7. Will
7
Will
I lay beside Thomas, watching dust drift across slivers of light that slipped through a crack in our curtains. Sleep had evaded me all night. I couldn’t shake the message from the dead drop—or the man with the cigarette Thomas swore was nothing. Meeting with our American handler after such a long silence from Washington was a bit jarring but not wholly unexpected.
The urgency with which we were summoned tied my stomach in knots.
The request to meet in a busy square, exposed to anyone who might watch from the shadows, was also unusual, a change from the quiet anonymity we were used to.
In a city like Paris, where every whisper could be dangerous, the whole thing left me with a deep unease.
Thomas stirred.
He’d slept throughout the night, barely turning from his back where he lay like a vampire in a coffin. I know because, wide awake, I watched for hours as his eyes darted with every dream. His twitching reminded me of a dog whose paws never settled as she chased squirrels or balls in her sleeping visions.
His hand brushed mine as he moved, then lingered, his fingers trailing over my knuckles. It was a quiet touch, but his steady warmth grounded me, as it always did. His eyes fluttered open, deep pools of brown narrowing, reading the tension I carried with me through the night.
He reached up and brushed my cheek, sending a shiver down my neck.
“Today’s the day, then,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep.
“Yeah.” I exhaled, leaning into the comfort of his palm, our silent exchange communicating everything we could ever say aloud. “The peak is noon. TVC is the Vend?me Column. Red scarf should be obvious, assuming every woman in the city doesn’t choose to wear red today.”
He frowned and retracted his hand before scooting up to lean against the headboard. “Why are we meeting in the open?”
“There’s no way they’d risk that unless something’s changed.”
The implication lingered between us: something changed in a way that meant danger and urgency.
“That means everything is about to change for us, too.” Thomas’s jaw tightened as he stood and reached for his shirt. “I have a feeling we’re about to put Paris in our rearview mirror.”
If I could, I would have reached up and pulled him back into bed, held him with the fierceness of a bear guarding her cub, kept him here where I didn’t have to worry about bullets or traps or spies.
“Tradecraft?” I asked, surrendering to the inevitable.
He pulled his shirt on and turned back toward me. “Separate routes?”
“Separate routes.” I nodded. “I’ll take the main avenue, grab a cab from there. You swing around through the market. We’ll regroup at the square.”
As he buckled his belt, I removed the box hidden beneath our bed and handed him a handgun. He stared down a moment, frozen in thought, then took the weapon and stuffed it into the back of his pants.
I grabbed his gray trench coat, a far more fashionable piece than anything we’d worn on past missions but an essential upgrade if we hoped to fit into the chic Paris scene.
As he took the coat, his hand closed around mine briefly before letting go. “Stay invisible, Will.”
I smirked. “I would tell you to do the same, but looking all hot and sexy like you do, it’s a useless thing to ask.”
His other hand whipped up and pulled me into him, his coat crushed between our bodies. With all the passion of parting lovers, his mouth covered mine, and his lips consumed me. For the second time in barely an hour, I begged for the moment to never end.
He pulled back and stared, then turned and slipped out the door.
I gave him a few minutes before following. Buttoning up my coat and pulling my hat low over my eyes, I grabbed my own red scarf and tossed it around my neck. Our mission might have both our stomachs churning, but nothing could steal my sense of irony or humor.
Thomas would grin when he saw it, and that made it worth doing.
Outside, the crisp air bit into my skin, waking every nerve with its sharp clarity. I slid my hands into my pockets, bracing against the chill. I stepped onto the avenue and blended into the flow of early-morning Parisians, my eyes scanning, ever alert. After a few blocks, I hailed a cab and climbed in. I gave the driver vague instructions to loop around and head in the general direction of Vend?me. It was a precaution I’d taken countless times before, but today, it felt heavier, each turn adding to my unease.
As we neared the square, I paid the driver and slipped out a few blocks early, preferring to cover the rest of the distance on foot. I checked my watch, then scanned the street behind me for any sign of a tail. Just before I crossed into the square, I caught sight of Thomas approaching from the opposite direction. He moved as naturally as any other passerby, though I knew his sharp gaze was tracking every movement around him.
Our eyes met.
He lingered less than a heartbeat, then resumed a lazy arc about the plaza. Everything in his motion, the grace of his movement and steadiness of his gait, reminded me why I trusted him with so much more than just my life. I resisted a smile that tugged at my lips and looped around the opposite side of the park.
