“Slight course correction for Mel’s nose,” Jack said. “Larsen, you take point and I’ll bring up the rear.”
“I guess I’ll occupy the middle,” Mel said. At the gate, she paused. “Do you think we’ll see the Eiffel Tower this trip?”
“That’s toward Switzerland, too” Larsen said, a bit glumly.
“Oh.” Mel met Jack’s gaze blandly. “I was never that good with geography.”
Jack didn’t believe her. He had a feeling there wasn’t much she wasn’t good at. “Up and over, ma’am.”
“Yes, sir.” She vaulted it lightly, then fell in behind Larsen.
There were, Jack decided as he studied Mel’s easy, graceful movements to toward the west, definite advantages to bringing up the rear.
Chapter Thirteen
Thorhaus stood by the ditch, fingering the white silk that had hid the quarry from his sight, a slight smile curling his mouth. He wasn’t sure why he’d come back, other than the feeling he’d missed something. Had his subconscious mind noticed the silk rippling in the wind? It was possible.
It hadn’t taken him long to discover the only possible cover in the empty field or the abandoned parachutes.
At least one of the three fliers was both clever and inventive. He could admire this kind of initiative—and wish he didn’t have to hunt him down. He would like to meet him, though. He dropped the parachute, using his foot to tuck it back into the ditch. He had to do his job, but he didn’t have to tell Kass about this. Let him flail about, like the angry bull he was.
Thorhaus wished he had more imagination. This hunt would require it, not brute force. One might say it was more logical for the enemy to accept reality and surrender, but if Thorhaus were in this position, he would, he knew, be surrendering to a far different enemy. He couldn’t say it out loud, but his thoughts were still his own and he could think and feel shame at what he was forced to do to these soldiers doing their duty. The Fuehrer had invaded this country. He had behaved without honor and he elevated men who were like him to positions of power. Thorhaus did his duty because he had no choice. If he were the one out there, being pursued by someone like Kass, he’d do everything in his power to escape, too.
He paced back to his car. Well, it was mostly out of his hands. If they didn’t catch the fliers, the Gestapo would. Either they would get help, which would lead to discovery, or they wouldn’t get help and discovery would be inevitable.
It was a pity, though. He’d like to talk with a man who could think so fast on his feet. And perhaps play chess with him.
* * * * *
After playing it coy for an inordinate amount of time, the sun faded into the horizon, leaving Mel stumbling, as quietly as possible, in the deep and unrelenting dark of the blacked out countryside. This was probably the longest she’d ever gone without speaking and it was killing her to keep suppressing some really good material, or at least what seemed like good material. Tired might be impairing her judgment. She quickly and silently passed over the other reason she liked to talk: relieving stress. There was no help for it, so why dwell on it?
Here she was in France and she had no clue where they were or even what it looked like, other than that it had trees and mud. Lots of mud. She’d used some of it on her face, getting some interesting looks from the two men, until she’d explained it wasn’t for her complexion.
The first time they almost stumbled into the arms of a German patrol, Jack had moved into point, leaving Mel to cover their six. It was all very gallant and Mel couldn’t tell them it was not the best use of their resources. This would have been a lot easier if she could just tell Jack the truth. Well, not a lot easier, but maybe some easier. But not for Jack, she had to keep reminding herself. There was good reason to break her silence, now that time had shifted and changed. They weren’t where they’d been or with who they should have been with. Ric was already a dead hero. Only Larsen was left to take his place and Mel had no idea if he would. Mel had her doubts about him. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he didn’t have the connection to Jack that Ric had had.
Their present journey through the night was an all too ironic metaphor for Mel’s present circumstances, though it had at least provided her with the privacy to pee. Larsen’s memory wasn’t as good as Mel’s, and the farm had, for the present, eluded them.
As they stumbled through the darkness, Mel was also feeling her way through the unknown present, hoping to restore a future that was also lost to her in a fluid, ever-changing mist. It would have been such a relief to share the burden with Jack, but they didn’t have a place, or the privacy, for a cozy chat, even if she could have squared it with her conscience.
Thanks to Hell Week with the SEALs, Mel knew she could be this tired and cold and keep moving, but at least the SEALs had fed her. She’d stuffed extra candy bars in her pockets, but a shared bar didn’t go far. The brief sugar buzz had faded with the sun. Jack wanted to press on until close to dawn. The plan was to hide during the day and travel at night. And, hopefully, make contact with the underground and get help in getting back to England. It was the same plan they’d had last time.
Maybe it would go better this time.
Jack stopped suddenly, signaling for them to get down. Mel crouched close to the cold earth, her heart beating so loud, for a moment she couldn’t hear anything but that. Slowly other sounds entered her brain’s cue for sorting. Mel moved up to Jack
“They’re French,” Mel murmured, not sure what to feel about that. It didn’t exactly clear up the whole friend or foe issue. She tried to pull words out of the murmured sound, but caught only the occasional word. “I think they are arguing about something…us, maybe?”
Jack was quiet, Mel could almost feel him thinking.
