The Cipher, page 8
Points to be Considered in Your Disguise
a) Golden Rule.
Never come out of character. By this we mean not only from the clothes point of view but from the mental side also, e.g., if you are a farm worker, do not wear suit and gloves, have polished nails and behave like an educated woman.
b) Clothes.
Study in every detail the clothes you are going to wear, not forgetting small items such as cut, stockings, handkerchiefs, gloves, etc. Different shapes and kinds of hats will alter type.
c) Personal effects.
Handbag, watches, cigarettes, type of newspaper, contents of paper, etc.
d) Hair.
If it should be long or short, whether it should be tidy or untidy.
e) Your face.
Whether it should be dirty or clean, whether it should be pale or sunburnt.
f). Teeth.
Whether they should be clean or not.
g) Hands.
Nails, dirty or clean, and your hands white or dirty or hard worked.
h) Feet.
Whether you wear shoes or boots, whether these should be clean or dirty.
i) Mannerisms.
Practise until your old mannerisms (such as playing with your hair, etc.) are forgotten and your new mannerisms have become part of you.
j) Walk.
If you had any peculiarity in your carriage or your walk, practise until you have conquered the old ones and obtained new ones.
k) Handwriting
For signature or name if needed, educated or not. Whether you should sign as if you are used to signing it or whether you should handle your pen as though it were strange to you.
6
Algiers / Egypt, 1943
Olivia leafed through The Secret Agent’s Handbook — a manual of weapons, gadgets, disguises and devices. She had clothes manufactured and aged by SOE to look authentic in Italy — three belted dresses in green, burgundy and tan, with Peter Pan collars, and all flowing loosely to just below the knee, as well as a black pocketbook bag, and black sensible shoes. She was not to dye her hair, put on nail polish, or wear noticeable makeup, as such glamorous touches would be out of place in the rural area where she would probably be going.
The best cover story should echo her own story as much as possible, so she was now Viola, and had two brothers, one in the army, the other in the navy. She didn’t know their whereabouts. Her parents were simple people who had lived in the same house all their lives in Musadino, a small village less than two kilometres from Porto Valtravaglia. Her father owned a small plot there, which he farmed on his day off or after his shift as a machine grinder in a factory in Porto Valtravaglia. Her mother had grown silkworms before the war, but now her father had cut down all the mulberry trees to grow maize, so they could eat. Viola was in — and here she was to fill in whatever her location — to find work. Her papers would be falsified to reflect this story.
Soon, Olivia kissed Grandma and Grandpa goodbye, promising to write, promising to be careful. Though she was headed to Algeria for advanced cipher training at Massingham — the main Allied command, supply and training centre for clandestine operations into southwestern Europe — she could only tell them she was going overseas. They’d be shocked if they knew she’d been a successful honeytrap. She was proud of herself. By venturing outside her comfort zone, she had glimpsed a strength she didn’t know she possessed. The handsome Nardo intruded in her thoughts…his face so close to mine… She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to think of Philip, to whom she had bade farewell a few days before, tight in his arms, while he professed love and asked her to write, to come back to him. She had been dating him for the past few months, and though uncertain, she thought this must be love, this feeling of anxious happiness. Despite Philip’s many questions, she had told him only that she was working for the government. He begged for her photograph, and she teased him, “Won’t you remember me otherwise?” then gave him one before her departure.
On the boat to Liverpool, she fingered the silver heart-shaped locket he’d given her, opened it and stared at his face, wondering if she’d ever see him again. Nothing was certain, the war, her safety, his safety, her parents’ wellbeing, Aldo’s survival, her brother Mick being on the other side of the world or in the depths of a distant ocean.
“Is he your lover?” one of the girls asked, leaning in to look at Philip’s photo.
Olivia blushed. “No,” she said. “Not lover. Boyfriend.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?” the girl said, laughing.
“I’m afraid so,” Olivia said, and smiled.
“I’m Claire,” the girl said. “Don’t wait too long. You don’t want to die a virgin.”
Olivia closed the locket and slipped it back inside her shirt, between her breasts. It’s not as if she hadn’t thought about it. She’d nearly had sex with Philip, but perhaps the place, or the hurried quality of it had put her off. She had the idea — possibly gleaned from novels — that her first time should be romantic, with candles and soft music, not something done in a hasty encounter. “As soon as a suitable candidate comes along,” she quipped.
She was happy to have met Claire, who within a short time became her friend. She had not seen Barbara in months. We don’t ask questions here rang in her head.
When they docked in Algiers, Olivia stumbled off the boat, the ten-day journey a hazy whirlpool of seasickness, explosions and shouts. Her medical and clearance papers were stamped Infiltrate On Foot, because of her motion sickness.
