‘You do that. I’m busy right now, so must get on.’
‘Of course.’
She hung up.
Martel was all right. Relief hunched in a knot under her breastbone and she walked over to one of the tall windows to stare up at the sky, a sheet of intense blue stretched so tight over the city that it looked as though it might split. Beneath it, the ash-grey roofs rippled in the heat haze. She longed to be up there, flying away from all this.
Her few words with Martel had prepared her. He was telling her that there would be a meeting tonight. Usual time, usual place.
But she must be alert for trouble.
Whatever was going on at the airfield did not sound good.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Romy waited another hour. Only then did a key turn in the lock, but it wasn’t Florence. There was the sound of childish chatter and Chloé flew into the room and into her arms. It was as though a hand had reached out and dragged down the black curtains that were keeping the sunlight from her day. Romy breathed in the warm young scent of her niece and bestowed kisses on her sweet-tasting rosy cheeks. The Breton nanny, who stood quietly in the doorway with a shy smile, left them to play alone. They made aeroplanes out of sheets of paper and sent them swooping up to the ceiling with shouts of ‘Contact’ and ‘Chocks away’, while Chloé scampered over the chairs, stretching her arms to catch the planes. Romy loved watching her determination, her fearlessness of mind and body.
The game came to an abrupt halt when Chloé snatched one of the white darts out of the air and crumpled it into a ball. She stared at the destruction in her hand, her soft young fingers wrapped around it.
‘Tante Romy, there is a boy in my class called Daniel. The other boys tease him. He is Jewish. They say all Jews in Germany are kept in cages.’
The laughter in Romy curled up and died.
‘No, Chloé, that is not true, ma chérie. Of course they’re not kept in cages. Jews in Germany are having a difficult time, but there are no cages. I promise you.’
Citizenship revoked, yes. Political rights denied, yes. Excluded from all professions and their businesses shut down, yes. Windows smashed. Family spat on. Beaten up. Imprisoned for any sexual relations with Aryans. Yes. Yes. Treated as lower than animals with tainted blood. But no cages. Not yet.
The child was upset. Bewildered by a glimpse of an adult world that showed no mercy. Her hand tightened around the paper plane. ‘They say Jews are not allowed to fly aeroplanes in Germany. That is merde.’
Romy let the swear word slip past. Had Chloé picked it up from her? So she went over, knelt on the floor and drew Chloé gently on to her lap, looping her arms around the child.
‘It is wrong for people to do things like that to another human being, Chloé.’ She kissed the hot little head as it leaned against her collarbone. ‘And each one of us has to stand up against bullies. So make sure you show Daniel that you are his friend, even when—’
A sound reached them. It was the front door of the apartment closing. Footsteps approached across the tiled hall, but they were not her sister’s.
‘Romaine! What the hell are you doing here?’ It was Roland.
He looked hot. Irritated. His black hair gleaming. His white shirt clammy on him. To Romy he seemed out of place in this calm and elegant room, but probably no more than she did.
‘I am waiting for Florence,’ she said.
‘Wasn’t last night enough for you? Leave her alone.’
‘I need to speak with her.’
Roland made a show of looking around the room as though his wife might be hiding somewhere. The implication made Romy’s cheeks redden.
‘No,’ Roland stated flatly. ‘She’s not here.’ His voice remained polite. ‘Goodbye, Romaine. I’ll tell her you called.’ He held out a hand to his daughter. ‘Come here, Chloé.’
She scampered across to him. As he bent to kiss her young cheek his gaze held Romy’s. He had stolen the child from her and there was a flicker of triumph in his eyes. It was rare for Romy to be in Roland’s company without Florence present. She couldn’t remember the last time. It was something they both avoided. She stood up and stepped closer to him until only a couple of metres of richly polished parquet floor separated them.
‘I need to ask you a question,’ she said.
‘Is it really necessary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep it brief.’
Chloé’s curious eyes latched on to her father.
