“Indeed. What brings you to Marseille?”
“I suppose, like most, the US Consulate.”
“Have you eaten lunch yet?” He withdrew from her hold.
“No, but--”
“I owe you a meal,” he insisted.
“I owe you money.”
The soft appeal of her tone was somehow commanding. Protesting would be fruitless. “Shall we go to the café across the street?” He slipped his arm under hers.
She wore a scent of lavender that reminded him of the purple fields of Provence that dotted the landscape with fragrant flowers.
“I understand the food is somewhat adequate,” he said.
“Yes, that would be lovely.” She smiled and he wondered why she was being so cordial. Not that he didn’t appreciate it, but the last time they’d parted, she hadn’t been pleased with him.
They found a seat in the crowded café. After ordering an array of pâte and cheeses, they sipped their brandy-laced coffee in silence. The ringing of a dozen different languages bombarded the air like one incoherent jumble of noise.
“How is your mother?” Yvette finally asked over the rim of her cup.
“She is well.”
“And your father and Gérald?” Her eyes lit with genuine concern.
Repositioning himself to face her more squarely, he made himself comfortable, his legs outstretched and slightly parted. “They are all fine.”
“Give them my regards.”
“I will.”
His mother repeated several times, after berating him for standing Yvette up at the café, that she thought Yvette to be a lovely woman who was always welcome in her home. The hope in her eyes said more than just being hospitable and he was not comfortable with the thought that his mother wanted to play matchmaker. His single life suited him just fine.
“Are you staying at the Splendid?” he asked.
“Yes, for the moment, until I can obtain exit visas for my family.”
So, she was planning on leaving France. “I hear they are quite impossible to get.” For some reason the thought bothered him.
“My father works for the American Consulate. He assures me he will secure some.”
Most men he knew like the high-pitched tone of a woman’s voice. He, on the other hand, could listen to her warm, sexy voice for hours.
It was better that she left. Safer. “Can he get you a position there?” Though reluctant to ask, a contact inside the consulate would prove useful he reasoned.
Her brows creased with question. “I believe so, if I ask him. Though I would rather not. Why do you ask?”
André leaned across the table. “Do you still wish to help the cause?” He covered her hand with his, her white gloves soft against his palm. Even through the leather, he could feel a heat spike through him. A heaviness settled between his legs, fueled by thoughts of soft naked skin in more erotic spots on her curvy body.
“My offer still stands. There are simply not enough men around, you must let me help.” She slipped her hand free.
Yes. Safer for both of us if she left. Trying not to dwell on the unsettling rush of blood pooling his groin, he stood and pulled his chair beside her. “If I could get someone in the inside…,” he whispered. Her perfume wafted over him that mixture of lavender and a hint of mint and he lost his concentration. Lord, she smelled good… “Someone, like yourself who may come across visa forms, or any kind of exit documents…” Like summertime in Avignon. “Well, that would be very useful. I have a cartoonist that can duplicate--”
“André!” She swiveled in her seat facing him. “You have me. I am an artist, I can do it,” she said, her voice filled with excitement.
“No. Out of the question. It is too risky. I just need you to get the letterhead.”
She shook her head. “No,” then leaned toward him, her bright red lips so close he could almost touch them—kiss that lipstick right off them. “You need me,” she said, her soft voice luring him in like a Siren’s whisper.
Oh, he did need her, but not in the way she thought.
“I can forge them. And I will.” Her eyes widened with passion—a passion based on thoughts of espionage, not desire.
A ping of disappointment ricocheted through him.
“I can draw just as well as some cartoonists,” she insisted. She leaned back. “But, I guess you can always get someone else in the consulate to help you.”
Hell, this was ridiculous. Distractions, especially the ones he was feeling right now, were deadly. “I don’t know.”
“André, it will be fun.”
“This is not some game. One slip of the tongue--one careless move… if you get caught…” Hell, he was being snagged in a different kind of trap- the female kind.
“I won’t,” she insisted.
Easily said.
André dragged his chair back across the table, putting distance between his need to kiss the stubbornness from those tempting lips and to cool the keen need that, despite his best efforts, was hard to fight. He eyed the pristine white blouse and red jacket that hid breasts he’d like to free. “For starters, don’t dress so God damn nicely. This town is dangerous and you are screaming ‘rob me.’ You certainly don’t blend in.”
She smiled. “I will take that as a compliment. I’ll do my best to under dress and sacrifice my style for the good of the cause.”
Undressed would be more to his liking.
“For the good of the cause,” he said, despite his misgivings. Merde! He picked up her hand and pressed his lips against the soft kid glove. “Until we meet again.”
Color crept up her neck and sealed her face, a charming blush that settled warmth in his gut.
He dropped her hand and scolded himself on his foolish gesture. Intimacy of any kind was not a luxury he could afford right now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
YVETTE SETTLED INTO the routine of work with one purpose on her mind… Every morning she got up, at five a.m., grabbed a bite of breakfast and hurried to work. No matter what time of day the queue around the building never thinned, adding to the stress of her day. Some people slept in their spot for days. It was sad to see so many desperate people and hard to walk past them as they begged her to let them in.
