The Lost Girls of Paris

by Pam Jenoff

  “The priority of persons to be extracted if they are at the landing site. We can only fit three and the plane can’t wait more than a minute.” Inwardly, Marie blanched. Even as she was going over, there were countless others trying to escape. She wondered when she would be on the return flight home to Tess. She had to believe it would happen in the end, or she wouldn’t be going at all.

  “Here.” Eleanor passed her a neat stack of francs, wrapped with a rubber band. “Half your pay comes in cash when you are in the field to use for things that you need. The rest will be paid for you in pounds sterling when you return.

  “And one other thing,” Eleanor said. She held out her hand, palm opened and upturned. Marie knew she was asking for the butterfly necklace, the reminder of Tess that she secretly wore.

  Reluctantly, Marie took it from her neck. Then she hesitated. It was the one bit of her old life Marie had held on to these lonely months of training. Now it was being stripped from her. But she knew she had no choice; it was time to let go.

  “I’ll keep it safe for you,” Eleanor said, her voice sounding as though she was talking about something much larger. Marie let her take the necklace from her fingers. “You’ll want this instead.” Eleanor produced a necklace with a silver bird charm and held it out. Marie was surprised. But it was not a gift; Eleanor twisted the necklace and it unscrewed to reveal a cyanide capsule. “The final friend,” Eleanor declared. “You have to chew it quickly because the Germans know the smell and will try to make you spit it out.” Marie shuddered. She had trained for it, of course. If she found herself captured and unable to hold out from talking, she was to end her life. But she could not imagine actually doing it.

  Marie took a last look at Eleanor. “Thank you.”

  Eleanor stiffened, a slight dip of her chin the only response. “Thank me by getting the job done.” She took Marie’s hand and pressed it a second too long. Then she turned and walked off across the field.

  Marie approached the plane warily. She had never flown before and even this small plane, a metal contraption with a glass dome top, seemed strange and intimidating.

  A man sat in the cockpit. He gestured to her impatiently to come aboard. She had expected a military pilot but the man’s hair was longish, curling against the neck of his American-style brown bomber jacket. His face was stubbled with whiskers. Was this the man who was to fly her to France? As she squeezed through the narrow door of the plane, Marie looked back over her shoulder for Eleanor. But she had already disappeared across the airfield.

  Marie took the narrow seat behind the pilot and felt for a seat belt but found none. She had scarcely sat down before the ground crew closed the door from the outside. “Change of plans,” the pilot announced without introduction, his accent Irish.

  Her skin prickled. “What is it?”

  “You’ll be landing blind.” He turned to the controls, dozens of unfamiliar dials and gauges. Through the front windshield, Marie saw the propeller on the nose of the plane begin to turn. The plane rolled forward, jostling her as it rolled over the uneven earth.

  “Blind?” she repeated before the meaning caught up to her. That meant she would be on her own, without the customary reception committee to meet her and help her rendezvous with her circuit. “But I was supposed to be met.”

  The pilot shrugged. “Nothing goes as planned in the field. Something must have happened and it isn’t safe for them to come.” Then how, she wondered, could it possibly be safe for her to arrive? For a minute, she wanted to ask to turn back and cancel. But the plane was picking up speed, the engine growing to a deafening roar. She fought the urge to cry out as the ground seemed to slip from beneath her. Feeling the strange sensation for the first time, she almost forgot to be afraid. She looked out the window, hoping to catch sight of Eleanor. But she and the Vauxhall had already gone. The separation between Marie and England grew greater by the second. There was no turning back now.

  As the plane shot up at a steep angle, Marie’s stomach dropped, and it occurred to her for the first time that she might be one to get airsick. Taking shallow breaths as they had been instructed in training, she looked down at the houses below, muted by the blackout. She imagined if she gazed far enough north she might see the old vicarage in East Anglia, Tess asleep beneath a thick plaid duvet in the attic room with the sloping rafters.

