Crossfire, p.2
Crossfire, page 2
Saffron opened her eyes and let out a soft groan.
‘Very well, Sergeant, I’ll take it from here,’ Maguire said.
As the instructor left the room, the doctor picked up one of Saffron’s arms, which was hanging limply over the side of the chair, and took her pulse. It was fast – one hundred and twenty beats a minute – but this was the strong, solid heartbeat of a twenty-three-year-old woman in prime physical condition. Maguire could feel it slowing, even as he was taking his reading.
Saffron lifted her head and opened her eyes. ‘I promise you, doctor, I’m perfectly all right.’ Her diction was that of an upper-class Englishwoman, but tinged with the tighter cadence of British colonial Africa. She pulled herself a little more upright. ‘Really, there’s no need for me to take up your valuable time.’
‘Och, I’m in no hurry,’ Maguire replied. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re my first customer today.’
Saffron nodded, too exhausted to find a reason to argue.
‘You know, you’re very highly thought of around here,’ Maguire said. ‘Old Fairbairn used to say that you were one of the half-dozen most naturally gifted fighters he’d ever trained. He’s no longer with us, of course. His methods are greatly in demand elsewhere.’
‘Oh,’ Saffron said, then fell silent.
Maguire continued. ‘I remember observing how remarkable it was that someone as charming as you, who shows no signs of aggression or bad temper in normal circumstances, should have such a capacity for violence when required to display it. Fairbairn pointed out that all the best fighters are like that. They have cool heads, are not easily provoked and never knowingly seek trouble. But when trouble finds them, they don’t hold back.’
Saffron shrugged, and for a moment she looked more like a bored schoolgirl than an SOE operative.
‘But even the toughest fighter is still a human being,’ Maguire said, looking at her carefully, as if searching for some clue hidden deep inside of her.
‘The sergeant mentioned your bravery when they gave you the Gestapo treatment. But what I remember are the nightmares you had afterwards. Your screaming frightened poor wee Nurse McLintock. I can’t help but wonder whether you’ve been having another run-in with our German friends . . . at least in your mind.’
Now Saffron sat upright, suddenly alert. ‘What makes you say that?’ There was a sharpness in her voice now.
Maguire smiled. ‘Well, now . . . This is a very secretive establishment, of course. But still, when senior officers come up from London to see how we are getting on, and we pour them a dram or two, it’s only natural that they should talk about our former pupils and how they are getting on in the real world. And you being one of our most remarkable trainees . . . Let’s just say that, while I do not know any specific details of your recent mission, I am aware that you had to be pulled out in a hurry and were, I quote, “Being hunted by half the bloody Gestapo in the Low Countries.”’
Saffron shrugged, with a little grimace. ‘Something like that.’
Maguire’s voice hardened, became less avuncular, as he said, ‘Miss Courtney, you were sent here by your superiors to rest, relax and do a moderate degree of physical and technical training. The aim was to send you back south in tip-top condition. It was not to have you running across the Highlands as though Hitler’s minions were still chasing you. That is what I believe you were doing, and since there are no reports of Nazis in the neighbourhood, I must conclude that the enemies that you were running from are in your mind. Is that a fair assessment?’
Saffron turned her eyes away from his and buried her head in her hands. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘Really . . . I’m all right.’
‘Don’t worry, lassie,’ Maguire said more gently. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I suspect you’ve had experiences that would have troubled the toughest, most battle-hardened veteran. But we must deal with them, because untreated distress is no better than an untreated disease. It gets worse over time, and it can prove fatal. Now, look at me . . .’
Maguire waited while Saffron took a deep breath, then pulled her hands from her face and turned to him. ‘Am I on the right track?’ he asked.
Saffron nodded.
‘And would you like me to get you some help?’
She didn’t answer. It was not in her nature to admit her weaknesses. And Maguire did not try to force her. He just kept looking at her, waiting for signs of a decision. Finally, she nodded.
