Though endless work waited, Zelie had a hard time focusing on anything but the ramifications if Blanchet were a double agent. They would need to map out everyone he knew and hence could compromise—even if most of them had already been arrested.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to focus.
Giraud. Operation Minerva. Those were the things she had to deal with first, and most pressing was finding a place to hide the general until the rendezvous. The list of possibilities was few. Ithad to be someone she could trust implicitly, with a house grand enough that Giraud wouldn’t be insulted, and close enough to the shore that secreting him out to the rowboat wouldn’t take all night.
Idly, she wished they were in Paris, so she could call on Areg Grigoryan for this favor. He’d be able to joke the cantankerous general into a good mood, more likely than not, and probably talk him into doing exactly what MI6 wanted. Why didn’t the magnate have a house in the south, anyway, that he could come to stay at now and then?
For a moment, just one, she let herself remember her week on Avenue Foch, those first days with Marcel. Then she bullied her mind back to reality.
Grigoryan didnothave a house in Provence, so she’d have to decide between those who did. And the choice was obvious. They’d reach out to Madame Brouillet, mother of one of their agents and the owner of a lovely villa in Le Lavandou, sixty miles east of Marseille, and see if she was willing to play hostess. The town was a quiet one, generally ignored by thegendarmesand Nazi officials. It was close to the shore and heavily forested, which would make for perfect cover.
“He’s coming!” Marguerite called out from the front desk.
Zelie pulled out one of her maps, deliberately opening it to a sector that had no major missions in progress. A glance at Marcel showed her he was poring over reports that looked normal but which were, in fact, some they’d pulled out of files from before the restructure, so they had nothing on them that was still in use.
Stage set. She heard Henri moving in the room above her, no doubt getting into a position where he’d be able to listen in.
The front door opened, and several seconds later the cool air from it reached her. In the foyer, Marguerite offered Blanchet a cheerful greeting, as she always did when she was at the desk.
“Bon soir,”he said in that Cockney accent of his. “Anyone about tonight?”
“Zelie is, I think. I saw her come down a while ago.”
“Any drops soon? I’m in need of more transmitters.”
Zelie’s fingers went tight around the pen she held. What had he been doing with all the ones he’d taken, if not distributing them? Turning them over to the Germans for them to take apart? The very thought was so infuriating she gritted her teeth.
Then she relaxed. She’d been strip-searched by a Wehrmacht officer, smuggled to Spain in a mailbag, and had convinced Vichy that Alliance was done. She could play the game for Blanchet too.
From the foyer, Marguerite said, “Nothing I’ve been told about. But from the reports I’ve seen, the weather across the Channel’s been a bear.”
Blanchet hummed, tapped the front desk, and then his shoes squeaked as he turned. “I’ll see if she’s in. Thanks, Chamois.”
Marcel scratched a note onto his fake page. Zelie did the same, only looking up when Blanchet strode into the room. She pasted a smile onto her face. “Ah, Blanchet! I wasn’t expecting you. Did I miss a message?” She made a show of shuffling papers. “I’m afraid I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
“No, no.” His smile certainly didn’t look like one of a man about to tell a harrowing tale of escape. It looked... normal. At ease. Which equaled guilty. “I didn’t want to risk a transmission and haven’t seen any of your couriers lately so thought I’d pop down.”
She scratched another nonsense note. Then frowned, because that’s what she always would have done. “Now that you mention it, my couriers have reported trouble rendezvousing with you. I was hoping you’d stop by soon. I think we need to work out some kinks.”
There—a flash of something. Worry? Fear? Or perhaps irritation. Though he smoothed it over quickly with a smile. “Of course. That is, I myself am kept busy, but I’m certain we can arrange... drop locations, perhaps? I can have one of my deputies check them regularly.”
His Nazi cohorts, more like. She considered him. Nodded. “I suppose that will do. Did I overhear correctly that you’re looking for more supplies? I’m afraid we’re on our own for a while. They stocked us up in September, knowing the weather was likely to be undependable until spring.” She stood, letting the chair scrape. “The radios have all been distributed, but if you need more paper or chocolate—”
“No, that’s all right.” He gave her a smile but then cast a look toward Marcel. “Good to see you again,monsieur.”
Marcel glanced up, his smile vague, as if he were still caught up in his papers. “Likewise. All quiet in Normandy, I trust? We haven’t heard much from your sector.”
“I’ve sent reports directly to MI6, of course. But nothing has come up that would have been of relevance to Alliance.” Blanchet shifted, turned back to Zelie. “Is there a room available?”
She pursed her lips. “Not one to yourself, but I could give you a bed in—”
“No need.” He always turned down a shared room—which was often all they had available. “Thank you though. I’ll find something.” He tipped his hat. “I doubt I’ll make another trip before spring, so Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
She kept her smile tight. “And to you. Do let us know about those drop locations, if you please.”
Irritation flickered again as he turned. “Of course. I will find some good ones and send the details.”
The moment he’d left the building, Zelie stood, Marcel did as well, and Marguerite and Henri both entered the room. They all exchanged charged looks.