Romy kept her voice light and easy. ‘Why is Horst Baumeister so interested in me?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ Roland gave a sharp snort of what was meant to be amusement. ‘Maybe he has odd taste in women.’
Romy ignored the insult. ‘Why are Müller and Horst here?’
‘Don’t be dense, Romaine. Florence told you. This is a critical time for our Prime Minister Daladier and his Socialist government. He is fighting to maintain peace and to curb Germany’s inroads into Czechoslovakia, even though the Sudetenland is inhabited mainly by ethnic German speakers. For God’s sake, it was part of Austria until the Versailles Treaty stole it from the Germans and gave it to Czechoslovakia. It rightly belongs to Germany.’
‘As do the Rhineland and Austria?’
‘Exactly. Which is why Hitler has annexed them. Baumeister and Müller are here as part of a delegation from Germany to—’
‘To negotiate. Yes, so Florence said. But why are they really here?’
‘Are you accusing me of lying?’
Chloé’s round eyes leaped to Romy’s face.
Romy smiled quickly at the child, smothering any sign of anger. ‘Roland, do you speak German?’
His eyes narrowed, suddenly watchful. ‘Yes, of course I do. And English. I studied Classics at both Cambridge University and Heidelberg University. What of it?’
‘Did you ever speak German to my father?’
‘Don’t be absurd. Of course not. Why would I?’
He opened the door of the salon for her, still gripping his daughter’s small hand.
‘Au revoir, Romaine. I will inform Florence that you were here.’
She stood her ground. ‘Did you see anybody, Roland? That day. In my father’s study.’
A sound of impatience escaped him. ‘I gave evidence on oath in court. You were there. So you know I saw no one. Enough of this nonsense.’
He turned away from her and she walked across the hall to the front door of the apartment but when she reached it she found Chloé at her heels.
‘I’ll see you on Sunday as usual, chérie,’ she said as she embraced her and then disentangled herself from the child’s arms.
Roland stood watching them in silence.
Once in the lift with the Lalique lamps and the muted whirr of the mechanics, Romy thought about her brother-in-law’s stern face. They were bound to each other, Roland and herself, by a thin thread that neither could break.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FLORENCE
I enter the apartment. Kick off my shoes. At once I can sense her. Not in person. But in the air, something faint and distant, a wisp of her breath. I can smell her as surely as I can smell my own skin.
Romaine. What were you doing in my home?
My first thought is for Chloé. But I check her room and all is well. My daughter is safe in bed. It is always my fear. That one day my sister will take her.
Quietly I open the door to the salon and find my husband waiting with his back to me. He is in front of the fire screen, both hands gripping the edge of the high mantelpiece, so hard that his large knuckles stand out like white pebble-stones. Tucked up beside the gilt curlicues of the clock sits a cut-glass whisky tumbler. It is half empty.
Or half full. Depending on your viewpoint.
To me it is half empty. I go to him. From behind, I wrap my arms around his broad chest. I cradle him, aware of the strong pounding of his heart under my hand. I press my breasts tight against his ribs. I kiss the back of his neck.
‘What did she want?’ I ask.
‘You.’
Our eyes meet in the massive mirror fixed above the marble mantelshelf. He looks out at me from somewhere dark and labyrinthine and I grip him tighter.
‘Why?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. He doesn’t know. I can imagine the scene, the tension as brittle as ice between them.
‘She asked whether I spoke German to your father,’ he adds.
A piece of me breaks loose. I stare back into the mirror. ‘I will take her a bottle of whisky,’ I say.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The black car was there again, the same one that had hung around the arrondissement last time they had a meeting. Romy spotted it the moment she entered Place d’Estienne d’Orves. The black Citroën. But this time it was tucked around the corner in a side street and she wondered what good it was doing down there. She moved through the dusk, the massive church of the Trinité with its ornate Renaissance façade and sixty-three-metre bell tower looming over the square, its stone figures keeping watch like spies.
