Free The Tiger Claw by Shauna Singh Baldwin Page A

wasn’t—it really wasn’t—that she didn’t like pork because it was taboo. Abbajaan hadn’t exactly forbidden it; he advised his followers to elevate themselves by refraining from eating the base animal. She had scientific reasons, like avoiding trichinosis—not that there was much danger of trichinosis in London.
    Miss Atkins continued, “We will overlook such insubordination. Your services are required.”
    The imperious “we” was not lost on Noor.
    “And you’ve scored well in wireless operations.” Miss Atkins flashed a rare smile. “I don’t believe the board’s opinion counts much in such matters. I’m confident your mother’s blood will prevail. But it should be mentioned—some have their doubts.”
    Miss Atkins’s caste system was blood-based enough to have been designed by Brahmins. A late-night story Yolande once told in a Nissen hut said Miss Atkins’s father wasn’t English either, he was Romanian; that, like Noor, Miss Atkins had taken her mother’s English name. But Noor wasn’t as determined as Miss Atkins to disavow the blood-echoes of Abbajaan’s origins.
    Change the subject
.
    “Do tell me more about the assignment, marm.”
    Miss Atkins inhaled, then puffed smoke from the side of her mouth. Her gaze locked on Noor’s. “For some time now—since February, actually—an SOE agent we call “Prosper” has been operating throughout northern France, posing as a seller of agricultural implements. The usual sort of thing—arranging for arms deliveries to the Resistance, selecting locomotives to be sabotaged, trains to be derailed, aircraft or petrol tanks to be blown up. With excellent results, I might add: every time the Germans turn around, one of Prosper’s cells has blown up a bridge or disabled an engine turntable or signal box.”
    Miss Atkins stubbed her cigarette out, but the ashes still smouldered. “He’s built up a highly skilled network by drawing Frenchmen from many trades and professions. We trust they’ll rise up and fight as soon as Mr. Churchill gives the word.” She sounded a bit dubious about trusting the French. “You will be working with a select few. An engineer, code name “Phono;” “Archambault,” a wireless operator assigned to Prosper’s network; “Gilbert,” who selects and secures the fields where agents and arms are dropped; a French businessman, a professor and a don—director, as the French say. You will be introduced—secureintroductions are absolutely indispensable—as Anne-Marie Régnier, a nursemaid from Bordeaux.”
    Miss Atkins lit up again. Eye-stinging clouds accumulated about Noor’s head.
    “I will provide you with the necessary
carte d’identité
, ration coupons, a textile card and a certificate of Aryan descent. Your personal effects, wireless and code book will be sent once we receive word that you have made contact with Phono. As soon as Archambault has you adequately trained, you will replace him and he will return for training on the Mark II. Conditions have forced Archambault to transmit too often, and at times for too long. We fear it is only a matter of time before the Gestapo locates his transmitters. They’re OSS-issue SSTR-1s. You will replace his transmitters with Mark IIs, and learn quickly.”
    “When do I leave, marm?”
    “At the next full moon—that’s tomorrow if the night is clear. Come to Orchard Court in Portman Square after tea, alone. Memorize this address. Tell no one where you are going. We will reach you if your flight is cancelled”—she consulted a card from her pocket—“on Taviton Street?”
    “Yes, I’ll be with my mother.”
    “‘No one’ includes family. They are not to know where you are being sent or when you leave. Your pay will be accumulated for your return or paid in the usual weekly dollops. Perhaps you’d like it paid to your mother?”
    Noor dipped her head in a quick nod.
    Money talk. Like dirty laundry. Sewage. Allah would provide. She didn’t mind bargaining