I quietly made my way past a handful of refugees who gathered in the church. For these people, the war was as real to them as it was to me. I couldn’t imagine the devastation of my home being destroyed and being left with nothing. While many cities escaped bomb drops and gunfights, sadly, not all did. It looked like the parish priest had no problem welcoming people in from the chaos. The refugees slept in pews, prayed, or sat and conversed in hushed voices.
I caught the eye of a young priest who emerged from the sacristry. He probably thought I had been harassed and beaten by the SS, because he eyed me with a mix of pity and horror. He approached and instructed me to join him in a secluded corner.
“Are you hurt? What happened to you?”
Though I doubted any Gestapo agents lurked among the refugees, one never knew. “May I make a confession, Father?”
He nodded slowly and pointed toward the nearest confessional. I went inside and waited, clearing my throat and trying to think of what to say. I wasn’t a Catholic, so it felt odd to me sitting in that small private space. Anyhow, I wasn’t really there for a confession. I needed rest, and my next lead to finding Mathieu Perrine.
“May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy.” He patiently waited on the other side of the screen.
“Father, I need help. I have to find Mathieu Perrine.”
There was a long pause. “Who are you?”
“My name is Noelle.”
“No, who are you? In the sight of God and within the protection of the Seal of Confession, tell me who you are.”
I didn’t know why, but I shuddered. “I’m...a lost person, trying to find a way to help right some wrongs.”
He said nothing for a few seconds. “And that is all we are asked to do, one step at a time and one day at a time. Why do you need Mathieu?”
“Because I need his help.”
“How can I trust whether or not you have good intentions?”
“You can’t...but don’t you believe in having faith?”
“I also believe in responsibility. I have a responsibility to my parishioners and those refugees.”
I sighed. “I’ve read about that Polish priest sent to Auschwitz for his defiance...and the Dutch Carmelite too. Sounds like those men were willing to not only speak about faith, but also do something.”
“True.”
“And the codeword is destiny, Father.”
“Thank you, I was wondering when you were going to get around to that.”
“Look, why don’t you just point me in the direction of one of his relatives’ houses?” This guy was as evasive as any spy I’d ever met.
“That would be difficult, young lady.”
“Why?”
“Mathieu has no living relatives in this town.”
I rolled my eyes. “Anything that could lead me to him, Father.”
“Do you know his real name?”
“No.”
“Then let me properly introduce myself. I am Father Alexis, also known as Mathieu Perrine.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh, or to just get up and walk out. “Father...”
“The decision to believe me is completely yours to make,” he said in that voice that was familiar to me and to so many others. If he wasn’t Mathieu, he was damned good at imitating him.
“Well, Father...it’s good to meet you. Now, do you have any food?”
Father Alexis placed a small bowl of ratatouille in front of me, compliments of the rectory kitchen. I smiled and thanked him, and then removed the blonde wig that had miraculously remained on my head for this long. He watched with amusement as I laid the false hair aside and began eating my meal.
“I presume you’re an SOE agent?”
I nodded. “I’m trying to find a factory where chemical weapons are being stored. The ones they use for The Plague. I’m hoping it could lead me to the laboratory where it’s being developed.”
“There are at least twelve in this region.”
“Is there anything you’ve heard recently? Any information you’ve received from the Maquis?”
I continued eating as I watched him rise from his seat and head over to his workstation. We sat in a hidden room within the rectory, behind a set of wooden panels in the dining room. Father Alexis’ secret room held a stash of food and medical supplies, maps, icons, a Bible, and, of course, his radio set which he used nightly to broadcast.
He went rummaging through a drawer and pulled out a notebook, which he then opened. He ran his finger down one of its pages, and his gaze went back and forth between the page and his set of icons hanging on the opposite wall. As I finished off the last of my meal, I continued observing him, realizing that whatever information he kept was coded, and his icons were his ciphers. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a codemaster, just by looking at the elaborate system he used. I then turned my thoughts toward the last broadcast he did as “Mathieu Perrine.”
“You know that broadcast you did, the one where you spoke of Angela Wyatt at the end?”
“Yes, I do.” He returned and sat across from me with the notebook closed, though his index finger kept place.
“Her real name was Stella...she was my friend.”
“You have my condolences. Her sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
My eyes burned. “I appreciate that.”
He reopened the notebook and showed me the code he deciphered. He picked it up from one of England’s BBC broadcasts. The translated message indicated that Vélizy-Villacoublay was an area of great interest to the Allied forces.
“A factory is there.” He ripped out the sheet of paper and folded it, no doubt saving it for a fire.
