where a large genial man in heavy sweater and cloth cap was arranging turnips in neat rows under a sign D. Chevalier.
‘So, it’s swedes today?’ Gallagher said as he arrived.
‘Good for you, General,’ Chevalier said.
‘Do you tell me? Mrs Vibert gave me swede jam for breakfast the other day.’ Gallagher shuddered. ‘I can still taste it. Two sacks of spuds for you here.’
Chevalier’s eyes lit up. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, General. Let’s have them in the back.’
Gallagher dragged them into the room at the rear, and Chevalier opened a cupboard and took out an old canvas duffel bag. ‘Four loaves of white bread.’
‘Jesus,’ Gallagher said. ‘Who did you kill to get those?’
‘A quarter pound of China tea and a leg of pork. Okay?’
‘Nice to do business with you,’ Gallagher told him. ‘See you next week.’
His next stop was at the troop supply depot in Wesley Street. It had originally been a garage and there were half-a-dozen trucks parked in there. There wasn’t much happening, but a burly Feldwebel called Klinger was sitting in the glass office eating a sandwich. He waved, opened the door and came down the steps.
‘Herr General,’ he said genially.
‘God, Hans, but you do well for youself,’ Gallagher said in excellent German and prodded the ample stomach.
Klinger smiled. ‘A man must live. We are both old soldiers, Herr General. We understand each other. You have something for me?’
‘Two sacks of potatoes for the official list.’
‘And?’
‘Another sack for you, if you’re interested.’
‘And in exchange?’
‘Petrol.’
The German nodded. ‘One five-gallon can.’
‘Two five-gallon cans,’ Gallagher said.
‘General.’ Klinger turned to a row of British Army issue petrol cans, picked two up and brought them to the van. ‘What if I turned you in? You’re so unreasonable.’
‘Prison for me and a holiday for you,’ Gallagher said. ‘They say the Russian Front’s lovely at this time of the year.’
‘As always, a practical man.’ Klinger pulled the three sacks of potatoes out of the van. ‘One of these days a patrol is going to stop you for a fuel check, and they’ll discover your petrol is the wrong color.’
‘Ah, but I’m a magician, my friend, didn’t I tell you that?’ and Gallagher drove away.
Military petrol was dyed red, the ration for agricultural use was green, and doctors enjoyed a pink variety. What Klinger hadn’t discovered was that it was a simple matter to remove the dye by straining the petrol through the filter of the gas mask issued to the general public at the beginning of the war. A little green dye added afterward turned military petrol to the agricultural variety very quickly indeed.
Survival was what it was all about. This was an old island, and the Le Brocq half of him was fiercely proud of that. Over the centuries, the island had endured many things. As he passed the Pomme d’Or Hotel, German Naval Headquarters, he looked up at the Nazi flag hanging above the entrance and said softly, ‘And we’ll still be here when you bastards are long gone.’
Gallagher parked the van at the weighbridge and walked along the Albert Pier, going up the steps to the top section. He paused to light one of his French cigarettes and looked out across the bay. The fog had thinned just a little and Elizabeth Castle, on its island, looked strange and mysterious, like something out of a fairy story. Walter Raleigh had once ruled there as governor. Now Germans with concrete fortifications and gun emplacements up on top.
He looked down into the harbor. As always it was a hive of activity. The Germans used Rhine barges, among other vessels, to carry supplies to the Channel Islands. There were several moored on the far side at the New North Quay. There were a number of craft of various kinds from the 2 Vorpostenbootsflotille and two M40 Klasse minesweepers from the 24th Minesweeper Flotilla. Several cargo vessels, mostly coasters, among them the SS Victor Hugo, were moored against the Albert Pier.
Built in 1920 by Ferguson Brothers in Glasgow for a French firm engaged in the coastal trade, she had definitely seen better days. Her single smokestack was punctured in several places by cannon shell from RAF Beaufighters in an attack on one of the night convoys from Granville two weeks previously. Savary was the master with a crew of ten Frenchmen. The anti-aircraft defenses consisted of two machine guns and a Bofors gun, manned by seven German naval ratings commanded by Guido Orsini.
Gallagher could see him now on the bridge, leaning on the rail, and called in English, ‘Heh, Guido? Is Savary about?’
Guido cupped his hands. ‘In the café.’
The hut farther along the pier which served as a café was not busy, four French seamen playing cards at one table, three German sailors at another. Robert Savary, a large, bearded man in a reefer coat and cloth cap, a greasy scarf knotted at his neck, sat on his own at a table next to the window, smoking a cigarette, a bowl of coffee in front of him.
‘Robert, how goes it?’ Gallagher demanded in French and sat down.
‘Unusual to see you down here, Mon General, which means you want something.’
‘Ah, you cunning old peasant.’ Gallagher passed an envelope under the table. ‘There, have you got that?’
‘What is it?’
‘Just put it in your pocket and don’t ask questions. When you get to Granville, there’s a café in the walled city called Sophie’s. You know it?’
Savary was already beginning to turn pale. ‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘You know the good Sophie Cresson well and her husband Gerard?’
‘I’ve met them.’ Savary tried to give him the envelope back under the table.
‘Then you’ll know that their business is terrorism carried to as extreme a degree as possible. They not only shoot the Boche, they also like to make an example of collaborators, isn’t that the colorful phrase? So if I were you, I’d be sensible. Take the letter. Needless to say, don’t read it. If you do, you’ll probably never sleep again. Just give it to Sophie with my love. I’m sure she’ll have a message for me, which you’ll let me have as soon as you’re back.’
‘Damn you, General,’ Savary muttered and put the envelope in his pocket.
‘The Devil took care of that long ago. Don’t worry. You’ve nothing to worry about. Guido Orsini’s a good lad.’
‘The Count?’ Savary
