Irritation clawed at her as the rest of her team-in-residence slipped into the room. Why did they think they could send a stranger in to set up a new sector? Alliance worked because it was founded on trust.
And... she needed to trustthemtoo. Dragging in a long breath, she nodded and reviewed the English she’d been brushing up on since their first contact with MI6 after letting it go rusty since school.
The lorry’s engine rumbled into her awareness, then cut into silence. Its heavy doors creaked open and then slammed shut, the sounds coming in through the window open to the warm spring night. Feet crunching over gravel, things sliding out of the lorry’s bed. She had to curl her fingers into her palm to keep from shouting for them to hurry.
At last, Emile led a procession of men into the room, all carrying nondescript boxes and crates. Only once they’d all set their burdens down and turned did she get her first glimpse of the stranger.
Sniggers sounded from the two-dozen people who had crowded into the room, outright laughter from a few. Zelie didn’t know whether to join them or apologize on their behalf.
There was only one unfamiliar face, and he looked like a parody of a Frenchman. A caricature. He wore a bowler that didn’t quite fit him, pince-nez eyeglasses, and a well-trimmed but horribly outdated goatee. All of which could have been excused if it weren’t for theclothes. A short jacket and waistcoat, a shirt with a deep cutaway that revealed a cravat tied around his throat, and striped trousers.
Was this a joke? Had they sent a Hollywood actor instead of a British agent? Or did the English really understand the French so little? If so, this was going to be a disaster.
Zelie cleared her throat and stepped forward with a smile. “Hello,” she said in English, though she could hear her own accent in the vowels. “Welcome to Marseille, Mr. Blanchet.”
Blanchet’s gaze had settled on Marcel beside her—they were in the center of the room, after all—but snapped to her when she spoke. “I speak French,” he said in her native tongue—albeit with a Cockney accent. “I have spent more of my life here than in England.”
She found that infinitely hard to believe, unless he’d spent it with a theater troupe. “Oh?” Hopefully the word sounded curious instead of accusatory.
“Oui. I managed a farm in Normandy for the last twenty years. I only returned to England when the Germans invaded.” His eyes narrowed on something behind her. Or someone, no doubt. It was where many of the giggles were coming from. “Is something funny?”
“Forgive us.” Zelie didn’t cast a reproving look over her shoulder. She didn’t have to. The giggles stopped at her tone. “It is only that, since the invasion, our styles have become much more subdued. I’m afraid if you want to blend in, you’ll have to adopt a more... boring mode of dressing,monsieur. And shave.”
To his credit, he doffed his hat and gave a little bow. “Apologies. I got in the habit of dressing this way in England as a matter of protest, to make it clear my heart belongs to France. I will of course adjust my appearance to better match everyone else’s.” His smile seemed genuine. “Now, if I may?” He motioned to the boxes. “Let me show you what all I’ve brought. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Yes, please.” She moved forward, not missing the curious look he sent between her and Marcel.
“Forgive me,madame. I did not catch your name.”
“Zelie Bellerose.” She offered him a hand, kept her chin high. Part of her wished she could use an alias as well, but that was pointless here on her own turf. Everyone called her Zelie, he’d hear it regardless. “I manage operations here at the villa.”
Yes, she sounded like a glorified housekeeper, and that was all right. They shook, and she took another step toward the boxes that Gustave and Emile were working to open.
Blanchet’s gaze went to Marcel again, hand outstretched. “You must be Navarre?”
“Ah. No.” Marcel shook his head. “I’m afraid Navarre is out of town.” He didn’t offer his name, but at the news he shared instead, Blanchet’s brows rose.
“I was told Navarre was in charge and that I should answer directly to him. Is my arrival so unimportant that he couldn’t be bothered to meet me?”
“I’m afraid Navarre left for business abroad long before we had word of your coming.” Zelie indicated the boxes. “But he has set up Alliance to run well in his absence. Would you like to play Father Christmas?”
He held Marcel’s gaze a moment longer and then turned back to Zelie and the boxes. “Of course. The most important item is this first one.” He reached into the box he’d carried in and pulled out a small device. “The new radio transmitter.”
“That? That’s a radio transmitter?” Lucien pushed through the crowd and to their side, holding out his hands for it.
Blanchet didn’t hand it over. He looked to Zelie, doubt and a bit of his own irritation in his gaze.
She tried on the charming smile she’d avoided using with the Germans at the checkpoint. “This is Lucien Vallet, our primary radio operator.”
“Ah.” Though he still looked reluctant, Blanchet handed the device to Lucien. “It is of course much smaller than the first one we sent, as you can see. And a great deal easier to operate.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. So small!” Lucien turned it carefully in his hands and touched its knobs.
Zelie was a bit surprised when Blanchet left it in Lucien’s care and turned back to the boxes. “This next item will be of use to more of you on the daily, I should think. New paper.” He pulled out a box within the box, pulled off the lid, and held it out to Zelie.
She reached inside, mouth falling open the moment her fingers touched the white surface. It felt nothing like paper. It was silky and, she saw when she pulled a piece out, thinner than any paper she’d ever encountered.
“No rustling,” Blanchet said. “No bulk. Flexible as fabric, which means it’s easy to hide, but it takes ink like paper.”
