Double Enigma

Copyright 2017 by Graham Douglas

All rights reserved

Chapter 1

Mont Saint Michel is a striking sight towering dark grey above

the wind-swept Brittany coast. It stands there in isolation as
has it has for 14 centuries. However, as you get closer the
crowds, the Gauloise and de chevaux fumes increase. And so,
the narrow alley winding around the mound is as full of
gullible pilgrims, glib tricksters and dodgy eating houses
today as in medieval times. Yet if you avoid the rustic unisex
toilet at its doors and pay a hefty entry fee, you do find
relative calm in the monastery above.
Jordan even took time to look at the view across
the Couesnon River sands from the cloisters full-length
window before taking up position. His place, well scouted,
was in a hidden parapet overlooking the car park a couple of
hundred feet below.
No one had taken much notice of the young ex-serviceman,
Ilford 35mm camera round neck, walking down the steps. He
even had the obligatory green canvas rucksack; at least
unadorned with the Union Jacket so common of those days.
And it was out of this he took a pair of ex-Naval Barr & Stroud
binoculars and a walkie talkie of remarkable miniaturisation
of the early era of the transistor. So equipped, he sat in the
warm spring sun to eat a baguette he had the sense to buy
on his way up.
His instructions were clear. It was to keep the whole car park
under observation then at the appointed time transmit either
Dinan for go ahead or Malo for stop. The radio was on a
ham frequency with the hope of throwing any listener of the
scent.
Time passed. The two buses he was focussing on had arrived
and parked back to back. Each had disgorged eager tourists
and their drivers apparently settled for their return. But then
one came out, opened the rear engine compartment and
started to poke around. As if in curiosity, the other wandered
over and together they looked inside. Jordan made a final
sweep with his binos, pressed the transmit and said with no
attempt at a French accent Dinan.
What happened next is still the subject of an internal
enquiry. Since, just as one driver passed the package over, an
unmarked lorry stopped immediately beside them obscuring
Jordans view. He was about to move along the low wall that
was between him and the shear drop when the sky
darkened. He turned to see a monk behind him barring the
steps.
He couldnt quite remember what you called someone in
Holy Orders. So, he ventured Its a wonderful view,
father!
His last thoughts as he went over the wall to his death was
not about cowled monks. No! It was Whod betrayed me?
***

Marshall had never ever felt comfortable in Germany. He

fought his way through it in the War. He had then garrisoned
it for much of his Army career. Yet still never relaxed there.
His wife too always hankered for England. When they stayed
in a quarter on the chilly north German plain, she said
repeatedly Wait until we are back in Guildford.
They bought a small house outside Fleet on his retirement.
But when inflation kicked in, his pension didnt go as far.
Now, by 1963, they were definitely feeling the pinch. So
much for Harold MacMillans never had it so good!
More to the point, his position, as its Club Captain coyly
called it, as Secretary of a local golf course wasnt bringing in
much either. He often thought that still calling him Major
absolved the membership from paying any sort of wage.
Shabby genteel his Scottish mother would have said. So,
when this nice little earner came along, he jumped at it. Well,
as far as he could jump with one too many lunchtime gins
and pork pies inside him.
Nevertheless, the small Bavarian kirche was bonny enough.
As he entered, its coldness was refreshing as was the strains
of Bach being played on the small pipe organ. He found the
pew and sat down as if in contemplation. Then gradually he
felt under the woodwork, fingers yearning to touch an
envelope sellotaped in seclusion. After first, he discovered
only chewing gum doubtless left by some generous GI from
the nearby US base. It was the American Zone after all. Then
he made contact just as another entered the sanctuary. He
slowly sat back as the arrival knelt in prayer behind him. He
waited with irreverent impatience for the intruder to
complete his devotions. With the result, the sharp pain in his
neck followed by the explosive searing in his chest came as a
complete surprise. He died thinking only Who had
betrayed me?

***

If we are to connect these two incidents we need to travel

back from the beatnik 60s to the austere days of the Second
World War. Indeed, those were very dangerous days for
Marcel Roussel. For, despite his relatively common surname,
he was an extraordinary man. Moreover, he was determined
to be even more extraordinary by surviving his resistance
against the Germans for his occupied France. Not many, he
was aware, were doing so. Certainly, he has a remarkable run
of luck in his native Loire district. In fact, in the countryside
around his village of Esvres, the Gestapo and their French
collaborators had been very active of late. He lived his days
then fearing being hauled off to their HQ in Tours for
interrogation. He lived with the fear of what he intended to
do instead.
The night that they came, he was not stunned by the
breaking down of the front door and the rush up the stair. His
plan was simple. He knew his bedroom door was solid oak
and would give him enough time. Indeed, so it proved. Since
he did get to the bureau to make a final check on its secret
compartment before firing the waiting revolver into his
temple. Therefore, he did not have time for the obvious
question who has betrayed me?