‘Sylvie makes a good point,’ Antoine said. ‘Her absence the other evening caused comment. If she is not dancing, people will wonder why.’
‘Do you think you could vomit on demand as you leave the stage?’ Felix asked, giving her a wicked grin. ‘That would convincingly explain your absence.’
She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.
‘We need a diversion of some sort,’ Marcel mused. Silence descended as they all considered the options. Henri rubbed his fingers across his cheeks, and something in his gesture ignited a memory in Sylvie.
‘Your cold cream with the plastic explosive! We can use that.’
‘You are not blowing up my club,’ Antoine exclaimed.
Sylvie waved a hand. ‘We’ll only use enough to cause a distraction. I can lay a fuse to the bollard at the near end of the alley. If I light it before I go onstage, I should have time to dance and leave the stage before it goes off.’
‘That could work,’ Marcel said. ‘Antoine, make sure everyone is evacuated into the street at the front. The more chaos, the better, because that way no one will notice who is or isn’t there.’
‘I’m sure I will manage admirably,’ Antoine said.
‘Once everyone evacuates, I will slip down the alleyway and trail Sylvie and Henri to the lorry,’ Felix suggested. ‘I’ll keep watch along the road to cover them leaving. If the Germans somehow discover what’s happening and give chase…’
He mimed shooting. Sylvie remembered that had been Felix’s role in the raid on the town hall and the factory sabotage. She bit her lip.
‘If you’re caught with a gun, they’ll shoot you,’ she cautioned.
He shrugged. ‘I know the risks just as you do. I can’t stand by and watch you risk your life. If it comes to it, I’ll turn my gun on myself rather than be taken.’
Sylvie felt for her necklace and rubbed her fingers over the cross. ‘I have my means of escape too.’
‘You won’t need them,’ Marcel said. ‘Everything will go well. Sylvie will get Henri to safety and come back within a week. Felix, do that. Now, everyone, time to leave.’
Felix was silent as he and Sylvie walked arm in arm. Just before going their separate ways, they kissed and Felix regarded her seriously.
‘What if Marcel is right and you should leave?’
‘You think I should go back to England?’ Her legs drained of blood.
‘My head says yes. My heart breaks at the thought. I picture you being captured and interrogated and my heart wants to explode from my body. You’ll be safer in England.’
Felix put his hand on her cheek. ‘We both know you’ll return home sooner or later. Maybe sooner is better before I fall even more in love with you and can’t bear to part ever.’
Sylvie couldn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say. He sounded distraught, as if loving her was the worst thing possible. He shook his head and walked away, waving an arm to ward her off. He loved her! She should be elated, but Felix was right to view it as a tragedy. The longer they spent together, the harder it would be to part.
Even though she had carried out numerous after-hours activities, no evening since Sylvie had arrived at Mirabelle had felt so significant as this one. All the preparations were in place. The fuse was laid along the alleyway to the bollard where the plastic explosive was stuck. Her snakeskin bag containing a fresh blouse and pair of knickers was ready under her stool to snatch up when the time came to leave, and she had worn a sensible skirt and flat shoes to the club, which would aid her flight.
She and Felix had avoided speaking alone, a sense of awkwardness between them creating a barrier. She should have told him she loved him back. He must have taken her silence for reluctance. They passed the bread too politely and sat either side of Estelle as they ate so they didn’t have to make eye contact. She would have to deal with that when she came back from Angoulême. All she had to do for now was dance as usual.
As the first number of the evening started, Sylvie plastered on a smile and followed Estelle onto the stage. She scanned the audience for familiar faces. Nikki was in the front row as before, and she hid her distaste. With a jolt, she saw Dieter was sitting at a table at the back on his own, making his way through a bottle of wine.
Sylvie faltered, causing Estelle’s hand to become tangled in the end of Sylvie’s red silk scarf.
‘Concentrate,’ Estelle hissed, shaking her hand free.