Spy meetup. Red scarf. Focus.
The cobblestone plaza, worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, gleamed faintly in the morning light. Surrounding the plaza, majestic buildings with creamy limestone facades and tall windows were framed by wrought iron balconies. Colorful flowers, stubbornly ignoring the last vestige of winter, poured out of boxes that hung from each railing.
At the plaza’s center rose the towering bronze monument that spiraled upward. It was capped by a statue of Napoleon as a Roman emperor. My gut churned at what the day might bring, but I couldn’t help smiling as my eyes took in the soaring monolith. The column’s surface glinted with remnants of gilding, and its detailed reliefs told the story of Napoleon’s triumphs, though its imposing presence felt more subdued in the shadow of recent war.
Thomas and I were students of history, lovers of all things past. When we were sent to Paris, we couldn’t get enough of Revolutionary tales or stories of the decadence of long-dead kings. When we learned the Vend?me Column was crafted from the melted bronze of over 1,200 cannons captured by Napoleon’s army in 1805, the plaza became an instant favorite. There was something about the feel of the place, its unique sense of historical significance, that drew us to it.
Despite its grandeur, the square, like most of Paris, bore quiet scars.
Windows of nearby luxury boutiques, once vibrant and bustling with the city’s elite, were largely empty or displayed only modest wares. Bullet marks and faint signs of occupation were visible on some facades—if you looked closely enough.
Though quiet, there was an undercurrent of hope and renewal.
A street artist had set up a small easel in one corner, sketching the column, while a couple of pigeons pecked at crumbs scattered across the cobblestones near his feet.
The soft murmur of voices was punctuated by occasional laughter from children playing at the edges of the square.
A crowd milled about—most were locals bundled against the cold.
While postwar Paris was still not the tourist mecca it once was—or would again become—some brave foreigners had begun to return to watch the city’s rebirth unfold.
Bracing myself against the magnetic pull of the plaza’s beauty, I forced my gaze to sweep over each person, looking for any hint of color, specifically red.
Thomas had settled onto a bench and began reading a newspaper.
That’s when I saw her.
Near the base of the column, a woman stood wrapped in a black coat with a thick red scarf looped around her neck, the color vivid against the cold steel of her hair secured in a bun atop her head. She stared up at the monument, seemingly lost in thought, but her posture was too deliberate, too stiff to be casual.
I didn’t need a second guess—she was the one.
Thomas reached her first, his expression somehow distant but controlled.
His gaze darted subtly to his periphery.
I held back a few paces, keeping myself angled so I could see both of them without drawing too close.
When he stopped just short of the woman, she turned, her eyes taking him in with a sharp, assessing look before staring past him. Her eyes flicked to me for the briefest moment, though she gave no other indication she’d even registered my presence. Without a word, she set a ceramic cup and saucer on the base of the column, turned, and strode away.
“What the hell?” I whispered as we turned to face the column like a pair of awestruck tourists.
“Read the script.”
I started to reach for the cup and saucer but stopped myself. No one could see a connection between us and the woman. Snatching her saucer off the column’s base would give anyone watching a giant clue. So, I turned to keep Thomas and me facing opposite directions, still side by side. Then, I removed a camera from my coat pocket and pretended to snap a picture, glad no one could see that my frame held only a pigeon taking flight from the roof of a nearby building.
“Le Petit Clair?” I whispered.
“Uh, huh.” Thomas grunted. “A café a few blocks away.”
“Right.”
“I’ll go first,” he said, his voice steady, though I could sense an edge beneath his calm.
He stepped from the column and ambled across the cobbles. I waited a heartbeat, then two, then a few more, before following.
We were two strangers on a shared path. Nothing more.
When I rounded a corner, slipping into an empty alley well out of view, he took my hand and gave it the briefest squeeze.
Despite the circumstance, I reveled in his touch.
“What do you think?” he murmured.
“Could be nothing. Could be trouble,” I replied, my voice low. “But I’m guessing they wouldn’t have taken a risk like this if it were nothing. I can’t remember us ever having a meet just to have another meet. The whole cup-and-saucer routine makes me want to vomit.”
“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “We’d better keep our wits about us.”
With one last shared glance, we moved back out onto the street.
