She wasn’t hungry, but she knew better than to complain. She took the empty chair beside Lucien, slid most of her food onto his plate, and then put the paper beside him, face up. “Send this to MI6.”
He glanced down, and she reread it too.
N1 ARRESTED YESTERDAY IN ALGIERS STOP NETWORK INTACT STOP EVERYTHING CONTINUING STOP CONFIDENCE UNSHAKABLE STOP REGARDS STOP POZ 55.
Perhaps theunshakablewas a blatant lie, but it was a necessary one.
Lucien nodded. “You got it, boss.”
He’d left the table long before she’d convinced herself to nibble the last of her toast, but she didn’t dally once she’d finished. She went back to the drawing room, fished her work from behind the bookcase, and got back to it, only pausing to say goodbye to Vivi and Marcel when they left for Marseille.
At nine thirty, Lucien slipped in and handed her MI6’s reply.
WHO IS TAKING OVER? ARE ANY ASSETS STILL IN PLAY IN NA?
She wrote her answer on the same piece of paper—addressing the question of North Africa first.
MUST TAKE STOCK IN WEEKS TO COME STOP I AM TAKING OVER AS PLANNED STOP POZ 55.
Ten
FOUR MONTHS LATER
6 OCTOBER 1941
“All right.” Marcel lowered his baton, eyes scanning the musicians in their seats, arranged in a semicircle before his podium, then darting to the back corner of the room, where Von Eberstein was leaning, observing. He’d been “in the neighborhood” today and dropped by to observe the rehearsal... which started out as unnerving, though Marcel suspected the musicians had eventually forgotten him, much like he had. The seventy young men ranged in age from sixteen to nineteen, and though there were certainly days when Marcel felt as though he was trying to wrangle a crocodile, for the most part they’d done exactly what he’d hoped they would do and had become a unit. A team. A family.
A family who had been apart from theirrealfamilies for months now. Given the three days off they were about to enjoy before reconvening on Thursday evening for their on-air concert, he was surprised they’d been as attentive as they had been today.
He grinned. “Well done, everyone. We’ll need to put some more time in onSymphonie Fantastiquenext week before I deem itready to perform, but don’t worry about it while you’re all enjoying your holiday. Go, have fun. I’ll see you all back here at five o’clock on Thursday. Don’t be late.”
A stampede ensued, one punctuated by laughter and shouts and the alluring call of freedom, if only for a few days. Marcel chuckled as he tidied up his music.
Von Eberstein followed him to his office, a pleasant smile affixed to his lips. “You’re doing wonderful work with them, Laurent.”
“They’re a good group. Though today was not exactly their best, given the little holiday.” Marcel grinned. He’d only met with Von Eberstein twice independently thus far, but the fellow had struck him as... relaxed, honestly. Understanding. And ready to be impressed, both by Marcel and his orchestra.
Now, for instance, he slumped into the chair opposite Marcel’s desk with a chuckle and hooked an ankle over his knee. His hat with its intimidating emblem he slung over his foot, leaving his hair, middling brown shot through with silver, bare. “I’d saylads will be lads, but we never really outgrow it, do we? I get a bit impatient before a scheduled holiday myself.”
The instinct to ask questions rose, though Marcel wrestled with it for a moment. He shouldn’twantto get to know this man, should he? Those black bits of his uniform testified that he was someone to be feared.
And yet... did it ever hurt to make a friend? Marcel slid today’s music into the stack he meant to take home with him. “Has it been long since you’ve been home? Have you a family waiting for you? Aside from your cousin, I mean.”
“A wife and three children, aged twelve down to seven. All girls.” Von Eberstein’s smile went soft, yearning. “I miss them terribly, but it’s likely to be a while before I get home for leave. And what of you? You’re not married, are you? I’d have thought it would have been mentioned in the meeting in Vichy.”
Marcel shook his head. “No. But my family is here in Marseille, and I enjoy spending time with them. My mother, especially, is glad to have me home so she can prod me into coming to a family dinner at least once a week.”
“I imagine. And do you have any concerts scheduled for yourself? I confess I’d love to hear you perform again. Your orchestra is quite good, and I’m glad I’ve caught two performances thus far, but I have been eager for another glimpse ofyouat the piano,monsieur.”
“Call me Marcel.” Part of him winced even as he said it. But it was habit, among anyone remotely close to his age. He’d put Von Eberstein as much as a decade his senior, but even so.
And he couldn’t regret the invitation when the man grinned as if he’d been given a prize. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to call me Lothar. There are few in France who do, given that most of my acquaintances here are other military men. But I do enjoy a reminder of the life I cherishoutsidethe army.”
“That I well understand. And to answer your question, no. No current plans for a solo concert, given the brutal schedule of the orchestra, I’m afraid.”
“Ah. Well.” Lothar’s face relaxed, disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps next time I’m in Marseille, I’ll at least badger you into a private performance.” He winked, snatching his hat off his foot and then standing in one movement.
Were it anyone else, Marcel would have invited him to one of the restaurants he met Zelie at on Wednesday evenings—they always chose one with a piano and he always played a few pieces. Often ones that would lure her into singing.