Sylvie murmured an apology and let her eyes glaze so that the audience became a blur. As soon as the dance ended, Dieter left his table and began to make his way forwards. Sylvie met him halfway.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he slurred.
He was drunk.
‘I asked you not to come here,’ Sylvie said. ‘Does Nikki know you are here?’
‘Nikki’s here? I didn’t know. I must talk to you.’
Sylvie glanced towards Antoine. ‘I have to be onstage again soon. Please let me ask permission first. Wait outside.’
By the time she reached Antoine at the bar, Felix was already there.
‘Why is Baumann here?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to speak to him. I can’t risk a scene.’ She screwed up the end of her scarf in frustration.
‘Be quick,’ Felix said. ‘I’ll go warn Henri that things aren’t going according to plan.’
Sylvie turned to go, but he caught her by the wrist. His expression made her insides melt.
‘If you need me, call my name.’
Dieter was leaning against the bollard in the alleyway. Sylvie tried not to look at the waxy green substance at the base and the line of fuse trailing away.
‘What do you want, Dieter?’
‘You came.’ He walked unsteadily towards her. She walked up the street, guessing correctly that he would follow.
‘I can’t stop thinking about everything you accused me of.’ He shook his head. ‘I believed in it, all of it. I believed in what I was doing.’
‘Believed in what?’ Sylvie asked.
‘In Germany. In the Führer.’
His face creased in horror, as if he was unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth.
‘I grew up in a country where my people were shamed and desperate, then the Führer came and promised us a new beginning. A greater Germany. My parents’ faces wore hope for the first time. My brother was four years older than me. He was the first boy in my town to join the Hitler Youth. He truly believed.’
His eyes shone, but Sylvie was aghast to see a film of tears. ‘Why are you telling me this? It won’t change my mind.’
‘My brother died on the fifteenth of May, shot down near Guernsey. I received a letter from my mutti today.’ Dieter’s face crumpled. ‘What better world is there for my brother? His son will grow up fatherless, his wife without a husband to care for her.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Sylvie put her hand on his arm.
He looked at her bleakly. ‘Sorry for the death of a German? An enemy who has conquered your country?’
‘For the loss of your brother,’ Sylvie replied. ‘For the grief it has brought to you.’
She looked at him; a broken man. How awful it must be to lose a brother, and how tragic that it took only such a personal pain for him to question the war.
‘Why did you come to me?’ she asked gently.
‘Because my feelings haven’t changed. I love you. Perhaps even more now than ever before. You said things to me nobody else has. You were very foolish to speak to me like that, but brave. You are a woman in a thousand, Sylvie.’
‘But I’m still not the woman for you.’ She removed her hand. ‘I must get back. Please go home. Don’t drink any more.’
‘I think you are right, I should leave now.’ He leaned forward and brushed his lips over her cheek. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Fräulein Duchene.’
He walked away.
Once he was out of sight, Sylvie ran inside. She collided with someone who was leaving. Nikki. He curled a lip then pushed past
her. Sylvie ran into the changing room. Someone had left a box of matches on top of her bag. She lit the fuse and lowered it out of the window, watching as the tiny red glow made its way along. She had eight minutes before it reached the bollard. Eight minutes more to dance.
She adjusted her scarf around her neck and made her way through the curtains. A couple of men in the audience whistled and she flashed them smiles without bothering to register their faces. She kept her eyes fixed on Felix as she crossed to the stage. She clicked her fingers and Felix began to play the introductory bars.
Six minutes.
As she had on the very first afternoon, Sylvie danced her way over to the piano, rolling her hips and shimmying. Felix slowed the tempo a little and stood, leaning over the piano towards her. She slowly slid the scarf from around her neck and held it at arm’s length before dropping it on the floor to a barrage of appreciative whistles. She heard them, but she danced as if he was the only man in the room.
Three minutes.
As the music reached a crescendo, Sylvie strutted and swayed back to the centre of the stage for a final kick and flourish ending in a deep bow. She was rewarded with cheers and thunderous applause.