As she requested, her father got her a job working under Hiram Bingham IV, who issued visas and passports, to stateless refugees allowing them to travel between countries. She sat at her desk looking over the pile-high requests for internationally recognized identification cards and visas needing organization and prioritizing.
To limit immigration into the United States and to maintain good relations with the Vichy government, the U.S. State Department discouraged diplomats from helping refugees. In a letter by Breckinridge Long, Assistant Secretary of State, the staff was instructed to place all obstacles in the way and placed a moratorium on the granting of visas. Despite orders, Yvette took everyone’s requests, stacking them neatly and not tossing them in the garbage like she saw some do. The most stressful part of her job was telling the hopefuls they had to wait for a decision. Their stories were desperate and heartfelt. Telling them, she did not make the decision and they had to go home sometimes brought tears to her eyes.
To make matters worse, yesterday, she received a post from her mother telling her she was going stir crazy rattling around in their big house and she needed money to go clothes shopping. How was she supposed to send money? Ration cards were the precious commodity and were being traded or trafficked. Every piece of mail was censored. Everything was confiscated. Nothing made it out of the city. Did mother have any idea what is was like outside her window? Cloth was rationed, the stores were almost bare. Horse meat substituted beef. Some women were making dresses out of tablecloths, and mother wanted to go shopping?
Yvette pressed her thumb into her temple and closed eyes. She had yet to find the official form, so desperately needed. André assured her she was to take her time, but regardless, every day she felt jittery and frustrated. Today was no exception.
The angry voices and noise level loud, echoing, like a siren trapped in a domed room, intensified her headache.
She looked up from her desk. A tall well-dressed man, wearing a blue pinstriped suit and black fedora, strode past the irritated crowd toward her. He stopped at her desk and looked down at her with an air of superiority.
“The line starts outside,” she said and dismissively shuffled some papers around.
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded, his tone snobby.
Yvette shook her head.
“I am Henri Mannington, the famous writer. I am sure you have heard of me.”
“No.”
“So, you do not read much,” he said sarcastically.
Yvette stood and tried very hard to keep her tone civil.
“I am quite versed in the works of Keats, Austen, Hugo and Charles Baudelaire All are well known writers and even if one of them stood before me right now they would have to wait in line like everyone else.”
“How dare you. I want to--”
“Go back and wait your turn? That is very commendable of you.” Yvette sat.
His response was a humph and a very dignified walk past a line of heckling.
This is going to be a very long day. “Next,” she said as she picked up her pen and prepared herself for yet another argument.
An elderly man, dressed in black, stood before her clutching his hat. His hands shook and Yvette immediately felt sorry for him. It was clear what happened here today, like for so many others, determined his fate.
“Sir, may I have your papers, please?”
The first thing Yvette noticed was his name: Holzer, a Jewish name. His occupation read: jeweler and he was a Czech. The Jews suffered at the hands of the Vichy Government and she couldn’t understand why the French officials willfully collaborated with Nazi Germany. They adopted a policy of persecution toward a group of people who had done no harm to their country. She felt embarrassed and angry at a country she called her home. She felt a kinship with the man standing before her, a man whose country, like her grandfather’s, on her father’s side, had been annexed by the Germans.
“Everything looks in order.” She stood. “I will make sure these get to the right person.” Even as she said the words she knew this man would be denied regardless of the fact he was married to an American.
“Thank you.” He took her hand, before she could protest, pressed something hard into her palm and closed her fingers.
Yvette looked down. Flabbergasted, she was at a loss for words. A two-carat diamond sparkled in her hand. Thoughts of whether or not she should keep it bounced around her head. She stared, unable to tear her gaze away. God it’s gorgeous. Her mother’s complaints came to mind. Because of Grandpère’s anti-government views he was considered a political enemy, even after his death, and all their bank accounts were frozen. Yvette bit her lip and stared at the stone, tempted… so very tempting.
“Do you mind?” she reached out to straighten the handkerchief in his breast pocket and dropped the stone inside. “Perfect.” She smiled. “Good luck. I hope you hear from us soon.”
He thanked her and Yvette watched the first man who had ever given her a diamond walk away.
Incredible. She shook her head. This day just got better and better…
The line never ended and Yvette felt a little guilty getting up and leaving. She needed a break. She needed to find that letterhead, which she suspected was in Bingham’s office.
Gathering some signed requests from her desk Yvette made her way to his office. She stopped at his secretary’s desk. There in plain view sat a bunch of blank official cards. Yvette’s mind spun as she tried to think of a way to get at least one page.
“Good morning. I believe these go to you.” Yvette held the visa request out to the dark haired woman who glanced up at her with a bothered frown. Her name plate read Cecile Brigaudeau.
“Thank you Miss Matikunas. I trust you have carefully scrutinized every detail?” she asked, her voice laced with cold formality.
“Yes.” Yvette eyed the coffee cup on the woman’s desk. Maybe, if she could somehow spill the drink onto her lap… she stared, debating her next move.
“Fine. Leave them.” Cecile pursed her bright orange lips, then went back to her work. “That will be all,” she said without looking up.
