Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
Even after hours on the train, Zelie was boiling when she stalked through Marseille, toward the Alliance-owned bistro.
She didn’t see the sun glinting off terra-cotta, turning stucco to gold, and gilding the cobblestones.
She didn’t hear the chatter of innumerable languages to match the rainbow of faces that sauntered by.
Giraud was an unequivocal cretin, and she was not eager to impose on any of her local contacts to house him when—if—he deigned to arrive on time for his meeting with the submarine in what the Allies had dubbed Operation Minerva.
“No British,” he kept insisting, over and over again. “I’ll have nothing to do with them. When I lead the Allies to victory, I will not have a single Englishman in my company, nor will I rely on them for a thing.”
She’d given him her best smile. “I do understand your concerns, General,” she’d lied, “but the British are the only ones with a submarine available to pick you up. Now if we could—”
“No British!” he’d shouted. “An American submarine will be there.”
MI6 had already told her that they had a plan for this, which involved putting exactly one American on board the British HMS Seraph, claiming it was the USS Seraph, and dressing the British crew in American uniforms. Which was ridiculous.
And so flimsy a charade that if Giraud fell for it, they really ought to doubt his ability to lead anyone anywhere.
But they didn’t want her opinion. They only wanted her to get Giraud to the coast, find someone to keep him out of sight for a day or two in a place that wouldn’t offend his sensibilities, and then find other someones to row him out to the Seraph when it surfaced in the middle of the night.
He’d agreed, reluctantly, to come. It seemed he considered a rowboat beneath his dignity, but she’d wrestle him into it herself if she had to, if he actually showed up on 4 November.
“Give that look to the Nazis, mon étoile, and they’ll all run for cover and this war will be over.”
The fact that Marcel’s voice startled her was enough to shake her out of her mood. What sort of spy keeper was she, so oblivious she didn’t even notice the man she loved slipping up beside her? She paused, splayed a hand over her heart. “I didn’t see you.”
“No wonder. You were marching straight into battle, from the looks of it.” He leaned down to kiss her cheeks, sneaking a third after the usual two, onto her lips.
That was enough to remind her to smile. “How go the new duties, chief of staff?” After watching him for weeks, she’d realized how silly it was to be fretting over work she could have him do in the field.
His gift wasn’t just music. His gift was orchestration.
He’d done it beautifully with a maestro’s baton, but he was no less adept when it was agents he was directing instead of musicians.
He always took the time to connect with each person, to learn their strengths and weaknesses.
She could remember their names and call signs, but she didn’t really know many these days.
That was no way to run a network the size of Alliance. But the thought of bridging those gaps, stepping out of her isolation . . . dread had filled her every time.
Marcel, though—he would be perfect at it. So she’d created the role, assigned it to him, and had sat back over the last week and watched with a smile as he did exactly what she’d hoped he would.
Made a family of them again.
He smiled in answer to her question, though she didn’t miss the shadow in his eyes. “Our new liaisons to the Maquis have all been given call signs.”
The youth orchestra’s last performance had been over the weekend, in Lyon. The boys were now subject to deportation at the whim of the Nazis. She hated, in a way, that Marcel would now have to basically go into hiding with her, but unless he accepted a position in an orchestra . . .
But they’d been ready. Vivi had handed out the false identifications, and Gustave had planned to meet the new recruits at their last . . . well, it wasn’t a rehearsal, was it? But rent had already been paid on the building for the month, so they’d gathered one last time today.
She tucked her arm in the crook of his. “I’m sorry it’s over.”
“Me too. It was a fine movement.” He covered her hands with his other one. “But they’re eager to take on their new roles too. To help us better coordinate with the Maquis.”
Gustave had been able to make it less and less often into Marseille—he was too indispensable to his fighters. But they needed to remain aware of the Maquis’ plans and tactics, both to help them be most effective and to keep them out of the path of Allied bombs.
Marcel’s musicians would make perfect go-betweens. “I know they . . .” She broke off when movement caught her eye. Though she wasn’t sure what it was, or why it had grabbed her attention.
Marcel spun too, eyes narrowing. “Is that . . . Blanchet?”
