The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(10)
“With all due respect, sir,” ventured Menzies. “Jubilee is a military action to convince the Russians we’re serious about a European invasion. It’s like sacrificing a knight in chess—so that we can get back to North Africa and proceed the way we’ve planned.”
“Winston—” General Ismay waved away the drifting cloud of smoke. “We’re currently going over French beaches from Brittany to Dunkirk, and there are only two possible invasion sites—Pas de Calais and Normandy. There are advantages and disadvantages to each.”
General Brooke cleared his throat. “I’m still concerned about the lack of intelligence we have on the coast. We have no actual geologists’ reports—only scans from people’s holiday photos we’ve amassed. Holiday snapshots!”
Churchill grunted.
“And, let me say, there are people on our fair isle who have no business wearing swimsuits in the first place, let alone being photographed in them….”
A few of the men murmured, “Hear, hear!” while Menzies lit a Player’s cigarette and looked on impassively. The Chief of MI-6 never said much in these meetings, preferring to watch and listen, and to collect information he might use later.
“At any rate, the sand quality and beach gradients have been estimated using only beach holiday snaps,” Brooke continued. “I will not even consider putting our tanks on French soil, let alone our boys, until we have hard scientific evidence to tell us about sand quality and depth of clay. This is no way to run a war, Winston!”
“Calm yourself, Brookie.” The P.M. looked to Menzies. “And what do you think?”
“This is SOE territory,” Menzies replied, not masking his distaste for the junior and “amateur” organization. “They’re supposed to have provided us with the sand samples already.” He pulled on his cigarette with thin lips. “If you’d given the job to my agents at MI-Six, sir, we would have had the information in hand months ago.”
“Not at all,” rejoined Laycock, bristling under the implied criticism. “SOE is on top of it. Colonel Gaskell of F-Section assures me that he has an agent with the Normandy sand samples, a young thing named Erica Calvert. Had to flit off to Paris apparently, on the run. But she’ll surface soon.”
Menzies stared down Laycock without blinking. “We hear your French agents are in a bit of trouble, old thing.”
Laycock stilled. He was an average-size man, but with wide shoulders that hinted he’d once been an athlete and thick, chestnut brown hair only touched by white. “Not at all, I can assure you.”
“Enough!” Churchill roared. “I won’t have this infighting between MI-Six and SOE. All my children must get along. Now then—Captain, tell us about our options besides Normandy.”
“Sir, we believe, regardless of sand, Calais would be too easily defended by the Germans—and the North Sea weather is far too unpredictable. Also, there are no beaches to sustain us in Pas de Calais.” Pim adjusted the gold-striped cuffs of his immaculate uniform.
“You don’t believe we can capture a deepwater port, Captain?”
“No, Prime Minister, I don’t.” Pim shook his head. “Unfortunately, I think Jubilee will only prove that.”
“So.” The P.M. drained his whiskey and soda. “It comes down to Pas de Calais and Normandy. We’ll need to choose one. And soon.”
“What about Roosevelt and the Americans?” asked Brooke. “I daresay they’ll have an opinion.”
“Let’s establish our own playbook before bringing in the damn Yanks,” Churchill rumbled. “I’ll handle Franklin and his boys.”
Brooke took a monogrammed silver case from his breast pocket and extracted a cigarette. “Hitler will expect us in Pas de Calais,” he said, lighting it with his Dunhill. The tip glowed red in the shadowy light.
“No, the Hun is too smart for that,” Churchill objected fiercely. “He’ll assume Normandy. Normandy, I say!” He banged both fists on the table, rattling teacups and making papers jump. “He always expects the unexpected. The Bavarian lout has an uncanny talent for it.”
“I’m all in favor of planning for a Normandy invasion, sir,” Brooke observed, “but before we commit, I must insist on those geological samples. We need to know how to build our tanks, what our boys will require to navigate the terrain—”
“Laycock, get all your agents on this. Highest priority!” the Prime Minister ordered.
“Actually…” Laycock began. “Your agent, a Miss Margaret Hope, is in Paris now, looking for her sister—with your personal blessing?”
The P.M. looked to David. “Gimme scotch.” David took Churchill’s glass, then went to the bar cart at the end of the room and did as he was bidden.
“She’s a bit…undisciplined…from what I hear, sir,” Laycock remarked. “Colonel Gaskell has mentioned his doubts. Miss Hope’s flight to Paris was certainly, shall we say, impetuous.” He arched an eyebrow. “If I may suggest—”
“Yet another female?” Menzies’s phlegmatic face finally showed expression. “One of the most important pieces of information we need to plan the invasion, and you’re sending a woman—?”