‘Good girl,’ Maguire said. ‘There’s a chap in Harley Street who can help you – an excellent man, a real leader in his field.’
Saffron winced. ‘Will you tell Brigadier Gubbins? I don’t want him to think I’m not fit for duty.’
‘On the contrary, this will make you much fitter for duty, as he well knows. Believe me, you’re not the first of his people to need this kind of treatment. Now . . . You have three more days up here. My orders to you, as your doctor, are to get plenty of rest, eat as well as our rations will allow, and take occasional gentle exercise. And I do mean gentle, Miss Courtney – no more hurtling around the Highlands.’
Saffron smiled. ‘Yes, doctor.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Maguire walked towards the door to show Saffron out. He opened it for her, but before she stepped through, he added, ‘And the very best of luck to you, for the rest of this blasted war.’
• • •
D
r Clement Thackeray did not resemble Saffron’s idea of an eminent Harley Street practitioner. He was a tall, thin man, with a shock of grey hair and round tortoiseshell spectacles, and was dressed in grey flannel trousers, a heathery tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, and a pale blue cotton shirt, worn without a tie. If anything, Thackeray reminded Saffron of the eccentric, unworldly professors she had encountered during her brief pre-war studies at Oxford, and the state of his consulting room only added to that impression. There were shelves on every wall, crammed with piles of books in any old order. Yet more volumes were heaped on a table and on the desk, behind which Thackeray himself sat.
‘Please, make yourself comfortable,’ Thackeray said, getting to his feet and pointing to one of a pair of armchairs arranged in front of a marble fireplace. The weather was milder in London than Scotland, and the fire had not been lit.
Saffron did as she was told. There was a table beside her chair with a small jug of water, a glass and an ashtray.
‘Do please feel free to smoke.’ Thackeray’s voice was warm, tinged with a gentle Yorkshire accent that made him seem reassuringly down-to-earth. He was smoking a pipe whose sweet tobacco scented the air.
‘Thank you, but I don’t,’ Saffron replied.
Thackeray took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Would you rather I extinguished this?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Very well, then . . . Before we start talking about your particular situation, let me tell you something about myself, and what I do, and how you and I might be able to work together.’
Saffron smiled and gave a nod of assent, so Thackeray continued. ‘I am trained as a surgeon, and was working towards becoming a cardiovascular specialist. Then the war broke out – the last show, I mean. I signed up for the Medical Corps, was posted to Flanders and that’s where I spent the next four years. Ended up getting attached to the Fifth Army under Gough. Went through the Somme and Passchendaele, and witnessed that utter, senseless carnage. What troubled me the most, though, was seeing chaps I knew to be good soldiers, brave men, unjustly branded as cowards, when they were no longer able to fight for mental, rather than physical reasons. It was perfectly obvious to me that they were as badly wounded as any poor soul who’d lost a leg or been blinded. But the wounds were in their minds.’
Thackeray took a packet of tobacco from the side pocket of his jacket and refilled his pipe as he spoke. ‘I swore that if I got through the war in one piece – which I did, not a scratch on me from beginning to end . . . Well, I was going to learn about the human mind under stress, and the toll that extreme experiences of all kinds – be they physical or emotional – take on us all.’
‘May I ask you a question?’ Saffron said.
‘By all means,’ Thackeray said, applying a match to the fresh tobacco.
‘Have you experienced this kind of trauma yourself?’
Thackeray finished lighting his pipe and smiled. ‘Well done, lass, good question. And the answer is, yes, I have. Had to be invalided home in March of ’18. I could no longer bring myself to apply a scalpel to human flesh. So . . . how does that answer make you feel?’
‘Better,’ Saffron replied. ‘It means you won’t judge me the way someone else might.’
‘I wouldn’t ever judge you,’ Thackeray said. ‘Certainly not in any moral sense, and nor should anyone else with the slightest shred of professional competence, let alone human decency. Now, I want you to tell me once – and only once – about the event that you believe might have traumatised you.’
