Beaver—a local fisherman—shook his head and motioned to his boat, waiting along the shoreline below. “If the chop doesn’tcalm down, it’ll be useless anyway. The sub might be able to reach us, but we’ll never get the fellow out to them.”
A reasonable objection, and one Beaver had no doubt been chewing on all night. But what were they to do? “Then let’s pray it calms, because we’re not going to have a choice. If theSeraphdoesn’t make it tonight, the entire campaign will have to be scrapped.” Or they’d have to proceed without Giraud, anyway. But they seemed adamant that they needed him.
Beaver and Bull both nodded, looking resigned.
Marcel went back to their borrowed villa. Collapsed into a bed. Slept, rose, ate, and thanked the Lord that the rain had stopped, so he could bypass his still-wet rain gear and shrug into a proper winter coat. He exchanged a few words with Zelie, avoided Giraud, and was back on the cliffs shortly after sundown.
The rain had stopped, yes, but the winds still roared along the coast and beat the water into menacing whitecaps. Marcel stopped beside Beaver, who was once again in his position and staring out at the sea. “What do you think?”
The fisherman sent him a resigned look. “I think we’ll be taking our lives in our hands if we go out in that.”
Marcel clapped a hand to Beaver’s shoulder and pulled out his flashlight. “Keep praying the winds calm. We have to move ahead assuming the submarine will be there tonight. The general isn’t going to wait for a signal from us, they’re just going to bring him out.”
By midnight, the gusts had only increased. He saw the flashlights of Léon and a few others as they led Giraud up the path from the villa, but when Marcel trekked over to Beaver, the fisherman looked grim. Even so, he heaved a sigh and started down the path.
As the general’s party neared, Marcel clambered down to the shore ahead of them. He could hear only the howl of the wind in his ears, but the moon was out—and it glinted on a black hulk in the water seconds before he saw the flash of light he’d been waiting for.
Angel present,those lights spelled out in English. Marcel grinned. “That’s our boat. General, load up.”
Instead of obeying—of course—Giraud squared his shoulders and glared at Marcel. “The woman says my men will arrive tomorrow. I expect them to follow directly or I will holdyoupersonally responsible,monsieur.”
“Thewomanis always true to her word.” Marcel took a step closer, feeling a bit more like his brother than himself. “Now you keep yours. Get in the boat, General. And go help save our country.”
Giraud’s mustache twitched, but he dug his heels into the sand and turned, stalking to the little rowboat.
Marcel prayed protection over them as he and Bull and Léon pushed the craft out and then retreated to try and watch.
It was difficult to see the little boat through the night and the whitecaps, but he could make out the hatch of the sub opening and a ladder being unfurled, which he assumed meant they’d spotted the general drawing near. Then, finally, he could see Giraud’s tall form climbing up. “Thank you, God.”
He wasn’t the only one who sketched a cross over himself that time.
They all headed back to the villa, spirits high. Marcel’s mind jumped from prayers of thanksgiving to more pleas for success of the coming campaign to dreams of a cup of something hot and then his warm bed.
All of which stilled when they emerged from the trees at the edge of the villa’s grounds and the moon glinted on something.
Someone. Someone familiar, who turned away the moment Marcel spotted him. Blanchet. And he clearly knew he couldn’t pass himself off as a friend anymore, given how fast he ran.
Twenty-Eight
7 NOVEMBER 1942
Hurry, hurry, hurry.As she paced the radio room, the words drummed a cadence in Zelie’s skull, keeping time with her pulse—which hadn’t slowed since a breathless Marcel had burst into the villa twelve hours ago to say he’d spotted Blanchet, given chase, but had lost him in the dark of the forest.
They’d rushed back to the hotel, that drumbeat in her ears all the while. A glance up at the stars only stoked the fires of panic. They had to hurry, or she might never see her children again. Had to get word to all their trusted assets to keep an eye out for Blanchet—Henri had sent the message via radio. Had to let the agents fetching Giraud’s cronies know to take them anywhere but Le Lavandou—Léon had taken her car to intercept them. Had to clear the hotel of anything incriminating—Marcel was on that. Had toleaveand join Marguerite at their new headquarters. But before they could do that, they had to warn MI6 to divert the second submarine, which would be on its way already—Henri’s next job, of course.
He glanced at his watch, spat out a curse, and tapped the message again.
Downstairs, the phone rang. Ordinarily she would have left it for someone else to answer, but there was no one else to do it. Zelie spun from the room, flew down the stairs, and snatched the phone from its cradle on the fifth ring. “Bonjour,Hôtel le Blanc.”
Madame Brouillet’s voice filled the line. “I need to leave a message for a guest of yours, Genevieve Courtois. I’m afraid I’ve come down with the flu and won’t be able to host the guests due to attend my dinner party tonight.”
Zelie squeezed her eyes shut. Nazis had flooded Le Lavandou and were all around the villa, just as they feared. “I’ll give Mademoiselle Courtois the message,madame. Thank you.” She slammed the phone back down.
“The villa’s compromised, I take it?” Marcel appeared from the back hallway.
She jerked her head in a nod. “We need to—”
A lorry tore up the drive, making panic clamp on to her throat. Her first thought was police... but that wasn’t an official vehicle. It looked rather like one of the beat-up, decades-old jalopies that the Maquis favored.
