Marcel sat back with a frown. He wasn’t sure thatwasthe answer—but the other possibility was far, far worse.
Twenty-Six
27 OCTOBER 1942
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
Even after hours on the train, Zelie was boiling when she stalked through Marseille, toward the Alliance-owned bistro. She didn’t see the sun glinting off terra-cotta, turning stucco to gold, and gilding the cobblestones. She didn’t hear the chatter of innumerable languages to match the rainbow of faces that sauntered by. Giraud was an unequivocal cretin, and she wasnoteager to impose on any of her local contacts to house him when—if—he deigned to arrive on time for his meeting with the submarine in what the Allies had dubbed Operation Minerva.
“No British,” he kept insisting, over and over again. “I’ll have nothing to do with them. When I lead the Allies to victory, I will not have a single Englishman in my company, nor will I rely on them for a thing.”
She’d given him her best smile. “I do understand your concerns, General,” she’d lied, “but the British are the only ones with a submarine available to pick you up. Now if we could—”
“No British!” he’d shouted. “An American submarine will be there.”
MI6 had already told her that they had a plan for this, which involved putting exactly one American on board the British HMSSeraph, claiming it was the USSSeraph, and dressing the British crew in American uniforms. Which was ridiculous. And so flimsy a charade that if Giraud fell for it, they really ought to doubt his ability to lead anyone anywhere.
But they didn’t want her opinion. They only wanted her to get Giraud to the coast, find someone to keep him out of sight for a day or two in a place that wouldn’t offend his sensibilities, and then find other someones to row him out to theSeraphwhen it surfaced in the middle of the night.
He’d agreed, reluctantly, to come. It seemed he considered a rowboat beneath his dignity, but she’d wrestle him into it herself if she had to, if he actually showed up on 4November.
“Give that look to the Nazis,mon étoile, and they’ll all run for cover and this war will be over.”
The fact that Marcel’s voice startled her was enough to shake her out of her mood. What sort of spy keeper was she, so oblivious she didn’t even notice the man she loved slipping up beside her? She paused, splayed a hand over her heart. “I didn’t see you.”
“No wonder. You were marching straight into battle, from the looks of it.” He leaned down to kiss her cheeks, sneaking a third after the usual two, onto her lips.
That was enough to remind her to smile. “How go the new duties, chief of staff?” After watching him for weeks, she’d realized how silly it was to be fretting over work she could have him do in the field.
His gift wasn’t just music. His gift was orchestration. He’d done it beautifully with a maestro’s baton, but he was no less adept when it was agents he was directing instead of musicians. He always took the time to connect with each person, to learn their strengths andweaknesses. She could remember their names and call signs, but she didn’t reallyknowmany these days.
That was no way to run a network the size of Alliance. But the thought of bridging those gaps, stepping out of her isolation... dread had filled her every time.
Marcel, though—he would be perfect at it. So she’d created the role, assigned it to him, and had sat back over the last week and watched with a smile as he did exactly what she’d hoped he would.
Made a family of them again.
He smiled in answer to her question, though she didn’t miss the shadow in his eyes. “Our new liaisons to the Maquis have all been given call signs.”
The youth orchestra’s last performance had been over the weekend, in Lyon. The boys were now subject to deportation at the whim of the Nazis. She hated, in a way, that Marcel would now have to basically go into hiding with her, but unless he accepted a position in an orchestra...
But they’d been ready. Vivi had handed out the false identifications, and Gustave had planned to meet the new recruits at their last... well, it wasn’t a rehearsal, was it? But rent had already been paid on the building for the month, so they’d gathered one last time today.
She tucked her arm in the crook of his. “I’m sorry it’s over.”
“Me too. It was a fine movement.” He covered her hands with his other one. “But they’re eager to take on their new roles too. To help us better coordinate with the Maquis.”
Gustave had been able to make it less and less often into Marseille—he was too indispensable to his fighters. But they needed to remain aware of the Maquis’ plans and tactics, both to help them be most effective and to keep them out of the path of Allied bombs.
Marcel’s musicians would make perfect go-betweens. “I know they...” She broke off when movement caught her eye.Though she wasn’t sure what it was, or why it had grabbed her attention.
Marcel spun too, eyes narrowing. “Is that... Blanchet?”
Was it? She sucked in a breath, standing on her toes to see the head bobbing along on the other side of a busy intersection. It looked like him, and that brought relief into her spirit.
She started to lunge after him, but Marcel not only stayed rooted in place, he pulled her back too. “Wait.”
“What?” Finally, a bit of good luck. Why wasn’t he letting her chase it? “He must have escaped. I want to know where he’s been held and how the Nazis have known how to mimic him so perfectly.”
