by Candace Camp
“Cleopatra has heard from Mother,” Jules began without preliminary. “They told us where the Germans are storing the torpedoes. In the sewers. Here and here.” He pointed with a blunt pencil to the two locations on a map. “Now it’s up to us to destroy them.”
“I don’t understand it,” Blade marveled. “How is it that people in England know so much when we who are living right here can’t discover it?”
Jules shrugged. “That’s not important. What’s important is getting rid of the torpedoes. That’s our job. Giving us the information is theirs.”
“They must have a spy,” Unicorn surmised. “Probably a German.”
“Why a German?” Green seemed offended.
“Because he has access to so much information. Who else would?”
“A clever Frenchman. A man who sneaks in and steals the documents.”
Unicorn shrugged. “I doubt it. It must be a German.”
“Perhaps it’s more than one man,” Odette suggested.
“I’ve heard rumors about a man named le Duc. Now who could he be but a Frenchman?”
Jules frowned. “You’re no better than a bunch of gossiping old women. It’s not important who it is, and it’s better for everyone that we not know. Now, let’s get down to planning this.”
They talked for several minutes about times and methods and escapes, eventually settling on the following Friday for their raid. Jules turned to another matter. “Blade, what do you have to report?”
“On Operation St. Patrick?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I followed Cobra to a house in Montmartre.”
“A mistress?”
“I think so. He visited the house twice last week. Another time he went back to Avenue Foch. Twice to parties, and two nights he stayed at home.”
Jules sighed. “I had hoped for more regularity.”
“I think morning would be the best time.”
“I don’t know. We’re not in charge of the morning watch. I’ll have to wait to hear from their leader. In the meantime all we can do is keep following him. Maybe his visits to the mistress’s house will prove to have a pattern; maybe he goes there on the same days each week.”
“Why waste our time following him?” Blade grumbled. “Why don’t we just kill the bastard as he leaves his house in the morning?”
“Because Cobra isn’t worth a suicide mission,” Unicorn replied with some sarcasm.
“Right. If we can catch him without his guards, we can get away without being killed or caught ourselves.”
Alyssa spoke up a little timidly, “Excuse me. Who is Cobra?”
“Albrecht Schlieker. Gestapo. A pig. He’s killed more good Frenchmen…”
“I say we ought to go after his friend. That bastard Michaude,” the man named Green stuck in fiercely.
Alyssa’s heart began to thump wildly. Her hands clenched in her lap. No, oh, no, she cried inside. Please don’t let them kill him!
Jules shrugged. “He’s a worm. He’s not important.”
“He’s an insult to France! He fawns on the Nazis, eats with them, drinks with them, brings them French women. Once he seemed a true Frenchman, a patriot, a leader. He was a man I respected—and now he owns a brothel that caters to German soldiers. He helps them in every way he can. God knows how many loyal Frenchmen he’s sent to the Gestapo torture chambers. We should make an example of him, show other collaborators how the citizens of France will deal with them.”
Alyssa’s stomach twisted; she felt sick. Philippe brought the Nazis women. She thought of the woman she had seen Philippe with yesterday. Was she one of the prostitutes he provided to the Nazis? Alyssa burned with anger; she hated him; she felt dirty to think that he had ever touched her. And still she prayed that they would not decide to kill him.
“He is dirt,” Unicorn agreed. “But do you remember what happened to the last team that tried to assassinate him? He and that Nazi chauffeur of his fought them off. He came away with a scratch, but our people died inch by inch in the Place des Saussaies.”
“I am not afraid.”
Jules frowned. “No one doubts your courage. But Philippe Michaude is not worth getting you or anyone else killed for. He is a traitor, but it is Cobra who is killing and torturing our people.”
“Right. Now let’s get back to Cobra,” Blade urged.
Alyssa sagged with relief. The others continued to discuss Operation St. Patrick, but it was time for her to make her transmission to England. She edged away from the group and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She pulled the small suitcase containing the transmitter out from under her narrow bed and opened it. Quickly, efficiently, she set it up and contacted headquarters. She identified herself, then waited for whatever message Mother had to send her. It was somehow comforting to know that it was Jessica on the opposite end, replying to her. The message from headquarters was quick and to the point: “Traitor in network. Unknown. Caution.”
Alyssa’s blood chilled. A traitor from within—the worst, the deadliest thing that could happen to them. Alyssa wanted to jump up and run into the other room to tell Oak and the others. It took all her discipline to remain where she was and send back her own message to Mother. She was near the end of transmission when she heard shouting at the door of the apartment. Alyssa froze. A fist hammered against the door. Her heart skittered and set up a hard, racing beat. Hastily she discontinued transmitting, using the special code for such situations, and closed up the transmitter just as her bedroom door burst open. Unicorn darted into the room, his eyes wild. “Gestapo!”
Chapter 16
Jessica pondered Claire’s comments about her relationship with Stephen. She remembered the way his face lit up when he was amused, the brooding darkness of his eyes when he was quiet. Was Claire right? Could it be that Jessica was attracted to him? She thought of how she looked forward to her days off from work because she would see him. How carefully she dressed and arranged her hair for their evenings out. How her stomach jumped as she hurried down the stairs to open the door when he knocked.
