He tuned the radio to the right frequency, slipped the studio headphones onto his ears, and drew in a long breath. The message needed to be short.
B-E-T-R-A-Y-A-L,he tapped out.
BETRAYAL STOP POLICE EN ROUTE STOP FLEE STOP
He waited for the requisite two minutes. If Lucien received the message, he would transmit “QS5” in return.
Nothing. He tapped out the letters once more, letting the rhythm of the dots and dashes become a song in his head.
- .-. .- .... .. ... --- -. fortrahison, betrayal. A rhythm he’d never thought he’d need to learn, certainly not for his own cousin. His family. One of the triplets.
Did the others know? Were theyallin on it?
He kept tapping. Another two-minute wait.
Silence.
By the fourth repetition, he could tap out the song, all rhythm without melody, without needing to consult the sheet of Morse code. How many times did he dare to risk transmitting? What if the Nazis had their new equipment in Marseille?
According to the treaty, they weren’t supposed to be operating within Free France, but that didn’t stop them. Some police chiefs held them to it... others definitely didnot.
He checked his watch. Zelie would still be half an hour from the villa. He prayed for her, for them all, once more.
Then came a crackle over the radio that had him scrambling for a pen and paper—though he didn’t need it. The code was short and clear: --.- ... .....
QS5.
Marcel sagged and quickly turned the radio off. He stowed it again, rubbed a hand over his face, switched out the lights, and strode back into the practice room, briefcase once more in hand.
The heavy metal door swung open while he was maneuvering around the chairs for the low brass, and he halted, panic seizinghim so fully that he froze—no movement, no thoughts, nothing but a wordless cry toward heaven.
Lothar Von Eberstein stepped inside, his usual smile on his face. Marcel didn’t know whether to sag in relief or fly to pieces.
So many secrets were but a wall away, secrets he’d just had out. Secrets that this man would surely want to get his hands on, if he could, no matter his love of music.
Normal.The word settled into his mind, inla patronne’s steady voice.Act normal.
He summoned a smile, relaxed his shoulders. Prayed he looked likehimrather than the panicked lunatic he felt like. “Lothar! You startled me.”
The Nazi’s returning smile was easy. “Sorry about that. I saw the lights on and thought I’d see if it was you. Working late tonight, aren’t you?”
Marcel’s snort of laughter sounded oddly relaxed to his own ears. “You recall how distracted the boys were before that little autumn holiday? Imagine themnow. I thought we’d never get finished, and then I still had things to sort out for the holiday broadcasts.”
Lothar chuckled, but... what was that look he gave him? Something searching, a bit more serious than usual, or was it just Marcel’s nerves stretched taut?
How much did he know? What was his job here in Free France, where he wasn’t, according to the terms of surrender, supposed to be?
In the next moment, he was just the music lover he always was, looking eagerly around the room even as he motioned to the door. “Where are you headed next? Care to grab a bite?”
The very thought tied his stomach in knots. There was no possible way he’d survive an hour in thesturmbannführer’s company tonight. “Ah, I wish I could! But I’ve already promised my parents I’d be over after rehearsal this evening.”
A blatant lie, yes—but it was exactly where he intended to go next. Or close, anyway. His aunt and uncle’s house, the only “home” Emile had to go to in Marseille if he meant to obey Marie’s father, was right next door.
“Then I’ll walk with you until our paths diverge.”
Seeing no choice that wouldn’t tip his hand, Marcel nodded his agreement and led the way out the door, killing the lights on his way and locking up behind him.Normal. Normal.
“Speaking of that day in the autumn...” Lothar paused outside, waiting for Marcel to choose the direction. Grinned. “I spotted a beautiful young woman outside who seemed to be waiting for someone. You?” Teasing tilted his tone, nothing more that Marcel could pick out.
