Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
It wasn’t that Marcel had thought Zelie had been lying about General Giraud.
But perhaps, in the back of his mind, he’d assumed she was exaggerating.
That she was fed up enough with full-of-themselves military brass that she’d begun to paint them all with the same brush.
Perhaps he couldn’t quite shake the memory of Grigoryan telling him of the general’s escape from prison, and how the good news had been the start of a good meeting.
That was before Marcel had spent a few hours in Zelie’s car with him as he drove him from Vichy to Le Lavandou.
First had come the delays in departure. Then the sniffs over the aged Citroen.
Then the huffs at each bump they hit, as if the roads should have known better than to be so disagreeable when someone of such esteem was traveling over them.
And now? Now the general had the gall to step out into the rain in front of the beautiful—if tending toward shabby—Brouillet villa and curl his lip.
“Is this really the best you could do?”
Marcel barely kept from slamming the door—the general’s door, he’d sat there clearly waiting for his chauffeur to open it for him.
Diplomacy, he reminded himself, adjusting the wide umbrella to better cover the general.
Think of him as a patron of the arts you need to win over.
He’d certainly had to do that plenty of times—it was in fact how he’d met Grigoryan.
What he wouldn’t give to be with his Armenian friend right now instead of this pompous officer.
But he cleared his throat and smiled. “The Brouillets have long been one of Provence’s leading families, General.
Given the war, the current matriarch has been left without her usual staff to see to things, but she is most eager to be of assistance to someone as esteemed as yourself. ”
Giraud stroked a hand over the two drooping sides of his heavy mustache. “Very well.”
Marcel led the way through the storm and into the villa.
They were already several hours later than they should have been, thanks to the general changing his mind three times.
And given that Marcel knew Madame Brouillet had prepared a veritable feast, pulling together rations out of thin air to do it—or more likely, spending a fortune in the black market—he was keenly aware of the insult they’d already delivered her, even before the introductions.
He could only pray the general wouldn’t insult the kind woman to her face.
As soon as he’d closed the door behind them and deposited the dripping umbrella in a stand, Madame Brouillet and Zelie appeared, relief on both their faces. “We feared you’d been delayed because of the weather,” their hostess said.
“Or worse,” Zelie added. Looking at her smile, her outstretched hands, no one would ever think she was anything but a beautiful socialite, eager to welcome a famous guest to a party.
But Marcel saw the irritation sparking in her blue eyes as the general took her hands and bowed over them.
“How lovely to see you again, General. Allow me to introduce our hostess, Madame Brouillet.”
The lady stepped forward, her smile a good deal more genuine than Zelie’s. As she gushed over him—which at least meant the general responded with charm—Marcel slid to Zelie’s side. “I had to talk him into coming three different times.”
“I warned you.” But she touched a hand to his arm, and the hours of frustration faded away. And aimed a smile up at him that would have had him doing it all again. “Thank you, mon amour.”
And if she kept calling him her love, he’d have to find a way to lasso one of those shooting stars for her, so he could present it on a silver platter.
He settled for smiling back, his gaze flicking down to her lips. One of these days, he’d be able to kiss her hello like he wanted to do every time he saw her. Today, only the glance. But she obviously read his mind, given the new angle of her smile, the gleam in her eyes, the color in her cheeks.
Two more seconds to themselves, then the general’s comment about the weather sobered them both. “Is the plan still progressing tonight?” he asked quietly.
Zelie blew out a breath. “We won’t know until they come or don’t. Too risky to send more messages—I’m still anxious over the long hours we’ve had to put in on the radio this week.”
There’d been little help for it. They’d had to coordinate every detail with MI6, who was in turn coordinating with the Americans, down to how to sneak the general out of his home without the guards stationed there noticing.
“How is the relocation going?” The plan, he knew, was for Marguerite to begin the exodus today. They’d leave, for now, everything pertaining to Operation Minerva, but all else Zelie wanted out of the hotel by the time the submarine was gone.
