‘I made the effort to learn. It comes in useful. When you are clinging beneath a railway carriage, trying to lay explosives without being seen, it is important to understand what the men searching for you are saying.’
‘You need to take more care,’ Sylvie said. Her blood chilled at the thought of what Felix described. She could imagine him in the darkness, teeth gritted and brow furrowed in determination.
‘I’m used to danger,’ Felix replied. ‘I’ve lost friends and allies, and I know what might happen if I am caught. Some things are worth taking risks for.’
‘I don’t consider rudeness to a woman one of them,’ Sylvie said.
He raised his head, chin jutting forward and a determined look in his eye. ‘It is a matter of principle.’
‘You sound like a knight talking of chivalry. I would not have taken you for a romantic.’ Sylvie gave a gentle laugh. But actually, having someone leap to her defence had felt unexpectedly good.
Felix sneered. ‘Those men who occupy the chateau now understand nothing of chivalry. The dukes of days long ago would not have tolerated them.’
Sylvie folded her arms, staring at him gravely. ‘I can live with an insult to my honour, such as it is, but I couldn’t live with knowing you had died as a result.’
Felix drew closer to her, moving slowly and carefully as if he expected her to run from him like a cat startled by a dog. ‘You would care if I was shot?’
There was more to that question than he was asking aloud. Sylvie took her time before answering. The fear that had shot through her when Felix had confronted Nikki had been surprisingly intense and urgent. She met him halfway across the room.
‘I would care if anyone dies as a result of something I had done,’ she answered, raising her head to look into his eyes. ‘You need to be alive to continue your fight. That’s the most important thing to both of us, don’t forget. What happened to minding your own business and ignoring small wrongs like you told me?’
Felix didn’t meet her eye.
‘I can gather my own apples,’ Sylvie said gently.
‘You’re right.’ There was a catch in his voice. ‘Let me do your button up. You need to be onstage soon – your audience will be waiting. After all, you need to continue with your mission to charm our German patrons, don’t you?’
Sylvie turned around to face the mirror. Felix stepped behind her and looped the button through the hole. His fingers were cool against Sylvie’s skin, and she gave a little shiver. Felix leaned closer to her, staring over her shoulder into the mirror to look at them both. He’d finished fastening the dress but didn’t take his hand away. His touch was electric; a surge strong enough to power lights. The delicate skin over Sylvie’s spine began to flare with heat. She met the eyes of his reflection. Raw desire burned in them.
‘I suppose you’re more used to undoing dresses than fastening them,’ she remarked.
His eyes flickered. ‘I think you have a lower opinion of me than I deserve, but I can do that too if you would like when tonight is finished.’
His hand began to drift from the buttons up the curve of Sylvie’s bare spine to the nape of her neck. She didn’t stop him. When had she last felt an attraction this powerful towards any man? Not since the early days of her affair with Dennis. Why the hell shouldn’t she allow herself to give into it a little?
Because she’d had enough of charming, easy-talking men.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not going to do that.’ She turned around to face him, realising how unconvincing her voice was. ‘Thank you for your help earlier, even though it was not asked for.’
He accepted the thanks with a nod. ‘We started off on the wrong foot, didn’t we?’
‘We started off on the right foot, then it went wrong when you accosted me and kissed me,’ she reminded him. ‘That was unnecessarily dramatic.’
‘I know, but the opportunity presented itself, and I’d wanted to do it since I first saw you walk through the door.’
Sylvie blinked in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, but I could hardly just say, “excuse me, Mademoiselle, may I kiss you?” could I?’
His voice was as rich as velvet. He stared into her eyes with a gaze that was steady and unblinking. A hard ball of desire was tightening in Sylvie’s stomach, overcoming her determination not to fall for another sweet-talker.
‘You might not have been punched if you had,’ she murmured.
Maybe his talk of chivalry had appealed to the romantic in her because she put her hands on his shoulders, drawing him a little closer, and stood on her tiptoes. She kissed the corner of his mouth, nothing more than a moth’s-wing touch. A trace of stubble scratched her lips, rough and enticing. His hands tightened around her body and he pulled her to him, mouth searching for hers.
