Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
Paper crinkled in the pocket of her skirt—the note Marcel had left her on the table above the bistro.
The one addressed to his shooting star, with the Morse code for Je t’aime and the stamp of the green bird for his signature.
She’d taken to transferring it to each new skirt pocket, to keep it close.
She didn’t pull it out. Just pressed her hand against it and let the rhythm of the dots and dashes fill her mind. Let her gaze rest on his downturned head.
Daviau slid up beside her. “Had a call from a friend of mine in Vichy,” he said quietly. “They are telling us all to prepare for Nazi forces to flood over the demarcation line. Their sources report the Germans have been gearing up.”
Idly, she wondered if “their sources” were in fact her people—it wouldn’t surprise her. But the greater point was of course what she focused on. “What does that mean for us?”
“Were I to guess? It means every police station will be at least overseen by Gestapo, as they’ve been in the occupied zone, if not outright taken over. It means when they get here, the three of you need to be gone.”
She set the glass of water down before she dropped it. “When?”
“To be safe, I’d say tomorrow. At the latest. Can you be done by then?”
Looking at the map, she saw all the blanks still remaining. But Marcel’s advice about her playing on that first morning together could be adapted to fit—she needed to focus not on what remained, but on all they’d already done. Well more than the majority.
She nodded. “We’ll need to work all night. But we’ll be finished.”
And they did it. They had sore necks, aching backs, and cramped fingers for their efforts, and Zelie could scarcely walk for the pain in her hip, but they did it.
When Daviau came in the next morning, they had the two maps out side by side and asked him to tell them which was the original, which the fake. He looked from one to the other, his smile growing. “They even both have matching stains from water and coffee.”
Zelie shot Henri a look at that one.
He grinned. “Apologies for the original. But not for the replication.”
She grinned back.
“Remarkable. Truly,” Daviau said. “I cannot tell the difference, and surely Mueller won’t be able to either, after having only glimpsed it. Wonderful work. It’ll ensure the information stays safe with your people.”
“Better still,” Marcel said, “it will put false information into Nazi hands.” He folded up the fake along the seams they’d worked into it to match the original and handed it to their new friend. “We owe you.”
Daviau took it, met his gaze, then Zelie’s. “We want to join you. We don’t dare to come back here after we help you escape—they’d execute us for it. Can you find places for us, do you think? Either in your network or some other?”
More people with experience and friends in the police force would be a boon. But she glanced to Marcel. He was the chief of staff, after all.
He was smiling. “We would be honored to welcome you.”
One of the other officers—one of their new recruits, it seemed—hurried in from outside. “They’re coming. My brother-in-law phoned to say the Nazi forces have arrived in their town.” He glanced to Zelie and Marcel. “They live just north of here.”
“No time to waste then.” Daviau put the fake map into the filing cupboard and motioned them toward the back door. “Take the original with us?”
“No.” They would be an immediate target. This had to be kept safe, apart from them. “Can someone get this to Marseille?”
The officer at the door glanced behind him. “My wife can do it. We live two doors down.”
Zelie folded up the original map and handed it to him, giving him instructions on finding their bistro. “Tell her to give it to the owner. He’ll know what to do.”
“All right.” He took off out the front door.
Zelie prayed for him and his wife even as Daviau herded them out the back and into a waiting lorry. Marcel’s hand covered hers as they sat together, and he gave it a squeeze.
At last, the engine roared to life, and they were trundling down the street, out of the town, onto the road. For ten glorious minutes, all went swimmingly.
Then the engine geared down and Daviau called into the back, “Trouble! There’s a roadblock up ahead. I’m going to pull over into the trees—we need to make a break for it, they’re checking papers.”
Papers they didn’t have, neither real nor fake.
Marcel’s lips moved swiftly, his hand sketching a cross from head to heart, shoulder to shoulder. She mirrored it—and jumped out the moment the door was flung open.
More Nazi jeeps rolled up behind them.
Marcel, jumping out behind her, shouted something, but it took her a long moment to process it.
“Run!” He shouted it again and again, tugging her into motion.
She pivoted, coiled, released. Prepared to keep pace with him as he took off.
Her hip gave out. She stumbled to the ground. More voices rose, bullets singed the air, and her head slammed down. She could hear nothing but thunder. See nothing but Marcel’s green eyes, wide with horror, as he spun away from freedom . . . and tried to get back to her.