‘Why only once?’
‘Because I don’t want to ingrain it any deeper in your mind. I want us to move beyond it . . . but it helps to know what we’re moving beyond.’
‘Of course.’
Saffron described how she had killed Karsten Schröder. The furious blur of images that had overwhelmed her mind by the shores of Loch Morar was transformed into a coherent account of events, from meeting the SS officer at a weekend conference for the Dutch and Belgian Nazi parties, through to the night-time walk across a park that had led to his attempt to force himself on her, and her immediate, deadly response to that assault.
When she had finished, Thackeray said, ‘Thank you. It can’t have been easy telling me all that. Now, what we must do is isolate the specific traumatic element. Was it the man’s attack on you, or your retaliation against him . . . or both?’
‘The retaliation . . . I know you say you won’t judge me, but I can’t help thinking that I must be some kind of monster to be able to do such a thing.’
‘I assure you that you aren’t. After all, you fought back against a vile attack by an enemy combatant in wartime. No court would consider that a crime. Moreover, if you were truly evil, or possessed by some kind of psychopathic disorder, you would have felt elated, rather than traumatised by the events you described.’
‘Thank you. That’s a great relief.’
‘Good. Freeing yourself of any feelings of guilt will certainly help. For now, though, tell me, was this occasion in Scotland the only time that you’ve had this kind of waking nightmare, or have there been others?’
‘That was the only time where I could actually see and feel what happened, although I have had a couple of nightmares about it.’
‘What about sudden emotional outbursts, like losing your temper or breaking down in tears?’
Saffron thought for a moment. ‘Yes, one.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I was walking through Hyde Park on Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks ago with my friend Margaret, Brigadier Gubbins’ secretary. A boy was coming the other way, trailing a kite. He was running as fast as he could to try and make it fly. He was looking back at the kite and not at where he was going, and he bumped into me.’
‘How old was this boy, would you say?’
‘I don’t know . . . Seven or eight, maybe.’
‘Big enough to give you quite a bump, then?’
‘I suppose so. But I reacted as if I’d been attacked. I started screaming at him, and then at his mother . . . Honestly, I was hardly aware of what I was saying or doing, and I can’t remember any of the details now. All I know is that the boy ended up in floods of tears and his mother was furious with me, and Margaret had to try and make the peace, bless her. Several people stopped to watch what was happening and I could see them looking daggers at me. I made a total fool of myself.’
‘In their eyes, maybe. In mine, you simply expressed the pain that had been building up inside you.’ Thackeray leaned forward. ‘Imagine lava building up beneath a volcano. The pressure gradually increases until something makes it erupt. And in the case of the human mind, that eruption can either be internal, as it was at Loch Morar, or external, as it was in the park. So now we need to find out what it was that triggered you.’
‘But I thought I’d already told you that – it was the boy and his kite.’
‘There might have been other triggers you were unaware of. What about Loch Morar?’
Saffron shrugged. ‘I don’t know . . . I only remember the blackness. The scene looked like a black-and-white photograph . . . and the black made me think of Schröder’s SS uniform.’
‘Very well, then, can you remember seeing anything black that day in Hyde Park? Like, say, a priest or a nun in black clothes, or a woman in a black dress, someone in mourning . . .?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Thackeray settled back in his chair and drew on his pipe. ‘Whereabouts in Hyde Park were you, exactly, when the boy with the kite bumped into you?’
‘We were strolling beside the Serpentine.’
Thackeray nodded. ‘So, water, like the lake where the traumatising incident occurred. So it could be that the association that triggers your reactions is not related to blackness, but to water.’
‘Of course, that makes sense!’ Saffron exclaimed, with the enthusiasm of one who thinks a tricky problem has been solved.
