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The second man is younger, perhaps midtwenties, a bare inch taller than Rainy herself. He has an impressive pile of dark hair, clear dark eyes, an idealist’s wide brow, and a nose that looks as if its lines were drawn by an artist. He’s a good-looking fellow, or would be if not for the surly expression on his lips. He strikes Rainy as wishing to convey that he is not impressed by her. Which is fine, since she’s not bowled over by him either.
Marie does introductions. The younger man is her big brother, Étienne. The older man is called Monsieur Faisan, literally Mr. Pheasant, yet another cover name presumably.
Faisan jerks his head at Étienne and Marie, and they scuttle off to haul the boxes of weapons and explosives inside. Rainy keeps the box of currency with her. She eyes the Walther on the table, noting the way the butt is turned, rehearsing a desperate grab, should it be necessary. Passwords are all well and good, but many an agent has been picked up in this region. She can assume nothing.
No one has yet spoken directly to Rainy, and she’s content to leave it that way as Marie and Étienne unwind oilcloth and take out weapons and explosives and the precious radio.
Faisan, when he speaks, speaks only French.
“Des beaux cadeaux,” Faisan says. Nice presents.
Rainy’s French is not as good as her German. Good enough to fool the average Wehrmacht soldier manning a checkpoint, but not a true Frenchman.
“You’re welcome,” she says in French.
“You’re a woman,” Faisan says, looking as though he’d like to spit.
“And you’re a smuggler,” Rainy says.
Faisan’s brow rises. Étienne moves slightly forward as if he’s going to do something, then subsides.
“Why do you say that?” Faisan asks.
Rainy shrugs. “Isolated shack by a river, a second shack with a padlocked door, tracks made by a heavy truck. And you seem cautious but not paranoid, meaning you feel fairly safe here. So you are a smuggler, and I’m guessing the Germans know it.”
“Why would you guess that?”
Rainy shrugs. “You’re not nervous enough. The Germans know you’re a smuggler, and they don’t mind because I’m guessing they get a cut.”
Suddenly Faisan’s face transforms. He smiles, revealing various nicotine-stained teeth interrupted by gaps. “A woman but not a stupid woman. Welcome to France, madame . . .”
“Mademoiselle,” Rainy corrects. “But more to the point, Lieutenant Alice Jones, US Army.”
“Where is the rest of the invasion force? Did you forget to bring them?” Étienne says.
“Never fear, monsieur, they are coming.”
Faisan shrugs as if to say he hopes so but will believe it when he sees it.
Marie fetches a bottle of cognac and four small glasses. She pours and hands them around.
“La France libre,” Rainy says, and they drink a toast. To a free France.
“Aux alliés,” Faisan counters. To the Allies.
Faisan sits in a rickety chair, suddenly looking tired. Rainy wonders if Faisan has been sick recently. He does not look well.
Étienne takes over the conversation. “And now, with all pleasantries aside, Lieutenant—”
“Alice will do,” Rainy interrupts.
“As you wish. Mademoiselle Alice. We welcome you, and we welcome your gifts, but why have you come?”
“The Das Reich division.”
None of the three French people are surprised. Waffen SS tank divisions often carry names as well as numbers, and the Das Reich, also known as the Second SS Panzer Division, is a name all too familiar to the Resistance as well as to Allied war planners.
“They aren’t here,” Étienne says.