“I don’t want to impose further, but is there anyone willing to take me near there? They could drop me off outside Vélizy.” The town stood south of Paris, and it would be a strenuous bike ride, provided I was even lent one to use.
“Are you sure you don’t want to rest? And don’t forget that it’s past curfew.”
I bit my tongue in order not to curse in front of him. “Then I’ll go as early as I can in the morning. Would someone take me?”
“Bernard is a Maquisard who lives just beyond the city here. I can give you directions to his house, and a codeword so that he’ll know I sent you.”
I couldn’t help but eye him with admiration. “Now I can see why those people came here for refuge.” I rubbed my eyes and thought of how perfectly I would fit in with the people sleeping in the pews. No one looked as disheveled and exhausted as I did.
“And I can see why it’s important to never lose faith, and to keep fighting.” He gave me a silent blessing. “I don’t know you, not even your true name, but I pray you remain safe and complete your task. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me. Now, I believe it’s time for my broadcast.”
“I can’t believe you’re Mathieu Perrine.” I shook my head as I said this. I had always imagined a burly man at a radio set, with a thick mustache and somber face.
He went to his workstation and turned on his radio. “What were you expecting?”
“I expected something else.” I watched him turn a knob on the radio set and adjust the frequency to get his transmitter ready.
“Last year the SS came into town, and according to them they wanted to let us know that our country had given up, that it failed us. A young man who spoke up said that he did not give up—and they shot him. The next day, to ensure no one else spoke out, they lined up five youths in front of the church and asked me to choose two of the five to go free...”
I could see the pain still in his eyes. “What did you do?”
“That was the problem. I did nothing. How do you judge who deserves to live or die? They were all murdered, and I walked away feeling helpless. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that. Then I built this room as an act of defiance; I planned to hide people from the Nazis, like the Resistance fighters.”
“But you ended up broadcasting?�
��
He smiled in response and spoke into the receiver, his voice an octave lower than usual. “Good evening, fellow Maquisards, Allies, and all who love justice and freedom. As we begin, let us remember the value of faith,”—he turned to look at me—“and that it is not just about preaching it, but also living it...”
I worded a silent “thank you” to him and slipped out. I didn’t fancy the idea of sleeping on a hard wooden pew, but there were a lot worse places I could be tonight. I came back into the church and took a pew close to the sanctuary, next to an old woman. She reminded me of the witch from the Wizard of Oz, sans the green skin. However, she had a friendly smile and offered to share her blanket with me, so I warmed up to her quickly.
I thought about Rénee, and how she would start to worry about me. She didn’t have a phone, so I couldn’t make a call to let her know I was fine. I would see her again within a day or two. At the very least, I would find a way to get a message to her.
As I sat there with the old lady’s head on my shoulder, I smiled at the little girl and her mother who I had helped earlier. They were settling in a few rows ahead, it made me wonder where they came from and if they could ever go back. The SS might’ve thought that as long as they bombed people’s houses and slaughtered innocents in the streets, that no one would fight back, but I still had some fight in me—and I was going to take it straight to the Nazis and their weapons factory.
10
“I don’t like it.” Bernard shook his head and frowned. “I don’t care if you say you are a wizard...we shouldn’t be sending in women like this, especially to such a dangerous place.”
I gave him the evil eye, but decided not to say anything. I grew even more irritated when I nearly hit the roof of the car a couple of times as we ran over a few bumps in the road. “Do you think you could not give me a concussion before I reach Vélizy?”
“See? Can’t even take a car ride, yet you’re going to sabotage a factory. What sense is there in that?”
“I can stop your heart from beating and cause major explosions with my spells. I’d stop talking if I were you.”
He snorted. “My great-uncle was a Philosopher. The Gray Tower made him leave early. He locked himself in his room and kept writing out equations until he buried himself under the weight of all his papers! I hope you’re not crazy like that.”
“Not in the least.”
“We hadn’t seen a wizard in the family since then,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you suppose your kind is dying out?” He gestured with his right hand when he saw me raise an eyebrow. “I meant no offense.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that the world’s off-balance.”
“I’ll agree with you on that.”
We passed Paris around 10 a.m., and Bernard drove at a leisurely pace toward Vélizy-Villacoublay. I was about to ask him to stop the car and let me walk from there, but he suddenly slowed and parked the car on his own. There were two other civilian cars ahead of us, and they had also stopped. The Nazis had set up a checkpoint with two trekkers, and about four men from the German Armed Forces present. Further down the road, I thought I saw an armored car.
