“My heavens no, Mr. Lemmon. I’ve independent means so am lucky enough to enjoy myself here on my own schedule. But I do know certain people who have interest in furthering closer relations with your government, and I thought you might help me put them together with the right contacts in Vichy.”
Ed found himself in very uncomfortable territory. He knew his German didn’t approach Ryan’s degree of native fluency and he feared expressing either too much or too little by choosing the wrong words. “I’m not sure I can be of help, sir. My line of work isn’t quite at that diplomatic level.”
“Please hear me out, Mr. Lemmon. We can be candid in this pleasant setting free of eavesdroppers.”
Ed nodded and took another sip of wine, casting a glance toward the kitchen to be certain Claude and his wife hadn’t moved.
“Would you concur that your American ‘neutrality’ in the European conflict will be short-lived?”
“Off the record, I’m certain that’s true. We’ve reached the limits of what we can do as ‘neutrals’ and we certainly won’t permit Great Britain to fall to the Reich. After all, Canada’s our own backyard.”
“Then we’re on the same page, Mr. Lemmon. The people I represent want nothing more than an end to these hostilities, an honorable end. And we feel the way to accomplish this is to hold quiet meetings between the Americans and like-minded Germans who wish to avoid further discord between our nations. Please note that I don’t say “our governments.” Governments come and go—just look at what our dear hosts the French now have to deal with! But nations abide, and we have a great hope to reestablish some semblance of a League of Nations but this time with American participation and a just and equitable conclusion to this war.”
Ed was at a loss for words. If he caught the German correctly, this man was opening a backdoor into negotiations with powerful Germans interested in undermining Hitler. But was this an honest feeler or a dangerous trap? My God, Ed realized, speaking of leagues, am I ever out of my own!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paris, Occupied France
19 August 1941
Argent turned sideways on the bench to face Marita, keeping her hand in his. They’d chosen a spot just above a riding path, almost invisible to strolling park visitors and the occasional equestrians in German uniform. The morning was passing far too quickly, and he had duties he must attend to. But he would make this stolen moment in the Bois de Boulogne last as long he could.
“You’re unusually quiet, darling.” She watched him expectantly. Despite the heat, the shade from hornbeam and chestnut trees made their quiet rendezvous spot ideal.
For months he had wondered why she had taken him as a lover but had been hesitant to ask. She was at least seven years his senior, and he felt somewhat in awe of this experienced and worldly woman. He knew she despised Germans for the brutal loss of her family—she had made that very clear, something he could certainly understand. But gradually a mutual trust had developed as she recognized his desire to help end an ill-considered, unjust war, and she worked diligently at his side to weaken the Nazi-driven effort. His willingness to help her cause must surely have touched her, but it certainly didn’t explain the relationship which had become so much more to them both. “So why did you choose me?”
She smiled as she traced each of his long, slender fingers with one of her own. “Did you ever want to play piano?”
“Not exactly getting to my question, are you?” He lifted her hand to his lips.
“Isn’t it enough to say I find you incredibly handsome?”
“Not even close. I find you incredibly beautiful, too, but I’m German—”
“And part-English, don’t forget!”
“But German-born and -raised, and yet you chose to love me despite your hatred for my country and people.”
Marita turned away, and when she looked back at him any momentary darkness had passed. Her words came slowly, each sentence carefully framed, as if revealing even fleeting emotion might unleash a great wave of sorrow. “It’s true, when your countrymen slaughtered innocent refugees, civilians in trains and on foot who wanted nothing more than to escape your horrible war, I despised every one of you. I lived and breathed that hatred, and was determined to fight you any way I could—” She raised a hand to fend off his interruption. “Let me finish.”
“So when you first showed up at the club and made clear you wanted to know me better, I saw you as just another one of them, one of those murderers who impress with their polite manners, all the while planning to destroy the lives of any who cross them. So I intended to milk you of any secrets which could lead to your…” she sought the right way to express it, “…to your country’s downfall. And while I did find you very handsome, I never intended to share my bed with you.”
