Chapter Nine
Nine
Zelie knew it was selfish of her to have pulled everyone to the old stone house along the seashore for their evening’s work.
Emile had returned from his rendezvous with his lady love, and he and Gustave were out in the field they’d be using for the airdrop even now, armed with electric torches that would be all the pilot would have for signals as to where to send the parachutes.
But there was no reason beyond her own desire for their company to have asked Marcel and Vivi to do their candidate scoring here rather than in their offices in Marseille.
Their voices soothed her, though, as she bent over a cluttered desk in the corner of the main drawing room, reading through reports on German activity along the demarcation line.
A nearly constant stream of couriers and agents came in and out—cryptographers who would encode all the information on Nazi military operations that she wanted to pass along, radio operators to send those encrypted messages to England, former military consultants to help her make sense of what each detail meant, locals to give their perspective on activity in certain areas.
Some had already retired, but given the impending delivery, most were still up and about, busying themselves.
For all the company, she usually felt isolated. Alone. She was, as the Laurent cousins called her, la patronne. The boss. The one all those people expected direction from, encouragement, orders.
She wasn’t their friend. Wasn’t their confidante, not about their personal lives.
Vivi was obviously different, having known her all her life. And Marcel . . . he was different too, though she wasn’t sure how it had happened. How he’d become a friend so quickly.
Regardless of how, she was grateful. It meant that at least once every week or two, when they met to exchange information, she would be able to be herself for a few minutes.
He’d seen her at her most vulnerable after Navarre’s last visit, and he hadn’t judged her for it.
Hadn’t deemed her a useless, emotional woman who couldn’t be trusted.
No, it was more than that. It wasn’t that he hadn’t judged her. It was that he had—he’d judged her capable.
Gustave rushed into the room and came directly toward her. “They should only be a few minutes behind me. Everything went off according to plan, all parachutes landing safely and easily retrieved. I left them with the lorry and all the equipment and biked ahead to let you know.”
“Thank you, Gustave.” She considered the mountain of sensitive information out on her desk.
The Englishman they were expecting tonight was an ally, so she probably didn’t need to put it all out of sight .
. . but the instinct was too strong. She shuffled it all into a tidy pile, slipped it into a folder, and slid the folder in the space between the wall and bookcase that she’d already created for such occasions.
Marcel and Vivi both stood too and drifted her way. “Where do you want us?” Vivi asked. “Here in the room? Or we could hide somewhere. Out of sight, so you can receive him alone. But within hearing range.”
A sudden image of Vivi hiding in a closet with a mop crowding her made Zelie smile. “Here is fine. In fact, Gus, please call anyone awake to join us.”
Gustave saluted and darted out. Though his method of gathering everyone together was less subtle than she’d have liked. He simply shouted down each hallway and up the stairs. Effective, but the mother in her winced. “He’s as bad as Blaise,” she muttered.
Marcel chuckled. “I trust you’re beginning to understand how I can play the piano with distractions.”
“I more wonder that you ever got anything done.”
Lucien Vallet, her radio operator, entered first, handing her a slip of paper. “The Brits sent this when the airplane left England.”
“Thanks.” She skimmed it. Up until now they’d withheld details about this emissary of theirs, making her wonder if they really meant to send someone.
This fellow’s name was Blanchet, it said.
Probably his pseudonym, she doubted he’d be operating under his actual identity.
It offered little more beyond an assurance that he was the best, and that after he finished training her people here, he was to proceed to Normandy and set up a new Alliance sector.
Irritation clawed at her as the rest of her team-in-residence slipped into the room. Why did they think they could send a stranger in to set up a new sector? Alliance worked because it was founded on trust.
And . . . she needed to trust them too. Dragging in a long breath, she nodded and reviewed the English she’d been brushing up on since their first contact with MI6 after letting it go rusty since school.
The lorry’s engine rumbled into her awareness, then cut into silence.
Its heavy doors creaked open and then slammed shut, the sounds coming in through the window open to the warm spring night.
Feet crunching over gravel, things sliding out of the lorry’s bed.
She had to curl her fingers into her palm to keep from shouting for them to hurry.