The thoughts left her feeling vaguely guilty, as if she were betraying Alan. Could she possibly have turned her interest to another man already? But it hadn’t been quick at all, really; it had been almost two years since she lost Alan, a long time to be alone. He was dead, and she had mourned him. There was no reason to feel guilty if she did have feelings for another man now. Alan would have wanted her to be happy, not close herself into a shell, missing him. Still, it felt wrong somehow.
Besides, there was nothing to indicate that Stephen had any interest in her except as a friend. He’d never made a move to kiss her or even to hold her hand, except to help her over a puddle or up a high step. Perhaps he was more familiar in his manner than others, but that was simply the American way. He didn’t flirt with her as that American major had last weekend. She thought of the gaze Stephen had turned on the major and the man’s hasty retreat. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now she wondered if it had been jealousy that spurred Stephen, not just an escort’s duty to protect a lady.
And what about his smile—did his eyes light up like that with everyone? Did he lean forward, listening with the same attentiveness, with others? Was it more than companionship he sought, more than his friendship with her husband, that brought him back at every opportunity?
Such thoughts plagued her all week, and when the next day of leave rolled around, the train couldn’t get to Victoria Station fast enough for her. She loitered around the telephone, and when at last it rang, she jumped on it. Her heart executed a peculiar little leap at the sound of Stephen’s voice on the other end. They arranged to go out to eat, then dancing at Hammersmith Palais. As soon as she hung up the receiver, Jessica ran upstairs to draw a bath, humming as she went. She was glad Claire was out, or she would have teased her unmercifully.
When Jessica opened the door to Stephen an hour later, happiness surged up in
her and spread over her face in a grin. Was she always this happy to see him? Was he always this handsome? Stephen smiled, his eyes dark and glowing, and she tried to judge whether more than friendliness lay behind his gaze. When he politely helped her with her jacket, his fingers brushed her shoulders, and Jessica’s skin tingled at the touch. Had his touch been on purpose? Or was she making too much of every little thing?
They went to the Savoy for supper and talked and laughed all through the meal. Jessica had never really thought before about how much she enjoyed Stephen’s company, but now she realized that she felt happier with him than with anyone else. Their conversation seemed unutterably clever, their silences warm and intimate. His eyes were full of interest, with never a hint of the disapproval that Alan had sometimes shown when he thought she was being a bit too outrageous. Jessica realized suddenly that she had always felt as if Alan were somehow her superior. She supposed it was because they had grown up together, and he, being older and a boy, gave the commands and she followed. But now, with Stephen, she felt an equal. She found she liked it.
She was very aware of him physically—the width of his shoulders beneath his uniform, which he was beginning to fill out again nicely; the dark intensity of his eyes; the hard, sculpted beauty of his facial bones. Her eyes went to his hand across the table from her, long and thin, sensitive, but saved from weakness by the masculine cords of strength across the back and the sprinkling of fine black hairs. She could imagine those hands on her skin, and the thought gave her shivers, but of heat, not cold.
Stephen watched Jessica, the familiar bittersweet ache gnawing at his loins. She looked unusually beautiful tonight, sparkling and flushed, her red-gold hair glowing in the dim light. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her until she was breathless. Hell, what he really wanted was to whisk her away to one of the rooms upstairs in the hotel and peel away each scrap of clothing, then make slow, shattering love to her.
He didn’t know why he tortured himself like this. He knew he wouldn’t take her, now or ever. He wasn’t going to seduce her with hot caresses and sweet kisses in the dark, his hands sliding beneath her dress to explore and arouse. Not that it was likely she would let him. She was a widow, still in love with her husband, and she thought of him only as a friend. But more than that, he knew he wouldn’t even try. She was Alan’s, and because of him Alan had died. To make love to his widow seemed yet another betrayal of him. Guilt swamped Stephen whenever he was near Jessica, knowing how much he wanted her.
The crazy thing was that he continued to see her. It would have been far kinder to himself to stay away, because every moment he was with Jessica made him want her more. Now, sitting across from her in the pristine elegance of the Savoy, he kept imagining her naked. His mouth was dry, and he had no idea what she was saying, but he kept on smiling gamely, glad for the concealment of the table.
Stephen wondered what her perfect ladylike face would look like in the throes of passion. Would she whimper, cry out? He could imagine her bright hair darkened with sweat around the edges of her face, hear her murmuring his name, feel those long, graceful legs wrapped around him.
Stephen clenched his fists and forced himself to think of anything but Jessica. He ought to give up seeing her. It drove him mad every time, and he always went home flushed and hard, aching for release. But there was none. He could have found another woman who would have taken his passion, but he wasn’t interested in cold sex with a stranger, all the while thinking about the woman he truly wanted.
He called himself all kinds of a fool for continuing to take her out. He was only increasing his pain. But he knew he wouldn’t stop. He didn’t think he could bear not to see those wide gray eyes light up with laughter again, not to hear her soft, cultured voice. For he felt much more for her than desire. He was afraid he’d fallen in love with her. It was a wild, curious combination of pain and joy to be with her. And he couldn’t stay away from that tumult of feeling.