Argent grinned but said nothing, happy to have her finally open up to him. He squeezed her hand in encouragement.
“But as we sat and talked, and I learned more of your life and your thoughts, I came to understand that there must be others like you, other Germans who found themselves trapped in a totalitarian system without control of their lives. Helpless in the face of such overwhelming hatred and cruelty, they were doing their best to bring a glimmer of hope for a better future. And that’s what I saw in you.”
“And that’s it? That’s why you chose me?” He furrowed his brow, still confused by her motives.
“That, and because of your sister Dorothea, and what her loss meant to you.” The warmth in her eyes expressed more understanding than any words she might say. “You see, mon amour, “I loved my dear sister Marie every bit as much. We were more than sisters, we were practically twins—even our names mirrored how close we were. She and I shared life’s secrets, we stole away from our disapproving parents to dance on the stage, and we built the club together, always knowing we had each other to count on, even if the world didn’t agree. So when you told me of your sister…of what became of her…I knew you were a man of compassion and caring, one of the few I have met, and I wanted to share all of me with you.”
He bent close to kiss her, one hand on her cheek in affection and understanding.
Ed’s superiors were not thrilled with the proposal floated by Rolf von Haldheim. A possible peace feeler from some disenchanted German military bigwigs threatened to upset America’s careful balancing act. After modest preliminary investigation, the embassy attaché dealing with such matters determined that von Haldheim was indeed operating at some unknown level within the Abwehr, but the Foreign Service already considered itself on tenuous ground as representatives of a neutral country in Vichy France. There was zero interest in going out on a limb for a matter best left to the new operatives of the COI.
“Look, Lemmon. We think it best you stick to your own field and proceed with negotiating those exchanges in Paris. That work better suits your talents and your assignment.” His immediate boss shot him a stern glance over his reading glasses. “Keep your nose out of espionage and undercover negotiations of any kind and we’ll get along just fine.”
“Yes, sir.” Ed regretted having even brought up the matter. “My feelings exactly.”
“Your brother, the one with COI, is he still here in the Frog Pond?”
“Yes, sir. Returning to Paris shortly, I expect.”
“Then hand this hot potato off to him. You say he has old ties to this von Haldheim anyway, so let the two of them work it out.” He waved off Edward, swiveling his leather chair to face the window and reaching for his phone. “And by the way—”
“Yes, sir?”
“If all this goes sideways, let it be on “Wild Bill’s” shoulders, not ours, right?”
Edward nodded to the back of his boss’s head and left the office. He would wait for Ryan to pick up the contact again in Paris.
CHAPTER NINE
Morlanne, Occupied France
19 August 1941
Leo pumped the red handle, filled the blackened pot, and set it on the stove without spilling a drop of wa
ter. The metal door to the firebox creaked as he added kindling and two lengths of firewood before clanging it shut to prevent smoke from entering the room. It was exactly as Grand-mère had taught him. He pulled aside the chintz curtains to let in the first rays of sun and looked out at the fields below. It would be warm and clear, ideal for his needs.
He took a moment to scratch Musette between the ears before she abandoned the window sill. The cat purred contentedly and nudged his hand, then jumped down and ran to the door, stretching both paws up against it. He knew she was through with indoors and wanted to spend the day exploring and keeping mice at bay. He slid open the latch and followed on the heels of the tabby, quietly shutting the door behind them. The cat nearly tripped him as she threaded through his feet and rubbed against his ankles. Then she spied something in the tall grasses and disappeared in a flash down the garden path.
The boy followed the gravel path to the animal pens, brushing his hand along the top of the flower stalks in Grand-mère Jeanne’s garden. He tried to match them to the German equivalents she had taught him. Leo didn’t care for the marigolds, preferring the colorful roses blooming along the rail fence at the edge of the garden. He knew these were also his grandmother’s favorites.