“Let’s sit tight for now.” His voice was a soft thread of sound, but Mel was glad for it. It warmed cold muscles. It shouldn’t, but hey, since it was…
“Why don’t we ask them for help?” Larsen shifted restlessly.
“Not until we know more,” Jack said, allowing a hint of sharp to edge into his whisper.
They were waiting for someone, Mel realized. Only one of them didn’t want to wait. They had to be underground. They were out after curfew and trying to keep a low profile, but still she hesitated. If she could see their faces, she’d feel better.
She leaned close to Larsen. “Where do you think we are? What town did we come down close to? Do you know?” There were some underground cells, cells that had been infiltrated in that future Jack had warned her about.
“You are in France,” a soft, French-accented voice said, quietly from behind them. “Please to raise your arms and make not to move.”
* * * * *
December 20, 1942
The cellar they were escorted to was dank, dark and quite possibly colder than it had been outside. It smelled of wine and dirt and some things Mel didn’t recognize. She caught a brief glimpse of barrels and wooden crates before their guard removed the candle and left them. They’d made sure no one saw their faces, which strengthened Mel’s conviction they were part of the underground. They’d traveled in silence through darkened roads and fields, stopping once or twice to allow a German patrol to pass by. Each time silence was enforced with a knife to the throat.
“What do you think they are doing?” Larsen spoke nervously in the dark to Mel’s right.
“Debating whether to turn us in or help us or—” Jack’s voice came from her left.
Mel edged in that direction, exploring the floor until she found him. At her touch, his hand closed over hers, his strength passing through the layers of their gloves. She wanted to lean against him and refill her courage well but she didn’t. She wanted to huddle against him for warmth, but she didn’t do that either. She needed to think of a plan if this went south, but she couldn’t. Despite it all, she was just too tired. She pulled her knees up in an attempt to maximize any warmth still lingering in her body and rested her chin on her knees.
“Or?” Larsen’s voice was
off to her right.
Mel felt Jack hesitate. She knew what he wasn’t saying.
“Or they may eliminate us,” Mel said. “It’s probably the easiest solution for them.”
“Sorry I asked,” Larsen said, sounding like the scared kid he was.
Mel was sorry she told him. She felt like the bad news bear. She waved her free hand in front of her face, but all she felt was the movement of the air. The darkness was complete. If she’d been alone with Jack, they might have talked or something, so it was a good thing they weren’t alone. Her thoughts tangled and drifted as she felt herself leaning toward Jack. His shoulder was strong and comforting and almost warm…
She must have drifted off to sleep because she found herself back with the SEALs. She was cold and wet and tired and standing on the beach with Rockman yelling something at her. Part of her knew it was a dream and was irritated about it. If she had to dream, why couldn’t she go home...
The sound of the door creaking open jerked back to a reality that was only slightly better. No one was yelling at her. Yet.
One of three men held a lantern in front of them. The light cut into her pupils. Closing her eyes wasn’t enough. She covered them with her hand, pulling her other hand free from Jack just before the circle of light found them. She hated feeling so disoriented and at a disadvantage. She managed to get her feet under her and stood up, swaying as the blood rushed from her head. Her empty stomach wasn’t much help either. She noticed a crate behind her and used it to steady herself.
The three people who’d entered the cellar kept the light directed away from them and toward the three prisoners. And they made sure they stayed in the flickering shadows. One of them rolled three barrels to the bottom of the stairs, one at a time, then they sat down, with the light between them and the three of them.
She didn’t look at Jack or Larsen, though it wasn’t without a struggle.
“I’m Captain Jack Hamilton, United States Army Air Corps,” Jack said into the waiting silence.
The three figures shifted and it seemed they exchanged glances. Mel remembered reading about an underground group that was infiltrated and betrayed. All the men and boys in the village were executed by a… Leutnant Kass. He’d been under orders from the Gestapo in the area. Kass had been the name mentioned by the German commander where they landed. If this were that group, then this must be Romilliy sur Brouere.
“They’re afraid we might be German infiltrators,” Mel said.
Her words made the men shift again.
“How do we prove we’re not?” Jack asked.
Mel could think of one way. Give them the real infiltrator, Rene Bouchard. He’d disappeared sometime before the end of war, either killed in retribution or removed by the Germans when he was no longer useful to them. The question she couldn’t answer, was he one of the three men facing them? They appeared to be at a bit of an impasse.
“They know there are three missing fliers. They can’t believe we escaped capture,” Mel said, feeling the truth of her words as they left her mouth. “So they figure we’re fakes. But if they turn us in, then the Germans will know they violated curfew. They are planning on killing us, but they want to be sure.”
Two of the figures looked toward the middle one and he spoke rapidly, but too softly for her to catch more than a few words.
“Hey, look here—” Larsen began, but Jack cut him off.
“Perhaps you should introduce yourself, Mel.”
Of course, the Germans wouldn’t have anticipated a woman being on board. She was too tired. Somehow she needed to get her head clear or they wouldn’t just lose their lives here. They’d lose the future, too.