The door handle rattled. Instantly, they jumped apart. When then the door opened and Emily came in, they were standing a little apart, Sylvie fiddling with the combs in the back of her hair and Felix standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the mirror and looking bored. Emily’s brows knotted as she looked from Sylvie to Felix. She couldn’t possibly suspect anything, but Sylvie felt as if everything they had briefly done was being replayed on the wall like a cinema reel.
‘Why are you backstage? Everyone is waiting,’ Emily said to Felix. ‘You need to come now. So do you, Sylvie.’
‘Thank you, little one,’ Felix said, patting her cheek as he ambled past her. Emily narrowed her eyes angrily.
Sylvie followed the pair of them out, not wanting to catch Emily’s hard stare. It was difficult enough seeing Emily’s sadness as she watched Céline and Felix together, and Sylvie didn’t want to be responsible for the poor girl knowing he preferred yet another dancer instead of her. Assuming, of course, that was why Emily was watching them. It seemed unlikely she was an informant for the milice, but Sylvie had to remind herself that spies were everywhere and she could put her trust in no one.
Chapter Seventeen
It took Sylvie over an hour to walk to Rue La Cholière. She’d have to see about getting a bicycle if she was going to be travelling around the city. Number 23 was a narrow house that reminded Sylvie of places Angelique had rented when she had been short of money. Outside was a two-wheeled cart laden with pots of paint and a tub of brushes and a sign proclaiming the owner to be M. Pauly, Paintre. The door was opened by an old woman dressed in an outfit that would have been fashionable thirty years before.
‘I’m here to visit Tante Louise,’ Sylvie said.
The woman gave a wide smile devoid of teeth and ushered Sylvie up to a top-floor room before disappearing. Inside, Marcel was playing cards with another woman. He was dressed in paint-spattered overalls and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The woman had blonde hair streaked with grey and was probably in her early forties. She reminded Sylvie of the girl who had passed the message on. They shared the same light-brown eyes and mild expression.
‘Thank you for joining me,’ Marcel said. ‘You had no trouble finding the house?’
‘None. I was careful to check I was not being followed. I doubled back once or twice and visited the small church at the bottom of the hill, then went the other way out of the churchyard.’
‘It’s wise to assume you’re being followed. We have a number of safe houses, but this one is by far the best. Madame Barbe – Louise – and her daughter Claire are resourceful and loyal.’
‘Do you mean the girl with the dog leash?’ Sylvie asked. ‘She was very clever to find me as she did rather than coming into the shop.’
Madame Barbe looked pleased. There was a knock at the door. Marcel reached beneath his chair and drew a pistol beneath the table. Sylvie tensed. Her hand went to the necklace and the hidden L-pill.
‘Come in,’ Louise called cautiously. The old woman appeared, carrying a tray with thin slices of cake and glasses of clear, brown liquid. Louise took it and ushered the old woman out with profusive thanks and assurances that they did not need anything else.
>
‘My mother-in-law,’ she explained in a voice that was little more than a whisper. ‘She has lived with us since my husband died in the first weeks of the war. I’ll go sit with Belle-mère,’ Louise said, smiling at Marcel. The look that passed between them was the purest form of love Sylvie had ever seen. A lump formed in her throat. No one had ever looked at her in that way. Once Louise had left the room, Sylvie caught his eye and he shrugged. His eyes were sad.
‘It can’t last, I know,’ he murmured in English.
He didn’t elaborate and Sylvie didn’t ask. There could be any number of reasons why he believed a relationship with Madame Barbe was doomed. It was unfair to leap to the conclusion that he had a wife and half a dozen children back in England, and even if that was true, it was not her place to judge. He had sounded genuinely sad, but she couldn’t help thinking how easy it was for men to find women who would ask no questions. She wondered how often the Englishman found the excuse to visit the safe house, and if Louise suspected he was an English agent not simply a French résistant.