The goose pen was the first of his morning tasks. Leo greeted the birds with a click of his tongue as he had learned, and the flock gathered to follow him to the lower gate. He released them to the pond, and they quickly waddled away and took to the water. He left the gate open behind him.
Next Leo went to the stall and greeted the pig. Grand-mère had told him only yesterday that the sow was expecting piglets, and she hoped the old girl would be healthy enough to have the babies, since her diet was as meager as theirs. He patted her on the snout, ignoring the stench of excrement which surrounded her. “Good girl, Solange, be a good maman.” The pig looked in vain for the feed bucket, and Leo, noting her consternation, quickly ran back up to the kitchen to fetch the scraps from last night’s dinner. He left the sow slurping at the trough, took special care to leave the pen gate open behind him, and headed over to the rabbit cage alongside the stone barn.
Leo knew what his grandmother had christened the two rabbits, but refused to address them by name. When his family had first arrived at the farm—back when Cousin Brigitte still lived—the young farmhand Louis had taken Leo to visit the bunnies.
“And which one’s your favorite, kid?” The surly teenager had told Leo from the start that he would rather be off fighting Germans than teaching Boches how to farm. Louis had never repeated that comment in front of the adults, but Leo had told his uncle and mother later.
Leo had regarded the fluffy young rabbits, some a patchwork of colors, others all gray or brown. He’d never touched a farm animal before, and he took them in his hands to examine, one by one. Their whiskers tickled as he held each close to his cheek. It was a difficult decision, but finally he chose the smallest with the longest ears, “the runt,” as Louis called him.
“You must name him,” the hired hand said.
“Then he’s Michel,” Leo decided immediately. His best friend during their stay in Lyon had been Michel, and Leo still missed the fun they’d had together before Maman announced they would leave again—as always in the dark of night, always without good-byes. Leo took the little male from the cage again and cuddled him, rubbing the soft fur against his face as the bunny’s nose twitched inquisitively.
“You’re sure he’s the one?”
“Oh, yes, he’s my favorite.”
“Very well—decision made.” Louis grabbed the little rabbit by the scruff and held him up to examine. “Scrawny little twerp.” In one motion he lifted a cleaver imbedded in the post beside the cage, pinned the squirming rabbit to the wooden shelf and with a single chop removed the animal’s head. He handed Leo the twitching body.
“No!” screamed Leo. Horror shook the child while the farmhand laughed.
“Go on, now, city boy, up to the house. Skin it for dinner, or else starve—your choice—I don’t give a damn.”
Instead, barely able to see through his tears, Leo stumbled down to the creek, scratching his face on the brambles along the way but not caring. He dug a small depression in the soft loam beside the streambed and laid the headless rabbit to rest. “I’m really sorry, Michel. I never meant it,” his words disappearing in the sobs. And Leo had never again used the names given to rabbits in the pen.
Now he set the husky buck in the tall grass and reached for the smaller doe, taking a brief moment to stroke her fur before placing her beside her partner. “Shoo! Get going, both of you!” he said, and stomped a foot, trying to scare them away. They looked up in apparent disbelief at both the shouts and the unexpected freedom before slowly hopping off to nibble carrot tops up in the garden beyond the rose bushes. Leo wiped his eyes and headed toward the chicken coop.
The hens already announced the first eggs. The cock had been crowing repeatedly for some time now, but the angry old bird didn’t deserve Leo’s glance. He had never taken to the rooster who repeatedly interfered with the egg gathering. His beak was sharp, and Leo didn’t trust those talons. As always, the hens squawked upon his arrival, and the cock gave him a menacing look but kept his distance. Most of the fowl scattered, but he had to lift two hens from their laying boxes to get at the fresh eggs. He gathered five—fewer had been coming lately—and lowered each brown egg carefully into the pocket of his shorts. Again, he left the door to the enclosure standing wide open.