At last, Emile led a procession of men into the room, all carrying nondescript boxes and crates. Only once they’d all set their burdens down and turned did she get her first glimpse of the stranger.
Sniggers sounded from the two-dozen people who had crowded into the room, outright laughter from a few. Zelie didn’t know whether to join them or apologize on their behalf.
There was only one unfamiliar face, and he looked like a parody of a Frenchman.
A caricature. He wore a bowler that didn’t quite fit him, pince-nez eyeglasses, and a well-trimmed but horribly outdated goatee.
All of which could have been excused if it weren’t for the clothes.
A short jacket and waistcoat, a shirt with a deep cutaway that revealed a cravat tied around his throat, and striped trousers.
Was this a joke? Had they sent a Hollywood actor instead of a British agent? Or did the English really understand the French so little? If so, this was going to be a disaster.
Zelie cleared her throat and stepped forward with a smile. “Hello,” she said in English, though she could hear her own accent in the vowels. “Welcome to Marseille, Mr. Blanchet.”
Blanchet’s gaze had settled on Marcel beside her—they were in the center of the room, after all—but snapped to her when she spoke. “I speak French,” he said in her native tongue—albeit with a Cockney accent. “I have spent more of my life here than in England.”
She found that infinitely hard to believe, unless he’d spent it with a theater troupe. “Oh?” Hopefully the word sounded curious instead of accusatory.
“Oui. I managed a farm in Normandy for the last twenty years. I only returned to England when the Germans invaded.” His eyes narrowed on something behind her. Or someone, no doubt. It was where many of the giggles were coming from. “Is something funny?”
“Forgive us.” Zelie didn’t cast a reproving look over her shoulder.
She didn’t have to. The giggles stopped at her tone.
“It is only that, since the invasion, our styles have become much more subdued. I’m afraid if you want to blend in, you’ll have to adopt a more .
. . boring mode of dressing, monsieur. And shave. ”
To his credit, he doffed his hat and gave a little bow.
“Apologies. I got in the habit of dressing this way in England as a matter of protest, to make it clear my heart belongs to France. I will of course adjust my appearance to better match everyone else’s.
” His smile seemed genuine. “Now, if I may?” He motioned to the boxes.
“Let me show you what all I’ve brought. I think you’ll be pleased. ”
“Yes, please.” She moved forward, not missing the curious look he sent between her and Marcel.
“Forgive me, madame. I did not catch your name.”
“Zelie Bellerose.” She offered him a hand, kept her chin high. Part of her wished she could use an alias as well, but that was pointless here on her own turf. Everyone called her Zelie, he’d hear it regardless. “I manage operations here at the villa.”
Yes, she sounded like a glorified housekeeper, and that was all right. They shook, and she took another step toward the boxes that Gustave and Emile were working to open.
Blanchet’s gaze went to Marcel again, hand outstretched. “You must be Navarre?”
“Ah. No.” Marcel shook his head. “I’m afraid Navarre is out of town.” He didn’t offer his name, but at the news he shared instead, Blanchet’s brows rose.
“I was told Navarre was in charge and that I should answer directly to him. Is my arrival so unimportant that he couldn’t be bothered to meet me?”
“I’m afraid Navarre left for business abroad long before we had word of your coming.” Zelie indicated the boxes. “But he has set up Alliance to run well in his absence. Would you like to play Father Christmas?”
He held Marcel’s gaze a moment longer and then turned back to Zelie and the boxes. “Of course. The most important item is this first one.” He reached into the box he’d carried in and pulled out a small device. “The new radio transmitter.”
“That? That’s a radio transmitter?” Lucien pushed through the crowd and to their side, holding out his hands for it.
Blanchet didn’t hand it over. He looked to Zelie, doubt and a bit of his own irritation in his gaze.
She tried on the charming smile she’d avoided using with the Germans at the checkpoint. “This is Lucien Vallet, our primary radio operator.”
“Ah.” Though he still looked reluctant, Blanchet handed the device to Lucien. “It is of course much smaller than the first one we sent, as you can see. And a great deal easier to operate.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. So small!” Lucien turned it carefully in his hands and touched its knobs.