Instead of going to parachute school with the others, she was sent to Massingham — a clandestine advanced command post situated in a former beach club west of Algiers for subversive operations into France, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily and mainland Italy. Club de Pins was an ideal location for SOE operations. Secluded in a pine forest, it had easy access to the Mediterranean, plenty of space for training, and an airfield nearby at Blida. Here, Olivia joined other women SOE ciphers, who were rapidly tapping out Morse code between London and the battlefield. They were called The Pianists, a name that made her wish she played the piano.
In the first few days, Olivia asked each of her colleagues about Barbara, describing her echoic memory, which would surely set her apart from other agents.
“I think I know who you mean,” one of the W/T operators said. “She has a different name…Bernadette. Yes, that’s it. She was dropped into France, as far as I recall.”
“How long ago was this?” Olivia asked.
The young woman shrugged. “Weeks ago, maybe? We received a few messages from her. . . but… she could be back in London for all we know.”
Olivia nodded, but she didn’t believe it. Barbara would have contacted her had she been in London when Olivia was there, and would surely have known where to send her a letter. She replayed London. January 17, 1943…“What are your plans when the war is over?” Barbara asks. We’re in a café and Barbara is about to be shipped out. “I’m not sure,” I say, because it’s true. I want to do what my brothers do. “We could become detectives,” Barbara says. “We could research way faster than other people, and you could gather information just by being there!” This idea appeals to me. If I were a detective, I’d be able to find Mick and Aldo. “After the war,” I say… going away… going away… Olivia shook the film out of her head. She counted to one hundred, and placed each foot on the centre of a separate tile under her desk. She would hope for the best.
Olivia worked in one of the larger buildings on the club property, and from there, could hear explosions and weapons firing in the outdoor ranges in the dunes. During paramilitary and demolitions training, she’d often see red flags on the beach as warnings of pending explosions. However, she had no fear, and loved her work and the extra assignments she was given because of her memory. While agents and personnel were generally kept separate for their own safety, Olivia’s commanding officer entrusted her with all their identities, as well as the identities of foreign agents. She scanned the agents’ photographs and filed them in her memory bank. She could not forget a face, and thus could prove invaluable should a foreign agent try to infiltrate their ranks.
“I want you to meet someone,” Claire said one night, on the way to the officers’ club. She and Olivia were living in the “Fannery house” with five other young women, on a long expanse of sand dunes adjacent to the Mediterranean. They could swim in the day and dance at the officers’ club at night, the war now reduced to telegrams and ciphers. “My current beau.” Her eyes twinkled.
“I thought you had someone back home,” Olivia said, frowning.
Claire laughed. “Yes, I do, but there’s no guarantee any of us will get back alive. We might as well live a little.”
Olivia shrugged. Maybe she was too old-fashioned, she thought. War changed everything, created different rules and norms. She wanted to experience as much as possible, but not at the expense of her reputation. That had been drilled into her first by her mother, then by Grandma. She glanced at Claire. Well, maybe those rules didn’t apply here across the world.
The club was full, music playing, and various couples dancing. Claire looked around, then waved enthusiastically at a handsome man across the room. “Nardo!” she called.
The man looked up, and, on seeing them, approached. Olivia recognized him immediately, and felt the same magnetic pull she’d felt before, then a deep embarrassment. She wished she could tell him that their exchange back in London hadn’t been fake, that she had not stopped thinking about him.
Claire looked from Olivia to Nardo, then took his arm possessively. “This is my friend Viola,” she said gaily.
“We’ve met,” he said coolly, “under unpleasant circumstances.”
Claire lifted an eyebrow.
Olivia shook his outstretched hand, her heart beating in her chest so loudly, she was sure he could hear it. His palm was warm, unlike his demeanour. She recalled London, her hand in his a moment longer than necessary, how she had felt recalibrated, like a dissonant instrument finally in tune. She was not a sentimental person, nor a romantic one. She’d read plenty of novels that spoke of love at first sight, but she had never actually believed such a thing existed. Love at first sight. Heat rose to her cheeks. He stared intently at her, as if he could decipher all that was racing through her mind. She forced herself to look away, and smile at Claire, while she waited for her heart to calm down. She thought about Philip, conjuring his face. She’d been in love with him, hadn’t she? Was in love with him. But even as she thought this, Philip faded to a distant memory.
“Let’s dance,” Claire said, and pulled Nardo away.
Olivia didn’t even have a chance to find an empty table, when one of the officers whisked her onto the dance floor. She forced herself not to look at Nardo and Claire, and focused instead on her dance partner, wondering where he’d come from and what he had experienced. She was accustomed to agents who dropped in and out of Massingham in various psychological and nervous states — they could generally remain in the field for about six weeks before risking being discovered. Some never returned. These men either settled into the club or kept to themselves. Sometimes, their training exercises had them parachuting onto the beach, hiding until dark, then stealthily attacking the dummy ammunitions dump at the club, which resulted in deafening explosions. Often, when the girls had to work evening shifts, they hurried back to the villa, frightened they might meet an agent who would mistake them for the enemy.
