Chapter 19

We learn more about Genevieve's past. A bureaucrat from Ottawa arrives in Whitehorse, ostensibly from the Ministry of Transportation, who meets with Genevieve. 

Chapter 19

December 21. The airport lounge in Whitehorse was sparsely furnished and uninviting. Wartime rationing had stripped the building of all but essential furniture and light fixtures. A single bulb dangled from a twisted wire, throwing shadows at fellow passengers. Jonas Power, Parliamentary liaison with 2 Intelligence Company, collected his bags and once outside, hailed a taxi. The cold was unlike anything he’d experienced in Ottawa. In just a few minutes, he was sure his skin was being twisted from his face and his breath had frozen before it reached his lungs. He slapped his hands together trying to maintain some kind of composure.

Ahead, headlights cut through the darkness and one of Whitehorse’s three taxis drove into the ‘Arrivals’ lane. The taxi had barely stopped when Power threw in his bag and closed the door. 

“God-almighty-how-the-hell-do-you-people-live-in-this?” Power rambled without pause, trying to recover a sense of warmth.

“Where to?” In contrast to his fare, he seemed to be unaffected by the cold. 

“Best hotel in town—someplace warm! Anywhere—just go!”

“Murdoch’s it is, then. Great place; good food; plenty of fine women. And enough liquor until you drop.” 

Power shivered, unable to stop his teeth from chattering. No reply was forthcoming.

“Where you in from?” He pulled away from the curb.

“Ottawa,” Power mumbled, blowing into his hands, begging for warmth. 

The driver checked the passenger in the rear view mirror. Probably some stuck-up bureaucrat, he thought. His fare wasn’t interested in talking, so he drove the remaining few blocks in silence.

Power was surprised by Murdoch’s Hotel: it was unlike anything he had seen in Ottawa, or anywhere else, for that matter. It was like stepping back into the nineteenth century, like time had stopped and Murdoch’s saloon was the epicenter of the western frontier. There were men wearing six-shooters, strapped to their legs with leather tongs. A man in a Bowler hat played rag-time on an old piano while men and women whooped, hollered and danced. Women (or prostitutes, he surmised) waved to him as he entered, cat-calling and whistling. A tall, elegantly dressed woman (stunning in her beauty, he thought) met him at the door and welcomed him. The saloon bar was immense—he couldn’t remember seeing this many bottles of liquor anywhere in Ottawa. After paying for a room, he couldn’t recall—he was so cold and tired—if the tall woman had offered him company for the night or not. 

When he woke the next morning, there was no one lying next to him. Evidently, he had declined.

He rose early, in search of coffee. Sitting alone in the saloon, the room seemed even more immense without the noise and commotion of last night’s patrons. He enjoyed a coffee (surprisingly good) while reading a copy of the Ottawa Sentinel (purchased at the airport before departure) and taking in the view along Front Street. He noticed a bakery across the street, named La Vie en Pain. Perhaps he’d try breakfast there. He tossed the paper on the table and hurried across the street, trying to avoid the crush of cold air. 

Power was impressed by the decor and ambience. And the little café was warm—the windows were streaked with condensation. He could smell fresh baking, too. It was like being back in Paris, along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. This café had class, the kind one might find on a side street in Ottawa’s finer neighborhoods. Nearly all seats were taken. One of them, a male, was speaking with (he could only surmise) the owner. She was smaller than he imagined her to be, and her fair skin was dotted with freckles. Her long, thick braid dropped to her waist, first curling around her shoulders as a lounging cat might. Power had memorized her dossier of service with 2 Intelligence Company in France. Now seeing her in person, it was obvious why the enemy had fallen for her—she combined naiveté and beauty to devastating effect. Power took the only empty seat at a corner table. 

Geneviève excused herself from her conversation and brought him a short, handwritten menu. He waved it away. 

“I’ll forego the menu and try the crêpes. Coffee as well, please. If I remember, these are two things the French do extremely well.” 

He observed her attending to other customers. He found it hard to reconcile that she had been a successful agent behind enemy lines. Her file said she was as equally successful in seducing German officers as she was at killing them. It was an odd combination, he mused but nothing was required to be logical in war. She was a grown woman but depending on how you looked at her, she could pass for innocence. Given the right set of circumstances he understood how she could use her air of naïveté to make a man reveal secrets meant for no ears. But here, in Whitehorse, she seemed to enjoy her patrons and their appreciation of her food, almost as if she had put her past life behind her. 

When she returned a short while later with his meal, he understood why the small café was full: the crêpes had been cooked to perfection.