“Underway.” Perhaps she’d have said more, but Giraud turned back to them, gaze settling on Zelie.
“Madame, I have one more request.”
Marcel felt her go stiff beside him. “Yes?”
“I cannot lead this operation with untrusted men beneath me. I need these officers”—he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out—“brought to Algeria as well, as soon as possible.”
Zelie blinked, swallowed, and was clearly working to muster a smile. “I will transmit the request, General. But in the meantime, let’s focus on this part of the plan, shall we?”
Giraud glowered. “You will transmit it now. I will not board tonight’s submarine until I am assured that my trusted officers will soon be with me.”
“All right.” She slipped the paper into her pocket and turned to Marcel. “I’ll go send that message. Keys?”
He slid her car keys into her outstretched palm. “Good luck,” he muttered.
Madame Brouillet leapt into action, ushering the general into the drawing room as she promised to reheat dinner.
Marcel remained in the villa long enough to eat—he hadn’t had anything since breakfast and it was now nine o’clock at night—which meant he was still there when Zelie returned with a rather baffled assurance that a second submarine would be sent.
“I’ve dispatched some of my people to fetch your men,” she said to the general, who was enjoying his crème br?lée as if he had such luxuries daily still. She turned to Marcel, anxiety stealing across her features. “Could I have a word, please?”
He followed her out of the dining room, past the drawing room, and into a library, whose doors she snicked shut behind them. If not for the tremor in her hands, he would have dared to hope she’d pulled him aside for a kiss. But something was clearly wrong. “What is it?”
He’d never seen her face so pale. “There was a message waiting for me at the hotel, from MI6.”
“About Minerva?”
“No.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, eyes going unfocused. “About Blanchet. They’ve been investigating, thinking to prove our allegations wrong.”
As they’d all hoped they’d do without quite believing it. Marcel drew in a breath. “They proved them right?”
She nodded. “They found evidence that he was working with the Abwehr since the restructure, Marcel. They think he must have gone straight to Paris after that and made contact with the Nazis. He’s been there ever since, they think, except when his Nazi handlers sent him back to Marseille to get more information from us. ”
“Lord, have mercy.” The prayer escaped on a whisper. He crossed himself for good measure. “What is their plan?”
Her laugh was short, high, and near hysteria. “What do you think? Make us deal with it. They sent . . . they sent an execution order.”
“Execution?” Now he understood her shaking hands, pale cheeks, and high laugh. “We’re not executioners. Even the soldiers among us, they . . . this is different. It isn’t a battle. It would be calculated murder.”
“I know.” Tears shone in her eyes. He’d seen them plenty of times before—over friends, over family. Somehow, seeing her shed them over an enemy broke him in two.
He wrapped her in his arms, and she held on as if he were an anchor in this particular storm.
“Léon has cyanide pills they gave him in London,” she said into his shoulder. “They’d meant them for us, to keep on our persons and use in case we were caught.”
Marcel’s throat went dry. “You failed to mention that.”
“Because I had no intention of distributing them. We could . . . we could use that. If we can capture Blanchet—or convince him to come to us, anyway. It would be quiet. Easy.”
His stomach twisted. And if his did, after having seen battle, after nearly a year in a POW camp, how must hers be reacting?
He smoothed a hand over her hair, kissed the top of her head.
“Don’t think about it right now. Focus on Minerva.
Then we’ll find Blanchet and . . . and I’ll do what needs done. ”
“Marcel.” She pulled back enough to look up at him. “Why should it be you?”
Because Blaise’s request echoed through his soul—his first, most important role was to protect her however he could. If either of them was going to be crippled by guilt, it should be him. He prayed his smile looked steadier than it felt. “He’s staff. I’m chief of staff. My jurisdiction.”
She came up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. “We’ll talk more about it later.”
He stole one more kiss—not quite as soft nor as quick—and then took a step away. “I need to get out to the cliffs with Beaver and Bull.”
“Be careful, mon amour.”
“Always.” He sent her a wink. “Try to keep the general from changing his mind again.”
