“Arthur.” He slumped a bit against Marcel.
Marcel wanted to believe it a ploy, but the fingers he put to the agent’s neck told him his pulse was dangerously slow. “Arthur.” How could he want to pray for the man, pray for healing, even after what he’d come in here intending to do? How could he at once be grateful Blanchet had taken the decision away and wish he could undo it?
“Tell... wife...” He slumped, eyes going blank.
Marcel kept his fingers on the man’s neck, but no more beats came. No more breath from his nose.
He should be grateful. Was, in a way. But more than gratitude, he felt sorrow so heavy it bent him in two.
He stood, exited the room, chucked the cyanide capsules in his pocket into the nearest toilet. He strode back into the foyer. And spun for the stairs when he saw automobiles tearing up the drive, plumes of water splashing as they plowed through puddles. “Police!”
Panic clawed its way past all Zelie’s plans. The radio room hadn’t been packed yet—it couldn’t be, Henri had been sending messagesevery moment today. She began shoving things into boxes they’d had at the ready, Marcel dashing in to help. Not pausing, she asked, “Blanchet?”
His face was grim. “He had cyanide of his own. Had already taken it by the time I got in there. He’s gone.”
What was that squeeze in her chest? Relief? Grief?
Henri switched frequencies and started tapping in their warning again, eyes ablaze with determination. Below, the doors crashed open, shouts echoing up the stairs.
“Arrêtez! Police!”
Hurry, hurry, hurry.But even as she shoved papers into boxes with shaking hands, she knew it was too late. They were already here, there’d be no escaping.
Marcel murmured a prayer as he swept an entire table’s contents into his box. He looked up, met her eyes. “Go. Hide. We’ll make them think we’re the only ones here. That cubby in the attic—go.”
“I can’t leave—”
“Go!”Never had he yelled at her, not once, and even now his volume was low. But the intensity, the determination made up for it. “They cannotcatch you, Zelie! Go!”
She hesitated a moment, just one, and then obeyed. She darted out of the room and toward the attic access.
A moment too late. Hands grabbed her ankles, pulled her down. She fought, kicked, managed to twist and pull away and crash into one of the rooms along the hall and lock the door behind her. Pointless, but—well, there was a window. She could jump.
Only when she reached for the sash did she realize she still held papers in her hands—incriminating ones. The door splintered open, and she did the only thing she could think to do. She shoved the paper into her mouth and started chewing.
“Found her!” a voice shouted, and a moment later hands were on her shoulders. But then, oddly, the voice quieted. “Chew faster,madame. And scream. Make it sound like you’re fighting me.”
What?But a scream came naturally, so she let it loose.
Thegendarmewas craning his neck toward the door. “Hurry,” he breathed. “There’s a Gestapo agent with us, we can only cover for you so much.”
Cover for them? Was he... did she dare believe he was really a friend? She screamed again, not needing to feign a struggle.
Shouts had never stopped from the radio room, but over them all came the one she’d been waiting for. Henri. “QS5! QS5!”
Transmission received.Thank you, Lord.
Her relief was short-lived. A German-accented voice shouted out, “Look at this! It’s the plans for their entire radio network.”
Zelie lurched toward the door, though she had no idea what she meant to do. She forced the pulp in her mouth down her throat, nausea instantly churning.
Thegendarme’s head swung her way, eyes wide. Asking, it seemed, if it were true.
She could only nod. The plans had been there, right beside Henri, because he’d still been using them.
The policeman considered for a split second and then held out an arm. “I need you to trust me. Let me help you.”
Every panicked instinct said to push past him, run, do whatever she could on her own. But then, when he said, “Trust me,” again, she heard it in a different voice. Echoing in her soul.
