Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [42]
He had clearly been a farmer for the whole of his life. His face was lined, his huge hands were callused. He was forty-one, ‘as old as the century’, as he put it. He looked older.
‘It is not a good thing to be distinctive these days, Christophe,’ he mumbled.
‘No?’ Chris was disappointed.
‘Don’t worry, you might not have to shave it off.’ Monique giggled. She handed him a glass of wine, and a hunk of bread.
Her father’s voice was grave. ‘Mr Cwej, I am glad you have not forgotten our country, but you must understand that your presence here puts us at risk.’
‘I’m quite willing to leave now, I — ‘ Chris replied hurriedly.
‘Sir, I did not mean that. I want to help. I have no contact with the Resistance. I can do little more than save the best of my produce for my fellow countrymen and keep my eyes and ears open. I am willing to help you in my limited way.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will avenge your sons.’
‘Avenge?’ The farmer chuckled. ‘You make it sound so melodramatic. Michel and Luc were soldiers, defending their country. I sometimes wonder why people have this notion that wars are such an adventure. I fought in the last war, the Great War. I was fifteen, so eager to join up that I lied about my age. I learnt then that it wasn’t a place for heroism, it was just war. I spent most of my time marching and waiting. Lying in cold ditches, not sure whether my friends were still alive, or when the enemy would attack. I wasn’t able to sleep, and my latrine was a bucket in the corner of my quarters, which I shared with five other men. I’ve never seen a novel or a film where the hero did that! They miss out all those bits.’ He paused to sip his wine and gave a little chuckle. ‘So, Mr Cwej, what exciting mission brings you here?’
‘I was making my way towards the airfield. I’m looking for Emil Hartung.’
‘The racing driver?’ asked the farmer, but his daughter was already speaking.
Not the new base?’ she enquired.
‘The what?’
‘My daughter means the new fence. I don’t think there is a base there yet.’
‘Where is this?’
‘South-east of here, about two miles.’
‘The British have no photographs of this base. Could you take me?’
Monsieur Gerard shrugged. ‘It is the least I could do.
But I have to warn you that there isn’t much to see. I will take you there this evening.’
As soon as they arrived at their office, George could tell that something was wrong.
Kendrick and Lynch had been joined by three more men.
Two of them were RAF, the other wore a double-breasted blue suit. He was either a civil servant or MI5, he was too smartly dressed to be a boffin. All five were bent over a map of the English Channel. One of the RAF men was drawing on it with a thick red pen. Reed glanced at Roz, who flashed back a look of concern.
‘What’s the matter, sir?’ he asked.
‘It’s a disaster, George. Forrester, could you come over here?’ She was the shortest person present, and Kendrick was allowing her a better vantage point. George stood on the other side of the table. Surrounded by half a dozen drab Englishmen, Roz looked all the more exotic.
‘What, precisely, is the problem?’ she asked, apparently sensing Kendrick’s new-found acceptance of her, and warily trying not to break the spell.
‘We’ve lost the whole “Tomato” network.’
‘The Channel Islands,’ said Reed.
‘Exactly. And some of France, the area around Granville.
Jersey and Guernsey should be totally secure, the network was entirely made up of British citizens. But it looks like the collapse started in Guernsey.’
‘When?’ Forrester was businesslike, and Kendrick seemed to appreciate it. One of the RAF men spoke up. ‘Just this morning. In one day, thirty of our people were rounded up. It happened so quickly, we couldn’t even warn them.’
‘...so the Germans have known about the network for a while,’ concluded the civilian.
‘Is there anyone left?’
‘Not one. The last was apparently killed at 08.24 this morning while he was calling London. A member of the Raven