“You’re supposed to have one of those even if you don’t smoke,” Martineau told her.
“These documents are one hundred percent,” Carter said. “Right paper, same watermarks. Typewriters, ink- everything perfect. I can assure you that there is no way that even the most skilled Abwehr or Gestapo operative could find them anything but genuine.” He handed her a slip of paper. “There are your personal details. Anne-Marie Latour. WeVe kept to your own age and birthdate. Born in Brittany naturally, to explain your accent. WeVe made your place of birth Paimpol on the coast. I believe you know it well?”
“Yes, my grandmother lived there. I spent many holidays with her.”
“Normally you’d have some considerable length of time to get used to your new identity. In this case that just isn’t possible. However, you will have Harry with you and it should be for no more than three days. Four at the most.”
“I understand.”
“One more thing. Your relationship with Standarten-fiihrer Vogel must at all times seem convincing. You do appreciate what that could entail?”
“Sharing a room?” The smile when she turned to Marti-neau was mischievous. “Is that all right with you, Colonel?”
For once, Martineau was put out and he frowned. “You little bitch!”
It was as if they were alone for a moment and she touched his face gently with her fingertips. “Oh, Harry Martineau, you are lovely when you’re angry.” She turned to Carter. “I think you can take it there’ll be no problem, Captain.”
Carter, hugely embarrassed, said hurriedly, “All right. Then read this, both of you. Regulations, Sarah.”
It was a typical SOE operations order, cold, flat, precise, no-nonsense language. It laid out the task ahead of them, procedure, communication channel via the Cressons in Granville. Everything was covered, even down to a code name for the operation, JERSEYMAN. At the end of the flimsy it said: NOW DESTROY NOW DESTROY.
“All right?” Martineau asked her.
She nodded and he struck a match and touched it to the paper, dropping it into the ashtray. “That’s it then,” he said. “I’ll go and do my packing. See you two later.”
On the bed in his room, the wardrobe people had laid out a three-piece suit in light-gray tweed, shoes, some white shirts, two black ties. There was also a military overcoat in soft black leather of a kind worn by many SS officers.
The gray-green SS uniform hung behind the door. He checked it carefully. On the left sleeve was the RFSS cuff title of Himmler’s personal staff, an SD patch above it. The Waffenfarben, the colored piping on the uniform and cap, was toxic green, indicating that he belonged to the SS Security Service. The oak leaves of his collar patches indicating his rank were in silver thread. There was an Iron Cross First Class on the left side of the tunic. His only other decoration was the Order of Blood, a medal struck specially for old comrades of the Fiihrer who had served prison sentences for political crimes during the twenties.
He decided to try the uniform on and undressed quickly. Everything fit to perfection. He buttoned the tunic and fastened the belt, a rare specimen that had an eagle on the buckle with a swastika in one claw and SS runes in the other. He picked up the cap and examined the silver death’s-head badge, running his sleeve across it, then reached inside, scratched a slight tear in the silk lining and withdrew the rigid spring so that the cap crumpled. It was an affectation of many oldtimers, although against i eg-ulations.
He put it on his head at a slight angle. From behind, Sarah said quietly, “You look as if you’re enjoying yourself. I get the feeling you like uniforms.”
“I like getting it right,” he said. “I often think I missed my vocation. I should have been an actor. Getting it right is important, Sarah. You don’t get second chances.”
There was a kind of distress on her face and she moved close and gripped his arm. “I’m not sure if it’s you anymore, Harry.”
“It isn’t, not in this uniform. Standartenfuhrer Max Vogel, of the SD. Feared by his own side as much as the French. You’ll see. This isn’t a game anymore.”