Two minutes.
Her breath froze in her throat. Dieter was back. He stood by the door, his face a picture of misery. She had never meant for him to witness it. There was no way anyone watching could believe that she and Felix had never made love.
She picked up the scarf and ran off the stage and through the curtains. Henri was waiting in the changing rooms. He rose as Sylvie tore off her heeled shoes and threw them in the corner.
‘Are you ready?’
She wriggled out of her dress and pulled on a sensible skirt and blouse.
One minute.
‘What did you do out there? I’ve never heard the audience like it,’ Henri asked.
‘Later,’ she answered, tying her shoelaces.
She picked up her bag and jammed a felt hat down over her hair as best she could. The scarf was lying with her discarded dress. The night might be cold. She picked it up and wrapped it around her throat.
‘Let’s go.’
There was a loud explosion and hell broke loose.
The blast was louder than Sylvie had expected. For a moment she could hear nothing, then a high-pitched ringing began in her ears, which faded into screaming and shouting from outside. She blinked and came to her senses.
‘Quickly, this way.’
She threw her bag over her shoulder, grabbed Henri’s travelling case in her free hand and pushed open the door into the alley. Antoine had cleared the larger piles of rubbish, but there was new debris underfoot from the blast. Henri followed her out, lurching as he tried to place his walking stick. Every step he took was accompanied by a grunt of discomfort.
They moved in almost total darkness, the tall buildings blocking the moonlight. Surely the alley was not this long in the daytime? From behind them, at the other end of the alley, came voices mingling. Sylvie heard Céline’s voice raised in exasperation. Antoine had done a good job of ushering everyone into the street.
Sylvie and Henri emerged into the street behind the club where they could move quicker.
‘Not far now,’ Sylvie whispered.
‘Fräulein Duchene!’
Sylvie froze.
Not him. Not now.
She turned around slowly, hoping to brazen it out. ‘Dieter, what are you doing here?’
He stood at the end of the alley, partly hidden in shadows.
‘I realised I had left my gloves on the table. I came back and saw you dance. I saw how you danced. You told me there was no other man, but after I saw you with the pianist, I knew you lied.’
He looked past Sylvie to Henri.
‘I looked for you in the street after the explosion. You did not appear, so I went into the changing room and found the open door to the alley. Now I find you leaving with a suitcase. Both of you, move into the light.’
Sylvie shot Henri a despairing look as they obeyed. Dieter raised his brows.
‘Who is this?’
‘My cousin,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’m taking him to my aunt’s house.’
It sounded feeble as she said it.
‘Another cousin? I don’t think so, Fräulein Duchene.’ Dieter drew his revolver. ‘A British spy who disappeared was last seen travelling in this direction four days ago. His description matches your “cousin”.’
Sylvie and Henri exchanged glances.
‘Are you with the Resistance?’ Dieter looked stricken. ‘How could I have been so stupid! All the time you spent with me was a lie. You were taking what I said back to pass on to the enemy.’
The sense of betrayal in his voice was gut-wrenching.
‘There was nothing you told me that I could use against you,’ Sylvie said.
‘So I was even useless as a target.’ Dieter gave a bitter laugh.
Behind him, a figure appeared in the shadows. Felix had followed as promised. She didn’t dare look at him, in case she gave his presence away. Didn’t dare show relief. His gun was raised, levelled at Dieter’s head. Dieter didn’t realise he was in danger.
‘I should arrest you.’
‘Yes, you should.’ Sylvie’s lips shook. She clamped them shut.
The pistol in Dieter’s hand wavered. He raised it a little higher, pointing it at her heart.
‘They’ll torture you.’
‘Yes, they will.’ She took a step towards him, wondering if she could get close enough to attempt to disarm him before Felix shot him.
‘I order you to stand still!’
Sylvie raised her hands and obeyed. Dieter’s eyes were fixed on her, full of anger.
‘If I condemned you to that, I could not live with myself.’
