Chapter 11
I got halfway down the drive before I changed my mind. Looking back to check if Valentine was still there, and seeing he had gone, I turned and marched back into the embassy.
‘Keep doing the right thing,’ my dad had said. Except I wasn’t, was I? The visa idea was a good one, and I was pleased to be putting that into action, but I was still six days away from getting back to my proper job.
And in the meantime, Archie Valentine was supposed to be helping POWs like Penny’s brother, and airmen like Lara’s cousin, and soldiers like my brother.
But he wasn’t. He was flouncing round the embassy, fluttering his eyelashes at everyone and playing a lot of golf.
Even worse than that, he seemed to be connected to Steven Parrish in some way. The very same Steven Parrish who was wearing expensive clothes, acting shifty and spying on people.
Well, I wasn’t having it.
Determined, I headed to Valentine’s office. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I wanted to know what he was up to.
As I approached, though, I could see the door was slightly ajar. Hearing voices, I paused, peeking through the gap.
I could see Valentine and his assistant Hughes, both pacing round the room, clearly rattled by something.
‘So, we find ourselves with a dilemma,’ Valentine was saying. ‘Men are making it to the escape routes but not quickly enough and not in large enough numbers.’
A tingle ran down my spine. This was what Hughes had told me about; this was MI9 work, helping escapers and evaders.
This was what Valentine was supposed to be doing when he was whizzing round Lisbon in his ridiculous car, with a pretty girl in the passenger seat.
And this was undoubtedly what I should also be doing.
At least in my own opinion. Perhaps this was my chance?
If I could listen in and come up with a brilliant solution to their problems, Digby would have to let me back into Section D.
Quietly, I slid down the wall in the corridor so I was sitting on the floor beside the open door, and took out my notepad.
Valentine was still pacing. ‘Tell me the figures again.’
‘It costs, on average, ￡15,000 to train an airman,’ Hughes began. He sounded as though he’d said the words many times before.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ said Valentine.
‘Indeed. Obviously, we don’t want to spend that money simply for our airmen and soldiers to disappear into occupied Europe. So, as you know, as part of their training, our men are being taught “escape-mindedness”.’
Behind the door, I mouthed ‘escape-mindedness’ to myself. What kind of word was that?
‘The chaps know that if they find themselves in a sticky spot behind enemy lines, they’re to do everything they can to escape,’ Hughes went on.
‘But knowing that is, apparently, not the same as doing it.’ Valentine sighed.
‘The problem is that it is hit and miss,’ Hughes said.
‘For example, we teach them to find a safe house in the first instance. They know to stake out houses first – for a few days if necessary. It’s often better to choose a home with no men present.
Safer. And then it’s just about waiting and hoping that they’ll get lucky and find the Resistance and an escape route. ’
Leaning against the wall, I wrote down everything he was saying.
‘And what of the prisoners of war?’
‘Same process. As soon as they’re in the camps, they’re to be thinking of ways out.’
‘But we’ve sent them equipment,’ Valentine said. ‘Compasses in shaving brushes, maps hidden on playing cards.’
‘Exactly, so they are better off in a way. Though it’s still slow going when they’re trying to locate the escape routes. And they have the added danger of making it out of the camps, which is not an easy task.’
‘And you’ve spoken to some escapers and evaders?’ Valentine asked. I flipped to a clean page in my notebook ready to write more.
‘Yes, I spoke to a couple of airmen who have evaded capture. One of them named Lieutenant Harper was the most frank. He admitted that all his escape-mindedness training went straight out of his head as soon as he crashed. He told me he struggled without a compass or a map because he had no idea where he was supposed to be going. He could navigate with the sun, but that’s not always easy. ’
‘So we need something like the compass hidden in the shaving brush that is suitable for airmen?’ Valentine said. I wrote that down and underlined it. Could I come up with a gadget? It wasn’t really my area of expertise but never say never.
‘Harper panicked and he ended up taking risks, visiting various houses and farms before he stumbled on the Resistance and ultimately the escape routes,’ Hughes carried on. ‘But it took him three weeks before he was safe, and it could have been a very different story.’
‘We know where the safe houses are,’ Valentine said. ‘We’ve spent months making those escape routes work.’
‘You’re the one who’s done the work,’ Hughes said modestly. ‘All that time you spent in France.’
I was astonished. That didn’t sound like the Valentine I’d seen so far.
‘We know where they are, but we can’t tell the airmen and soldiers,’ said Valentine. He sounded slightly despairing. ‘The risk of compromising the safe houses is too big.’
‘We can tell them in training,’ Hughes suggested but he didn’t sound hopeful.
‘They’d never remember all those locations. Not if – as Harper said – they’re panicking.’
‘Could we write the addresses somewhere? In the seams of their uniform? In their boots? On their hats?’
‘Perhaps,’ Valentine said. Then he suddenly sounded more cheerful. ‘We could put a compass in their uniform, though.’
