Chapter 24
U ncle Charles said he was pleased with the progress they had made, and after they arrived back at the house, he rushed to develop the film in his darkroom in the basement.
Lizzie asked to see the pictures when they were ready, and Charles looked delighted to have a family member take such an interest in his work.
‘Of course, my dear. I’ll call you when they are ready. It shouldn’t be too long.’
In the bedroom, Lizzie extracted the precious mini camera from her coat and sat on the bed, nestling it in her palm.
The Minox camera used by spies and agents was brilliant, and with the help of her uncle’s professional equipment, it had been easy to pinpoint what to photograph with the small device.
But there was always the worry that the pictures wouldn’t come out well when she got back to London and then her mission would have failed.
There were so many things that could go wrong.
She hoped she had captured the fortifications clearly and that the lighting conditions were sufficient.
Lizzie could explain what she’d seen, and that would be helpful, but it was nothing compared to having photographs of the exact positioning. Her military knowledge was basic, so presenting the military experts with proof was at the heart of her mission.
There was the possibility of losing the camera during her extraction, or every agent’s worst fear—being caught with incriminating evidence of spying on their person, which would almost certainly result in her being sent to a Gestapo torture chamber.
Most agents who were caught were never seen or heard from again. In the early days of Lizzie’s work with the SOE, her undercover missions had been both terrifying and exhilarating, and she had tried not to think too much about what would happen if she was arrested.
The reality of espionage a few years into the war had caught up with them. There were too many missing agents, and they discovered many were dead through intelligence reports provided by those who had witnessed roundups of compromised agents in the field.
There was an ominous statistic floating around Baker Street that Lizzie couldn’t let herself dwell on but that nevertheless found its way into her head.
SOE wireless operators, or pianists as they called them, were said to have less than a six-week life expectancy on missions in Europe.
Jacques Moreau hadn’t been in play for long, and his arrest and subsequent disappearance haunted Lizzie with evidence of this cruel statistic.
She put her own survival through many dangerous operations down to the fact that she rarely transmitted regular messages as a wireless operator. Yes, she used radio equipment when essential, but it was only a small part of her missions, not her focus.
The courageous wireless operators worked with a permanent target on their backs. They supported Resistance networks and moved about after they transmitted, to avoid detection until their luck ran out and the Germans swooped down on them after monitoring the airwaves and determining their location.
Although SOE agents had carried out remarkable operations, by now most of the early networks had been compromised or dismantled.
Lizzie sighed. It was soul-destroying, and part of the reason she had been based at home for such a long period. It was simply becoming too dangerous to be effective as the Germans grew more familiar with their tactics and more proficient at uncovering and infiltrating their cells.
They had a lot to learn, and the members of the networks she and Jack had set up in France were never far from her thoughts and prayers.
During the past few months, almost every day at Baker Street brought fresh news of betrayals, security breaches and arrests across occupied Europe in all the SOE country sections, not only F section.
Charles called upstairs to Lizzie, and she joined him in his office, where he had laid out the developed survey photographs across his large wooden desk.
Lizzie studied them closely, and a surge of optimism renewed her spirits. ‘They are really very good.’
‘They are indeed. If you wish to act as my assistant again, you are always welcome.’
Possibilities raced through Lizzie’s mind, and she said casually. ‘Thank you. What else have they commissioned as part of your survey work?’
Charles dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You’re here to assess the fortifications for the Allies, aren’t you?’
Lizzie paused and then nodded. There was no point in denying the obvious when her uncle was positioned to assist her, and their goals were aligned. ‘London needs to know what the Boche are cooking up for their new Atlantic Wall strategy.’
Charles’s eyes were solemn. ‘I suppose it’s too late to warn you of the lunacy of what you’re doing?’
Lizzie smiled wryly. ‘You suppose right. I won’t tell you more than you need to know, but let’s just say I’m already in up to my neck.’
‘And your father knows you are here?’
‘He does. He’s the only one in the family who does—well, until now, that is.’
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Charles said. ‘Now what do you need and what can I do to help?’
Aunt Giselle brought them coffee before leaving to join Sophie at the bookshop, and they studied the angles of the photographs and discussed potential avenues for Charles to appear to be helping the Nazis, whilst hindering the project in favour of an Allied invasion.
He sketched out plans for Lizzie of what he surmised the Germans had in mind for the fortification of St. Malo.
