Authors: Helen Macinnes

Assignment in Brittany (46 page)

“There are so many things to—” he began, and then halted. “We’ve so little time left.”

“At least we’ve until dawn, and then through the day, and then through the evening, until darkness comes again.”

“No, Anne. You can’t wait all that time. You must go before light breaks. You must be on the road to Saint-Brieuc by morning. You must.”

She lay very still.

At last she said, “Can’t I even wait on the dunes, just to see you leave?”

“Anne, darling, I’d only worry about you. Better reach
your aunt. If I only had time I’d take you there and see you into her house.”

At first she didn’t speak. And then the soft voice had tightened. “How long have we together, then?”

Half an hour, or an hour at the very most, Hearne thought, with his heart as cold as the damp clothes clinging to his body. He said, “Not long enough for any more talk, my love,” and kissed the smooth outlines of her face. “Not even for the reasons why I adore you.” Her skin was soft as a child’s. Her hair smelled of sunshine and fresh winds.

They both flinched when they heard the explosion. Anne had instinctively tightened her arms round his neck, wincing as one of them scraped against the sharp-edged spines of gorse.

“Something’s gone up,” Hearne said. “Something’s blown sky-high. About two miles away, beyond the town. What the devil could that be?”

“The little docks on the east bay, where the river runs into the sea,” Anne suggested. “Madame Chevel said that was how they were bringing the ammunition—by boat. But it’s all guarded: there are soldiers there.”

Hearne nodded. He was alert, listening.

“What’s that?” Anne asked, flinching again.

“Rifle-fire over there. Sounds like machine-guns, too. What the dickens
is
this, anyhow?” He struggled to a kneeling position, his head and shoulders bent, his hands still holding Anne.

Then they heard the footsteps, running footsteps, footsteps coming near them, footsteps coming from the golf course behind them. Again there was rifle-fire, but this time stray
shots sounded from this side of the town in counterpoint to the continuous staccato beat from the east bay.

“Hell’s broken loose,” Hearne said. “I’m going out for a look-see.” He started to crawl forward to the place where he had found their entrance.

“Perhaps your friends?” Anne said.

He shook his head. “They wouldn’t make all this racket. They do it very differently. Sounds to me like a raiding party.” He thought grimly, It would be just my luck to have chosen to leave Saint-Lunaire on the night after a pre-arranged raid.

The footsteps were farther away now. As Hearne parted the branches cautiously, he heard someone fall, and then there was a torrent of descriptive adjectives.

“British,” he said to Anne. And then, in alarm, “They’re going away.” He stooped down to help her rise. He ripped her cardigan from the thorns. To their right they saw the disappearing heads and shoulders of the two last soldiers, as they jumped down on to the shore.

“Hurry, darling, hurry,” Anne said, “quick, quick.” He took her hand and together they raced for the edge of the dune. From somewhere behind them, perhaps from the hotel across the golf course, came a furious burst of firing.

“Keep low!” he urged, and slid over the end of the dune, dragging Anne with him. She was talking so quickly he could hardly separate the words.

“Goodbye, darling, goodbye. And come back. Martin!” But even as she was speaking he had to whistle shrilly to the running figures. Three boats near the beach. From the other side of the rocky peninsula flames were rising, and the firing was heavier.

One of the soldiers had heard him. He stopped and half
turned. Hearne waved his left hand, and whistled again. The officer bringing up the rear also halted and looked round, and then waved in turn. Urgently. The rifle-shots were coming nearer now. A machine-gun crackled on this side of the town, too. The rifle-shots were coming nearer.

“Go on, darling,” Anne said. “I’ll be waiting at Saint-Brieuc.” The officer waved again. Hearne could hear him swearing as he waved. He crushed Anne’s hands convulsively. He couldn’t speak. He turned and ran towards the four soldiers who were waiting for him.

He remembered her as he ran, standing quite still, her back against the dune, her hand frozen in mid-air. She would be smiling. If he could see, she would be smiling.

Hearne turned to look towards her for the last time. She hadn’t moved. Her hand was still upraised.

And then, from where he now stood, he could see the moving shadows as well as hear the sound of their rifles. They’d get her. If she stayed behind, they’d find her. The moving line spread thinly, unevenly, but still dangerously, towards the shore.

Hearne started to run back to the dunes. Behind him he heard the officer’s voice raised angrily. The bullets were findings range now. Sand spurted to the side of him. “Anne,” he called. “Anne. Come. Quick.” And she was running towards him. She seemed to stumble just as she reached him, but his arms were ready and caught her, and then holding her round the waist, her arms resting on his shoulder, he pulled her with him towards the four waiting soldiers.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” said the officer. He looked at Anne. “But what’s all this?” Then, looking at Anne, he was suddenly silent, and stepping
to her other side crossed arms with Hearne to sweep her along between them. Then were in the water now, the surf round their feet, the breaking wave catching their waists. Beyond the waves at the edge, it was shallow and smooth.

The officer was talking all the time. “Good show!” he was saying. “Not bad at all. We gave ’em a pincer movement all right. Pinced them with their panzers down!” He looked approvingly towards the red semi-circle of sky beyond the rocky peninsula. “I wonder how many the others got on that side,” he went on. “We nabbed three officers from the hotel, and disposed of the rest. They are in that boat moving out there. But, of course, that other bay’s the really exciting one.” He nodded casually to the east. “Casino’s over there, jammed full of them. And there’s the town, too. Well, we’ll soon know what happened.” His calm voice had brought them to the boat, and the bullet splashes were now behind them.

The boat curved out into the bay to follow the others.

The roar of its engine hid the clatter of machine-guns from the beach. The water shoreward was cut and furrowed.

“Gawd, throwing stick grenades and all,” a soldier said. “Everything but the kitchen sink.” A second voice said, “No good!” with mock concern. “Wouldn’t they like us to fire at them and show them what to hit? Poor old Jerry can’t get on the target...what a bleeding shame!” Other voices were talking, too, counting wounds, remembering jokes, now that they were leaving the bay with a flaunting trail of foam behind them.

But Hearne, kneeling beside Anne, heard neither the roar of the engines, nor the broken rhythm of the machine-guns on the beach, nor the jubilant voices of the men. He only heard the strangled breathing of the girl, only felt the warm trickle of
blood from her mouth. He watched the face of the man who had pushed him aside, watched the skilful fingers working by the ghastly light of the flares straining their way up into the sky.

The officer returned from his tour of the crowded boat. “Worst is over now,” he said as he looked down at Anne. “We got her in time, I think. By the way, do you happen to be Matthews’ young man who was to be picked up on Saturday? Matthews was fuming when he found we had this operation all planned for tonight. Might have been nasty if you had crossed the Nazis’ trail when they were on the warpath.”

Hearne shook his head. Better that than this. Better that than Anne lying at his feet with a bullet in her lung. He pressed her hand convulsively.

She opened her eyes, and he knew there would be a smile in them if he could see clearly.

The last flare filtered away. Above them was the drone of planes, searching in vain. The stark coast of Brittany had darkened into the night. But the coldness had left his heart. Within his grasp, Anne’s hand moved gently, hopefully.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Helen MacInnes, whom the
Sunday Express
called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.

Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.

Since her first novel
Above Suspicion
was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers;
The Salzburg Connection
was also a major film.

Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.