  Neither Marie nor the pilot spoke further, for there was no chance of being heard over the incessant rattling of the engine that caused Marie’s teeth to chatter painfully. The air inside the plane grew colder, almost frigid. Below the earth was a sheet of perfect black. A silver ribbon broke through like a beacon, the Channel waters illuminated in the moonlight with a brilliance that no rules or blackout could dim.

  The plane dropped suddenly, then listed sharply to the left. Marie grasped the seat hard to avoid being sent sprawling by the unexpected jolt. She had not imagined flying to be this rough. She tried to conceal her nerves, but a cool sweat broke out on her skin. “Is anything wrong?” Marie called. She tried to see the pilot’s face, searching for some sign of panic.

  He shook his head, not looking up from the controls. “You feel every bump in this baby. That’s the thing about the Lysander—it’s small and slow and a German could shoot it with a slingshot.” He patted the control panel. “But I can put it down on a mosquito’s ass or in five hundred yards of shit.” Marie cringed at his crudeness, but he did not bother to apologize.

  As they neared the French coast, the pilot eased forward on the throttle. The plane lowered and a thick fog seemed to encircle it. The pilot looked out the window, trying to get a better view of the ground below. Surely, Marie thought, there had to be a better way to navigate. “We may have to turn back,” he said.

  “Can we wait until it clears?” Marie asked, relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  He shook his head. “We’ve got to make sure we’re back in Allied space before daylight. If we’re spotted over France, there’s no way to fly high or fast enough to escape enemy fire.” Marie’s skin prickled with fear. She might actually die before landing. The pilot wrinkled his brow as he studied the earth below. “I think we’re in the right spot, though, or close enough. I’m going to make a go at it.”

  “That hardly inspires confidence,” she replied, before thinking better of it.

  He turned to give her a wry look. “You’ll want to hold on tight.”

  The plane dropped, then shot downward nose first at a sharp angle, so unexpected and steep Marie thought they might be crashing. The earth raced at them with alarming speed. She clung to the seat, closing her eyes and preparing for the worst.

  Marie braced herself for a hard jolt as she had been trained as they neared the ground. But the pilot leveled the plane at the last minute and set it down gently, gliding over the uneven field with deft hands so that if she hadn’t looked out and seen the earth she might not have believed they had landed at all.

  The brakes screeched loudly as the plane ground to a halt. Surely someone would hear the landing, which was meant to be covert. But the air outside was still. The pilot opened the door and peered out into the darkness. “No one for the return.” Remembering Eleanor’s explanation of the names chalked on the side of the plane, Marie wondered if that was a bad sign. He continued, “You’ll want to head east for the train station. Keep low, move quickly and stay in the cover of the trees. There should be a blue bicycle chained behind the station, a shopper. You’ll find further instructions inside the handlebars.”

  “Should?” Marie repeated, wondering how he could know this. “And if it isn’t there, then what?”

  “This is Vesper’s circuit,” he replied firmly. “Everything will be in order.”

  If that were true, Marie wanted to say, then someone would have been here to meet her. But she didn’t, sensing it would go too far.

  Marie hesitated, fearful of the prospect of making her wa
y across the strange countryside alone. The pilot was watching her expectantly, though, and she had no choice but to get out of the plane.

  “I’d come with you if I could,” he said apologetically as she stood. “But the Lysander...”

  “I understand.” Every minute the plane sat on the exposed field risked greater detection.

  “Good luck...” He trailed off. They did not know one another’s names. It was the first rule she had learned, never to reveal her identity lest they compromise one another. Was this some sort of test?

  “Renee,” she said finally, trying on the new name Eleanor had given her.

  The pilot blinked twice, as if not convinced. Her first attempt at subterfuge had been a failure. “I’m William. They call me Will,” he said, and she sensed from the sincerity in his voice that it was his real name. Perhaps there were different rules for pilots—or he simply had less to lose. He gestured toward the trees with his head. “You had best go now.”