It was a warm summer evening and the pavement cafés in the Place were brimming with Parisians enjoying a last glass of wine, and with lovers, hands entwined, delaying the moment of parting. The tips of cigarettes darted through the soft twilight like fireflies, and moths fluttered around the lamps, casting shadows. Romy had intended to head straight for the green door beside one of the cafés, the door that led up a steep flight of stairs to the meeting room, because she was eager to hear from Martel what was going on, what had upset his plans. But instead she veered to the left and ducked down the side street.
In the semi-darkness she could just make out a man in the driving seat of the Citroën and she felt a stab of annoyance when she saw he had fallen asleep on the job. According to Martel, he was supposed to be watching their backs. So what the hell was he doing here, the lazy bastard, with his chin on his chest and his felt hat pulled down over his eyes? She rapped her knuckles on the window, hard enough to startle him.
He didn’t move.
A flicker of alarm made her uneasy. She tried the door. It opened.
Still he didn’t move.
He was a big man, his beer gut jammed against the steering wheel and in the heat of the evening she could smell stale sweat on his skin. He was wearing a tight jacket and dark tie, his pale hands lying loose in his lap, crossed over each other like an old woman’s. Under them lay something black. In the thick darkness of the alleyway it was hard to say for certain what it was, but it looked like a gun. It sent a chill through Romy.
‘Monsieur?’ she said urgently.
No response.
She jogged his arm. It felt stiff. She leaned inside the stuffy interior of the car and removed his hat. The man made no objection. He was bald and silent. Eyes closed. Mouth open. A perfectly round bullet hole in the exact centre of his forehead stared right back at her.
Death.
It would not leave her alone.
Her hands panicked. They threw the hat back on to the freckled skin of his hairless pate to cover up the unblinking eye and slammed the car door shut. The bang of it reverberated through her, kick-starting thoughts that set her feet running before her mind had even had a chance to catch up. She clamped a hand over her mouth as she ran to stop it from screaming and tore around the corner back to the green door.
Someone was there. Before her. Opening it. Entering the building. In no hurry. Her breath came in gasps.
‘Martel!’
He turned. A greeting started from his lips but froze at the sight of her.
‘What? What’s happened?’ he demanded.
But she had no words. She pushed past him and raced up the stairs to the storeroom above the café. Maybe the others were late. Maybe they had not yet arrived.
This time. This one time. Let Grégory and François be late instead of always early. Please let them be . . .
They were there already, Grégory and François. The overhead bare bulb shone down on them, showing no mercy. The two friends were seated in their usual chairs, but instead of sitting upright they were slumped backwards, arms hanging loose at their sides as if their bones had been removed, heads tilted back. Grégory’s Adam’s apple looked huge and hairy in his scrawny neck. Romy had never noticed it before.
The third eye. It stared out from the centre of his forehead.
‘Romy.’
Dimly she was aware of Martel’s deep voice behind her, but her brain had disconnected and made no sense of the sound. She hurried to Grégory’s side, brushed his freshly shaven cheek with her fingertips. It was still warm. She closed his blank eyes with a gentle touch, but she could not close the gaping one in his forehead.
She could smell it. Death. Smell its foul footsteps and its sour breath, as if it had risen from a sewer deep underground. She clutched Grégory’s limp hand between her own, trying to force her own life into it, to trick its still-warm blood into flowing once more.
‘Romy! Leave him.’
She turned her head. Shock made her movements feel as if she were fighting her way through mud. Martel stood beside her, breathing hard.
‘They are dead, Romy. Both of them.’ His voice was flat and harsh. ‘We must leave now. Quickly. Come . . .’ He seized her arm.
‘No.’ She shook off his grip. She made herself look at François as well as Grégory. His third eye didn’t blink. ‘Once before, I walked away from a dead man. Never again.’ She scanned the room as though she might find the murderer hiding among the stacks of tins on the shelves. ‘No, Martel, we have to call the police at once.’
