Henri and Marguerite?Here—together? “Where are they?”
“In the library,madame. And given the hour, I have had rooms prepared for them.”
“You’re too good, Beaufort.” She rested a hand on his arm in thanks and hurried toward the library, motioning Marcel to follow when he hesitated. “Come, let me introduce you to Henri and Marguerite.”
The moment they turned into the hallway that housed the library and the sound of the piano reached them, they both laughed.
“‘Chopsticks.’ Haven’t heard that one in ages,” Marcel said.
“What Henri lacks in skill, he makes up for in determination to get his hands on expensive things that he doesn’t know what to do with.” This she said loudly enough, upon entering the library, to have Henri spinning around on the stool with a grin on his face.
“Zee, there you are. Your very lovely friend was kind enough to show me where to find you.”
Her very lovely friend was perusing one of the bookshelves, but she looked their way with a blush. “Since you told me he was one of the few I should bring to you.”
“I’m glad you did. How was your submarine adventure, Henri?”
He’d been studying Marcel, obviously trying to determine who he was and if he could be trusted, but he’d know she wouldn’t ask in front of him otherwise.
And being Henri, he didn’t question her. Just pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it like a flag. “You may call meyour majestyafter this one, because I am the undisputed king of the spies.”
“I think I’ll stick withlucky not to have been caught, but I’m glad for it.” She hurried over to snatch the paper from his fingers, skimming down the page. “Handwriting is atrocious, as always.”
“Part of my clever scheme in case I’m ever intercepted.” Henri turned toward Marcel, hand outstretched. “Henri Boutron, one of Zelie’s lieutenants in Alliance. I’m assuming you’re one of us, but I don’t know your name.”
“Marcel Laurent. Alliance’s new liaison to the arts.”
Henri’s face lit with a smile. “The pianist! Ah, I bet you were duly impressed by my little performance there, weren’t you? No doubt perceiving me now as a threat to your career.”
Marcel laughed. “Lucky for me, I’m going to be too busy with Vichy’s youth orchestra to compete with you here in Paris. If all goes to plan, that is.”
“Excellent. Though the plan is why I’ve come in person instead of hastening to the naval base for more observation.” Henri focused again on Zelie. “Navarre has said you need to get back to Vichy immediately.”
Her pulse leapt. “Why? What’s gone wrong?”
Henri shook his head and nodded toward Marguerite, whostepped forward with a postcard in her hand. It was one of the standard, Nazi-issue ones. Navarre’s familiar handwriting said simply,Come home immediately. – N
She saw no clues on the card. No shaking in his hand, no irregular blots of ink, no hidden words. Well, not unless he’d used invisible ink, but he didn’t usually go in for such “nonsense,” as he called it.
For a spymaster, Navarre wasn’t all that fond of intelligence work. He saw it as a necessity, nothing more.
Her breath whooshed out. “I suppose I’m cutting my trip short, then. He wouldn’t call me back if it weren’t important.” He, after all, had been the one to insist she come to Paris and expand their network here before their next exchange with MI6, while he focused on contacting a few potential assets in North Africa.
“What about me? Should I go early too, or stick with the plan to leave on Friday?” Marcel had drifted a step closer to the piano—it pulled him like a magnet, she knew—but he kept his gaze on her.
She looked from him to Henri, mulling over the options. “Stay. Finish contacting those on your list. You can make the pitch as well as I can at this point.”
Given the look in his eyes, he knew what she didn’t say aloud—she trusted him. Trusted him to finish up here, to make the call on who to invite.
She hoped he knew she didn’t give that trust lightly.
Six
3 MAY 1941
Marcel stepped out of the auto before the proud white facade of the hotel, nodding his thanks to the chauffeur. He’d never ridden in anything so fine before, and he would gladly have opened the door himself... had there been a handle on the inside to allow it. Grigoryan had chuckled at his bemusement.
A warm breeze slipped around him, danced through his hair like ascherzandosection—playful. His gaze raked over the square, filled with women parading about with parasols and white dresses, their laughter floating to him.
