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PARIS, 1942
Sebastien Bastille had been as good as his word and within a few months had helped Marianne to get an appointment to meet Otto Busch, using a contact from within the organisation.
Sebastien conducted surveillance of the cultural liaison officer on her behalf as well, watching him as he met with potential clients – those in need of help with German finances and collaboration.
He watched and he listened, making notes.
Marianne was to meet him in a week at a café in Montparnasse.
She had found an apartment in the Batignolles village, just above an abandoned clothing shop, and she began to cement in her mind how she was going to approach him – with a new business in mind.
At first, she was invested only in having the meeting – to look into his eyes – but then Sebastien prodded her, asking her one night, ‘And then what – after you’ve looked him in the eye? You let him turn around and go?’
Her answer, when it came, shocked her. ‘No!’
He nodded, then lit a cigarette, and smiled. ‘Good.’
She blinked. She didn’t know if that was good.
‘So then you know what we need to do?’
She frowned. ‘It means that somehow I’m going to have to go through with this,’ she said, looking at the proposal she had worked on day and night, buying a cheap typewriter and painstakingly typing it. She hadn’t been sure that she actually would. She’d half convinced herself she was only preparing the proposal in order to take the meeting, but Sebastien had made her see that wasn’t true. She wasn’t going to be satisfied watching Otto Busch just leave.
What she wanted was to be close to him. So that she could find a way to bring him down.
She spent a fortune on her outfit, a forest green suit with a black trim. The skirt was figure-hugging but not overly tight, and fell below the knee. The stockings, with black piping down the centre, were expensive even for the black market. But it was worth it to see the burgeoning smile on the officer’s wide Germanic face.
Sebastien’s surveillance of Otto Busch had revealed that he was a complex man. He was gregarious, and agreeable, but quick to temper if he was not given the respect he thought he was owed. He seemed put off by disorder of any kind, and would not sit at a table that had not been wiped down and cleared; the cutlery had to be buffed in his presence. He appeared to prefer taking meetings with potential new clients in the restaurant, mainly so he could judge their table manners.
It was all useful.
He stood up as she smiled, ‘Herr Busch?’
‘Madame Blanchet?’ he enquired, holding out his hand for her to shake.
Marianne’s heart was thudding in her chest. She couldn’t believe that he was sitting right there across from her, that the hand he was holding out in front of her might have been the one that squeezed the trigger, ending Jacques’ life.
‘Oh, madame, you’re shaking – there’s no need to be scared. I’m not the big bad wolf, I promise you,’ he said, giving her a wide smile.
He seemed to enjoy the effect, though.
From deep within her she summoned one in return.
‘Here, let me help, you,’ he said, coming to help her take a seat.
‘Th-thank you,’ she replied.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked, pulling out her chair for her.
‘I would, yes, thank you,’ she said, picking up a napkin and cleaning the cutlery before her.
He smiled, a look of puzzled delight coming across his face, then held up his hand to order.
By the time they had ordered their coffees she had started to talk about her business proposal. She handed him the detailed folder, and he bent his head as he read through it, nodding as he flipped over the pages, seeming to like what he saw.
She caught him staring at her legs. She pretended not to notice.
Soon he had shifted closer to her, and she tried not to flinch. When she got home she would have to have a shower, though she didn’t know if she would ever get clean enough after this.
