“Amazing.” A simple thing, as technology went—no transmitters or mechanics required. But he was right that it would be of more use to everyone daily. What she wouldn’t have given for some of this a month ago, when she had to sneak that questionnaire across the demarcation line for Henri.
“Then comes the usual supplies. Tea, chocolate.”
“I’ll take that.” Emile nudged his brother aside and held out his arms for the food.
Blanchet gave him a smile. “Are you sure? I have money here too.”
“Money doesn’t do us all that much good in the bush. Chocolate, though—that currency will spend.”
Blanchet laughed and loaded Emile up.
Twenty minutes later, all the supplies had been unloaded, exclaimed over, and put away. Zelie ended up with the envelope of francs. It would be crass to look while Blanchet was standing right there, but it didn’t feel like all that much. They’d promised her a million francs would be coming her way soon, money she could use for more business investments as well as funding all the travel of her agents, feeding them, bribing officials when necessary...
Clearly it hadn’t come today.
Maybe she shouldn’t have invested so much of what they’d sent before in the produce warehouse. She didn’t regret it—Rivière and his wife had been installed, and initial reports were encouraging. It was a fine drop location for information, they were picking up plenty of intelligence just by keeping their ears open, and the business itself was turning a profit already.
Even so, she felt the squeeze every time she reviewed the ledgers. So many people relied on them—on her.
Blanchet stole her attention again when he tried to cover a yawn. She slid the not-very-fat envelope of cash into her pocket and refreshed her smile. “You have no doubt had a long day,monsieur. We have a room prepared for you, if you’re ready to retire for the night.”
He nodded. “Thank you,madame. I’ll be ready to hit the ground running tomorrow.”
“I’ll show him up,” Vivi said, rising from the chair she’d taken. Blanchet fell in beside her with abon nuitto everyone, and they soon vanished from sight.
The room emptied quickly, others calling out good night as well, and some a goodbye, if they planned to leave at first light.
Zelie felt a little bad for making Vivi and Marcel join her tonight, given how easily that had gone. Though it had been nice, having them here.
She turned to find only Marcel, Gustave, and Lucien still in the room—Marcel back at his scoresheets, Gustave dividing the chocolate bars into three piles, and Lucien examining the radio transmitter.
“You expecting anyone else, boss?”
Spinning toward Emile’s voice, she frowned. “No.” But she caught what he must have heard a moment before, from the entryway—engine noises.
Panic flared, caught, burned. She pivoted back to the room. “Hide everything! Quickly!” They’d never been raided by the police in either of their locations, but it was only a matter of time. They had a plan in place and deliberately kept things mobile.
Lucien leapt up, transmitter under his arm, and scooped another armful of things up with the other. No doubt he’d not only stash the new equipment, but also the map he’d begun showing the location of every radio operator in Alliance with their designated frequencies and signs—something they couldn’t let fall into enemy hands, no matter what. Gustave shoved his neat piles into a box, stacked it atop another box, and jogged out of the room.
Marcel glanced at his papers. “I’m assuming these are fine to leave out. Nothing incriminating here. Do you need me to do anything else?”
She scanned the room. “Not in here. But if you could—”
“Wait.” Emile came back in from outside, brows knit into a frown. “It’s Navarre’s Peugeot. Could he be back?”
Could he? It wasn’t likely, but... well, it was possible, if he’d arrived in Algiers, realized the plan wasn’t going to work, and comestraight home again. “I’d have thought he’d send word first, but who knows?”
She and Marcel both moved toward Emile in the foyer, and then to the door. The moon shone down brightly tonight, and that, combined with the lamps, verified that it was indeed her boss’s familiar Peugeot.
It was not, however, Navarre that emerged once the car halted. It was his wife. And as she ran toward the house with its open doors, the lights caught her face, revealing tears coursing down her cheeks.
Zelie’s stomach plummeted. She didn’t remember telling her feet to move, but somehow she was at the bottom of the stairs, arms open for Josette Loustaunau-Lacau. She never would have considered the woman a friend before—Josette was fifteen years older than Zelie, perfectly content to be the proper officer’s wife.
But in that moment, she felt like a sister, a mother, a best friend. That they were the only two women in the world who could understand the grief of the news Zelie knew Josette would share the moment she found breath enough.
She found only sobs.
Zelie held her close. “Jean? Was he arrested?”