He looked down across the farmyard to the lower pasture. Monsieur LeBlanc would have to look after the old cow when he made his daily visit to the fields he tended. Her milk had dried up, as Grand-mère Jeanne had complained only the day before. For the moment the cow grazed contentedly. He felt he had done his best.
Back in the kitchen half the water had boiled away, and he knew this was wasteful. He lowered the eggs gently into the roiling water and glanced at the old wall clock. Maman always said the best eggs are cooked no longer than five minutes. While waiting, he removed his jacket from the peg above his cot and stuffed it into the small canvas rucksack he used whenever they moved. He checked for his pocket knife and the carefully-folded map along with the compass he had taken from the abandoned house across the road.
Leo and two playmates from the LeBlanc farm had snuck over one evening. The big house was obviously vacant, and older kids had already broken windows and scattered furnishings everywhere. They’d also written on the walls—nasty things. Maman had told him the place belonged to a Jewish family that had never returned from Paris when the war came. “A summer house,” she said. Leo had found the compass in its polished brass case and decided it deserved a good, year-round home. Uncle René had shown him how to use it, setting the compass atop the map and explaining east and west, north and south. Leo learned quickly, and had already explored the surrounding woods. “A young Wild West scout,” said Uncle René. Surprisingly, his uncle had never even asked how he came by the compass.
While the eggs boiled Leo opened the case and pivoted the piece to watch the needle track north, then carefully snapped it shut before returning it to his pack. He lifted the hardboiled eggs from the water one by one and set them on the counter to cool. He took a small square of waxed paper to enclose a spoonful of salt, and uncovered the strong-smelling cheese, wrapping a large slice in waxed paper, as well. Finally, he packed the half-loaf of yesterday’s bread. Once he was sure the eggs were sufficiently cooled, he rolled them into a dishtowel and his rucksack was full. He would eat well enough, at least for a day or two.
Leo knew it was time to go. As a last-minute thought he reached for the pruners in the woven basket by the door and brought up three roses from the lower end of the garden, being careful to remove the thorns. He knew the peach-colored ones were her favorites. He tiptoed into Grandmother Jeanne’s room. She lay on the bed, eyes shut, hands now folded at her chest. He would miss her hugs. Her white hair spread out across the pillow, gleaming silver in the morning
light. He gently lifted her hands to slide the flowers beneath and stretched over to kiss her forehead, now cool to the touch.
Leo had seen death before, of course. At first it had frightened and saddened him. But that was when he was little, the first time with the bunnies. Now he was a country boy, after all, and almost seven. It was time to head north to find his mother and his uncle. The farm would have to fend for itself, but at least the animals now ran free.
The rooster crowed as the boy entered the woods. Leo glanced back but kept on walking. Musette followed him to the edge of the trees, then thought better of it and raced back up the path toward the quiet house.
CHAPTER TEN
Gascony, Occupied France
19 August 1941
The ride down from the hills had been a change of pace for Ryan, so different from the beautiful horses and breathtaking Irish countryside he’d remembered from when he’d led the Wellesley girls on a Grand Tour in 1929. He’d cut a fine figure of a horseman in his riding jacket and jodhpurs and a natty Trilby on his head. And the riding tack had been of superior Irish leather and craftsmanship. This young woman’s horses were of significantly lesser vigor and beauty, for the Waffen-SS had repeatedly confiscated the region’s best, leaving only decrepit or ailing work animals to carry the farming load. And in this one particular case, to transport partisans out of harm’s way.
Beyond the planted fields she chose a well-worn deer and boar trail cutting through dense woodland and the occasional meadow. As first light brightened the sky, Ryan got a better view of his companion. She rode with her head high, her dress hitched up over her legs, revealing shapely thighs. From time to time they would cross open pasture and speed the pace, increasing the bounce of her breasts beneath the summer dress. She had stuffed her hair under the broad-brimmed hat and tied it with a lavender ribbon, and the small valise bobbed at the back of her saddle. Ryan was finding this strangely-distant woman increasingly enigmatic yet attractive.
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