De Lattre formally announced, all the time remembering how De Gaulle had forced the issue.
“You have been entrusted with a splendid fighting machine. Use it wisely General.”
He stepped forward, grasping the officer to him for a touch of each cheek, by way of congratulation.
No-one heard the whispered comment.
“Break it and I will break you, Molyneux.”
De Lattre stepped back and exchanged formal salutes, all the time his eyes boring into Molyneux’s, wanting to see some recognition of his concerns, as well as seeking some answers to his questions, but finding nothing of note within.
His mind was suddenly made up and he initiated his plan.
“I am leaving a number of my officers to assist you. Colonel Benoit Plummer will be your Chief of Staff.”
From the back of the crowd stepped a bemedalled officer wearing the insignia of the Regiment de Marche du Tchad, a regiment now lying dead across southern Bavaria, once part of the destroyed 2nd French Armoured Division.
The man bore the pain of his loss stoically, and welcomed the chance to serve with such a fine formation as the Legion Corps.
He also had a number of other assets that would serve the Legion well in the months to come.
He was extremely competent, highly experienced, and, probably more importantly, had the ear of De Lattre. They had been friends since birth, having both enjoyed their childhoods in the sleepy French commune of Mouilleron-en-Pareds.
Finally, his credentials were impeccable, his full name being Benoit Hugues Kelly Clemenceau-Plummer, the grandson of Georges Clemenceau, ex-Prime Minister of France and Conqueror of Germany in the 14-18 War.
De Lattre was introduced to all the officers present and engaged in small talk, enjoying a sample of the Legion’s coffee. His own staff mixed in with those of the Legion Corps, officers from the First Army keen to hear about the recent victory.
When he took his leave, he was confident that the Legion Corps had the very best of leadership, with the exception of the man foisted on him from above. He also knew that Molyneux would be under close scrutiny every waking minute, and that the man watching him had a very special power that would be used wisely, if it proved necessary.
As the entourage left in De Lattre’s wake, Kowalski caught the eye of his prize spy.
Nothing was said, but much passed between them in that millisecond, Kowalski breaking the contact and moving swiftly to ensure his place in the cavalcade. Lavalle caught a glimpse of the man as he left, seeking out Knocke, and finding that the German had seen him too.
A ‘Deux’ minder, immaculately turned out in the uniform of an officer of the Algerian Spahis, casually followed Kowalski outside, where another agent gunned the motor of the military Citroen, ready to take the ‘Polish’ Major back to Army Headquarters.
Knocke and Lavalle stood together in the window of the operations room, studying the agent’s departure, unable to recognise who was watching him, but knowing that the watcher was there none the less.
Their train of thought was interrupted by a polite cough, the noise emanating from the throat of the door guard Corporal intent on attracting Knocke’s attention.
“Sir, an officer gave me this to give to you, he forgot to do so when in here.”
The man offered up an envelope marked for his consumption, and decorated with ‘eyes only’ markings, some of whose ‘O’s’ were solid rather than hollow, an indicator of the sender and the nature of its content.
“Thank you. Your name and that of your fellow please, Caporal?”
“Caporal Jacquet, Sir, and he is Private Humbert. 3rd Compagnie, 7th Regiment du Marche, Tannenberg, Sir.”
Knocke silently sought Lavalle’s permission to continue, and it was given with a satisfied smile.
“I shall make sure your commander gets my full report, together with that of General Lavalle’s here, endorsing your promotion to Sergent and that of Humbert’s to Caporal, effective immediately, courtesy of General De Lattre. Congratulations, Sergent Jacquet. Dismissed.”
Slightly confused at the heavyweight names that had just taken an interest in his well-being, Jacquet threw up a swift salute before retreating speedily, conscious that an officer’s goodwill could evaporate as quickly as it distilled.
The smiles disappeared from both officers’ faces, the envelope suddenly weighing heavy in Knocke’s hand.
“My office?”
The question remained unanswered, both men moving quickly to the privacy of Lavalle’s first floor suite.
Opening the door, they found Molyneux ensconced, already relieved of his tunic, enjoying a glass of claret with a splendid lunch, laid out on the exquisite marble-topped table.
Lavalle noticed two junior officers placing familiar items in a trunk.
“I expect you to give me the courtesy of knocking before you enter my room, Lavalle.”
“Apologies, My General. I had not realised that I was no longer the resident. I shall remove my items immediately.”
“Excellent. Now, please leave me in peace.”
The two juniors threw a last handful of items on top of the pile, and the two senior men stooped to pick up the trunk.
A small sound from Molyneux indicated his obvious disgust that they should perform such manual labours themselves, the disdain clear on his face as they took their leave.
RSM Vernais strode around the corner and stopped in his tracks, both amused and perturbed by the surreal vision of two of his leaders dragging a large trunk with various possessions poking out from under the half-closed lid.
Keeping his thoughts to himself, he beckoned his men forward and, in his eyes, the officers were replaced by more suitable porters.
“Where to, Sirs?”
“I think it will have to be your private den, Major Vernais.”
For a moment Vernais considered a bluster, but he already knew that, in Lavalle, he had an officer who knew more than he had a right to. Apparently including the fact that he and his cronies had set aside a bedroom for their own use as a private drinking parlour, amongst other things.
“As you wish, Sir.”
“Room one-one-four please, Legionnaires,” the simple words meaning so much to Lavalle as he saw the reaction on his senior Warrant Officer’s face.
Smiling, he confided in Vernais.
“Just until I can get permanently settled somewhere else, Vernais. Then you can have your den back.”
Turning to follow the trunk, Lavalle had second thoughts.
“Major Vernais, will you please locate Commandant de Montgomerie, and ask him to join us in one-one-four immediately please.”
Acknowledging, Vernais went in hunt of the intelligence officer, all the time part of his brain working out where he could find an alternative venue with similar comforts to the recently requisitioned room.
Knocke waited until De Montgomerie arrived before opening the envelope.
Apart from the methodology of exchange with and contact details of a baker in Baden-Baden, there were also straight-forward requests for military information.
And a grainy picture of two girls called Greta and Magda, stood in front of an unknown Major in NKVD uniform.
What Knocke said was as much of a surprise as the way he said it, his voice taking on a sinister edge, not heard before by brother officers.
“I know where that is.”
“Are they your daughters, Ernst?”
Lavalle enquired carefully, disturbed by the sea change in his friend.
Nodding sharply, Knocke looked up triumphantly.
“I know this place.”
He brought the image closer, drinking in the peripherals more than the daughters he so missed, and the hated uniform in the background.
And then the penny dropped.