“Och, now, ain’t ye a sight fae sore eyes.”
The two men exchanged silent grins that told Presley that they shared more than the same uniform, and that these two were brothers in arms who had sweated and bled on the same ground.
“Ah, McEwan… Sergeant McEwan I see now, is it?”
“Aye, that it is, Sah. Yer replacement understood ma quality.”
Whilst not intended to wound, the words struck home. McEwan was not here to take him back to his unit, but to take him back to visit the reforming battalion, before taking him onto London and the necessary rounds of interviews and meetings that Ramsey hoped would secure him something of interest that contributed to the war effort.
McEwan, aware that his words had hurt, but without the verbal skills to undo the damage, made do with grabbing Ramsey’s luggage.
For an English gentleman, what happened next was probably somewhat unseemly, but for an American nurse, who had seen a suffering man rally and fight his way forward, it was completely natural.
She broke from the embrace she had sponsored and kissed his cheek.
“You take care of yourself, John Ramsey. And I will know. Your wife’s invited me to visit your home when my duties allow, so I’ll be checking up on you.”
That wasn’t a huge surprise in itself, as Ramsey was aware that the two women had formed a bond, almost an alliance, brought together by the care they both had and gave, in their different ways.
“I shall look forward to it, Florence.”
She playfully tapped his arm.
“That’s Major Presley to you, soldier.”
Strangely, he found himself growing emotional and knew he needed to go quickly.
But he could not stop himself from taking her hand.
“Thank you. Really… thank you, Doc Levens, Doc Gambaccini, all the nurses, but you most of all. Thank you.”
She wanted to reply, but couldn’t find the words, so just smiled as Ramsey grabbed his canes and sped from the ward as quickly as his prosthetic legs would carry him.
Saint Hippolytes, named for a Roman soldier martyred in the 3rd Century AD, was one of those places that you had to go and see if you were nearby.
Famous as the oldest church in the area, it had been erected in the 14th Century and, over time, had become one of the finest examples of a baroque church, resplendent with superb internal detailing, frescos, and a world-renowned Italian-styled stucco crypt.
Those who visited moved around quietly, keeping themselves to themselves and taking in the marvellous surroundings, rather than noticing those who also visited, which was why it had been deemed suitable for what was to follow.
Thonon les Bains had another great charm for two of the people who converged on the crypt that morning, in as much as it was close to Saint-Gingolph, a town half in France and half in Switzerland, and a well-known point where the real world and the world of espionage had their borders well and truly muddied.
The woman, closer to sixty than she cared for, was the wife of a senior Red Cross member. Both her husband and she possessed impeccable credentials for their work with that organisation, and had a notorious and well-established interest in Baroque architecture. She had arrived over two hours beforehand, mixing her main business with pleasure, as she moved quietly around, sketching and photographing, even setting up her easel and canvas to add more touches to her on-going work recording the interior of the Catholic church.
She was a frequent and well-known visitor to St Hippolytes, which made her presence unremarkable in every way, except that she was a former and clandestine associate of one Helen Radó, the wife of Alexander Radó, an important GRU agent in Switzerland, presently awaiting trial in the USSR for anti-Soviet intelligence operations.
Whilst generally unremarkable, Serena di Mattino worked for both the GRU and NKVD, passing on information gleaned from her Red Cross activities, as well as, when the matter was considered vitally important and there was no other choice, acting as a field agent.
Her duties today were vitally important, and there simply was no other choice.
A young priest had stopped to chat with her, seeking some small input on the wonders around him, and proving very attentive to her history lesson on the church and the baroque style in general.
When he left, Di Mattino returned to her labours and found herself lost in it all once more, until she became aware of another presence.
She looked up and smiled at the man admiring her painting, quickly turning back to complete a few more strokes around the pulpit, deliberately reducing some of the shadowing.
“You have talent, Madame. A gift from God, some might say.”
The man was clearly an Allied officer, a Captain in full Legion uniform. His unsteady gait spoke of unseen injury and most casual observers had assumed that he was recuperating from wounds sustained in the defence of La Belle France.
In truth, he was recovering from a severe illness, taking in the clean air during constitutional walks along the shores of Lake Geneva.
In truth, he was here, now, at the allotted hour, to pass on vital information.
Di Mattino rested her paintbrush and leant back to admire her changes.
“A gift from God? I think that may be so, but the training my father paid for will have helped I think, Captain.”
Code phrases successfully exchanged, the tension, such as it was, disappeared.
“Please sit and rest yourself. You look worn out, Captain.”
To casual observers, the two were discussing the painting, gesticulating at the church interior, then examining the art work in turn.
Such observers would also have seen the legion officer open his own small portfolio, showing off pencil sketches and some charcoal work, drawing approving nods and clucks from his lady friend.
Even a suspicious observer would probably have missed the exchange when it took place, blatantly, openly, in full view, but hidden by appearing to be something other than it was.
They both stood and shook hands.
The Legion officer saluted and slowly moved off, leaving Serena di Mattino to continue her art work long into the afternoon, although the presence of that which she now carried within her own portfolio grew and grew as the time dragged on.
But, she always stayed until five, and she wasn’t going to break her field craft today, even for such important intelligence.
Sitting just inside a small shorefront Bistro, the Legion Captain looked out over Lake Geneva, sipping his Asbach, happy to be relieved of his burden.
The waiter responded to his summons, and more Asbach filled the glass.
Weiss, surprised that he needed the strong brandy, took a healthy sip and started to feel more relaxed.
The waiter retreated, watching his customer carefully, not only so that he could be as attentive as possible, but also because he was Deux’s man.
Outside the church, the young priest was deep in conversation with two nuns, although all three were more than aware of the fact that Serena di Mattino had packed up her kit and was on her way home, for all three were also Deuxieme Bureau, as was the balding man reading a novel, two tables from where Weiss was sitting, and the two walkers who bracketed the Swiss woman on her way to the bus stop, and who knew for a fact that she now carried the plans that supposedly outlined Operation Spectrum.
Chapter 131 – THE LULL
The idea that a war can be won by standing on the defensive and waiting for the enemy to attack is a dangerous fallacy, which owes its inception to the desire to evade the price of victory.