Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
URDOS, FRANCE
ALONG THE SPANISH BORDER
Zelie peeled off her stockings and tossed them onto the pile with her skirt, her blouse, her coat. Cold air blasted down the mountain pass, raising goose bumps all over her body, covered only by her underthings now.
Henri had given up on being a gentleman and averting his eyes yesterday as she played contortionist, trying every possible position to fit herself into the jute mailbag that was only two feet by four.
Zelie had finally found the most likely position, but even her lightweight blouse increased her size too much. The fabric kept catching in the zipper.
She eyed the bag, chest heaving. It was the only way.
Her name and photograph had been sent to policemen and Wehrmacht officers all over France—she needed to get out of the country, fast. But all her papers, real or forged, had been confiscated.
The courier they’d found yesterday verified her worst fears—nearly everyone at the villa had been arrested along with her mother.
Maman had friends in high places after her years as a diplomat’s wife. She’d find a way to leverage them. Zelie’s mind still screamed with the need to get to Cannes and make sure Blaise and Elise were safe, but she couldn’t. If she tried it, she’d lead the Nazis right to her children.
She had to trust that their friends wouldn’t abandon them. So here she was, staring at a mailbag that was going to be her very uncomfortable home for the next two hours, while the Citroen was loaded onto the train that would go from Urdos into Spain.
They would search the car, he’d said. But not the mailbags. They weren’t allowed to search the mailbags, not once he affixed the Vichy seal to them.
“If there were a better way, Zelie . . .” Henri’s voice was an apology.
“I know.” She shook it off and climbed into the back seat of the car, where the bag waited for her. She crouched inside it, tucking her head and torso over her knees.
Henri worked the zipper up and over her, bit by careful bit. It scraped, and the closed zipper dug in.
“I’ll cut the air holes now.” The worry in his voice was not encouraging. “Be still.”
She didn’t even twitch her nose when he felt for it, then slit a hole directly under it. Another in front of her lips. Cold mountain air slid in.
“How’s that?”
“Good.” An exaggeration, at best, but there was air, if she kept her breaths shallow enough. Her chin dug into her chest. She’d rather hoped she’d misremembered the discomfort of the position, exaggerated it, but . . .
“Here’s the seal.” Something pressed against her back. “All right. Let me arrange the other mailbags around you.” Rustling, heaving, and the seat bounced as the other heavy bags took their places, leaning against her and disguising any odd bumps. “Two hours, Zee. That’s all. Then you’ll be free.”
She tried to nod before remembering she couldn’t, and that he wouldn’t have been able to see her even if she had. “All right.”
A little physical pain, that was all. She wasn’t in a jail cell, like her mother and so many of her friends.
Marcel’s face flashed into her mind, through the darkness. The courier who’d found them had said he hadn’t been captured with the others. Neither had Vivi or Gustave or any of the agents not at the villa.
Did that mean Emile hadn’t given them all up? Or that they’d been rounded up separately, later?
She prayed the traitor had spared his kin. Left a few of them free.
Henri opened the boot, some thumping ensued, and then it closed again. A moment later, she heard him get into the driver’s seat and turn the engine. “Are you doing all right?”
“Yes.” Her hip twinged—not uncommon. The surgery she’d had as a child had helped with the displacement, but it was always the first thing to protest too many hours in an uncomfortable position. But she was used to it. She could manage.
By the time the car rolled up an incline and then slowed to a halt as the sounds of a rail station filtered through the jute, the twinge was an outright ache, and her neck objected heartily too. She hadn’t practiced holding the position yesterday, only fitting into the bag.
What if the inspectors could tell at a glance that hers was no ordinary mailbag and searched it, even though it was illegal? She’d tumble out in her underwear and end up in prison anyway.
Thank God, Emile hadn’t named Henri. If he’d been on the list, they’d have no escape.
She knew from Henri’s explanation what happened here.
He’d driven up to a siding, and a crane would maneuver the automobile onto the flatbed of a railcar.
In her mind, a million things could go wrong with that, and she’d end up suffocating in an upside-down Citroen as it rolled down the mountain, but she quashed the fears.
Optimism. She needed optimism. And luck.
Faith, a voice said in her head, sounding an awful lot like Marcel. This requires more than luck. This requires faith.