‘It’s early days. I've only had one meeting with them so far, and this was my first surveyance trip, but it looks like they’re going to pour enormous resources into this, and they’re keen to begin.’
‘When is your next meeting with them?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I should hear soon. They requisitioned the mansion of a British family who got out just in time, and now they’re lording it up, using the house as their HQ. The top dog of the fortification project is based there. I’ve yet to meet him, and I can’t say I’m keen from what I’ve heard.’
‘Do you know his name?’ Lizzie asked, thinking she could include it in her radio transmission once she got set up. This was cutting-edge intelligence, which would inform the SOE exactly who they were up against, and they could study their style of military operation.
Charles screwed up his forehead as he thought. ‘Yes, his name is Heinrich Adler. Means Eagle in German. He’s quite the charming tyrant by all accounts.’
‘Anything else you know about him?’ asked Lizzie, thankful to be able to talk openly with her uncle.
‘I believe he is SS and is in charge of Civil Administration.’ Charles’s eyes narrowed as he spoke.
He said he would listen out for anything that might be of interest. ‘My German is basic at best. I can glean the latest information from the other French surveyors, but I’m lost as soon as the Germans discuss details. ’
Lizzie wondered if she might risk attending a meeting if the opportunity presented itself. The idea of venturing into the belly of the beast made her heart thud, but it could be her chance to listen in on Germany’s fortification plans.
‘Now I think of it, there’s one other thing,’ Charles said, as he arranged the photographs and tidied his papers.
There was something about the way he spoke that told Lizzie this would be more than a casual remark. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘There have been more ships bound for Jersey recently, and a few of us remarked on it, but until the meeting I thought it was just the Germans flexing their muscles about holding British territory.’
‘And now?’ Lizzie prompted.
‘I think they’re planning something big for Jersey as part of the strategy.’
‘We have to find out,’ she said. ‘What could it mean for Nan and Pops?’
‘I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good. A fisherman who delivers to the island tried to check in on them for me. He moored at Portelet and walked up to Seagrove. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t want to frighten Giselle and Sophie. They are already so worried.’
‘I understand,’ Lizzie said, her voice cracking.
‘Anyway, I asked him to look for them at the cottage, but he had to get out of there quickly and didn’t see them,’ he said, closing the filing cabinet with a thud.
‘Why the cottage and not the main house?’ she said, dreading his response but desperate to know the truth.
Charles sat down next to her. There was a heavy silence, and Lizzie’s chest tightened in a vice-like grip.
‘Go on,’ she said in barely a whisper.
‘The fisherman told me a few weeks ago he heard the Germans had requisitioned Seagrove.’
The words cut through the silence like a blade.
Her uncle had just confirmed one of her worst recurring nightmares. Her grandparents had been cast out of their home, which had been in the family for generations, and the Nazis were running their foul regime from the Beaumont house.
The pain ricocheted through her, and she was breathless. ‘No…,’ was all she managed.
‘It was a shock for me too,’ Charles said. ‘Although, given the situation in Europe, it shouldn’t be. They’ve requisitioned so many of the big houses in Brittany, especially those placed strategically for views of the coast, but it lands differently somehow when it’s our family’s home, doesn’t it?’
Charles patted Lizzie’s shoulder.
Lizzie was pale, and her emotions collided as she struggled to contain them.
She had guessed this mission would be hard for her personally, being so close to Jersey but unable to visit her grandparents.
Despite the toll on her, she had agreed, because how could she not?
The way to liberate Jersey wasn’t by sitting in Val’s office or intercepting other agents’ codes.
Her place was in the field. This was where she could make the most difference, no matter how treacherous the missions grew with every passing day.
That night as she tried to drift off to sleep in the narrow bed, with Sophie breathing steadily next to her, images of their grandparents kept her awake.
In the requisition of Seagrove, what had become of them?
The following morning, as the soft dawn light weaved patterns on the dark fabric that coated the window, Lizzie gave up the battle to sleep and tiptoed wearily downstairs to make coffee before everyone woke.
All she had were lots of unanswered questions about the fate of Jersey and the island’s residents.
She sipped the seedy coffee and tried to calm herself. It was easier to think clearly without the demons that reared their heads in the dark hours of the night, taunting her, and she reminded herself of Jack’s advice when one was overwhelmed. He said to take things step by step and follow her gut.
Did Father Guérin know the whereabouts of Jacques Moreau’s hidden radio?
Today was the day she would find out.