‘Is there any chance I can get a bicycle somehow?’ Sylvie asked to clear the awkwardness.
‘I’ll see what we can do. Now, to why we’re here,’ Marcel said. ‘Britain informs us that a number of airmen have been shot down and Nantes is on the route being used for the time being to get them to safety. Our intention is to steal food stamps to give to them when they pass through.’
‘Won’t that leave families short?’ Sylvie asked.
Marcel took off his spectacles and cleaned them on his shirt front. ‘That can’t be helped, I’m afraid. We need the stamps and there is no other way of obtaining them.’
The long queues for stamps snaked around the town hall where French workers counted out and handed over stamps to the recipients under German supervision. Even if one of the workers was so inclined, there would be no opportunity for her to hand over more than was allocated.
‘We have a contact in the town hall who has told us everything we need to know about where the tickets are kept and how to gain entry. The Resistance will be carrying out a raid on Thursday night and simultaneously creating a diversion. Felix is the best marksman we have and will be covering the town hall from an advantageous building,’ Marcel explained.
There was no reason why Felix shouldn’t be good with a rifle, but it wasn’t something Sylvie associated with the musician. Imagining him as a sniper took some doing.
‘What do I have to do?’ Sylvie asked, eying the pistol that Marcel had placed on the table after the old woman had left. It felt like years since she had handled a gun, but in reality, it had only been weeks since the lessons in marksmanship. Marcel saw her looking and slipped the gun out of sight. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that she wouldn’t get to put her training to use in the field.
‘I will be waiting with others to receive the tokens when they have been obtained. We’ll split them and send them out to different locations around the city, along with decoy packages. You will need to be waiting outside your apartment at five in the morning to accept one of the genuine packages. Do you have somewhere safe to keep it hidden for a few days?’
‘Yes, I found somewhere that I don’t think—’
Marcel cut her off with a wave of the hand. ‘Don’t tell me. The less I know, the better. I trust you to take care of them. In a week or so, I will pay a visit to Mirabelle to give you further instructions,’ Marcel said. ‘It looks to me as if the paintwork needs touching up on the front windows and I’m cheap, so I’ll have an excuse to be there.’
‘I can’t argue with you about the paint,’ Sylvie said. ‘Does Monsieur Julien know who you are?’
‘He knows I am with the Resistance, but not that I am English. He never takes part in activities. Mirabelle has been a safe house on occasion and he lets us plant agents there. His brother is deeper into the organisation.’
‘The butcher?’ Sylvie asked.
Marcel smiled. ‘That would be quite an apt alias for Tomas. He’s had a reputation as a bottle-drunk fighter for years.’
The church bell pealed twelve.
‘I need to go,’ Marcel said. ‘I have a job for you now. Deliver this pile of magazines to the bookshop on Allée du Port Maillard and tell Monsieur Tombée, the owner, that Louise enjoyed them. Be careful not to change the order they are piled in. There is nothing concealed within the pages and no marks anywhere, but the order of the publications is the code itself.’
‘That’s very clever,’ Sylvie said. She picked up the piles and slipped them carefully into her bag, making sure not to accidentally rearrange them. ‘There is one more thing I should run past you. I have been invited to lunch this afternoon by the German I met – I mentioned him to you the other day.’ Her cheeks flushed a little. ‘I hope you don’t disapprove of me meeting him.’
Marcel looked thoughtful. ‘You said he works in the Department of Transportation?’
‘That’s right. He might not be a ranking officer himself, but he has friends who are officers in the Heer. An Unterwachtmeister and two Unteroffiziers. They might talk to him about their work.’
She said it more in hope than anything else. Marcel might think Dieter too poor a source and order her to focus her attention on attracting one of the others instead. She would have to grit her teeth to pretend to find Nikki appealing.