“Bonjour.” The greeting barely reached her ears, the voice unfamiliar.
“Bonjour.” That one was Henri. His door opened, the seat squealed, then it closed again. “Heading into Spain again, Monsieur Poirot. Here are my papers, as always.”
“Ah,” Poirot said, “bad luck. This train is an hour early and will be pulling out in five minutes. We don’t have time to load your car. You’ll have to wait for the next one.”
Suddenly the air coming through the slits didn’t seem rich enough.
She could imagine Henri’s scowl. “How long until the next one?”
“Eight hours.”
Eight! Zelie squeezed her eyes shut. No, no, no, no, no.
“That’s far too long to wait.” Could the attendant hear the panic in his voice as clearly as she did? No doubt he’d be thinking she’d suffocate if they waited that long. “Never mind. I’ll drive through the pass.”
Poirot scoffed a laugh. “Are you out of your mind, Boutron? You’ll never make it in this snow.”
“I’m used to driving in snow and ice. I’ll be fine.” A moment later, the door sounded again, and then the car was reversing.
Breathe, Zelie told herself. A careful, slow breath in. A careful, slow breath out. Driving would be treacherous, but it was better than waiting eight hours.
They drove for only a minute, however, before the car slowed again, and Henri’s muttered curse filtered to her ears. “Customs agent,” he said. She heard him roll down the window. “Yes, bonjour. Official Vichy post. I have my papers.”
“I don’t care what you have, monsieur. The pass is closed.”
“Nonsense, I—”
“Monsieur, there are several feet of snow in the pass. The road is closed. The only way into Spain until spring is by rail. Now turn around.”
“But—”
“It is not a request. Turn. Around.”
Zelie pressed her lips together. They couldn’t leave—it would look suspicious. They would have to wait.
Her feet tingled. From the position or the cold? Her goose bumps surely had goose bumps at this point—the bag was not exactly a fine winter coat or blanket—but she clenched every muscle in turn to keep from shivering. A shivering mailbag wouldn’t do at all.
“I’m so sorry,” Henri said as they drove up the siding again. “I don’t know what else to do.”
She didn’t dare respond. Poirot was calling out instructions. Henri had warned her that the process of loading the car onto the flatbed took an hour.
It felt like more than that, and the discomfort had flared into pain by the time the car was in place and voices neared again. The men were strapping it down.
Then . . . nothing. The flatcar would have to wait for the next train. She occasionally heard Henri’s voice, or others, but nothing that meant anything.
At a certain point, she didn’t just feel pain—she became pain. Every muscle, every joint. Her entire body screamed, everything but her mouth. A few tears trickled down her cheeks, but she blinked them back, tamped down the pain.
She couldn’t afford to cry. Tears meant a stuffy nose, and that would interfere with breathing. She had to hold herself together. For Blaise and Elise. For Maman. For every member of Alliance who was depending on her. For Henri.
For Marcel, who didn’t know where she was or if she was free. If she died in this wretched mailbag, how long would it be before he found out? Would he mourn her?
She knew he would. She could still see the look in his eyes at the bistro the other night. Feel his fingers around hers, the breath that feathered over her face as he spoke, so close. She could hear Maman’s words. He’s in love with you, you know.
It didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. He deserved better than her, better than a woman who’d already been deemed unworthy.
And if she survived this, if she ever got back to Marseille .
. . she’d put distance between them. Let someone else meet him for his updates.
It was cruel of her to keep him close just because she needed the friend.
She needed to focus on what was necessary, on rebuilding Alliance, on finding the people MI6 needed so desperately in North Africa, and put aside the way he drew her to old dreams, dreams filled with music and art and a different sort of life.
That wasn’t the life she’d chosen. Not before, when she’d given up conservatory for Jacques. Not now, when she’d taken over for Navarre. Perhaps that was their why—to reclaim the world in which arts and culture could thrive—but it wasn’t the how.
She needed to be a soldier, not an artist. And Marcel . . . he was a distraction. One she needed to cut free.
Lovely. Now her heart hurt as much as her body.
She drifted in and out of . . . sleep? consciousness? . . . for what felt like an eternity. And then, finally, she heard, “Go ahead to a compartment, monsieur. You’ll be warmer.”
Warmer. That was a nice thought. She felt as though she’d been carved from ice.