  “Yes, of course.” She climbed from the plane and as she started away, she could feel him watching her. When she turned back again, the door to the plane was already closed. The Lysander engine revved and it rolled forward, picking up speed. It had been on the ground all of three minutes.

  Marie started across the field in pitch darkness, feeling for the cover of the trees. The sweet smell of daffodils rose from the damp earth to meet her, and for a moment it was as if she had stepped into her childhood, playing in the French countryside as a girl. But she had to move quickly, the pilot had said. She looked in all directions, trying to remember the exact direction he had pointed when he’d told her to head east. She reached for her torch. Then recalling their training, thought better of it. Instead, she pulled out the makeup compact equipped with a compass at the bottom and lifted it out, trying to see by the light of the moon. But it was impossible. She reached into her purse and found the lighter and flicked it on, holding it above the compass just long enough to see the north marking on it.

  Orienting herself east, Marie started through the trees. She stumbled over a rock, and the pain in her ankle carried her back to the early morning run at Arisaig House when she had fallen. If only Josie were here to help her now as she had been that day. Marie righted herself and started walking once more.

  “Halt!” a voice ordered in French. Marie froze, certain she was to be arrested. There was no way to know if it was the Germans or the French police, who were sympathetic to the Germans. Equally bad either way. Should she reach for her cyanide capsule? she wondered. She had not imagined needing it so soon.

  She turned and a tall, imposing man emerged from the shadows. She froze, seeing his gun leveled at her. “Fool!” he said in English, his voice a growl. “You never should have done as I said. Run or fight, but for God’s sake, don’t obey.”

  Before she could reply, he grabbed her elbow and began to lead her roughly through the woods. Instinctively, she pulled back, unable to stand the stranger’s touch. “Come!” he commanded, as though ordering a stubborn horse. “Or you can stay here to be found by the milice.” For a moment, she hesitated. She had been given no information about anyone she was to meet. In fact, the pilot had said no one was meeting her at all. Was this man really one of them, or was it some sort of a trap?

  But the man urged her on and it seemed Marie had no choice but to follow. They padded through the moonlit forest not speaking, his silhouette cutting the sky above.

  They reached a clearing on what seemed to be the edge of a farm. There was a small, windowless gardener’s shed. “This is yours,” he said. Marie looked at him, not understanding. “You are to stay here tonight.”

  “But I was instructed to go to the train station and find a bike. And where is Vesper? I was told I would be working with him.”

  “Quiet!” the man ordered, anger flaring. He had a heavy brow and deep-set blue eyes. “Never say that name—or anyone else’s—aloud.”

  Heedless, Marie continued, “I need to speak with him. And I need to find my wireless.”

  “You’re to follow orders and stay here.” He raised his hand, warding off further questions. “Someone will come for you in the morning.”

  He fiddled with the lock on the door, then let her in. There was no light and the thick, warm air was stifling. As she stepped inside, the heavy smell of manure assaulted her nostrils. There was no bed and no toilet.

  Not speaking further, the man walked from the shed and closed the door. On the far side, she heard a key turn in a lock, trapping her inside. “You’re locking me in?” she called through the door, not quite believing what was happening. She realized then that she did not know his name. He could be anyone. To place her life in the hands of strangers—how could she have been so naive? “If you think I’m going to be locked up by some courier, you are sorely mistaken. I demand to speak with Vesper immediately!” she insisted, ignoring his warning not to use names.

  “It’s for your own good, in case someone should come along. Stay low and out of sight. And for God’s sake, be quiet!” She heard his footsteps growing softer on the other side and then there was only silence.