The November rain was unpleasant to say the least, especially after eight long hours of it.
Marcel patrolled his stretch of land along the cliff, using his flashlight to send the pre-arranged signal out over the choppy Mediterranean waters.
He could see the beams of his two men doing the same, but no response from the HMS Seraph ever came.
The sun finally did, bullying its way through the clouds in time for a sunrise that would have been glorious with its pinks and oranges and golds, if he weren’t shivering from cold, exhausted, and starving.
Bull and Beaver both trudged to his location from theirs, their faces as grim as he felt. He flexed his fingers, willing heat into them, and looked from one man to the other. “Rest up today, mes amis. We’ll be at it again tonight.”
Beaver—a local fisherman—shook his head and motioned to his boat, waiting along the shoreline below. “If the chop doesn’t calm down, it’ll be useless anyway. The sub might be able to reach us, but we’ll never get the fellow out to them.”
A reasonable objection, and one Beaver had no doubt been chewing on all night.
But what were they to do? “Then let’s pray it calms, because we’re not going to have a choice.
If the Seraph doesn’t make it tonight, the entire campaign will have to be scrapped.
” Or they’d have to proceed without Giraud, anyway.
But they seemed adamant that they needed him.
Beaver and Bull both nodded, looking resigned.
Marcel went back to their borrowed villa.
Collapsed into a bed. Slept, rose, ate, and thanked the Lord that the rain had stopped, so he could bypass his still-wet rain gear and shrug into a proper winter coat.
He exchanged a few words with Zelie, avoided Giraud, and was back on the cliffs shortly after sundown.
The rain had stopped, yes, but the winds still roared along the coast and beat the water into menacing whitecaps. Marcel stopped beside Beaver, who was once again in his position and staring out at the sea. “What do you think?”
The fisherman sent him a resigned look. “I think we’ll be taking our lives in our hands if we go out in that.”
Marcel clapped a hand to Beaver’s shoulder and pulled out his flashlight. “Keep praying the winds calm. We have to move ahead assuming the submarine will be there tonight. The general isn’t going to wait for a signal from us, they’re just going to bring him out.”
By midnight, the gusts had only increased. He saw the flashlights of Léon and a few others as they led Giraud up the path from the villa, but when Marcel trekked over to Beaver, the fisherman looked grim. Even so, he heaved a sigh and started down the path.
As the general’s party neared, Marcel clambered down to the shore ahead of them. He could hear only the howl of the wind in his ears, but the moon was out—and it glinted on a black hulk in the water seconds before he saw the flash of light he’d been waiting for.
Angel present, those lights spelled out in English. Marcel grinned. “That’s our boat. General, load up.”
Instead of obeying—of course—Giraud squared his shoulders and glared at Marcel. “The woman says my men will arrive tomorrow. I expect them to follow directly or I will hold you personally responsible, monsieur.”
“The woman is always true to her word.” Marcel took a step closer, feeling a bit more like his brother than himself. “Now you keep yours. Get in the boat, General. And go help save our country.”
Giraud’s mustache twitched, but he dug his heels into the sand and turned, stalking to the little rowboat.
Marcel prayed protection over them as he and Bull and Léon pushed the craft out and then retreated to try and watch.
It was difficult to see the little boat through the night and the whitecaps, but he could make out the hatch of the sub opening and a ladder being unfurled, which he assumed meant they’d spotted the general drawing near. Then, finally, he could see Giraud’s tall form climbing up. “Thank you, God.”
He wasn’t the only one who sketched a cross over himself that time.
They all headed back to the villa, spirits high. Marcel’s mind jumped from prayers of thanksgiving to more pleas for success of the coming campaign to dreams of a cup of something hot and then his warm bed.
All of which stilled when they emerged from the trees at the edge of the villa’s grounds and the moon glinted on something.
Someone. Someone familiar, who turned away the moment Marcel spotted him. Blanchet. And he clearly knew he couldn’t pass himself off as a friend anymore, given how fast he ran.