It was clear of everything but a foul-smelling rubbish bin, allowing him to hurry toward the end of the alley that let out near the police station.
Voices whispered, low and urgent, and his feet slowed. He was suddenly glad he still had a pair of his old shoes with their quiet soles—when these wore out, he would have to resort to wooden soles, and there was no sneaking around on those.
His brows furrowed as he edged nearer. The first voice he didn’t recognize, but the second... that was Emile.
His shoulders relaxed as he placed the other voice. Marie’s father was one of thegendarmes. Marcel had met him two or three times now. Not enough that he’d have known his voice without context, but this was no doubt a conversation about family, nothing he needed to worry about interrupting.
Before he could step out of the shadows and announce himself, however, the policeman’s voice came again. “You are certain this is a complete list of the dissidents?”
Marcel halted, setting a hand against the cool bricks of the building.
“Yes. All of them.” Emile spoke quietly, confidently. “And if you hit them tonight, before they can dispense the money, it will destroy them completely.”
Not our dissidents,that was the defense that seized Marcel’s mind. But there had been another drop scheduled for early this week. A drop that was supposed to have a sizable amount of money in it from MI6.
“I still cannot believe England would send three million francs to undermine our rightful authority.” The older voice grumbled an expletive. “And more radios, you say?”
Marcel’s throat froze. According to Zelie’s information as of last Wednesday, MI6 should have been sendingfourmillion francs... but it wouldn’t have been the first time the reality was less than the promise. And radios they sent in every drop. Zelie had dispatched the new, small transmitters to nearly every sector at this point, including the one hidden in his studio now, which he was to take with him to Paris and give to Gabriel.
But it must be something else. Emile was one of the leaders of the Maquis, one of Alliance’s key lieutenants. There was no way he would turn on them.
So why did his cousin say, “Enough to guarantee every chief in Alliance has one”? While Marcel tried to convince himself this was all some clever ruse on Emile’s part, his cousin said, “And the MI6 agent is in town too. I saw him myself last night. But he’ll be gone again by morning.”
Blanchet? Marcel’s fingertips dug into the bricks. It had to be some kind of undercover play Marcel hadn’t been informed of. That was the only possible explanation.
“We’ll leave immediately. You should remain at home, Emile, for your own safety.” A pause, and then, “You’ve proven yourself tonight—though as agreed, I’ll leave your name off all the reports. After this, I will welcome you into the family. You have my blessing to marry Marie.”
Bile burned Marcel’s throat. Would his cousin have turned on Alliance, the Maquis, his own brother and cousins for a chance to marry the woman he loved?
He didn’t want to think so. But could he afford to gamble the lives of those relatives on it, of Zelie, of Lucien and Blanchet and... and wasn’t Henri even in town again? Zelie had said something about him arriving in time for the drop.
Footsteps hurried away. Marcel let them fade and then burst out onto the street, head swinging both directions. Neither man was in sight now. For a moment, he considered sprinting toward his aunt’s house—that was the only “home” Emile had in Marseille—but his feet wouldn’t turn that direction.
Zelie. He needed to tell Zelie. If this was a clandestine operation, she would know it. She could calm him down. Pacify his worries. Laugh at him for it, and get him to laugh in response. He hurried toward the bistro the next street over, pushing through the familiar door with its papered-over glass.
She wasn’t at the piano, like she usually would have been had she beaten him here. But he saw her familiar, gleaming dark waves in the back booth they favored. He wove through the crowd and slid onto the bench opposite hers.
She had a book open in front of her and said, “You’re late. I was beginning to think you—” Then she looked up, and his face must have reflected his distress. Her elegant brows drew together, a line forming between them. “What is it? What’s gone wrong?”
“I hope nothing.” He leaned across the table, taking her hands as he always did when he needed to whisper, so that to any outsiders, he would simply look like an enamored man.
Not a lie. But not the reason, now or ever. At least not theonlyreason.
“Does Emile have a mission underway that involves tricking Marie’s father? Leading him astray—was he onto us?”
Her frown didn’t ease, and his stomach knotted. “I don’t know anything about Marie’s father. Who is he?”
“Agendarme. One eager to prove his loyalty by assisting with the crackdown on the Resistance.” His fingers went tight over hers, though he tried to tell himself to relax. “He hadn’t mentioned it to you?”
She shook her head, calm sliding onto her features. Nottruecalm, not peace. The cold, controlled mask she wore when she wasla patronne, solving problems. “Tell me what you saw or heard, to make you ask this.”
He did, starting from how he was running late and decided to take the alley by the police station he usually avoided. As he spoke, a suspicion wriggled in his chest.
Had the Lord nudged him down that alley? Had he even made the musicians’ fingers abnormally clumsy today so the practice would run over? Had this been his way of protecting them?
Marcel didn’t want it to be true, even as he did. Didn’t want it to mean what he feared.
Zelie’s face was completely devoid of emotion by the time he finished. “He’s betrayed us.” Though the words were barely audible, there was no quaver in them. No uncertainty. “And he took a quarter of the cash last night for Maquis endeavors—he must mean to keep it.”
