He could never see Antoine without peppering him with a dozen new questions, gleaned from the reading he’d done since their last visit and the balsa wood models he built from kits. He grinned back. “I think so. Am I allowed to say my uncle is a pilot?”
She considered for a moment, nodded. “I think that would lend credence to our claim. Just don’t mention what he’s doing now. If they ask, say he’s got a desk job somewhere and you don’t know what he does.”
Blaise snickered at the thought. Antoine behind a desk was even more ludicrous than a woman in charge of Alliance.
“And let’s say, if they ask, that our last name is Bridou.” Neither would have any trouble answering to her maiden name. “First names can stay what they are.”
Blaise nodded.
They parked a fair distance from the airfield and then walked toward it as if out for an autumn stroll, nothing more. Still a ways off from the gate, they paused beyond the fence to watch a plane land.
“That’s a Messerschmitt Bf 109,” Blaise said, gripping the ringsof the fence in the same way his sister had gripped the side of the piano, pure admiration in his eyes.
“Well. Let’s see if we can get a closer look, shall we?” Hand on his shoulder, she led him toward the gate and its booth—slowly, letting him watch as the Messerschmitt taxied toward a hangar.
The guard at the gate straightened as they approached. Zelie pulled out the smile Maman called all charm. “Pardon me,” she said slowly. “Do you speak French?” She was passable with German, but she’d rather not show that card.
“A little,” the guard said. He looked to be a few years younger than her, perhaps twenty-five, but from the appreciative gaze he gave her, he didn’t mind her extra years. “Can I help you?”
Zelie sent a fond look to Blaise and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Perhaps. My son is fascinated by aircraft. He loves to watch them take off and land, and I thought... well, it’s his birthday tomorrow, you see. I thought it would be a swell gift if he could see an airplane up close.”
Another sweet smile, a bat of her lashes, a demure dip of her chin. She was but a perfect wife and mother, striving to please her son. And Blaise played right along, grinning and craning around for another look at the planes within view from here.
The guard smiled. “Birthday. Boy loves airplanes.” Good, he’d picked up the important details anyway. “One moment.” He lifted a telephone and dialed something, then spoke into it in German. “It’s Klein at the front gate. There’s a beautiful woman here with her little boy who would love a tour for his birthday. Anyone want to take them around? Yes?” He smiled anew and hung up, turned back to them. His words were in clumsy French again. “One moment. Someone comes. Show you around.”
“Really?” Zelie clasped her hands together in delight while Blaise let loose an excited squeal. “Oh, thank you,monsieur. Thank you so much!”
A minute later an officer appeared, and the guard waved themthrough the gate. The officer was all smiles—and to his credit, they were aimed as much at Blaise as at her.
And that,she thought as they followed him into the heart of the base,is how the impenetrable Luftwaffe’s secrets will make their way to the Allies.
She kept her eyes wide and her smile firmly affixed for the entire, hour-long tour.
Twelve
TWO MONTHS LATER
10 DECEMBER 1941
Marcel angled his watch toward the moonlight and picked up his pace. Practice this evening had run over as they tried to perfect Handel’sMessiahand then record it to be run next week. For the first time since they began, there would be no live performance on air tomorrow—everyone agreed they wanted to spend as much time as possible in Paris before their Saturday performance. So someone at Radio Paris headquarters would be playing a pre-recorded program tomorrow while they traveled. They had no more live radio spots until January, actually. He would be playing theMessiahrecording next week and other Christmas songs the week after, giving them new introductions in order to wish their listeners well.
For now, Paris—their first trip as an orchestra to the occupied capital, and it would be the heavy-but-hopeful realization that the US had just entered the war after the devastating attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbor. News even Radio Paris had no choice but to share. Far different from the details his contacts gleaned forhim. His friends in Paris had been sending him information via the post and other musicians he rendezvoused with as he toured, but he was eager to sit down with Gabriel and Anne and the others.
First, though, his meeting with Zelie, for which he was going to be late.
An alley loomed ahead, and he paused, considering it. He usually avoided alleyways after dark as a rule—he wasn’t stupid, nor was he intimidating enough to warn off muggers with his sheer presence—and especially this one, though taking it could shave five minutes off his walk to the restaurant. It led, however, directly past a police station. Probably safer from muggers, yes. But not safe from policemen.
Some of thegendarmeswere loyal to true France, not Pétain’s puppet government nor their new overlords. But plenty of them were happy to obey the dictates of the Nazis, including cracking down on Resistance efforts. So far as he knew no one realized Marcel was one of those resisters, but being too near them still made him itchy.
And achy. Navarre’s execution had taken place as planned on 13November, and it had devastated Marcel that he couldn’t be with Zelie and his cousins that day.
He’d done the only thing he could do. Even though he hadn’t known him personally, he’d dedicated that night’s broadcast to “his friend Jean.” And he’d spent every moment he could spare throughout the day in prayer for everyone he was leaving behind. The legacy he’d built and abandoned.
Zelie’s spirits hadn’t really bounced back since then, though she put on a good show when anyone else was around. On the Wednesday nights when it was just the two of them, however, he could hear her grief in the songs she chose to play or sing, in the way her blinks would last a few seconds too long, in the way her shoulders slumped at odd moments.
Logically, his being a few minutes late wouldn’t really distressher that much. Except that it was unlike him—he was usually early. And in her present state of mind, she was likely to worry.
Decision made, he sent one last look down the larger street, catching a glimpse of the Notre-Dame de la Garde basilica that loomed over the city on its hill, and darted into the alley. He blinked to try to make out any shapes in the darkness that could trip him up.
