The Last of the Stanfields(38)
“And now, a sip of white wine—tell me that’s not the most amazing combination.”
“How in the world did you ever find this place?” Edward asked.
“I live around the corner.”
“So, this is how you spend your evenings. I certainly do envy you.”
“How does a man like you end up envying someone like me?”
“The life you lead,” he said, with a sweeping gesture around the space. “It’s freedom. Everything is simple, full of joy.”
“I take it you spend your nights in a prison? Or maybe the morgue?” May asked.
“You can poke fun at me all you want, but that’s not so far from the truth. The establishments I frequent can be fairly grim, the patrons stilted and cold.”
“Like you?”
Edward looked May in the eye.
“Yes, like me,” he replied evenly, then leaned in closer. “Would you mind if I asked you a favor?”
“Ask. And we’ll see if I mind.”
“Would you consider helping me? To change myself.”
May studied her date, finding his vulnerability endearing. But all at once she came to her senses and burst out laughing.
“Give me a break!”
“Am I that ridiculous?”
“Sally-Anne warned me about you, but I think you’re even more dangerous than she let on.”
“My sister can be judgmental,” Edward said. “But listen. I have a confession to make. As long as you promise not to tell Sally-Anne.”
“Fine. I would spit in my palm, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“The way things are between the two of us is entirely my fault. I envy my sister almost as much as I admire her. She certainly is braver than me. After all, she broke free from her chains and ran away.”
“Sally-Anne has her flaws, too.”
“Hers are exceptions; mine are the rule.”
“I, me, mine. Four times total in the last thirty seconds.”
“I rest my case. You see just how serious the situation is, how much I need you?”
May resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “And just what could I do to help such a deeply unhappy man?”
“You can’t call a man unhappy . . . when he doesn’t even understand what happiness is.”
Not even the greatest masters of the art of seduction would have been able to come up with such a line. May’s last defenses soon yielded to her nurturing instincts. She led Edward down to the waterfront and kissed him at the end of a long dock.
It was as though Sally-Anne’s words were ringing out from a distance over the calm waters . . .
“They’re all complete frauds, every last one of them. The glory of the Stanfields . . . is nothing but a tall tale. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
16
ROBERT STANFIELD
March 1944, Hawkinge Airfield, Kent
It was a perfect night for flying. The twinkling stars cast just enough light for visual flight, while the glow of the crescent moon was weak enough to obscure the Lysander’s dark frame, improving its chances of crossing enemy lines undetected. As the two-passenger plane was prepared for takeoff on the dirt runway, Robert Stanfield checked and rechecked his harnesses from the back seat. He heard the radial engine sputter to life and make the propellers spin, first choppy, then steady. As the mechanic pulled out the chocks, the small plane lurched forward with a jolt and started rolling down the runway.
The Royal Air Force base, located just seven miles west of Dover, had played a vital role during the Dunkirk evacuation of 1940, aiding in the emergency airlift of soldiers from the battlefield. It continued to be a crucial operations base until the 91st Squadron abandoned the site for Westhampnett. Now, it served solely as a refueling station for aircraft traveling long distances over France.
Special Agent Stanfield had landed in England two months earlier, after a risky transatlantic crossing. German submarines prowled the waters like steel sharks, ready to torpedo any prey that crossed in front of their periscopes.
From the moment Robert set foot on British soil, he had worked hard to master the French language, just one part of the intensive sixty-day training regime for his mission. Over those long weeks, his superiors thoroughly tested his aptitude. He memorized the drop zone’s geography and topography, the names of surrounding villages, and colloquial expressions he could use to charm the locals. Robert also committed key players to memory, keeping careful tabs on who could be trusted and who might be playing both sides.
The previous evening, around dusk, an officer had knocked on the young agent’s door. Robert had packed up his gear, including fake ID, transit papers, revolver, and a map of the Montauban area.
The three-hour flight would push the Lysander to the limits of its radius of action, all six hundred miles, as planned, provided the weather didn’t change along the way.
Robert’s mission was not to wage war, but rather to prepare for it. The Allied Forces were keeping their disembarkation plans shrouded in absolute secrecy. Once Allied troops had advanced into the heart of the French theater, one key condition for victory would be to supply the supporting forces with weapons and munitions. For months, the English had been airdropping equipment, which the French Resistance then had to stealthily recover and hide.
Stanfield was assigned to serve as liaison officer. His mission was to make contact with a local Resistance leader and acquire crucial intel in order to map out the warehouse locations. The mission would run for one month, at which point a second Lysander would come and take Robert back to England.