The Tiger Claw by Shauna Singh Baldwin Page B

Sufism was, but perhaps because Abbajaan’s occupation didn’t sound threatening, he moved on.
    “Your mother is from Boston. An American. I see—hence the name Baker. Quite a popular lot, these days, Americans. Family moved around a bit, I’d say. England, France, India. But you”—he was consulting and calculating from the file before him—“seem to have spent most of your life in France.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Noor.
    Since her own displacement to England she understood how Abbajaan must have felt all through his sixteen years as an immigrant to France: duty-bound to someday return “home.” For him, home was India. For Noor, home was now wherever Armand might be.
    “A spinster?”
    “I have a fiancé, sir.” Far from the truth, but better than being called a spinster.
    “Hmm. I did a stint in India a few years ago, trying to turn some natives into soldiers. Girl your age’d be married off years ago—willy-nilly, without so much as a by-your-leave. Count yourself jolly lucky you’re not there now.”
    “And you too, sir.” Noor kept her tone neutral.
    Colonel Buckmaster glared at her, then recovered. “Quite a little Allied cocktail, aren’t you? Yes. Let me see, just how long did you live in India?”
    “Two years, sir.”
    A single week in India might rearrange anyone’s understanding of the world, but two years living with Dadijaan and her Indian aunts and cousins had made India and Indians a constant point of reference and concern ever since.
    “Only two years. Well. Under Causes for Concern, your escorting officer says here you were ‘absolutely terrified’ when they did the routine little stunt with you.”
    A residue of terror stirred in Noor. The “little stunt” was a mock Gestapo interrogation, complete with bright beams of light and an interrogator who abused, threatened and shouted just as Uncle Tajuddin once did.
    If you were forced to flee your home in Paris because twenty-eight German bombs had fallen in your town just ten minutes after the sirens sounded, and the men in your family all carried British passports, you’d be frightened of those uniforms too
.
    “I was afraid, sir. But I’m much stronger for it.”
    Perhaps she shouldn’t have acknowledged being afraid; Colonel Buckmaster had vanished behind her file again. But itwas true—mastering the onslaught of memories stirred by the mock interrogation had given her confidence.
    If, after these two and a half years of preparation and all my running up and down Glory Hill, you sort me into the wrong group, Colonel Buckmaster, if you reject me because I’m Indian and not good enough for the SOE or pack me off to the periphery where I’ll never see Armand till the war is over, I’ll find another way to leave your charming little island. I’ll join the Maquis in France
.
    “You’re not one of those colonials who’re hoping the Germans win, are you? That chap Bose gave us the slip in Calcutta, went off and shook hands with Hitler—and next thing we hear he’s gathering an army. Calls it the Indian National Army, if you please. Of course, a few chaps in the IRA have made overtures to Hitler too.”
    “Colonel,” Major Boddington intervened, “she was referred by her brother. He’s with Bomber Command.”
    “Oh. Well, then, she’s the right kind.” Colonel Buckmaster closed Noor’s file, leaned his head back against the antimacassars. “Officer Baker, we have a special assignment for you, purely voluntary, you understand. We have an urgent request to send a wireless operator to France. Dropping you is out of the question as you have not yet completed your parachute training course, so …” He sounded as if Noor had been uncommonly slow and should have completed her jump training by now.
    A glow spread within Noor, but with an effort she kept her face blank as a toy soldier’s. She had worked for this, prayed for this for three years. France was in sight.
    “If you are quite sure, then, not reluctant at all?