post at the corner of the Quai D’Orsay and Rue Malar as per her instructions. She held the piece of chalk in her hand down by her side, her bag over her shoulder. She casually walked by the light post and left a streak of white chalk on its blackened metal. She kept moving. Down another block, there was another light post. This time the mark was to be made on the left-hand side. She had to shift the chalk to her other hand. She paused, shielding her eyes from the spring sunshine with her free hand, and left the mark.
There were people everywhere; couples strolling hand in hand; fellow artists and bohemians; men ogling girls. She heard more than one of them call out to her or whistle. She ignored them. With her pantomime done, she found a quiet spot along the Seine and proceeded to play at being the carefree artist, sketching the Eiffel Tower in the distance among the apartment buildings lining the river.
She spent an hour at that, kept it simple: straight lines of the monument, squares for the buildings, lightly shading it in.
“You’ll never make it as an artist,” she heard someone say behind her in English. Aubrey’s heart skipped a beat and her hand started to shake. The final spire of the tower went off at an absurd angle.
“There’s always the theatre,” she said in reply, without turning. This was the correct phrasing, the challenge and response. Sign, countersign. There was an empty spot on the bench and the man sat down. He wore a brown suit with a Derby, which she knew the British called a bowler. And the man was British; there was no mistaking the accent. He removed his hat to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.
“There is nothing like a springtime day in Paris, is there?” he said. The second sequence of challenge-and-response phrases.
“It is warm. London is nice too.”
“Your marks were not that well done. I could barely see the first one.”
“Sorry. My first time,” she said while continuing to sketch the tower. The man had not turned