Glancing around, to make sure no one was watching, Yvette casually walked around the desk, her hand at her side slightly raised, her fingers ready. Once again, her heart pounding, she did a quick assessment around her. Out of the corner of her eye, she focused on her objective and was about to flick out her fingers when the phone rang. Startled, her shoulders jerked. Her breath, jumped in her throat.
“Yes,” Cecile stood, “I’ll get right on that.” She gathered up a bunch of files and turned and just when Yvette saw her chance to grab a blank certificate, the woman pivoted on her heel.
“The forms,” she snapped, eyeing the documents in Yvette’s hand.
Yvette handed them over, her gaze sealed on the official papers she’d been sent to steal. Cecile snatched the certificates off the table. Dismayed, relieved, Yvette clenched her hand at her side. She watched Cecile walk into Bingham’s office and carefully place all the papers on his desk.
Debating if she should try once more, Yvette ducked around the corner. She bit her lip and waited for Cecile to leave, run whatever errand had been demanded of her over the phone.
Yvette glanced at her watch. She had less than ten minutes to get back to her desk.
The woman settled back in her seat, applied a fresh glob of lipstick, then shuffled papers around for what seemed like forever. Obviously, “I’ll get right on it,” meant sometime tomorrow.
Again, Yvette glanced at her watch. Any minute now, her boss was going to return to his office and her chance to retrieve those documents would have to wait.
Cecile reached for the phone and dialed. “That clothing ration is so unfair. Can you imagine me only being allowed one pair of shoes?” Cecile nodded, agreeing with whatever was being said at the other end of the line.
Wasn’t she worried someone may be listening to her conversation? Everyone knew the phone lines were tapped. Operators spied on everyone. They listened very carefully for any conversation against government policy. Incredibly stupid. Yvette shook her head.
“Last week I went to a wedding, the bride’s dress was made from discarded silk parachutes! Can you imagine?”
Yes, Yvette thought, she could. Silk was silk. When was the last time she wore silk stockings? She rubbed her nylon ankles together. At least she didn’t have to darken her legs with gravy browning and draw a seam up the back of her legs with an eyebrow pencil, like some women did, for appearance sake.
Go to lunch already.
A coworker rounded the corner.
Yvette pivoted and busied herself in the file cabinet; so did her coworker. They smiled at each other and Yvette continued mindlessly flipping her fingers through the files. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Cecile grab her purse, push back her chair and walk away.
Finally. Yvette eyed the vacant office, then the woman beside her, who, once again, smiled as she plucked up a file. The minute she was alone, Yvette sprinted into the office and grabbed a handful of blank forms. She breathed a sigh of relief and started to turn.
“May I help you,” a male voice said from behind her.
Yvette froze; her heart did not. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She eyed the desk. Perhaps her boss wouldn’t notice if she discreetly dropped the forms. No. He would. Slowly, as she turned, she tucked one arm behind her back and out of his line of vision. Her mind spun with thoughts of what she could say. Her pulse thrummed like a trapped bird.
Tall, a bit lanky, but nevertheless imposing, Hiram Bingham stood in the doorway. His wavy brown hair, parted in the middle, sat upon his head as though an artist had painted ripples of an angry sea. Underneath his gold wire-framed glasses, keen eyes observed her with interest. “Are you here
to see me?”
She couldn’t lose her job, people depended on her. “I… I…” Inch by inch, she eased the papers up and under her suit jacket…“No. Your secretary…” Her cheeks flamed. Her lungs seemed to suffer from a tightness that made her feel faint. “... is out to lunch so I dropped off visa requests.”
Bingham walked into the room and as he made his way to his desk, Yvette eased toward the door, keeping her back away from him.
“Ah, yes. I see.” He sat behind his desk. “Very well then.”
Yvette continued her slow exit toward the door, her arm pressing a knot into her back.
“Miss?” His brow quirked.
“Matikunas, Yvette,” she mumbled as she studied her feet while wishing the ground would open and swallow her.
“Miss Matikunas, is there a problem with your back?”
Blood drained from her face. “A bit of a stiff ache-- from sitting for so many hours at my desk,” she said quickly. “It is nothing.” She prayed nothing hung from beneath her jacket.
“Miss Matikunas.” His curt tone knotted a muscle in her chest.
What could she say? It was obvious her little ploy at thievery had been discovered. How was she to face all those who counted on her? If she failed at one small task, André wouldn’t need her anymore. It was obvious he had doubts about her competence, which really bothered her. She had to prove him wrong. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe her boss just had a simple question. “Yes?”
“You will need this.” He held out a green card with the words, Department Of State, of the United States of America, on top in bold letters. It was the same card she hid behind her back, except his name was signed on the last line.
Her eyes widened. Heat, once again, sealed her face. She nodded meekly and took the official card.
“I trust we will work nicely together, in our similar pursuit,” he said with a boyish smile.
Relieved, Yvette’s posture relaxed. “Yes Sir. I look forward to that.” She started to turn.
“And Miss Matikunas.”
Behind The Mask Page 11