She went home alone that night, and shook out and refolded all her shirts, until they were colour coded and perfectly aligned in the closet. Claire did not return to their shared room until morning.
Olivia immersed herself in work in the following days, trying not to think of Nardo and Claire, who now spent most nights together. Since that first meeting, she had not seen Nardo, and wondered if Claire was keeping him away from her. November 30, 1942, cold, clear. We’re standing outside my hostel. “Can I see you again?” he says, and I open my purse to busy my hands so he can’t see them trembling. I’m not fit for this job. I want to see him again. He watches me, expectant, then takes my hand and holds it to his lips, blows warm air into my palm. I want to stay here forever.“Are you leaving soon?” I ask, wanting to hear him say he doesn’t want to leave. He keeps his cover, asks me to meet him for a drink or a movie. “You can leave me a message here,” I say, knowing he’ll soon be gone, and we may never meet again. You mustn’t live in the past, her mother’s voice said, but what if the past contained a memory that sustained her? She struggled with this, knowing her mother was right; reliving the past was akin to watching a scene frozen in time that could not be reanimated. An intermission in her life. Nostalgic, sentimental. She must no longer think of Nardo.
She focused on her work. She excelled in specialized instruction, easily memorizing all the codes used by SOE. Her commanding officer had her attend meetings, knowing she could type up their content verbatim. She enjoyed these challenges, and the trust he had in her. For the first time since she’d left her London home, Olivia felt free, unencumbered. In London, her Italian heritage had encouraged jeers and insults, and made her afraid she’d be deported, like her father, to some unknown location. Here, away from the familiar, she had the sense that anything could happen, that she could grow into herself.
She still received near daily letters from Philip, though they sometimes arrived all at once, in batches of threes or fours, letters that had begun as friendly missives and now were transformed into passionate love letters, implying more than Olivia felt. At times, she wished she could embrace that love to mute all thoughts of Nardo. But Philip was not a crutch, or a distraction. His love for her was genuine. She wrote him once a week, simply saying she was fine, and asking news from home.
Two months later, in May, she and Claire were transferred to the Cairo headquarters due to a staffing crisis. Over the past couple of years, there had been six commanding officers — one was taken prisoner, and the others weeded out in London during their annual inspections. Massive backlogs of telegrams had to be immediately decoded. She was relieved to be transferred out of Massingham, with its memories of Nardo.
They arrived in a sweltering ninety-six degrees in the shade, and along with four other girls, settled into a primitive pensione, alive with a multitude of beetles, cockroaches and other flying creatures impossible to eradicate. Each morning, Olivia shook out her clothes exactly three times before putting them on, then she’d sweep the insects out the door, her mind repeating innocuous words to distract herself.
She and the other Pianists worked long exhausting days on the fourth floor of the Rustum Building — known to all as the “Secret Building.” Within two weeks, one of the girls in their pensione fell ill and, after a short hospital stay, died. No one knew what disease she had, and though Olivia and the others put on a brave face, knowing they’d been vaccinated against a number of tropical diseases, they felt more vulnerable.
Olivia developed a series of rituals to keep herself safe: she stepped out of bed at exactly 6:54 a.m.; brushed her teeth twenty times on the left, twenty in the middle, and twenty on the right; opened the left-hand armoire door first; incorporated the three shakes of her clothes; carried her shoes outside before putting them on. She knew all this was irrational and superstitious, yet she was rigorous in following her practice.
Back and forth they travelled on a military lorry along hot, dusty streets teeming with people, donkeys, mules, all carrying goods, the scent of animal sweat and excrement mingled with the gas fumes along the road; mangy dogs lay in the shadows; men in long white robes followed by their black-clad wives who kept a respectable distance between them; beggars at the edges of the thoroughfare, often women holding babies around whose faces flies hovered; trams rattled down the main road with people clinging to their sides.
A second girl from another pensione took ill and died. And then a third.
A few days later, the Pianists were taken to a basement, where they were vaccinated for smallpox.
Olivia wrote to Philip, intending at first to tell him about the smallpox, but instead wrote of Cairo’s poverty and misery while shining limousines glided through the streets, their uniformed drivers staring straight ahead, their businessmen and officials leaned into air-conditioned back seats, bound for workplaces. She didn’t tell him about the girls’ deaths, protective of a life in which Philip and London had no place.
Following the deaths, Olivia and the girls moved to a paddleboat steamer moored off the island of Gezira. Known as “Jardin des Plantes,” the island itself was only a couple of miles long, and boasted grand luxurious villas and gardens with exotic plants from all over the world.
“I’ve never been anywhere so fantastic,” Olivia told Claire, pointing to the tree-lined streets that cast cool shadows along the road. She wiped a bead of perspiration from her lip.