“Oh no, that’s quite all right. I’ll stay with the car for the duration. It isn’t a long trip, once we get underway.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, monsieur. It is far too dangerous for a passenger to be on the flatbed. The tunnel has such sharp curves, and at the speeds we must go, there is always the risk that the ropes mooring your auto will snap. You’d be hurled against the tunnel wall—it’s happened before.”
A prayer from her school days filled her mind, the words translating from Latin to French as she went.
Hear us, O holy Lord, Almighty Father, eternal God: and deign to send your holy angel from heaven, to guard, cherish, protect, visit, and defend all who dwell in this house. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Well, not a house, but she didn’t know the Latin word for “automobile on a train car that could well try to splatter itself against a tunnel wall.” House would have to do.
She heard Henri leave, knowing he had no choice.
But the exchange meant they’d be moving soon. She clung to that. And as she heard brakes releasing, engines chuffing, and finally felt the world move under her, another tear trickled out. Part relief. Part fear. Part prayer.
Without sight, she had only her ears to tell her when they entered the tunnel. How many sharp curves were there? When they barreled around the first one, the bags shifted against her, and a whimper slipped out.
At least there was no one to hear her.
Then another, the other direction, and she feared she was about to slide off the seat. Hear us, O holy Lord, Almighty Father . . . The words clattered over and over through her head like the wheels across the tracks.
She was going to die here. In a mailbag, in the back of her own auto, somewhere in the Pyrenees. What did they do with the cars that flew off, into the tunnel wall? Did someone come and drag them out, or would Henri have to hike through the tunnel to try to find her body?
Her children would think she’d abandoned them. Marcel would mourn her. Alliance would crumble—no one else had all the pieces, to put it together again.
Faith. Again, the word echoed through her mind in Marcel’s voice. What would he say, if he was here?
That while she was important, she was not God. While she ought to do what he called her to do, she should never be so arrogant as to think he couldn’t achieve his will without her.
That if she wanted to be a part of his plan, she had to cry to him, not only when all hope seemed lost, but always.
Was the whole world rocking? Was she falling? Dizziness swamped her, and she couldn’t get enough air. What would happen to her when she died? Hell? Purgatory? Heaven?
Maybe this was purgatory. It seemed as horrifying as Dante’s version, anyway. Endless pain, endless labor until she’d finally worked off her sin.
No. Now it was Sister Ursule’s voice. You are not working off your sin. You are working through it. Working it out of your soul. You have to let go of the sin, ma petite, for the Father to take it from you.
She’d never much liked Dante, and she hadn’t liked her teacher’s answer to her objection to it, either.
A sudden noise jerked her back to awareness. The car door. Opening, then closing. And then Henri’s voice, there and straining to sound good-humored. “I’m back. If the car falls off, at least we’ll be together.”
She managed a muffled sound to assure him she was alive.
He chatted, but she had no idea what he was saying. The world was rocking again, swinging. She was a child like Elise, on that swing in the yard, soaring up to heaven, back down. Up, down. Up, down.
“We’re almost there. Stick it out for a few more minutes, Zelie. Courage!”
Faith. Marcel again, smiling at her with those emerald eyes. You need faith.
Clangs, clatters, more swinging—side to side instead of up and down. Beams of light. Heaven? Hell’s flames? No—flashlights. Flashlights, sweeping over her bag.
“These are diplomatic bags,” Henri said. “Top secret information—for the marshal, you know. I need to get to Madrid as quickly as possible, I have time-sensitive correspondence in here. Move it along, if you can.”
Another eternity, and then came the cries of, “Adios. Vaya usted con Dios.”
The words probably had some idiomatic meaning, but her mind would parse only the literal: Go with God.
Was he here with her, in this cramped bag, feeling her pain? Was he in this car, running from the Nazis too? Was he with her mother in jail?
Cold air swirled around her, jute was ripped away. She blinked her eyes, but everything swam.
“Zelie? Zelie, wake up now. We need to get you out of that position. Can you move?”
She tried, but her arms wouldn’t obey. Her legs . . . did she still have legs? Had she left them in the tunnel?
Henri’s arms came around her, lifted. “Nine hours.” His voice shook. “I thought you’d be dead. Can you stand?”
She tried to nod, but the world wouldn’t stop spinning. And then it went black as midnight.