Mel straightened and knew the three men stiffened. She pulled off her hat and fluffed her flattened hair, hoping it didn’t look as bad as it felt like it looked. She took a step closer to the lantern, stopping at a sharp word from one of the men. She didn’t move back, but instead undid her heavy flak jacket, working her way through the layers of clothing until she reached her borrowed uniform, which was filled out in ways it wasn’t meant to. She shivered in the increased cold, but made herself look around, like a tourist.
“So, this is France” she said again, in French. “It’s not what I expected.”
One of the men muttered something that might have been a curse. She thought another crossed himself. She was sure one of them stifled a chuckle.
Mel continued in French. “I’m an American newspaper reporter. I was doing a story when we were shot down.” She pulled out her most charming smile, though she wasn’t sure it would work in a dirty face, and added, “My friends call me Mel.”
“You expect us to believe that a woman would be on an American plane?” The voice was charming, even loaded with disbelief and a hint of humor.
“Is it easier to believe the Germans planted me here?”
“American women are weak,” another man said, his voice rich with contempt.
Mel smiled. “Really?” She widened her stance, shifting to find her footing on the uneven floor. She wiggled her gloved fingers invitingly, hoping the movement was visible to the eye. The gloves were a bit large. “Try and take me.” She almost dared him, but managed to stop herself. “Unless you’re afraid of being beaten by a girl.”
Okay so that was sort of a dare, but she hadn’t said it. If he took it that way, it wasn’t her fault.
The man who’d mocked her hesitated, then got up. The way he approached her was casual and downright cocky. That lasted until Mel flipped him. They all did the same thing, came at her the same way, never giving her a chance to show her other cool moves.
Mel kept a wary eye on the winded Frenchman. He looked like he wanted to try again. While Mel didn’t mind strutting her stuff, she didn’t want to break him. He scrambled up, his meaty hands curling into impressive fists. He tried to hit her this time, but, even with a variation on the theme, the end result was the same.
“I received some specialized training from my newspaper for this assignment.” Did that sound as lame to them, as it did to her? Mel held out her hand to help him to his feet. After a wary moment, he took it and jumped upright. Instead of mad, he looked interested now.
“To fight Germans?” The man who seemed to be the leader of the group spoke.
“To fight off American soldiers.” Mel hoped her frozen mouth was smiling. She couldn’t exactly see them, but there was something in the way they sat that told her they doubted that. “I look better when I’m clean, they tell me.” She rubbed at the mud on one cheek, like that would help.
Her words surprised an unstifled chuckle out of at least one of the men. There was one who still seemed to have a problem with her, it seemed.
“Your French is…excellent.” His voice was thick with suspicion and his accent was slightly different from the other two men. Not that she blamed him. This was definitely the worst of times.
“So’s my German, actually, but my English is better than either and you can’t beat my American. It’s flawless, being my native language.” If only she could be sure this was the Romilliy sur Brouere cell.
The silence from that side of the room was hip deep and stifling. She could almost feel them thinking, or one of them thinking and the other two waiting for him to cease thinking and start acting. Just past the light, she heard a shuffle of feet and realized they were standing. She tensed, and realized it was a manners thing because she was a girl. How sweet. Three shadowy bows were directed toward her. Mel might have smiled at their gallantry, but she already was smiling. Her mouth felt permanently frozen in a smile. One of the men stepped around the lantern and took her hand and, bowing once again, with great charm and clumsy grace, he kissed her hand.
“What my friends call me, it is better not to know,” he said. The light fell full upon his face. He was darkly handsome and oozed charm. He was also the infiltrator.
Without missing a beat, Mel jerked him toward her, using the side of her arm to chop him across the throat, then she moved to
end his shocked pain with another chop to the back of the neck. He dropped to the floor with an ungentle thud. His two companions, after a moment of shock, pulled their knives. While Mel figured she could take them, she didn’t really want to. They were allies, after all.
“He’s a German infiltrator,” Mel said, still in French. “Check his body for identity papers. They are probably secured to his chest or back. He’d need them on him if he got picked up.”
One of the men ordered her to move away from the fallen man. Mel stepped back toward Jack.
“I don’t think the guests are supposed to beat up the hosts,” Jack said. “Didn’t you like how he kissed your hand?”
“He’s a German infiltrator,” Mel said, this time in English. “He would have betrayed us all.”
“How do you know that?” Larsen asked.
It was a fair question. “I saw him talking to one of the patrols we saw today,” Mel said. Larsen bought it, but she could tell Jack didn’t. He shouldn’t. She was a bad liar. If they ever ended up alone, she’d have some explaining to do.
One of the men doing the search gave a sharp exclamation. He’d found something. Mel exchanged a quick look with Jack as the man ripped it open, read it once, then again, this time with more care. He looked up, his expression grim.
Now that she could see him, she saw an older man, possibly in his late fifties or early sixties. She recognized his face from the photos of the men who were executed one month from today. He’d been one of the leaders of the local underground. Francois Mouy. A farmer. A hero.
And she’d just changed the future again.
His companion stood up. “He came to us from Illiers, he said. He came, he claimed, to work with his cousin. Perhaps he is also a traitor?”
He wasn’t, Mel knew, but he was on his own for the moment. Almost hazily she thought, he died anyway…but what a bummer…
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