When they left the restaurant, there were no taxis, and they walked, wisps of fog floating in front of them like scarves and dissolving as they walked through them. Stephen’s body was large and warm beside Jessica. She shivered a little, and he put his arm around her in a friendly gesture to provide her with warmth. Jessica thought how nice it would be to stand together, pressed up against his chest with his heavy coat pulled around them both.
When they danced later, she was very aware of his hand on the small of her back and her hand in his, bare skin against bare skin. Jessica kept her other hand correctly on his shoulder, but she kept wondering what it would feel like to glide across to his neck, to trace the line of his hair and feel the prickle of his short hair at the base of his skull. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she knew a curious mingling of excitement and frustration.
Claire was right. She was attracted to Stephen Marek. Somehow it had crept up on her, overtaking her without her noticing it. She wanted suddenly to hear endearments from his lips and the quickening of his breath that spoke of desire. More than that, she had the funny feeling that she was more than halfway to falling in love with him.
The awful thing was, she had to admit that Stephen obviously felt none of the same things for her. She had watched him carefully tonight for any signs of interest. He was polite and friendly, but he wasn’t lover-like. He touched her no more than courtesy dictated—taking her arm as they walked or helping her on with her coat. He’d said nothing remotely suggestive. Indeed, he didn’t allude to sex in any way. Nor had those deep dark eyes glowed with interest. She had lingered with him on the doorstep, just to see if he might make a move to kiss her, but he had not. It was apparent that he hadn’t the slightest interest in her as anything but a friend.
Jessica returned to work at Evington Court the next evening in a blue mood. The evening started out slowly, and her mind kept returning to Stephen, despite all her best efforts not to. A call came through from Cleopatra, and Jessica began to jot it down. Alyssa’s first request was for supplies, specifically an explosive known as “marzipan” for its faintly almond smell. Suddenly there was a break, an unexpected pause of seconds. Jessica stiffened, sensing danger. Messages were usually quick and without hesitation. Then came the dreaded signal: QUO—“forced to stop transmitting because of imminent danger.”
*****
When Unicorn burst into the room, hissing “Gestapo!” Alyssa acted without hesitation. She crossed to the window in a single step and shoved it open. Behind her she could hear Unicorn closing the door and dragging a small chest across it. It was a long drop down below the window, offering at best a broken limb, so Alyssa looked to the side. Less than a foot from the window on the right was a sturdy metal gutter pipe. It was bolted into the wall and appeared to be able to hold a person’s weight. Of course, if it didn’t hold her, she would wind up dead or broken on the pavement of the narrow alley below. Nor was she at all sure she could climb down the wall holding on to the pipe, even though she had done the same sort of thing holding onto a rope at the training camp in England.
She hesitated for only a second. Something heavy crashed against the outer door of the apartment. She shoved her arm through the handle of the transmitter case and slid out of the window, grabbing the gutter. She felt a clutch of fear as she swung free, but she had done this often enough in training. She braced her feet against the wall and started down. The metal was cool and slippery beneath her hands, not burning like rope, but not as good a handhold either. It was more awkward than her practice climbs, but this time she was impelled by fear, and she raced down. Above her, Unicorn swung out of the window and began to follow her.
She jumped the last few feet, landing in a crouch. She could hear the splintering of wood above them. They must be breaking in the door to her bedroom now. Unicorn was slower than she, not having had her professional training, and when he jumped, he landed awkwardly and rolled over in a sprawl. In the window above a capped head emerged and looked around, then down. He stuck his gun
out the window and fired at Unicorn, but the shot went wide. By the time he got off a second bullet, her companion was up, and they melted into the deep shadows of the wall. The bullet smacked into the wall several feet from them.
“This way,” Unicorn said softly. Alyssa ran in the direction he pointed, sticking close to the wall, and he followed closely. Behind them the soldier fired, but the steep angle and the darkness made it impossible to aim with any accuracy, and the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the walls.
They ran to the end of the alleyway and peered out. There was no sign of a soldier along the cross street. Unicorn motioned to her, and they darted across the street into the alley beyond. They ran lightly but quickly, no longer keeping to the sides of the narrow pathway. At the next cross street Unicorn turned right and ran, Alyssa on his heels.
They ran for what seemed like hours, twisting and turning, ducking down alleyways and darting across streets. Alyssa’s heart pounded with exertion and fear, and her breath rasped in her throat. The transmitter case banged against her leg. She was tiring now that the first burst of adrenaline was past. She stumbled on a piece of buckled pavement and barely saved herself from falling, but a pain shot through her ankle. Unicorn angled across the street. He, too, was slowing down. Alyssa followed him as he ducked into a space between two buildings. It was pitch black and so narrow they could walk only single file. Alyssa kept her eye on the faint glimmer of the man’s fair hair and stretched out her arm to touch the wall beside her. They were moving at a fast walk now.
Suddenly the wall beside her ended; her hand touched only air. Unicorn stopped abruptly, and she bumped into his back. He turned, whispering, “In here.”
