“Traitor,” Marguerite spat.
“A disgrace, that’s what.” Henri folded his arms over his chest.
Marcel said nothing. She knew well he hadn’t wanted to be right, not about this. But he was.
Zelie turned to Henri. “Alert MI6 immediately. See what they want us to do.”
His jaw went tight, but he nodded. “They’re going to take some convincing.”
“Lay it out for them. Let them investigate on their end. For now, let’s hope he heads back to Normandy—or wherever he’s really been—and stays away from us here until Minerva’s over. Greenfinch.” She spun to Marcel. “I know who I want you to approach about hosting the impending guest.”
They had no choice but to get back to work. They had a cretin scheduled to arrive in three days.
Twenty-Seven
5 NOVEMBER 1942
It wasn’t that Marcel had thought Zelie had been lying about General Giraud. But perhaps, in the back of his mind, he’d assumed she was exaggerating. That she was fed up enough with full-of-themselves military brass that she’d begun to paint them all with the same brush. Perhaps he couldn’t quite shake the memory of Grigoryan telling him of the general’s escape from prison, and how the good news had been the start of a good meeting.
That was before Marcel had spent a few hours in Zelie’s car with him as he drove him from Vichy to Le Lavandou. First had come the delays in departure. Then the sniffs over the aged Citroën. Then the huffs at each bump they hit, as if the roads should have known better than to be so disagreeable when someone of such esteem was traveling over them. And now? Now the general had the gall to step out into the rain in front of the beautiful—if tending toward shabby—Brouillet villa and curl his lip.
“Is this really the best you could do?”
Marcel barely kept from slamming the door—thegeneral’sdoor, he’d sat there clearly waiting for his chauffeur to open it forhim.Diplomacy, he reminded himself, adjusting the wide umbrella to better cover the general.Think of him as a patron of the arts you need to win over.He’d certainly had to dothatplenty of times—it was in fact how he’d met Grigoryan.
What he wouldn’t give to be with his Armenian friend right now instead of this pompous officer. But he cleared his throat and smiled. “The Brouillets have long been one of Provence’s leading families, General. Given the war, the current matriarch has been left without her usual staff to see to things, but she is most eager to be of assistance to someone as esteemed as yourself.”
Giraud stroked a hand over the two drooping sides of his heavy mustache. “Very well.”
Marcel led the way through the storm and into the villa. They were already several hours later than they should have been, thanks to the general changing his mind three times. And given that Marcel knew Madame Brouillet had prepared a veritable feast, pulling together rations out of thin air to do it—or more likely, spending a fortune in the black market—he was keenly aware of the insult they’d already delivered her, even before the introductions. He could only pray the general wouldn’t insult the kind woman to her face.
As soon as he’d closed the door behind them and deposited the dripping umbrella in a stand, Madame Brouillet and Zelie appeared, relief on both their faces. “We feared you’d been delayed because of the weather,” their hostess said.
“Or worse,” Zelie added. Looking at her smile, her outstretched hands, no one would ever think she was anything but a beautiful socialite, eager to welcome a famous guest to a party. But Marcel saw the irritation sparking in her blue eyes as the general took her hands and bowed over them. “How lovely to see you again, General. Allow me to introduce our hostess, Madame Brouillet.”
The lady stepped forward, her smile a good deal more genuine than Zelie’s. As she gushed over him—which at least meant thegeneral responded with charm—Marcel slid to Zelie’s side. “I had to talk him into coming three different times.”
“I warned you.” But she touched a hand to his arm, and the hours of frustration faded away. And aimed a smile up at him that would have had him doing it all again. “Thank you,mon amour.”
And if she kept calling him her love, he’d have to find a way to lasso one of those shooting stars for her, so he could present it on a silver platter.
He settled for smiling back, his gaze flicking down to her lips. One of these days, he’d be able to kiss her hello like he wanted to do every time he saw her. Today, only the glance. But she obviously read his mind, given the new angle of her smile, the gleam in her eyes, the color in her cheeks.
Two more seconds to themselves, then the general’s comment about the weather sobered them both. “Is the plan still progressing tonight?” he asked quietly.
Zelie blew out a breath. “We won’t know until they come or don’t. Too risky to send more messages—I’m still anxious over the long hours we’ve had to put in on the radio this week.”
There’d been little help for it. They’d had to coordinate every detail with MI6, who was in turn coordinating with the Americans, down to how to sneak the general out of his home without the guards stationed there noticing.
“How is the relocation going?” The plan, he knew, was for Marguerite to begin the exodus today. They’d leave, for now, everything pertaining to Operation Minerva, but all else Zelie wanted out of the hotel by the time the submarine was gone.
“Underway.” Perhaps she’d have said more, but Giraud turned back to them, gaze settling on Zelie.
“Madame, I have one more request.”
Marcel felt her go stiff beside him. “Yes?”
“I cannot lead this operation with untrusted men beneath me. I need these officers”—he pulled out a piece of paper from hispocket and held it out—“brought to Algeria as well, as soon as possible.”