“Thanks,” he said, as she cleared his plate. “I haven’t tasted anything like that since my last trip to Paris. A little café in Montmartre called ‘Benedict’s,’ run by a Danielle Hoffmann, if my memory serves me correctly. Near the Sacré-Cœur. I recommend it, should you ever find yourself there.”

She hesitated but only a fraction, nothing he could see or sense. 

“I received my education in Paris, before the war but I never happened upon such a place. Near the Sacré-Cœur, you say?”

“I’d say you received one hell-of-an education, to cook as you do. But none of us will be returning to Paris soon, not until all the Vichy swing from the same oak.” The words rolled off his tongue, effortlessly. 

“I’m staying at Murdoch’s for a few days. I’m in from Ottawa on behalf of the Ministry of Transportation. Checking up on the highway construction; making sure our tax dollars aren’t being wasted because God knows there’s not enough to go around. Come and see me—we can talk about Paris.”

Schubert had watched the episode, only mildly interested. The customer seemed a pleasant enough fellow, polite and well dressed. Probably an investor, he thought but then he changed his mind: more likely a bureaucrat out to drum up votes or see how money was being spent which, Schubert believed, distilled what most politics sought to achieve. Midway through their exchange, something happened. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Geneviève appeared different. Strangers would likely have missed it. Was it distress? Was the man an old lover? Schubert couldn’t imagine who would travel this far north to rekindle a relationship. Certainly Louise would never contemplate such a trek. Then, his anger surfaced: was this man responsible for the scars on Geneviève’s back? He still hadn’t spoken to her about what the breeze had revealed.

When the man departed, Schubert tipped his hat. He tracked his movement through the window and saw him disappear into Murdoch’s Hotel. 

Geneviève returned to Schubert’s table. 

“Someone you know?” Schubert asked, flipping one of five pages that made up the Whitehorse Star newspaper. “But then again, what are the odds that someone would bump into an old friend unexpectedly, especially in Whitehorse.”

“No, just another patron who wants to talk about Paris, before the Nazis took over.”

“Oh, a traveller? What a remarkable coincidence. I should think you two would have lots to talk about.” Schubert checked the clock on the far wall. “The office is calling. Dinner tonight? Eight o’clock?”

“Of course. Will you be making your spécialité du jour or should I bring leftovers?”

“The latter, please. You know what a terrible cook I am. I couldn’t stand another tin of sardines. I’ll sing you some Brahms while you reheat dinner. Deal?”

“I look forward to it. Jusqu'à ce soir.”

Geneviève stood in her kitchen and stared aimlessly out the back window. She saw nothing except the death of her dreams. The past had finally caught up with her, ending the hope that moving to the wilderness would safeguard her anonymity. It had been a naïve dream and Jonas Power’s presence was confirmation of that. She knew it disingenuous to ask how they found her: during her debriefing at Winterton-On-Sea her whereabouts on home soil was documented. The real question for Geneviève was as simple as it was vexing: why her and why now and above all, why Whitehorse? What could 2 Intelligence Company want from her at this stage of the war? She was finished, retired, put out to pasture. She’d deliberately chosen the Yukon Territory because it was thousands of miles away from the men and women whose job it had been to put her in harm’s way. This made Power’s appearance all the more confusing. 

His presence earlier in the day had depressed her. The afternoon hours had dragged by so Geneviève closed early. Almost as if on cue, she checked the perimeter before pulling the curtains shut. Perimeter, she caught herself thinking. How quickly it all returns. She poured a cup of coffee and sat down, forcing herself into her normal end-of-day routine. Jonas Power was not who he purported to be, that much was obvious. After he’d said, “Benedict’s” he could’ve omitted her nom de guerre: the contact code-words had been enough.

Someone knocked on the back door, interrupting her thoughts. She automatically felt for the knife she used to carry next to her thigh. She shuddered at those memories. She pulled a knife from the butcher’s block and opened the door. 

“You never came to Murdoch’s,” Power said, standing in the open doorway. “I make no apologies for the sudden intrusion, Miss Sinclair. I’ve been sent by the Ministry of Defense to reenlist your help.” 

He entered the kitchen, removing his hat. “And you can put that knife down, if you don’t mind.” 

He placed a metal case on the floor. Geneviève noted the dual combination locks. It was standard issue; she already knew what lay inside.

“Say what you must and leave,” she said, putting the knife on the counter. “You want something. What is it?”

Power ignored her question. “Your record in France, and that of your brother’s, was stellar. You were our best agents, that is, until Guillaume was compromised. You were…”

“I know my own history and you’ve read my files. Get on with it.”

His earlier appraisal had been right: she carried herself with innocence but there was little doubt in his mind she could’ve shoved the knife into his gut.

