J. Janes - Betrayal

At dawn they walked among the bodies. Some of the men were very young, others not even of middle age.

There was no sign of Kevin, nor of Mrs. Tulford. Alone among the Nazi dead, the body of Kenneth McGraw lay with strands of kelp across his broken chest. Thousands of one- and five-pound notes floated about or clung to the oil-slicked rocks and the bodies.

‘Come away, lass. There is nothing you or anyone else can do for them.’

Did Hamish despise her for what she’d done and become, a woman who could kill with a vengeance-had there ever been vengeance?

Crouching, she picked up one of the notes. The face of King George VI was very clear and sharp.

Sodden, the bill fell from her fingers to cling to the rocks.

‘Lass, I’m sorry it had to end this way. Och , you know I’ll stand by you.’

There would be an inquest, a trial and then a hanging, and nothing she or Hamish could ever say or do would stop them.

The man who sat across the desk from her in the bunker below 10 Downing Street was angry.

Winston Spencer Churchill thumbed through the dossier and the signed statement of thirty pages she had given at the inquest. Everything that had happened in what was now being dubbed ‘The Tralane Affair’ had been documented in the neatest and most precise of handwritings. The damnable inquest had gone on for weeks and it hadn’t entirely been hushed up.

‘Just what the devil am I to do with you?’ he asked, chewing on his cigar. ‘The Royal Navy and the RAF, in spite of repeated attempts, fail to sink this Nazi submarine but you … you, Mrs. … Oh damn it, what was it?’

‘Fraser … Mrs. Mary Ellen Fraser.’

‘Scottish! The Scots have always been trouble!’

He hunkered forward to fix her with a piercing gaze. ‘Do you know what’s happened? The Irish press has had the unmitigated gall to release stories of this sordid affair. Fleet Street was never cosy with them but by God, the Times and the Daily Mail are suggesting I step down!’

Those bluest of eyes bulged in anger. ‘From being labelled another Mata Hari, you’ve become a heroine, Mrs. Fraser. Condemned to hang by the neck while myself and His Majesty are left with the decision of what to do with you.’

Mr. Churchill reached for his glass, the bulldog of the war lacking all patience. ‘London … Dear old London,’ he said with sudden sentiment that only set those eyes to watering, ‘is being bombed to pieces, Mrs. Fraser!’

She wished he’d not blame her for the Luftwaffe’s raids.

‘That husband of yours has given a lengthy interview to the Times and the Daily Mail . I have it on good authority that the Manchester Guardian and others have also received this “interview” but we do have censorship laws in effect, so I will say no more of it.’

He flipped through the pages. She had sunk this U-397, had learned on her own to use explosives and to shoot with the best. Instinctively she had handled herself remarkably well in very tight situations. ‘There was mention of a child, I believe?’ he said with sudden rancour.

‘Yes, I … I lost it shortly after we left the island. On the boat, actually.’

That couldn’t have been pleasant for her. ‘Did you love this Nazi?’

How could you-Mary knew that was what he’d implied. ‘I thought I did at the time but soon learned not to and … and in the end, caused his death.’

‘And that of more than sixty others!’ jibed Churchill only to see the tears he’d caused and to say with all sincerity, ‘My dear, you must forgive me. This business has not been easy. Taken alone, it was a war on our very shores. We won it only by the dogged determination and spirit of will of one of our citizens. Can you begin to imagine what the nation wants of you in these deeply troubled times? You are a heroine, Mrs. Fraser, a British citizen who …’

‘I … I’m a Canadian, Prime Minister. Though I’m married to a Scot, I’ve not yet …’

‘A Canadian-from the Dominions, eh?’ he accused as if that explained everything. ‘Damned fine people, the Canadians. Damned good fighters.’

Drawing on his cigar, he paused to give her a moment. ‘How is it that you have learned to speak and write French?’

Alarmed, puzzled by the question, she threw those big brown eyes of hers up at him in doubt and hesitation.

Her voice a whisper in the hush of the bunker, Mary briefly told him of the little girl she had had to leave behind in Montreal. ‘My French is Parisian, but my accent Canadian, Prime Minister.’

‘That could be ironed out, I should think. French was never a gift I’d have chosen for myself, though I speak it well enough.’

‘I learned it against all opposition in a city where the English didn’t bother to speak it. I needed friends, Prime Minister. I wanted to get to know my neighbours and the woman who looked after my little girl when I went out to work. I lived with French Canadians, not with the English. It was a lot cheaper and far friendlier.’

Churchill knew he was impressed, that this wasn’t just anyone sitting so properly in front of him in that beige suit of hers, but a very resourceful young woman. She was tired and thin, and terribly worried but not afraid to pay for what she’d done.

‘What has happened to that husband of yours?’ he asked, adopting a rather bland and disinterested tone.

‘He’s here in London, staying with friends. He … he comes to see me every day.’

And talks to the press! ‘Why isn’t he in the services? Good, qualified surgeons are desperately needed.’

‘Hamish fought in the Great War.’

‘I did so myself. Come, come, there has to be something else. He’s not one of those conscientious objectors, is he?’

‘Prime Minister, I think you know Hamish was disqualified for having helped a destitute young girl out of a very bad situation. That girl lived and has gone her way, while he …’

‘Became a country doctor in Northern Ireland and doctor to the Nazis at Tralane. My dear, please do not think ill of me. We can use him in North Africa. War provides the forgiveness time alone can never allow.’

Again he would give her a moment. Tribunals were seldom what they should be. Reaching for his glass, he found it empty. ‘My dear young woman, the Nazis grind virtually the whole of Europe beneath their jackboots. Day by day men and women are being tortured and shot for having defied them. Are you aware in the slightest of what those brave souls must face?’

She wished he’d not accuse her of anything more but knew he was in a very difficult position, that Tralane and Inishtrahull, while the least of his problems, had become paramount. ‘I think I know what they must feel, Prime Minister. Each day out there on the island and since, a good part of me has died. I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I’m ashamed of it.’

‘But you have changed, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I’ve changed and I know this.’

Churchill drew on the cigar. She was uncommonly fetching, still unassuming and not revealing any of that tough inner spirit and instinctive will and talent that had allowed her to survive and to singlehandedly accomplish so much. Indeed, though he had little use for them, she reminded him of a schoolteacher-no, a secretary. Yes, that was better. Had she the gift of languages, he wondered, a knack for learning them? She’d had a bit of college Deutsch . Could she take it up again in addition to polishing the French?

He thought so, he thought her a treasure but had she already been through too much? Only time would tell. ‘Will you agree to go into Occupied France for me?’

The cigar was poised, the question had been given quietly. Occupied France …