Le Petit Clair was a neighborhood spot, nestled in a quiet corner where the city seemed to exhale and let itself rest. The faded burgundy awning over the entrance bore lettering long since chipped and peeling, as if it had weathered the occupation and refused to be replaced. The patio tables were sturdy but mismatched, their surfaces scarred by years of cigarette burns and idle knife marks.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real.
If this had been another morning in Paris, and if it weren’t freezing outside, Thomas and I might have enjoyed a couple of hours of coffee, pastries, and the simple pleasure of being together. I let myself daydream about that moment—for only a second—before spotting a flash of color just inside the dingy glass of the shop’s window.
Thomas held the door.
Inside, the place felt timeless. The air was warm, carrying the mingling scents of strong coffee, fresh bread, and the faint, ever-present haze of Gauloises smoke. The floor was a patchwork of worn tiles, some cracked, some chipped, all uneven enough that you had to mind your step. Our target, the woman in the red scarf, dabbed her cigarette, then laid it on the edge of a saucer-turned-ashtray. Her eyes remained fixed on the newspaper held in her other hand until Thomas entered, and the petite proprietor approached and told us to sit anywhere we liked.
“Michele, come, sit with me. Bring Guillaume over here,” the woman said as she tossed her paper on the table and waved to us. Her French flowed faster than the Seine in summer and was so clipped I could barely make out her words, but the warmth in her tone matched the smile that bloomed on her face. She appeared to be in her thirties, though guessing ages of women in Paris was as futile as fighting against Napoleon’s troops.
“Go on, Michele,” Thomas muttered, a grin in his voice.
The woman stood, embraced each of us and pecked our cheeks, then sat and snatched her cigarette. Thomas settled into the chair next to her, so I sat opposite, thankful to be out of the line of her smoke.
“It is quite cold today, is it not? How do you boys walk this city in such thin clothing?”
I glanced down at my coat, a thick, woolen affair that was far too warm, even on a late winter’s day.
Thomas didn’t miss a beat. “I have always run hot. It is an American trait, I believe.”
The woman’s brow arched as her lips curled. “Yes, you Americans can be . . . how do you say . . . quite steamy.”
Thomas smiled broadly and nodded. I blinked, unsure whether she’d just flirted or called us out as a couple.
Saucers arrived with sturdy cups of piping coffee, along with a small plate of assorted pastries. I took a miniature croissant and savored a bite. Thomas scanned the dining room.
Aside from the owner, we were alone.
The woman released a long exhale of smoke, then pointed her cigarette at my croissant and said casually, “I prefer eclairs.”
Thomas, picking up on the coded phrase, responded, “The chocolate is not so sweet as it once was.”
The woman stared a moment, then nodded and leaned across the table. When she spoke, any hint of a French accent vanished, replaced by the flat expanse of a Midwestern American tongue.
“I will stay until he finishes his pastry.” She pointed at my croissant again. “Not a moment longer. You will leave together but take separate routes once you reach the street. We will not meet again.”
Thomas eyed her thoughtfully. “Understood.”
The woman continued, “Stalin’s boys are up to something in Berlin. Hundreds of MGB 1 agents have flooded the zone and are searching for something. There’s a desperation to their hunt. You two are to enter the city and find out what Uncle Joe is up to.”
Thomas glanced toward me, then looked back at the woman. “Do we know anything about what they’re looking for?”
“Only that it has something to do with a statue or carving, some kind of artwork.”
“Art?” I said, leaning forward to mirror her posture. “Their side captured a lot when they entered the city. Why would they lose their minds over one statue?”
“It isn’t safe to speak more of that here. We are never truly alone, are we?” The woman spread her hands in a very French gesture, then shrugged. “What I can say is that we have never seen them send so many agents into one theater. It is like watching bees swarm their queen. Our people were already overwhelmed. Now . . .” She sucked in a lungful, then blew it out. “Return to this café tonight at ten o’clock. It closes at nine and will be dark. One at a time, circle around back and knock exactly four times on the door marked for deliveries. Whichever of you enters second, remain out of sight until the first enters, then repeat the knocks.”
“If one of us is already inside, why do we need to—”
Her glare could’ve melted an iceberg. “Do as instructed.”
She eyed the last quarter of my pastry before reached down, snatching it up, and popping it into her mouth. With crumbs spilling out and a quick wink, our unnamed contact stood and exited the café.
1. The MGB, the Soviet Ministry of State Security, predecessor to the KGB, handled intelligence, counterintelligence, and internal security.