Marcel drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘London have asked us to try to discover the capacity for the submarine base at St Nazaire. We have put the word out to men in that area, but if he has any information on that, we’d use it. Otherwise, it is always useful to know the ins and outs of the rail network: when and where shipments are planned for. Continue cultivating him until there is a better target. I doubt it will cause problems for you working at Mirabelle to have an admirer. Yes, you can make your lunch date.’
‘Thank you. If I find out anything useful, I will let you know.’
He walked her to the door and grinned. ‘You should take advantage and make sure you eat well at your suitor’s expense. The German forces have commandeered almost all of France’s food for themselves. It’s your duty to claim some back for the French.’
Rue Allée du Port Maillard was close enough to the chateau that Sylvie had time to take the books on the way to meeting Dieter. A plump man with white, curly hair looked up from the volume he was reading and gave her an enquiring look over the top of a pair of small, wire-framed glasses.
‘Monsieur Tombée?’
‘Yes?’
Sylvie handed over the magazines. ‘These are for you. Tante Louise enjoyed them.’
The bookseller thumbed through the titles with an air of deep concentration, then looked up and beamed at Sylvie.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle. All is in order.’
Sylvie left the shop. She had no idea what message she had relayed and didn’t want to know. Presumably it had been good news, given the man’s smile. She glanced at her watch and walked faster. She would be on time if she hurried and hoped Marcel would make good on his promise to find her a bicycle.
There was a checkpoint at the square in front of the theatre. Sylvie waited in line to hand her papers over, the curdling feeling in her stomach growing stronger with each step she took towards the front of the queue. The checkpoint was not too busy. Good for ensuring she would be on time, not so good for slipping through without being questioned or having her bag searched. When the queues were greater, the sentries in charge of examining papers did not pay as much attention.
‘What is your purpose here today, fräulein?’
The sentry turned Sylvie’s identity paper over, examining it closely. She took a breath. There was always the worry simmering just beneath the surface that the forged papers would be spotted.
‘I am going to La Cigale. I am meeting a friend for lunch.’
‘Who is this friend?’
Sylvie gave Dieter’s name and rank, glad she has practised the tongue twisting syllables of the German tit
le. The sentry looked her up and down and wrinkled his nose disdainfully. He handed Sylvie’s paper back.
‘Proceed.’
Sylvie stepped through the checkpoint.
‘Whore!’
Sylvie stiffened and turned around.
The culprit was the middle-aged woman who had been in the line behind Sylvie. She had muttered the word loud enough for Sylvie, the guards and the other people queueing to hear. The woman sneered, sniffed and spat on the ground. A couple of bystanders murmured in support. Sylvie walked away, head down and cheeks burning with shame.
She arrived at the restaurant with time to stop around the corner and reapply her lipstick and smooth her hair. Her hand shook as she fumbled in her bag. She was apprehensive anyway, but the confrontation had shaken her more than she would have expected.
She might be making a terrible mistake. A chance meeting and walk was one matter, but this was a date, to use the American term. In the eyes of the French it put her firmly into the despised category of a collaborator, and she felt like one. Women who consorted with the enemy were the lowest of the low. In eyes of the woman in the queue, Sylvie thoroughly deserved the insult. Sylvie didn’t blame her for the contempt, but she wished there was a way of explaining that she had a purpose to fulfil. She pulled herself up straight. She had a job to do, and she doubled her resolve to find some useful information from Dieter.
Chapter Eighteen
La Cigale had the look of somewhere that had once been elite, with elaborate Art Nouveau styling inside and out. An immaculately dressed waiter showed Sylvie to a table for two against a mirrored wall where Dieter was waiting. When he saw Sylvie, his eyes lit up.
‘You look very beautiful.’
‘I would have worn something nicer if I had realised how fancy the restaurant would be,’ Sylvie said, gesturing down at her dusky pink dress.
She was out of place. Most tables were occupied by at least one man in Nazi uniform with a female companion. The women were dressed in understated outfits and subtle accessories that, nevertheless, screamed of money. It reminded Sylvie of the café where she had first met with Felix, and his cutting comments about women seeking patrons. Of the other female diners, how many of them were paying for their lunch with sex?
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