‘You want the rest of the members of our cell dead too?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If we go to the police, the existence of our cell and the names of each one of us will come out in the open. Whoever did this will track down the rest.’ He leaned closer, speaking fast, and she saw sorrow flare behind the dark anger in his eyes. ‘You want to see Diane, Manu and Jerome with bullet holes in their heads? Do you want one yourself?’
For a long moment she stared at him in silence, feeling a thread unspool inside her until it finally snapped. She gave a brief nod and headed for the door.
Faces flitted past in the street. A flash of cheek, the turn of a shoulder, the scarlet lips of a putain in a doorway. An ebony cane in a gnarled hand and a dog pissing on a man’s shoe. Romy’s eyes saw these things as she hurried through the gloom, but her brain received nothing. Nothing except the eerie stillness of Grégory’s face and the way François’ nose was dissected from top to bottom by a thin trickle of scarlet.
They didn’t run. They didn’t draw attention to themselves, but they moved fast, Romy matching her stride to Martel’s as they wove through backstreets. He spoke only once.
‘I am taking you to a safe house.’
‘A safe house?’
She hastened her pace and resisted the urge to snatch a glance behind her. The back of her neck felt naked, the perfect spot for a bullet. She wasn’t breathing right.
‘We must warn them,’ she told him in a low urgent hiss. ‘Diane, Manu and Jerome. They have to know that they are in danger if—’
Martel spun her into a doorway. There was the quick sound of a key and suddenly they were indoors in the dark. The key turned again, the door locked behind them. Only then did Romy feel her knees give up on her and she leaned against the wall behind her for support.
‘Where are we?’ she murmured.
‘In the back of a small hotel called the Angélique.’ His hand cradled her elbow, steady as a rock. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘The room is on the fifth floor. We’re better off not using the lift. Are you all right to climb the stairs?’
‘Of course.’ The pale faces of Grégory and François seemed to float just out of focus in the dark corridor. ‘Of course I’m all right. I’m still breathing.’
‘Go. Go now,’ Romy said.
Martel left her. He ordered her to bolt the
door and open it to no one, and then he was gone to warn the others.
‘Take care,’ she had whispered and he had nodded.
She stood inside the door with her ear to it, listening for his departing footsteps, but she heard nothing. The silence put her on edge. If Martel could be so silent, who else might be out there, leaving no trace of themselves. After ten minutes of listening with her ear pressed to the door, she stepped back and inspected the room. Small and brown but with a high ceiling with elaborate belle époque cornices and a mirror, freckled as a bird’s egg, that dominated the small space. A single iron bedstead, an ancient tiny wardrobe, a chair. That was it.
The shutters over the tall window were three-quarters closed and only a faint smear of light from a distant street lamp squeezed in. She didn’t switch on the light in the room. Instead she paced the floor in darkness, nerves rumbling at the back of her eyes.
She would give him an hour.
No more.
She could not dismantle the image in her head of the killer stalking Martel through the streets of Paris, raising the barrel of a gun to his broad forehead. Pulling the trigger. It would be one of the hated Spanish Nationalists trying to put a stop to the supply of foreign planes to the Spanish Republicans. Or . . .
Her foot paused mid-step.
Or a German. A German supporting the Condor Legion.
Martel. Please. Please.
Hurry back.
Hurry.
She would give him half an hour. If he wasn’t back by then, to hell with it, she would go looking for him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FLORENCE
I am in the dark.
I feel my throat dry and my heart rate kick into a higher gear. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, no, nothing like that. It is because the darkness slides between me and what I want. I have to widen my eyes to suck in any threads of light and I know that in the darkness mistakes can happen. I don’t like mistakes.
I am in Roland’s study.
Why shouldn’t I be? This Avenue Kléber apartment is as much mine as his, in fact more so, because it was paid for out of my inheritance from my father. I have a right to enter every room in it, but the truth is that I rarely set foot inside my husband’s study. It is his private domain. I do not intrude.
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