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The smile that spreads across my expression is genuine and full of relief. “Bonjour. It is a beautiful day for a stroll. Is my cousin home?” My French flows easily, as though it were my native tongue.
“Even better for a waltz in the park” is Élise’s reply. The phrase is the code for “It’s safe to meet.”
Élise opens the door wider, and I step through the entrance to the flat. She peers down the hallway I came from, ensuring I wasn’t followed, and shuts the door behind me. Tension drains from her narrow shoulders, and her lips curve into a delighted grin. “You are doing well, Carmen,oui?”
“I am. And you?”
“As well as can be expected.”
We kiss each other’s cheeks and go into the tiny drawing room. Allaire is at the window, gazing down at the street I just travelled. The lace curtains are pushed aside barely an inch so he can check to see if I was tailed. Check without anyone being wise to his surveillance.
He nods at me and releases the curtains. Allaire and I sit at the small dining table while Élise goes to the kitchen to fetch us drinks, giving us a moment to talk business.
“How are things going?” Allaire asks in English, complete with his native Yorkshire accent.
“Please tell me we’re getting a wireless operator soon. It would save time when it comes to communicating with Baker Street.” Then the courier in my region would not have to make the frequent train trips to Paris, to deliver messages for Allaire’s operator to transmit to the Special Operations Executive’s headquarters in London.
“You need to recruit more couriers.”
I bristle at his non-reply to my operator concern, but I keep it from showing on my face. “I’m working on finding more couriers. But Baker Street does need to send us more operators.”
“I told them the network needs three more. They can’t train them fast enough to meet our demands.” The weight of his words looms heavy in the air.
Being a wireless operator tends to mean you have a low life expectancy. The Germans have become more skilled at flushing them out, and it’s certain death once an operator is caught.
“Can you also tell Baker Street to stop giving us the wrong count for how many packages they’re dropping?” I say. “We wasted two hours last week searching for a package that didn’t exist.”
Allaire winces. “Better they overestimate than underestimate.”
“Both mistakes put the reception committees at risk,” I remind him. “We don’t need to make it any easier for the Germans to stumble across our drop zones.”
He nods, clearly knowing I’m right. We’ve heard the rumour that the same error cost members of another reception party their lives. “All right, I’ll tell Baker Street to do a better job with their count. How are the reception committees doing?”
Élise returns to the drawing room, carrying two glasses of water. She sets them in front of her new husband and me and takes a seat at the table.
“They’re tired,” I tell Allaire. “Morale is taking a beating.”
He releases a sharp breath and clenches his hands together on the table, shoulders stiff. Being the leader of theCashmerenetwork hasn’t been easy, but the SOE’s Baker Street headquarters was sensible when they assigned him to the position. “We are all tired, Carmen. I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night.”
“Once this fucking bloody war is over, I’m sleeping for the next ten years.”
His mouth twitches. I am sure the smile has more to do with my use of a swear word than my plans for an extra-long nap once the war is over.
His mouth straightens, his face slipping into his previous sombre expression. “Baker Street wants you to recruit more safe houses. And they want more parachute drop zones and airplane landing strips in your region.”
“I’ll let my contact know, and we’ll coordinate our activities.”
We discuss several other dire topics that relate to Baker Street’s goal of ending the war. Ending the war and getting rid of the Jerries. Topics that are too difficult or cumbersome to relay via the usual method ofboîtes-aux-lettres,cut-outs, and couriers.
“Jolly good,” Allaire says once we’re finished. “Now, how about we take a stroll to the park? There is someone I want to introduce you to.” He nods at his wife, who speaks some English but not enough to follow most of our conversation. “He will be my second-in-command should I be summoned back to London for a short visit. And he might have some need of you at a future date should his regular girls be unable to assist him.”
I nod in understanding. His “regular girls” means I could be an escort or a spy or a contact person. Someone the Germans don’t suspect because I am a woman.
While I was in Allaire and Élise’s flat, the early afternoon sun slipped past the clouds and is providing a little warmth to the otherwise cold city.
We walk to the park. Allaire feigns a slight limp. The limp is to prevent questions as to why he isn’t in a German prison camp like the rest of the French men who tried to defend their country against occupation. The feigned limp also helps keep him from being deported to the Nazi work camps.
He and I easily slip into French as we walk. No one would suspect only moments ago, the leader of theCashmerenetwork and I were talking about Baker Street’s plans for the Bourgogne region. Now, we’re chatting about the recent theatre production he and Élise saw. No one would doubt that they are newlyweds. Her arm is wrapped around his, and they look utterly in love.