  As Marie turned away from the door, something scurried nearby in the darkness. A mouse or a rat? she wondered, thinking of the decoy she’d almost destroyed in training weeks earlier, how she and Josie had laughed about it afterward. If only Josie were here now. She sank down to the floor, never in her life so alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Grace

  New York, 1946

  Grace awoke, and for a second it was just like any other day. Bright sunlight streamed through the lone window of the tiny, fourth-floor walk-up, casting shadows on the sloped ceiling. The rooming house was just on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, a block too close to the Hudson River for a respectable woman, but not dangerous. Grace had gotten the place on the cheap because of the old man who had vacated the unit by dying in it the previous week. She’d scrubbed the flat before she moved in, trying without success to remove the lingering pipe smoke odor that clung to the walls and the sense that someone else quite nearly still lived here. And beyond that she hadn’t done anything to make it more like home, because that would mean acknowledging she might stay for good—and the hard truth that she didn’t want to go back.

  Grace rolled over and saw the envelope containing the photos on the nightstand by the narrow bed, beside the lone photo of Tom in his dress uniform at graduation from basic training. The night before came crashing back: the news story about the woman (Eleanor Trigg; she now had a name) who had been killed in the car accident, and the realization that the suitcase Grace found had been hers. Grace wondered if the series of bizarre events might have been a dream. But the photographs sat neatly on her nightstand like an expectant child, reminding her that it was not.

  After hearing the news on the television in the coffee shop the previous evening, Grace had been so surprised that she had left without waiting for her grilled cheese. She hailed a cab, too surprised to think about the cost. As the taxi had woven perilously through crosstown traffic, she had tried to make sense of it all. How could it be that the very woman whose bag she’d rummaged through was the same one who had died in the accident on the street?

  It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, really, Grace thought now. The fact that Eleanor Trigg had died explained why no one had come back for the suitcase and it was standing there abandoned in the first place. But why had she left it in the middle of Grand Central? That the woman was English just seemed to add to the mystery.

  More puzzling was the fact that the bag had then disappeared. It was possible, of course, that someone had simply stolen the bag, having seen that it was sitting unattended for a long time and decided to claim it for his own. But something told Grace that there was more to it than simple theft—and that whoever had come and taken the suitcase knew something about Eleanor Trigg and the girls in her photos.

  Enoug
h, Grace could almost hear her mother’s voice say. Grace had always had an overactive imagination, fueled by Nancy Drew and the other mysteries she liked to read as a girl. Her father, a science fiction buff, found Grace’s wild stories amusing. But he would have said here that the simplest explanation was the most likely: Eleanor Trigg might well have been traveling with a relative or other companion, who retrieved her bag after the accident.

  Grace sat up. The photographs lay on the nightstand, seeming to call to her. She had taken the pictures from the suitcase, and now she needed to do something with them. She washed and dressed, then started down the stairs of the rooming house. In the foyer, there was a phone on the wall, which Harriet the landlady didn’t mind the tenants using every so often. On impulse, Grace picked up the phone and asked the operator for the police station closest to Grand Central. If Eleanor had been traveling with someone, perhaps the police could put Grace in touch so she could return the photos.

  The line was silent for several seconds and a man’s voice crackled across the line. “Precinct,” he said, sounding as though he was chewing something.

  “I wanted to speak with someone about the woman who was hit by a car near Grand Central yesterday.” Grace spoke softly, so that her landlady, who lived in the room just off the foyer, wouldn’t hear.

  “MacDougal’s handling that,” the policeman replied. “MacDougal!” he bellowed into the phone so loudly Grace drew the phone away from her ear.

  “Whaddya want?” A different voice, with a heavy Brooklyn accent, filled the line.

  “The woman who was hit outside the station, Eleanor Trigg. Was she traveling with anyone?”

  “Nah, we’re still looking for next of kin,” MacDougal replied. “Are you family?”

  Grace ignored his question, pressing forward with her own. “Did anyone recover her belongings, like a suitcase?”

  “She didn’t have any bags. Say, who is this? This is an open investigation and if you’re going to be asking questions, I’m really gonna need your name...” Grace set the receiver back into the cradle, hanging up. The police didn’t have Eleanor’s bag, or a relative to whom Grace could return the photos. The British consulate, which she’d considered the previous evening, was the better option. A stop at the consulate would take extra time on her way to work, though, and she’d have to hurry not to risk being late again.