‘Then let me go.’ She edged closer to him, sick to her stomach with terror, and held her hands out imploringly. The pistol remained pointed at her chest.
‘If I do that, I am betraying my country.’
‘Then shoot me yourself,’ Sylvie said. At least that death would be quicker and less painful. ‘You’ll have killed a member of the Resistance and be a hero like your brother.’
Dieter gave a sob of anguish. That might be the key. She held her hands out to him.
‘Tonight, when you talked about your brother, you bared your soul. Don’t let there be more deaths in this war. Walk away and forget you saw me.’
His eyes met hers.
‘Please.’
‘Go,’ he whispered.
Sylvie didn’t move, not daring to believe she had heard correctly.
‘Now!’
He jerked the pistol upwards towards her, and two shots rang out.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dieter jerked forward and slumped to his knees, the pistol falling beside him.
He had not fired at her.
He fell onto his front.
Crying his name, Sylvie ran to where he lay and dropped to her knees to roll him over. In the moonlight, she could see blood blooming across his chest like roses. He mouthed something she couldn’t hear.
‘Lie still,’ she told him. She put her hand over the wound but the gushing was already becoming weaker. Dieter’s mouth went slack and his eyes rolled back. Sylvie sobbed. Felix appeared beside her, lifting her upright, holding her close. She rounded on him, eyes burning, but he shook his head.
‘It wasn’t me.’
There had been two shots in quick succession. The ‘Double Tap’ signature of SOE. Marcel stepped out of a doorway, revolver in hand.
‘Sylvie, you have to leave. People will have heard the shot.’
‘You didn’t have to shoot him. He was going to let us leave.’
‘He raised his pistol.’
Marcel must have seen Dieter gesturing towards her with the gun as she had backed away. But only Sylvie was able to hear Dieter’s words and see his expression.
‘He was a dead man the moment he saw you and Henri,’ Marcel said.
&nb
sp; Sylvie’s eyes blurred. ‘What will you do? You can’t leave him here.’
Marcel regarded the corpse. ‘If he disappears, there will be questions.’
Felix ran his hands through his hair. ‘Leaving him here will lead to questions too. Whatever we do, his friends will tell the authorities he spent time here.’
He touched Sylvie’s arm. ‘They’ll come for you, Sylvie.’
Sylvie grew cold. The situation was desperate. A dead officer couldn’t be left in the street, but people could not just disappear. Not Germans, at any rate. A woman could though. A couple could. She looked at the waiting truck that Henri was hobbling towards. The thought of sharing it with a corpse was stomach churning, but this was no ordinary corpse; this was Dieter.
‘We’ll take him with us. Somewhere along the way there will be the opportunity to…’ To what? Not bury him? Whatever means they found, Dieter would not receive a dignified ceremony.
‘When Dieter’s absence is noticed, the authorities will search, but I’ll be missing too. People will assume we ran away together.’
Marcel nodded. ‘It might work. We’ll get in first. I’ll tell Antoine to report your disappearance to the gendarmerie at first light. He must accuse Baumann of playing a part in your disappearance. Everyone knows you had been in a complicated affair. Enough people saw you together this evening.’
‘But it will only work for a day or two. When you come back without him, you’ll be arrested,’ Felix pointed out.
Sylvie met Marcel’s eyes. She had worked out the implications before Felix. She lowered her head. This was the part of the plan that tore her heart to pieces.
‘I can’t come back. I’ll have to return to England with Henri.’
‘No!’ Felix reeled as if he too had been shot.
Seeing his reaction, Sylvie willed herself not to cry. ‘I’ve been compromised. I bungled everything with Dieter from the start, and this situation is my fault. I let him grow too close. I got too involved.’
‘You did what you had to do,’ Marcel said.
His absolution didn’t make her feel any better.
‘If I come back, the Abwehr, or worse, the Gestapo, will come for me. I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to withstand questioning. I’d put everyone else in danger. It’s the only way, isn’t it, Marcel?’
The Secret Agent Page 29