“May we sit?”

She debated denying him a chair. 

“Alright, sit.”

They moved into the café. Geneviève sat with her back to the wall, facing the front door. When she realized what she’d done, she nearly screamed. The training, it was all like a reflex action. It merely required the right pressure. 

“Your file states you and your brother were decommissioned after your cover was compromised. By the way, my boss sends his thanks for your work in France. You’re both being nominated for the Victoria Cross.”

“You can keep your bloody medal. As if that changes anything.”

“I know the deal was retirement after you left France but as you may have guessed, the Ministry of Defense wants you back. We need you back.”

“I’m not going back to France. I’ll be killed immediately by either the Germans or those Vichy pigs. My cover was blown.”

“Easy, Miss Sinclair—you’re not returning to France, or anywhere in Europe.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s a domestic matter.”

“And if I refuse? We refuse?” She knew it was a bluff. There would be no refusing 2 Canadian Intelligence. 

“We’ll throw you both in prison—and not for Guillaume’s death, either. It’ll be for treason. Don’t get me wrong, we were glad you killed him. Saved us mounting an…”

She slapped him hard. 

“You will not mention his name again.”

He was genuinely surprised by her reaction. Details he wasn’t privy to must’ve been omitted from the final report.

“From the Victoria Cross to prison in such a short conversation. What is so important you need to come to Whitehorse in person to tell me?”

“As of this moment, you and your brother are reenlisted into 2 Canadian Intelligence and under the War Measures Secrets Act. What I’m about to tell you stays here, between us, until we speak with your brother.” He handed her a file. “Do you remember Operation Pastorius?”

Geneviève scanned the contents. “Yes, I remember. It was an attempt by the Nazi’s to spread terror in New York. It was as foolish as it was desperate. Their own man turned the entire team over to the FBI.”

“Right. And earlier last year they tried it again. Operation Magpie, except this time they used only two agents, not eight. It failed in spectacular fashion. About two months ago we got wind of a third operation, code-named ‘Sanskrit.’ Details have been difficult to come by, but we know it’s big. Bletchley has intercepted various communiqués. Our office in Winterton had the operation confirmed by a high level asset in France.”

“Who passed along the information that is so highly regarded as accurate?”

“Black Venus.”

Geneviève closed the file. She had briefly cross paths with Venus at a club where Venus had been performing. She couldn’t recall ever meeting anyone as brave as her. 

“OK, you have my attention. Tell me more.”

“When we approached the Americans with her gathered intelligence, they pretended to be ignorant.”

“Disinformation is part of the game. Even as a bureaucrat, you know that.”

Power accepted the criticism. “Granted, yes but we know for certain it’s an operation aimed at Americans.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have?” Geneviève shook her head. Pathetic, she thought.  “Get the Americans to do your dirty work. They are very good at it.” 

Power said nothing.

Finally, Geneviève said: “I still don’t understand what you need me for. I’m in one of the least strategically important places in all of North America.”

“You’re probably right but…” Power hesitated.

She waited. “Well, go on. What?” 

“As strange as this may sound, our intel suggests there are Nazis here, in the Yukon, mounting an operation.”

“Nazis in the Yukon! Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? How absolutely beyond belief?”

A car drove past the café, distracting Power.

Geneviève said: “You don’t need me: inform the police.”

“This is ‘need to know’ and for now, we’re keeping the police out.”

“Fly in the Military Police, or better yet, a platoon of soldiers.”

“No can do. This is a covert operation. That comes straight from Ted Whistle. Do I need to remind you he is chief Minister of Defense?” 

“I remember who he is,” she spat.

Geneviève felt the puppet strings pulled tighter and the helplessness of being manipulated by unseen forces. Power was very business-like but she wondered if he had experienced anything other than an office on Parliament Hill. She could’ve killed him there and now, had Schubert not seen him.

“You want my brother and me to find these Nazis and ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’ or some such nonsense?” 

Geneviève pulled out a cigarette, not bothering to offer one to Power.

“OK,” she inhaled deeply, finally surrendering to the inevitable. “What is ‘Sanskrit’ about?”

“Near as we can tell, it involves foreign dignitaries. How high up, we don’t know. Whitehorse figures heavily in the equation. We’re looking at it geometrically, trying to triangulate Russian, Canadian and American interests. OSS is mum, totally. Their eyes glass over when we bring it up. No one trusts the Russians, so we’re keeping them out of the loop, at least officially. We’re trying to dredge up intel on the ground from European agents with Russian contacts. So far, we’ve got nothing.”

“This counter-operation is being mounted because of one woman’s information? I find that hard to believe.”

