And she knew well that how it looked now was nothing like what she would have seen then, the face that had adorned his posters. He was too thin, his skin sallow, his dark curls dull and unkempt. Shadows circled his eyes, and exhaustion or stress or both had carved lines into a face that she knew wasn’t any older than hers.
Grigoryan’s plan had seemed sound, when he’d written to her about it. Now she wondered, though. Had they been too late in their rescue? This man looked like a husk.
She could sympathize. But she wasn’t about to entrust her secrets to a man too hollow to tend them.
“We caught the Berlin Philharmonic’s concert today,” their host said, handing another glass to Laurent and then taking a seat.He didn’t bother telling his newest guest to choose a chair rather than an end table—proof of Grigoryan’s tact and kind heart. “As I expected, Marcel saw through the ploy in a heartbeat.”
Given the musician’s blank stare, she was more than a little surprised when he nodded. Even more so when life sparked in his eyes. “A two-sided sword, music. We gave a concert a few weeks ago in the POW camp, and I had felt gleeful upon realizing I held power over our guards. That I could make themfeel, make them react. But it seems the enemy knows this as well. That music can bridge gaps that words never will.”
Perhaps she’d judged the shell too hastily—perhaps it was only the exhaustion that rendered him so useless-seeming. Zelie sank to a seat in the plush armchair across from Laurent’s end table and took a sip from her glass. “It is a danger of the entire artistic community... and an opportunity. Hitler fancies himself the world’s greatest patron of the arts. He is seeking to gather, to own, to promote it, to make itGerman.”
“It is why he coveted Paris so highly, yes?” Grigoryan nodded and tapped a finger to the arm of his chair. “He wants to subsume the culture here into the culture of Germany. After sterilizing it, of course. But museums, galleries, concert halls, operas, even publishing houses have been ordered to reopen and resume. Not just to keep Parisians occupied and hence not causing trouble, but to entertain the German troops sent here for holiday.”
The speech was clearly for Laurent’s benefit, since it was far from news to anyone who’d been in France for the last year. As early as August of 1940, establishments had been ordered to reopen. So Zelie merely nodded in agreement. And watched.
Watched as Marcel Laurent’s fingers curled into a fist. Watched as that spark in his eyes went deeper, darker. Watched as his jaw clenched.
He took a long moment to absorb the information. His throat bobbed, and he moved his gaze from Grigoryan to her. “I want tosay,We must find a way to counteract this.But I’m guessing, given our host’s introduction, there is already a plan underway. One you think I may be able to help with? Whatever it is, I’ll do it.” Even as he spoke, he winced. “Though I don’t know how. I’ll be honest. I feel useless. As if for the past year, I didn’t exist in the same reality as the rest of you.”
His voice quavered, yes, but the hesitation was the sort she expected of someone in his position—a far different breed than what would make her turn away a potential agent. This man didn’t question the need or the wisdom or the chance of them making a difference. Only his own ability.
Ability could be taught, if one had the heart for it. She offered him a smile. “I think,monsieur, that you will be quite useful. But I don’t want to overwhelm you on your first day back in Paris. Rest, eat, enjoy our host’s famous hospitality.” She stood, sliding her goblet onto the table between her and Grigoryan. “We’ll chat tomorrow.”
The flicker in his eyes said he wanted to argue. A fine first test, then. Would he be willing to accept her advice, to listen and obey? If not, well, he wouldn’t be the first potential agent she opted not to bring into Alliance because of it. Often it didn’t matter if a man hesitated to trust a woman in authority because they didn’t know shewas.
But Marcel Laurent—or whoever else they brought in if he didn’t pan out—would answer directly to her.
When he stood, she was none too sure he wouldn’t argue. But instead, he simply gave a polite half bow. “You are too kind,mademoiselle. But I thank you for your concern. I will be more myself in the morning, I hope.”
Test one, passed. Her smile went more genuine. “It’smadame. I believe you served under my late husband, as it happens.”
Realization settled over his features. “Forgive me—I didn’t realize you werethatBellerose. Your husband was a good man.”
“He was.” She tried to cling to that, even when he was aliveand infuriating her. Hewasgood. Shehadloved him. “But if we’re going to work together, feel free to call me Zelie.”
“It would be an honor. In which case, you’re welcome to call me Marcel, if you wish. Or Laurent, if you prefer. Or, frankly, I’ve learned to answer to,You, pianistin recent months.” When his lips lifted a few degrees into an echo of a smile, she knew they’d be friends, not just colleagues.
She grinned back and turned toward the door. “Good to know. I’ll likely come up with a few new monikers for you too—as part of the job. But for now... rest well, Marcel.” Without a backward glance, she strode from the room.
Grigoryan had given her a tour of his home when they first met five years ago, and his butler—clever chap, Beaufort—had taken her through the belowstairs portions when she arrived. After a childhood running wild in the streets of Shanghai, she never needed to be shown a way more than once to navigate it from memory.
Another something Navarre praised her for.
As she navigated to the small maid’s quarters she’d been assigned—a private one, thankfully—she reviewed her mental map of Free France. Thus far she’d been in Vichy, with only brief trips to other key cities, but she was itching to escape Pétain’s shadow. Navarre had finally agreed to move them either to Marseille, which she knew like the back of her hand and whose seaport would be immensely handy, or to Pau, whose nearness to the border of Spain would also be useful. He’d told her to decide, and she already knew which direction she leaned. Marseille would make more sense, given its ports and the Nazi bases there.
And, yes, because it was so much closer to Cannes. She couldn’t risk frequent visits to her mother and children, but she needed to know she could get to them in an emergency.
The nondescript door to room six greeted her. Zelie pulled the small key from her pocket and let herself in, relocking it behindher. She moved quickly to the tiny desk. It had already been stocked with paper and pens, so she pulled out a fresh white sheet and got to work.
Dozens of projects awaited her at headquarters and tried to elbow their way to the forefront of her mind, but she pushed them all back. They’d wait until she left Paris—or rather, Navarre or one of their deputies in Vichy would take care of them until she returned. For now, she had to focus on her goal here. She started with the headings she hoped to fill out.
Art Sector – artists, patrons, museum workers, models
Music Sector – musicians, composers, singers, conductors, heads of opera houses, music halls, cabarets
Theater and Film – actors, dancers, directors, producers, reviewers, theater owners, movie house owners and operators
Literature – novelists and essayists, nonfiction writers, publishers, editors, journals, newspapers, magazines, libraries