Was it? She sucked in a breath, standing on her toes to see the head bobbing along on the other side of a busy intersection. It looked like him, and that brought relief into her spirit.
She started to lunge after him, but Marcel not only stayed rooted in place, he pulled her back too. “Wait.”
“What?” Finally, a bit of good luck. Why wasn’t he letting her chase it? “He must have escaped. I want to know where he’s been held and how the Nazis have known how to mimic him so perfectly.”
“That’s why we’re waiting.” Marcel’s face looked . . . odd. Troubled. “We’re going to see if he comes to us, and if so, what he volunteers. Without asking him questions first.”
Usually she had no trouble following him, but now she frowned. “Why?”
“Because . . .” He sighed, looked around them, and then nodded toward the bistro. “Not out here. Does he know about the bistro? That it’s ours?”
Her frown dug deeper. “I . . . don’t know. I don’t think so, I’ve had no reason to tell him. He only comes to Provence when he needs to pick up more equipment, and we never do those exchanges here.”
“Good.”
Rather than ask why, she let him lead the way into the restaurant.
The moment they entered, people called out his name, and his face transformed from concerned to friendly.
He greeted everyone, slapped backs, inquired after ailing mothers, and, when asked if he was going to serenade them, said only, “Maybe later.”
Zelie trailed a step behind. Only rarely had she entered through the front or come into its dining room at all. Her business was always upstairs, and her listening had been until recently in the alley.
He even shouted a greeting into the kitchen for the cooks and waiters before leading the way up the stairs.
She was more convinced than ever that she’d been brilliant to name him her chief of staff. But she had no idea what the problem was with Blanchet, so the moment she shut the door of the meeting room upstairs, she faced him and said, “Explain.”
He let out a breath, raked his hand through his curls—which was far too distracting—and sat on the edge of the table.
For a single moment, she flashed back to their first meeting. The hollow look in his eyes. The empty husk she’d thought him as he sat on Grigoryan’s end table.
How far they’d come.
“I’ve been reviewing the files you’ve given me,” he said. “That’s why I was coming to intercept you. The reports on the German chatter, how they’re calling us Noah’s Ark . . .”
“Yes?” She folded her arms around her middle because she had to think that whatever this was, she wasn’t going to like it.
“Blanchet called us that too. In September, the last time he was here. And we could find no trace of him in Normandy. And the radio Lucien gave him has ended up in the hands of the Abwehr. Now,” he went on, lifting both his hands when she opened her mouth to respond, “I know well that none of those things alone points a finger at him. But together?” He shook his head.
“I’m not saying we accuse him. I’m saying we see if he finds us and what he says when he does.
If he’d been taken prisoner, if he escaped, he’ll want to share that story.
But if he acts as if nothing has happened . . .”
Her eyes slid shut. It couldn’t be true, could it?
Blanchet had stopped her, saved her the night Emile betrayed them.
And yet . . . Marcel had a point. It was either betrayal or that he’d been arrested, and his presence here now could indicate the former.
“The implications, Marcel. The increased raids, the arrests, all the chatter about our call signs—if it isn’t just the new detection technology . . .”
Juste ciel. Would MI6 even believe her if she suggested such a thing? This wasn’t Emile, who’d been lured away by love and a coming child and money enough to make a fresh start. This was MI6’s leading expert.
But there was no need to jump to conclusions, even if the sinkhole opening up in her stomach said otherwise. “All right. If he seeks us out, it will be at the hotel. That’s the only place he’s been since we moved.”
“And the airfield.” His brows creased. “Perhaps I’m wrong. If he’s turned on us, why wouldn’t he have tipped the Nazis off about that?”
She scrubbed a hand over her face, wishing she could wind back the clock, undo the months of distance she’d put between them.
There were so many things he didn’t know because she’d shoved him away.
“We have multiple fields, we vary them randomly. The one you went to that night and brought him to—we’d only used it once before, and never since.
Our scouts in the area reported people poking around after the drop that night. ”
His face went hard, and when he said, “You didn’t tell me,” she thought the hardness was because of her. Until he shook his head. “I led a potential traitor right into the heart of Alliance. Again.”