Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [41]
‘Goddess!’ She bolted upright. George Reed’s eyes snapped open, catching her before she fell off the sofa. He looked as surprised as she felt. She stood uncertainly.
‘There’s nothing wrong. We’re at my flat, remember?’
It all came flooding back. They’d talked, smoked and got a bit drunk. Then she’d fallen asleep. That’s all. Situation under control.
‘Yeah, sure. Sorry.’ It was still pitch black in here, thanks to the blackout paint. It was chilly, too. England was so cold in this century. If she didn’t know better, then she’d have suspected that this was because the British hadn’t discovered fire yet. It was impossible to judge the time of day in here, but she could hear birdsong outside. Roz checked her wristwatch.
‘It’s twenty past eight!’
‘Don’t worry, we’re only a quarter of an hour away from Whitehall. Less if I phone for a car.’
‘No it’s — It’s too late to get over to the TARDIS and see if the Doctor has turned up today. ‘Look, George, I’m sorry. I don’t normally oversleep.’
‘No. Look, I need a bit of a scrub. Er...’ George was grinning like a schoolboy. He made some arcane hand-gesture over his chest and left. Roz frowned, trying to puzzle out this latest English ritual. Then she glanced down at her blouse, which had come unbuttoned in a couple of places. It must have happened overnight, because George had been a perfect gentleman when things had got a little more intimate last night. His loss. And don’t you dare pretend you were drunk, Roslyn Forrester, because you are not even slightly hungover. She buttoned herself up, tucked the blouse back into her skirt and adjusted her petticoat. One of her stockings had come unhitched overnight. She did it back up. There was a knock, and George peeked round the door.
‘The bathroom’s free,’ he said nervously.
‘George, I enjoyed last night — I enjoy your company —
but anything we do out of office hours can’t affect our work, OK?’
‘I understand, Roz. No office romance.’
‘I’m not a romantic person, George, we better get that straight right now. And I’m not going to be here very long. If you ask me to marry you, then I’ll bite your nose off, is that understood?’
George looked down at his feet. ‘Understood, Captain.’
‘Good boy.’ Forrester went to freshen up.
Gunfire.
Frantically, Armand pulled the radio set from under the bed, looped the headphones over his ear and pinned up the aerial. He spoke in English. He had been chosen because he was the most fluent English-speaker left. Another burst of submachine-gunfire, upstairs this time.
‘Raven Calling London. Raven Calling London. Over.’
‘Receiving you, Raven. Status Tomato. Over.’ If he wasn’t used to it, the surrealism of the conversation might have been comical. He hadn’t much time. He dropped the codebook into the ashtray, then set it alight with a match.
‘Tomato Compromised. Repeat: Tomato Compromised.
Over.’
The door burst open. Shouts in German.
‘Hugin. Munin. Hugin and Mun— ’
Gunfire. Footsteps. The last page of the codebook curled and blackened.
‘Please confirm, Raven.’
Gunshot.
‘Your moustache makes you very distinctive.’
‘Thank you.’ Chris glowed with pride, stroking his top lip.
Monique was the young daughter of Monsieur Gerard, the farmer who owned the barn. They had found him, but luckily they had wanted to identify him before shooting. After initial suspicions, they’d welcomed him in, made up a bed for him.
Now they sat around the breakfast table. Monique had told him something of her family’s history. Her mother, Monsieur Gerard’s wife, had died in childbirth and his two sons had served on the Maginot Line. Monique was pretty, with long, black hair. She was about five foot six, and looked a little older than her fifteen years. Last year, she had been planning to join a religious order, a nunnery near Mont St Michel. The war had changed all that. Now, she helped her father at the farm because his sons and all the other farmhands had