Zelie blinked, swallowed, and was clearly working to muster a smile. “I will transmit the request, General. But in the meantime, let’s focus onthispart of the plan, shall we?”
Giraud glowered. “You will transmit itnow. I will not board tonight’s submarine until I am assured that my trusted officers will soon be with me.”
“All right.” She slipped the paper into her pocket and turned to Marcel. “I’ll go send that message. Keys?”
He slid her car keys into her outstretched palm. “Good luck,” he muttered.
Madame Brouillet leapt into action, ushering the general into the drawing room as she promised to reheat dinner.
Marcel remained in the villa long enough to eat—he hadn’t had anything since breakfast and it was now nine o’clock at night—which meant he was still there when Zelie returned with a rather baffled assurance that a second submarine would be sent.
“I’ve dispatched some of my people to fetch your men,” she said to the general, who was enjoying hiscrème brûléeas if he had such luxuries daily still. She turned to Marcel, anxiety stealing across her features. “Could I have a word, please?”
He followed her out of the dining room, past the drawing room, and into a library, whose doors she snicked shut behind them. If not for the tremor in her hands, he would have dared to hope she’d pulled him aside for a kiss. But something was clearly wrong. “What is it?”
He’d never seen her face so pale. “There was a message waiting for me at the hotel, from MI6.”
“About Minerva?”
“No.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, eyes going unfocused. “About Blanchet. They’ve been investigating, thinking to prove our allegations wrong.”
As they’d all hoped they’d do without quite believing it. Marcel drew in a breath. “They proved them right?”
She nodded. “They found evidence that he was working with the Abwehr since the restructure, Marcel. They think he must have gone straight to Paris after that and made contact with the Nazis. He’s been there ever since, they think, except when his Nazi handlers sent him back to Marseille to get more information from us.”
“Lord, have mercy.” The prayer escaped on a whisper. He crossed himself for good measure. “What is their plan?”
Her laugh was short, high, and near hysteria. “What do you think? Makeusdeal with it. They sent... they sent anexecutionorder.”
“Execution?” Now he understood her shaking hands, pale cheeks, and high laugh. “We’re not executioners. Even the soldiers among us, they... this is different. It isn’t a battle. It would be calculated murder.”
“I know.” Tears shone in her eyes. He’d seen them plenty of times before—over friends, over family. Somehow, seeing her shed them over an enemy broke him in two.
He wrapped her in his arms, and she held on as if he were an anchor in this particular storm.
“Léon has cyanide pills they gave him in London,” she said into his shoulder. “They’d meant them for us, to keep on our persons and use in case we were caught.”
Marcel’s throat went dry. “You failed to mention that.”
“Because I had no intention of distributing them. We could... we could use that. If we can capture Blanchet—or convince him to come to us, anyway. It would be quiet. Easy.”
His stomach twisted. And ifhisdid, after having seen battle, after nearly a year in a POW camp, how musthersbe reacting? He smoothed a hand over her hair, kissed the top of her head. “Don’t think about it right now. Focus on Minerva. Then we’ll find Blanchet and... and I’ll do what needs done.”
“Marcel.” She pulled back enough to look up at him. “Why should it be you?”
Because Blaise’s request echoed through his soul—his first, most important role was to protect her however he could. If either of them was going to be crippled by guilt, it should be him. He prayed his smile looked steadier than it felt. “He’s staff. I’m chief of staff. My jurisdiction.”
She came up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. “We’ll talk more about it later.”
He stole one more kiss—not quite as soft nor as quick—and then took a step away. “I need to get out to the cliffs with Beaver and Bull.”
“Be careful,mon amour.”
“Always.” He sent her a wink. “Try to keep the general from changing his mind again.”
The November rain was unpleasant to say the least, especially after eight long hours of it. Marcel patrolled his stretch of land along the cliff, using his flashlight to send the pre-arranged signal out over the choppy Mediterranean waters. He could see the beams of his two men doing the same, but no response from the HMSSeraphever came. The sun finally did, bullying its way through the clouds in time for a sunrise that would have been glorious with its pinks and oranges and golds, if he weren’t shivering from cold, exhausted, and starving.
Bull and Beaver both trudged to his location from theirs, their faces as grim as he felt. He flexed his fingers, willing heat into them, and looked from one man to the other. “Rest up today,mes amis. We’ll be at it again tonight.”