Thackeray gave a wry smile. ‘I said “could be”, not “is”. We may find, as we go on, that the trigger is some other, completely different thing that is not obvious at the moment. But the aim of our work will not be to drive all your bad memories out of your mind. What happened, happened, and there’s no undoing that. But if we understand what causes your extreme reactions, we can, with any luck, enable you to take charge of those memories and deal with them. Do you follow me?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good – then we have our plan. But before we go any further, I have one additional question. Was that night in The Hague the only time that you have killed a man?’
Saffron’s eyes suddenly lost their focus, as if she was staring at something at a great distance. She said nothing, turning her face away from Thackeray. She chewed her bottom lip as she considered, then she said, decisively, ‘No, it was not.’
• • •
‘H
ow’s the head-shrinker, Courtney?’ asked Brigadier Colin Gubbins, the officer in charge of all SOE’s operational activities. He focused on Saffron with his piercing, chilly blue eyes and added, ‘Any use?’
Gubbins was a small man, a couple of inches shorter than Saffron. But his drive, energy and ferocious determination made up for any lack of stature. The SOE agents whom he commanded looked on him with awe, and not a little fear.
‘I think so, sir,’ Saffron replied. ‘I saw him this morning. It was my third appointment. He seemed to think we were making progress.’
‘Huh,’ Gubbins grunted. He was about to say something, but stopped as he saw a waitress approach, bearing a teapot, milk jug, sugar and two cups. Gubbins had, for once, left his office and taken Saffron to the cafe beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park. She had not dared tell him that it might not be a good idea. So far, however, the sight of water had not disturbed her. Perhaps, she thought, just recognising the trigger was enough to disarm it.
Gubbins waited until the waitress had poured their teas. ‘Got something for you – a job. Thought it might be a pleasant change after that business in the Low Countries.’
‘That sounds intriguing,’ Saffron said.
‘Ever been to America?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, then, now’s your chance. As you may know, Baker Street is not without enemies. And I’m not just talking about the Hun.’
‘Baker Street’ was the term by which the staff of the Special Operations Executive referred to themselves, since their existence was still highly classified.
‘I know that we’re not universally popular,’ Saffron said. ‘Some people in the military and intelligence hierarchy think we’re . . . well—’
‘A bunch of bloody amateurs,’ Gubbins snapped. ‘And fiascos like the one you discovered don’t help.’ He lowered his voice to ensure that he could not be overheard, and angrily muttered, ‘Damn near every bloody agent we sent into Holland or Belgium being picked up by the Abwehr and Gestapo the moment they set foot on foreign soil.’
‘Well, at least we know, sir. Now we can do something about it.’
‘Indeed we can, Courtney. But only if we stay in business. I’ve been talking to Hambro.’
Saffron’s ears pricked up. Sir Charles Hambro, the head of a merchant bank that bore his family’s name, was director of SOE and thus Gubbins’ boss. He was also a close friend of Winston Churchill.
‘He and I see the situation the same way,’ Gubbins said. ‘The PM’s a staunch supporter. Got Baker Street going in the first place, said its job was to set Europe ablaze. Anyway, Hambro told me he’d had a word with the PM about your recent adventure. Can’t say I was entirely happy about that . . .’
‘No, sir,’ said Saffron, knowing how much Gubbins disapproved of casual discussion of his unit’s missions, even in the heart of Downing Street.
‘Apparently the PM lapped it up. Loves a good yarn. Dare say he would, being a journalist for so many years. But he’s also a politician, and must keep people happy, particularly if they are very senior men whose support is essential if we are to win the war. So it’s a damn serious problem if many of those men are dead set against us.’
‘Did Sir Charles have any thoughts about how we might keep them on side?’
‘Yes, he did. His suggestion was that we should open a second front, as it were, in the United States. We have friends in Washington, mostly chaps in the same line of business as us, but we need more, and we need them to say nice things about us, and our importance to the Allied cause. That way, the PM can say that our American allies regard Baker Street as a vital means of softening up Europe, preparing the ground for an eventual invasion, and so forth. And that should keep the wolves of Whitehall away from us.’
