“Yes, please.” She shrugged out of her coat—also borrowed—and accepted the warm cup. Her host looked to be around sixty, his hair a shining silver. His wife must be younger than him by about a decade—still lovely and all elegance.
Zelie sat when they did, and Monsieur Charaudeau reached over to hand her a sealed envelope.
She set her coffee down and opened it, eyes scanning the words.
FULL CONFIDENCE IN POZ 55 STOP DISPATCHING DEPUTY TO MADRID STOP FULL POWER TO ACT ON MY BEHALF STOP WILL ARRIVE WITHIN WEEK STOP.
Sagging against the back of the sofa, she handed the message to Madame Charaudeau, who’d sat beside her. The woman read it, smiled, and nodded. “I had no doubt they’d accept both you and your word. You’ve proven yourself many times over by now.”
Had she? One of her primary lieutenants, one of her two liaisons to the Maquis, had turned traitor. Didn’t that call into question her ability as a leader, her very discernment?
Maybe, if she’d spent more time on the work and less dreaming about her next meeting with Marcel, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe she’d let the music soothe her too much, take her edge off.
As if hearing her thoughts and rejecting them, Madame Charaudeau gripped Zelie’s hand and said, “We’ll fill the week with so much fun, you’ll scarcely have time to fret.”
The following days were surreal. A decade ago, it would have been fun indeed to stay with a designer who catered to Madrid’s elite, as Madame Charaudeau did, to try on some of her dresses and skirts and even choose new lingerie. To feast on unrationed food and have the leisure to curl up in their library with a novel while her favorite records played in the background. Now, it all felt like an accusation, like evenwantingsuch things was why she’d failed her people.
On Wednesday, she slipped one of Marcel’s recordings from its sleeve and set it on the record player. A farewell, she told herself.
Tears burned the backs of her eyes from the first notes.Please, Lord...
Again, the prayer stalled. What should she even ask for? She didn’t know if he was alive or dead, in prison or free. On the run or back from his trip to Paris. She didn’t know if her command for him to try to raise Lucien on the radio had resulted in the Germans with their detection devices finding him, bursting in, arresting him.
God knew. Even with a faith as rusty as the Puerta del Sol’s wrought-iron railings, she’d always believed that. He knew. But whether he cared enough to preserve any particular person as they fought and killed each other, bombed each other, betrayed each other...?
All evidence pointed to the contrary—that’s what she’d fallen into thinking as her marriage crumbled, her husband was killed, the Nazis overran France.
But the notes Marcel played seemed to say,Believe. Believe in a God who was good, who preserved them even in the face oftreachery. Believe in a God who loved freedom even more than they did, but who defined it, perhaps, differently. Believe in a God who, even when he didn’t spare someone from death, offered life anew in that far-off heaven.
“I’m trying,” she whispered. To Marcel, to God. To her own doubting heart. “I’mtrying.”
She was settling into a leather chair, book in hand, when the front door burst open. She leapt to her feet, heart hammering, images of Nazi uniforms bombarding her imagination before she remembered that they wouldn’t be here. Not here, in Madrid. She was safe.
Henri strode into the library, and not alone. A youthful-looking chap entered with him, blond hair gleaming and British army uniform immaculate. The glance Henri sent her said this was the MI6 deputy she’d been waiting for.
She smoothed a hand down the black silk dress her hostess had given her and straightened her spine.
“Zelie,” Henri said, “allow me to introduce Major Richards. Major, this is Zelie, better known to your lot as POZ 55.”
Richards gaped. Actually gaped, mouth opening and shutting like a fish, and then looked to Henri as if expecting him to burst into laughter and admithewas the real POZ 55.
Had Cohen not warned him? Zelie bristled, but then she drew in a breath and forced herself to calm down. She smiled and held out a hand. “How do you do, Major?” she said in English.
Henri gave the Brit a helpful nudge in the back. “I believe it would be polite to greetla patronne.”
“Sorry. Right.” Visibly shaking himself out of his stupor, Richards strode forward with gusto, took her hand, and shook it. “I say, I thought it a joke when Cohen told me POZ 55 was a female, and then thought this one was in on it.” He jerked his head toward Henri. “Didn’t mean to offend. It is quite extraordinary, you know.”
“I am aware, yes.” She raised her brows, tilted her head. “Though my sources say that one of your own cryptography experts who helped found the school that led to Bletchley Park is in fact a female too.”
“You don’t say.” At least this time he looked intrigued rather than stupefied. “To be honest, the cryptography side has never been my forte. I’m a field agent, myself. But here with the full authority of MI6. Shall we?” He motioned toward the furniture.
“Of course.” She retook her seat in the armchair, though instead of leaning back and making herself comfortable, she perched on the cushion’s edge, legs crossed at the ankles.
Richards cleared his throat. “Again, my apologies. Though my superiors could hardly believe you’ve been deceiving them all this time.”
Her spine went even straighter. “I beg your pardon. I never once said I was a man. If your superiors cannot fathom a woman being capable of the work I’ve done, then perhaps the fault is with their imagination and not with my gender.”
Henri grinned.
