Chapter Five #3
As had become their routine over their week together, Zelie and Marcel walked to the nearest metro station in companionable silence.
On the train, they spoke of the pranks Marcel and Gabriel had pulled when they were studying together.
And because she deemed it a safe thing to tease him about if anyone were listening in, she said, “Anne seems . . . nice.” She waggled her brows. “And fond of you.”
He breathed a laugh and shook his head, the ease of it saying as much as his words. “She’s so young. Only twenty-two. I’ve known her since she was in pigtails and I a strapping college boy, so no thank you. She’s like a little sister to me.”
That more explained the fondness in Anne’s eyes too, really. She seemed, to Zelie, simply happy to have her old friend home safely . . . and eager for a bit of adventure.
A kindred spirit, in that. “I’m glad I had the chance to meet her. Both of them.”
The nine o’clock curfew was looming as they exited the station nearest Grigoryan’s house, so they hurried their way down Avenue Foch. Beaufort opened the door as they approached. “Cutting it close tonight,” he muttered under his breath as he shut the door again behind them.
The clock from the drawing room chimed the hour, right on cue.
“But we made it.” Zelie unpinned her hat. “Is Monsieur Grigoryan in?”
Beaufort shook his head. “He sent word that he’d be out until morning. But you have guests, madame.”
She froze. “I have guests?”
“Oui. A Monsieur Boutron and Mademoiselle Barbier.”
Henri and Marguerite? Here—together? “Where are they?”
“In the library, madame. And given the hour, I have had rooms prepared for them.”
“You’re too good, Beaufort.” She rested a hand on his arm in thanks and hurried toward the library, motioning Marcel to follow when he hesitated. “Come, let me introduce you to Henri and Marguerite.”
The moment they turned into the hallway that housed the library and the sound of the piano reached them, they both laughed.
“‘Chopsticks.’ Haven’t heard that one in ages,” Marcel said.
“What Henri lacks in skill, he makes up for in determination to get his hands on expensive things that he doesn’t know what to do with.” This she said loudly enough, upon entering the library, to have Henri spinning around on the stool with a grin on his face.
“Zee, there you are. Your very lovely friend was kind enough to show me where to find you.”
Her very lovely friend was perusing one of the bookshelves, but she looked their way with a blush. “Since you told me he was one of the few I should bring to you.”
“I’m glad you did. How was your submarine adventure, Henri?”
He’d been studying Marcel, obviously trying to determine who he was and if he could be trusted, but he’d know she wouldn’t ask in front of him otherwise.
And being Henri, he didn’t question her. Just pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it like a flag. “You may call me your majesty after this one, because I am the undisputed king of the spies.”
“I think I’ll stick with lucky not to have been caught, but I’m glad for it.” She hurried over to snatch the paper from his fingers, skimming down the page. “Handwriting is atrocious, as always.”
“Part of my clever scheme in case I’m ever intercepted.” Henri turned toward Marcel, hand outstretched. “Henri Boutron, one of Zelie’s lieutenants in Alliance. I’m assuming you’re one of us, but I don’t know your name.”
“Marcel Laurent. Alliance’s new liaison to the arts.”
Henri’s face lit with a smile. “The pianist! Ah, I bet you were duly impressed by my little performance there, weren’t you? No doubt perceiving me now as a threat to your career.”
Marcel laughed. “Lucky for me, I’m going to be too busy with Vichy’s youth orchestra to compete with you here in Paris. If all goes to plan, that is.”
“Excellent. Though the plan is why I’ve come in person instead of hastening to the naval base for more observation.” Henri focused again on Zelie. “Navarre has said you need to get back to Vichy immediately.”
Her pulse leapt. “Why? What’s gone wrong?”
Henri shook his head and nodded toward Marguerite, who stepped forward with a postcard in her hand. It was one of the standard, Nazi-issue ones. Navarre’s familiar handwriting said simply, Come home immediately. – N
She saw no clues on the card. No shaking in his hand, no irregular blots of ink, no hidden words. Well, not unless he’d used invisible ink, but he didn’t usually go in for such “nonsense,” as he called it.
For a spymaster, Navarre wasn’t all that fond of intelligence work. He saw it as a necessity, nothing more.
Her breath whooshed out. “I suppose I’m cutting my trip short, then.
He wouldn’t call me back if it weren’t important.
” He, after all, had been the one to insist she come to Paris and expand their network here before their next exchange with MI6, while he focused on contacting a few potential assets in North Africa.
“What about me? Should I go early too, or stick with the plan to leave on Friday?” Marcel had drifted a step closer to the piano—it pulled him like a magnet, she knew—but he kept his gaze on her.
She looked from him to Henri, mulling over the options. “Stay. Finish contacting those on your list. You can make the pitch as well as I can at this point.”
Given the look in his eyes, he knew what she didn’t say aloud—she trusted him. Trusted him to finish up here, to make the call on who to invite.
She hoped he knew she didn’t give that trust lightly.