Marcel moved to the door. “Are we expecting René? That looks like him behind the wheel.”
“No.” But when the rig rocked to a halt, it was definitely René who jumped from the cab and hurried to the back.
She’d never actually seen him in anything but a neat suit. It was strange to note the dirty trousers and rough coat, to see his hair rumpled and windblown. A moment later, four other former musicians from Marcel’s orchestra rounded the back of the lorry—and struggling between them was none other than Blanchet.
Marcel let out an incredulous bark of laughter and opened the door. “Warbler! Where’d you find this one?”
René flashed a smile a few shades darker than usual. “Scurrying through the underbrush like the rat he is. I recognized him from that airdrop.”
Blanchet spat a stream of expletives in several languages and tried again to wrestle himself free, but the burly bassoon player only gripped him tighter. “If you need another fist to your jaw,monsieur, I’m happy to oblige.”
Zelie and Marcel backed out of the way. Her mind was already racing. They couldn’t keep him here, not when they were planning to abandon the place. But they also couldn’t risk moving him elsewhere.
Maybe this was perfect, actually. She met Marcel’s gaze, dark and heavy, and turned toward the stairs. “This way. We can lock him in the maid’s room.” It had no windows or even furnishings at the moment, but a sturdy lock on the door. She grabbed the key from the front desk and soon had the ground-floor chamber opened for them. The young men shoved him inside, and they quickly shut the door and locked it.
Marcel led his musicians back to the foyer. “Thank you, everyone. We’ll take it from here.”
René looked from Marcel to Zelie. “What are you going to do with him?”
Execution order.Zelie folded her arms over her stomach, clasped her elbows. He’d sold them all out—his native and adopted countries both. Hedeserveddeath. And yet...
Marcel drew in a long breath. “What we must. Go on. Back to the bush—and hurry. He could have tipped off thegendarmesbefore you caught him.” He clasped a shoulder here, shook a hand there. “Good work,mes amis. All of Alliance, all of France is in your debt for this one.”
“Just playing our parts, maestro,” René said. But they were all grinning as they hustled back to their dented lorry. They missed the music, she knew—but they knew they were fighting for the right to reclaim it.
Zelie waited until their doors were all shut and then reached for Marcel’s arm. “You don’t have to...”
He covered her hand, squeezed it. But then pulled away. “Focus on your work,mon étoile. I’ll take care of this, as I promised.”
She hesitated only one moment more and then turned to the stairs.
When Marcel slid into the room, he fully expected Blanchet to lunge at him and try to make a run for it.
Part of him—just one part—hoped he would. Hoped he’d escape, even if it would be disastrous. He didn’t want this man’s death on his hands, even if he’d volunteered to take it.
But Blanchet sat on the floor, back against the wall, hands limp at his sides. His eyes were closed, but he drew in a sharp breath when Marcel came in and blinked them open. Only for a moment, then he closed them again with a wince. “At least you’re seeing to it yourself. Kind of you.”
Marcel frowned. “Myself?”
Blanchet lifted a hand a few inches, waved it, then let it fall again as if it weighed a ton. “Didn’t pawn it off on your underlings. I appreciate the... respect.” He winced again. “MI6 knows, I take it? Issued an execution order?”
Marcel leaned against the door. The man’s breathing was labored, and he looked as though he was in pain. “Why did you do it, Blanchet?”
The Englishman tried a laugh, seemed to choke on it. “Money. Cliché, I know.”
How much, he wondered, had been worth turning on all his allies? “Was it worth it?”
Blanchet lifted his eyelids. “What gave it away?”
“Lucien’s radio. I couldn’t find you when I went to Rouen, though MI6 swore you were there when I was.” He shrugged. “Afew other things that didn’t add up.” He frowned when the man winced again. “Are you all right?”
Another breath of laughter. “Thought... it would work faster than this.”
Marcel straightened. “What would?”
“Cyanide. They... gave me... too. Thought... thought I’d... own terms.”
The tablets he’d swiped from Zelie’s stash weighed like stones in his pocket, yet even so, knowing he’d had the same thought, Marcel found himself kneeling at the man’s side, gripping his shoulder. “Blanchet.”
