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PARIS, 1941
Sebastien Bastille offered her a lift to Paris. Marianne had made contact with him shortly before she left Provence. She was in luck, as he was planning to return that afternoon.
She met him and a group of women who were travelling to the city, all of whom were being transported in the back of a livestock van.
She sat next to him, alongside a clutch of chickens, and in the hours that stretched before them they got to know one another.
‘Why the sudden need to move to Paris?’ he asked, above the rumble of the engine, the sound of the tyres, and the clucks of the hens.
‘There’s someone I’d like to meet.’
At his look of confusion, she took out the newspaper he’d given her just two days before. His black eyes widened as she tapped the picture of Otto Busch. ‘Him? Why do you want to meet him?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Maybe I can help.’
She looked at him. ‘Maybe?’
‘It depends on why you want to meet him.’
She stared ahead, and her jaw was tight. ‘Honestly?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t decided just yet.’
‘Decided what?’
‘If I want to look him in the eyes and see if he is as truly evil as I believe he is. Or—’
‘Or?’
She breathed in, then looked Sebastien in the eyes. ‘If I just want to kill him.’
His eyes widened. ‘In that case, I will see what I can do.’