‘Clever,’ said Hughes. ‘Where?’
‘Buttons?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘And how about a map printed on a handkerchief?’
‘Yes!’ Hughes sounded delighted. I crossed out gadgets in my notebook, slightly annoyed to have missed my chance.
‘If only we could slip an address book into every soldier’s pocket,’ said Valentine.
Every soldier’s pocket? Where had I heard that recently?
Valentine and Hughes were still chatting, but I wasn’t listening anymore. Every soldier’s pocket …
That was it! I stood up quickly and took a deep breath. I brushed the dust from the floor off my skirt and smoothed down my hair. And then, as confidently as I could, I walked into the office without knocking.
Valentine and Hughes both looked round at me, surprised.
‘The door was open,’ I said. ‘You should probably close that when you’re discussing this sort of thing.’
Valentine raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you need something?’
‘I’ve got an idea. About getting addresses to the airmen and soldiers.’
‘You’ve been listening?’ said Hughes. He looked a little alarmed but Valentine, to his credit, looked interested.
‘What’s the idea?’
‘Books.’
‘Books?’ He immediately looked less interested, so I jumped in again, desperate not to be ignored.
‘Peacock Books. They’ve got a new imprint for soldiers and they’re sending them out all over the place.
They said they want a book in the pocket of every soldier.
It’s intended to raise spirits. Boost morale. ’
‘I’ve heard about this,’ said Hughes. ‘It’s a good idea.’
Valentine sat down on the edge of the desk and stared straight at me. ‘Go on.’
‘We could hide the addresses of safe houses in the books,’ I said. I was so eager to share my idea that my usually calm voice was breathy and unsure. I forced myself to breathe normally then I said again: ‘In the books.’
There was a pause. Hughes and Valentine both stared at me, then glanced at each other. I bit my lip.
‘How would we hide them?’ asked Valentine.
‘Ah well, I’d not got that far,’ I admitted. ‘How about on the pages at the front of the book where they have the publisher and all that?’
‘We’d need to get Peacock on board to print the addresses. But it’s an idea.’
‘Might take a while, though,’ I said. I was still thinking. ‘Is there another way we could put them inside? A quicker way?’
‘Bookmarks?’ said Hughes. ‘Though an address on a bookmark would look a bit odd.’
‘Unless it was an address of a bookshop …’ said Valentine thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ I said. I turned to Hughes. ‘Do you have one?’
‘One what?’ He looked alarmed.
‘A book, you goose.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He opened his battered briefcase and pulled out an even more battered copy of 80 Days Around the World. He held it out to me, and I took it. I flipped through the pages, backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards.
‘Hmm,’ I said.
‘Hmm?’ Hughes peered at the book in my hands.
‘There’s a stamp on the first page.’
‘A stamp?’ Valentine leaned forward.
‘What kind of stamp?’ said Hughes.
‘This is your book,’ I said. ‘You tell me what kind of stamp it is. You’ve obviously read this several times.’
Hughes thought for a moment. ‘It’s the name of the bookshop,’ he said, eventually. ‘It’s Siop Lyfrau Bach.’
‘Bless you,’ said Valentine. I stifled a giggle.
‘It means little bookshop,’ he explained. ‘And there’s the address underneath. I think the lady who owns the shop stamps all the books she sells. It’s like an advertisement, isn’t it? Enterprising.’
‘And very helpful,’ I said, feeling a little shiver of excitement. ‘In fact, it’s exactly what we’re looking for.’
‘Explain?’ Hughes was frowning again, making his spectacles skewwhiff.
‘We could stamp the books with addresses of safe houses, making them look like addresses of bookshops. If we’re clever, we could hide a few addresses in one.
Like a street name, a village name, a region – whatever helps.
We could even anglicise addresses if we need to – make it less suspicious. Translate road names and so on.’
‘This is very simple,’ said Valentine. ‘And the simplest ideas are often the best.’
Against my better judgement I flushed at his compliment.
‘Perhaps we could stamp different books with different addresses,’ said Hughes, warming to the idea.
‘Yes!’ I said in delight. ‘I think there are a few books in the series. Each one could contain an address or two.’
‘How do you know about this?’ Valentine asked. ‘These Peacock books?’
‘A friend from school is working on them. It’s called the Forces Book Club. They’re choosing books that they think soldiers and airmen will enjoy.’
‘Can you get in touch with them? Find out who’s at the top? We can speak to them, make sure they’re printing enough and the like.’
‘I can …’ I began.
‘What’s the problem?’ Valentine frowned.
‘I’m in clerical,’ I said. ‘I’m not supposed to be working on … well, anything classified.’
‘Why not?’
I took a breath. ‘My brother died.’
Valentine nodded, understanding. ‘How much longer?’
‘Five days.’
‘Five days?’ he repeated. ‘Let’s not worry about that now. I’ll speak to Digby.’
‘Really?’
‘You’re on the team.’