Blaise hadn’t seemed to consider him anything but a passingacquaintance in October—unlike his sister, who had declared him her new best friend when he gave her piano lessons. But he was currently the most familiar face, so Marcel could understand the need to keep him near. “As much as possible. I need to travel to Paris for the weekend tomorrow, with my youth orchestra, but I’ll be back on Sunday. And that’s the last we’ll travel until after the holidays.”
“All right.” The cushion squeaked as Blaise shifted. “I’ll do whatever we have to. Maman explained it all to me—how they’d use us against her. We can’t let that happen. No matter what. Maman is too important.”
Marcel could only nod. And struggle to accept what Zelie’s own son could declare so easily.
Sixteen
13 DECEMBER 1941
MADRID, SPAIN
Zelie wandered through streets once familiar, still not used to the lack of clacking of her shoes. She wore a borrowed dress, fashionable and new in silk so soft she kept moving to feel it slide against her skin. Shoes with cork soles and buttery leather. Her hostess had supplied her with fresh cosmetics. Coffee. Wine. Chocolate. Mountains of bread hot from the oven.
She’d stepped through the looking glass, and the wonders of this land only made her long for her rations, her cold room, and the knowledge that her children were safe.
Zelie and Maman had traveled to Madrid many times after they moved back to France from Shanghai. She couldn’t walk the streets now without hearing her mother’s laugh beside her, feeling her tug on her arm, urging them into a new shop or restaurant or theater. She couldn’t look around without seeing Maman there.
Her absence was a new blow every moment. Were they treating her well in jail? Had she managed to contact one of her old friends? Could those friends—wouldthose friends—help win her freedom?
Lord God...She was trying to retrain her mind to turn to prayer, but she could never seem to get further than that before words failed her. God had seen her safely to Spain, yes. It had taken her a full day to recover enough to stand, but given what her mother and colleagues were going through, what did that matter?
Was Marcel on the run now too? Raoul, Antoine? Had the entire network fractured?
She checked her watch. Another half hour and she should return to the home of the friends Henri had left her with. Monsieur Charaudeau was a wealthy French businessman who lived in Madrid half the year, and he and his wife had their own little intelligence network here in Spain and were also in communication with MI6. Henri worked closely with them whenever he was here, and they’d opened their home to her with full generosity.
Through their MI6 contact, Cohen, she’d sent a message intended for her own handler, letting them know about the disaster. A response had quickly come, telling POZ 55 to report to London at once, via Lisbon.
She’d refused, saying she needed to be back in France by the new year. And... and letting Cohen know, too, that POZ 55 was a woman. Henri had been uncertain about admitting that, but she needed to meet face-to-face with someone from MI6 while she was here, to get what help she could in picking up the pieces of Alliance. Which meant they’d soon know anyway.
A reply was due at three o’clock. Would they tell her to stand down immediately and turn all her knowledge over to someone else?
If they did, would she listen?
Madrid was a sad echo of its former self. Hitler couldn’t be blamed for the bullet holes here though, nor for the crumbling walls or rusty railings that had once gleamed dark and picturesque on balconies and windows. The civil war had done it.
She paused in the Puerta del Sol. Stared at the once-awe-inspiringfountain, now dry. The square once bustling, now deserted. A blanket of silence encased a city that should have been alive with Christmas music, alight with celebration.
Why? Why did people tear each other apart just because they disagreed about the best way to achieve a good life? Why did humanity always resort to violence, terror, oppression to make themselves feel more powerful? Why did they seek power, for that matter, instead of strength?
Strength defended the weak. Strength sought the good of others. Strength sacrificed.
When had power ever done anything but crush its opponents, take from them in order to have for itself?
Zelie shook her head and turned to walk back to the Charaudeau mansion. Funny—she’d married a military man, but she’d never really paused to think about the cost of violence. Before the war, the thought of someone like Marcel, who admitted to being no good with a weapon in his hands, despite his willingness to try, probably would have earned a sniff of disapproval from her.
Now? Now when she called to mind his long fingers, his muscular palms, she realized what a waste it was to ask those hands to wield a weapon instead of an instrument. His was the nobler path. Not that she wasn’t grateful to the men who had defended her country—but what were they defending, if not the right to live free, to create, to commune with God?
Her shoulders slumped as she turned toward her temporary refuge. The nobler path, perhaps, but notherpath. She had to stick to the decision she’d made in the mailbag. The noble could come later, after they’d won.
She had to focus on the necessary.
Her head hurt. She’d like to blame the thoughts, but she’d been plagued by headaches every day since Henri had carried her out of the car, wrapped a blanket around her, and forced her to sip some cognac—from a rare bottle intended to be a Christmas gift forMonsieur Charaudeau. It had been two hours before she’d been able to dress, get back in the car, and continue the trip. Two days later, her hip still ached, her neck was still stiff and knotted, and every time she closed her eyes, she felt as though she were back in that mailbag.
The house, proud and elegant, loomed before her, and the air outside suddenly felt far too chilly. She hurried up the walk and through the massive front door.
Madame Charaudeau greeted her with a smile and waved her into the drawing room. “The return message was just delivered. We haven’t read it yet.”
Monsieur Charaudeau stood beside a small mahogany table, pouring coffee from a silver carafe. He looked over with a smile. “Would you like some, Zelie?”
