Chapter Seven #3
“They’ll have to approve it, but yes. I was thinking Marseille made the most sense but wanted to see what you thought.”
All gazes focused on her. She could see in Emile’s and Gustave’s eyes that they were excited by the idea of their cousin being back in their neighborhood—and in Raoul’s pout that he’d rather advocate for Pau.
Did Marcel know how well it spoke of him, that these three daredevils all respected him so highly? She suspected not.
As for the question . . . “Marseille would make a lot of sense. Given your roots there, no one would question it, and it’s a convenient place for agents to find you, with the port. And our new headquarters are only an hour or so outside the city, so it will be easy to meet for updates.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Gustave raised up onto his knees and pulled a sheet of folded paper from his pocket, passing it to her before sitting again upon the rug. “Businesses for sale that would make convenient covers for Alliance.”
Marcel frowned. “What’s this?”
“We need a few places we can send agents to on legitimate business, where they can pass along intelligence as well.” Zelie unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table beside her teacup. A mechanic’s garage, a vegetable warehouse, a restaurant. The asking prices seemed reasonable.
She had money from the English now—a lot of it. Enough to make a wise investment that could help see them through the rest of this war, however long it lasted. “Thank you, Gustave. I’ll review these more on the train. Do you have an opinion on which would be the best?”
Gustave exchanged a glance with his brother. “The produce warehouse,” they said together.
“We could find someone to run it,” Gustave said.
“The location is perfect.” Emile took a swig of his tea. “It would give us access not only to all the farmers in the region, but to the businesses that buy from us. The warehouse could be used for hiding couriers and agents and even the intelligence itself.”
And having access to farmers would mean access to fields they could use for aerial aid from England. Access to hotels and restaurants meant a finger on the pulse of everyone coming and going in a region, and everything those people talked about while there.
It sounded perfect. “Why are they selling? We need a viable business, one whose success won’t raise any alarms with the Nazis.”
“It’s not that it isn’t profitable.” Emile’s voice went low, gentler. “The owner died last year, and not two weeks after burying him, his wife fell. She needs an operation. Big one. There’s no way she can afford it without selling—and no way she can run it without the surgery.”
Of its own volition, her hand dropped to her left hip.
Her longest stay in France as a child had been when Maman had brought her home to have surgery for the displacement she’d suffered—a condition she’d been born with, and which had caused her frequent pain as her hip came out of joint with little to no provocation.
The surgery had helped, though the joint was still the first thing to ache after too long on her feet. Or sitting. Or lying on it.
At the time, the monetary expense had meant nothing to her.
Now, she knew exactly how much such a thing could cost, because Elise had had to undergo the same thing last year.
She was lucky enough to come from a family with some money to spend on such things.
But for others? It could bankrupt them in the blink of an eye.
Her fingers curled into a fist and settled on her leg.
She couldn’t right all the wrongs in the world, not even with MI6’s francs in hand.
But she could right this one. “Let’s do it.
I have someone in mind to run it—one of Henri Boutron’s old friends,” she said to Marcel.
“Rivière trained him in the merchant marines. I met him last year. His wife is experienced in retail, so she could help run the shop. And he’s already gotten over his shock of having a woman in charge.
” He’d been more than a little surprised when she’d strode into the café with Navarre and Boutron, but she smiled now at the memory.
And at Navarre’s exaggerated reassurance.
She has the memory of an elephant, the cleverness of a fox, the guile of a serpent, the perseverance of a mole, and the fierceness of a panther.
That’s right, Henri had said. She’s a regular Noah’s Ark, all by herself. They’d all had a good laugh, but it had served to do exactly what Navarre had intended—make the men who were used to taking orders only from each other give her a chance.
She stood, stepping over Emile’s crossed legs. “Let me fetch the money. We’ll divide it among us for the trip, so no one is carrying it all.”
Gustave gave her a jaunty salute. “You’ve got it, Patronne.”
She rolled her eyes at the name. She didn’t want to be the boss . . . but it seemed she was, for now, at least. So she’d be the elephant, the fox, the snake, the mole, the panther.
Or failing that . . . a honey badger, at least. Unassuming on the outside—but fierce enough that even the lions knew to steer clear.