“Venus’s source is very high in the Nazi chain of command. That’s all I’m authorized to tell you.”

Her gaze hardened. She suddenly hit the table. “You want me to risk my life again so either tell me or fuck off.” 

She knew the threat was hollow—she was already enlisted.

What difference would it make, Power thought. He decided to share the information. She needed a crumb and he threw it. 

“SS General Felix Mielke.”

Geneviève exhaled a long plume of smoke. She threw the packet of cigarettes over to Power.

“Thanks,” he said.

She flicked open a lighter. Every time she lit a cigarette, the same memory rushed back, the night she was betrayed. Power leaned back in his chair and took a long drag.

Geneviève said: “When is Sanskrit set to begin?”

Power fiddled with the brim of his hat. He shook his head. “We don’t know that, either.”

“It seems we don’t know much of value. What do you know beyond Mielke’s confession to Venus?”

“We’re certain that one, maybe two Nazi’s have arrived on a recon mission. Recon for what? You got me. There may be more agents. Like Pastorius, maybe they’ve arrived separately. They may not even know who the other agents are. It could be an operation where they act independently but the result is coordinated. I’ve argued for at least three agents, but my boss seems to think otherwise.”

“More than three agents? They’ll need more than that. For this to succeed, whatever it is, complex planning and coordination is required. Given the time of year, the geography, the need for shelter, the isolation, they’ll need local help for planning and execution.”

“I agree. The actual number of enemy combatants, when you factor in what could go wrong with an operation on enemy soil, is anyone’s guess.”

“You still haven’t told me how Whitehorse fits into your equation. You’ve mentioned vague intelligence but that’s all. Something concrete brought you all this way. What is it?” She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. “Coffee? I need some.”

“Yeah, sure.” He ground the cigarette butt into the ashtray and reached inside his coat for his cigarette case.

Geneviève poured coffee and for a moment they smoked in silence.

“This stays in this room, got it?”

She nodded.

“MOD and RCMP head offices in Regina and Ottawa have been getting telex messages from an Inspector Karl Schubert. I gather you’ve heard of him.”

“Everyone has—he’s the law up here. Leads the detachment. He was here this morning when you cam in.”

He nodded. “Thought so. According to Schubert, there’s been a string of murders, first in Blue River and then here in Whitehorse. Maybe you’ve heard,” he said, waving his cigarette. “Three dead men in Blue River—one with a Prussian gold coin. Not something you pick up at the Gold Exchange in Montreal or even New York. There are another three dead guys here, two of them COs. One of them was probably working with an enemy agent. The last vic was an assayer in town, a Jew.”

“Yes, Karl told me.”

Karl, not ‘Inspector Schubert.’ This just might get complicated, he thought.

“Perhaps Schubert forgot to mention the assayer had the same coin in his possession. Coincidence? I think not. I’ve checked—these coins are extremely rare. Finally, a man matching the description of the killer was seen here, with an SS dagger in his possession. Near as we can tell his assumed name is Walter Penner, at least according to Schubert’s memos.” He shook his head, anticipating her question. “No, he isn’t a veteran. There’s no record of a Walter Penner serving here or overseas.”

She began to object, realizing they were already at a disadvantage if any kind of operation would have success.

“Contacts take months to prepare, longer to nurture. I presume we don’t have that kind of time. What can I offer you that the police cannot? I am only one person.”

“You and your brother have experience sniffing out collaborators in France. You know what to look for. The police are good at their jobs, sure, but they have no skills for going undercover. They’re not soldiers and don’t think like them. You do.”

“Assuming this agent or agents are found. What then? Call the American MPs? You’re a bureaucrat and the police are on the outside.” 

He slid the case from under the table.

“You’ve got what you’ll need in here. The combination is 490 and 897.”

Geneviève pulled it over. It was heavy. She spun the locks and flipped the latches. Inside were two 9mm pistols with suppressors, one hundred rounds of ammunition, a block of C-2, caps and primer chord, and two Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knives. She pulled out one of the Inglis M1935s and slid the action, checking the chamber. 

“You can’t expect me to operate without the knowledge of the RCMP. I’m not an assassin.”

Power gathered his coat and hat. He was tired and his patience had worn thin. 

“No, you’re an undercover agent who is expected to do her job and if that means killing some Kraut son-of-a-bitch, that’s what you do. If the local law become a problem, my department will deal with them. I’ll be here for a few days. Keep me up to date.”

He gathered his hat and left without another word.

Geneviève, her hand shaking, dropped her cigarette on the floor and crushed it with her foot. She sat down, quickly, afraid she was going to faint.