“Here, Noelle. Put this on.” He handed me a silver ring and placed a second one on his left ring finger. I got the hint and slid the ring onto my finger. I stretched and yawned as I reached toward the back, grabbing a shawl and pulling it over my head. I didn’t know who was still out looking for a dark-haired girl named Emelie. To my surprise, I felt a pang of disappointment at abandoning that codename, but like Renée said, it didn’t change who I was inside.
One of the civilian cars ahead of us passed through the checkpoint and two of the soldiers went to the car in front of us and began their query. The other two watched while toting their rifles.
“Have your wits about you, woman.” Bernard wiped his greasy face with a handkerchief and sighed.
“I’ll tell you what, try having your wits about you when you run into a Cruenti. This is nothing.”
“What’s a Cruenti?” He put on a false smile and rolled down his window when he saw one of the soldiers heading toward us.
The soldier looked bored as he stopped at the window and leered at me. “Where are you headed?” His hands rested on top of the car; he cocked his head to the side and awaited an answer. His partner stood a few feet away with his hands nonchalantly folded behind his back, probably ready to draw a weapon at any moment.
“Good morning.” Bernard reached into the glove compartment and showed him some papers. “My wife and I are headed into Vélizy-Villacoublay.”
“On what business?”
“We wish to visit Saint Denis church.”
Well, at least he didn’t say we were vacationing or staying with a relative.
“You came all this way just to go to some church?”
I spoke up. “You see, my husband read somewhere that if you pray at the altar at Saint Denis church, that it would cure you of impotency.”
The right corner of the soldier’s mouth twitched when he saw Bernard go red. “Maybe you shouldn’t have married such a fat old man.”
“That’s what my mother told me.” I shrugged my shoulders.
“You don’t object if a man beats his wife, correct?”
The two soldiers farthest ahead let the car in front of us pass. They called out toward our interrogator. He waved his hand and responded to them in German, then leaned back in to speak with us.
“Just remember that the curfew still applies, and the bounty’s still being offered if you’re interested. Just report any suspicious persons or activity to us.”
“Understood.” Bernard nodded solemnly.
“Can’t believe these bastards have got me minding grandmothers and impotent men. I’ll be glad when the SS gets here.” He said this under his breath in German, apparently not thinking we heard or understood.
“Thank you.” Bernard smiled. The soldier waved us through and rejoined his companions. Through the rear-view mirror I could see them doubled over in laughter.
“Not bad, Noelle.” Bernard wore a wide grin.
“Is that a compliment?” I smiled back at him.
“Underneath that middle panel in the back, there’s a bag with some weapons and supplies. Take whatever you think you need.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”
“Father Alexis trusted me with you. I couldn’t risk you getting hurt.”
He furrowed his bushy brows and looked ready to argue. “Well...never be afraid to call on me, mon chérie.”
“I won’t be.”
Camaraderie and dedication like this kept spies like me going. I spent most of my time living other lives, going by other names, and not really having a place to call home. Yet, when I found myself surrounded with people like Jasmine, Renée, Father Alexis—heck, even Penn—I felt like I’d found a place where I belonged; physical borders or distances didn’t matter.
Before I parted ways with Bernard (who planned to head further south before cutting across the Seine and going back up north), he left me with a few gifts: a Fairbairn fighting knife, a leather fold with a variety of small knives and daggers, a radio transmission jammer, and a set of pencil fuses. With disappointment, I decided that my steel knife would have to double as my alchemy knife. I still carried my red garnet lipstick, but I wasn’t sure if I had left my emerald spectacles back at Father Alexis’ secret room or somewhere in the car. I didn’t have the time or patience to go looking for them, so I secured everything else I needed and said a final goodbye to Bernard before walking the last mile into Vélizy.
Usually in the early afternoon, one could see children frolicking in the Vélizy fountain and locals bustling about the neighborhood. However, most people stayed indoors as much as possible these days, nervous about the heavy presence of the German Army. The towers of the Vélizy factory loomed at the edge of town, surrounded by the heavy mechanical rumble of armored cars and a tank. I
decided that visiting the local hospice, where visitors could purchase a room and a hot meal, would afford me a place to linger until nightfall. It could also serve as a means to gather information about the factory’s layout, if one of the factory workers was there. Clearly, the smoke that billowed from the factory’s towers was all for show—the only real work being done consisted of guarding the stockpile.
The effects of the deadly chemical, nicknamed The Plague by Ally soldiers, could be seen on the half-eaten faces and maimed bodies of former fighters who sat in the streets of Vélizy. Some of them bandaged themselves like lepers and sat clanking the change in rusted cans in hopes of receiving more. Others were too distraught to care about their appearance or, in some cases, preferred to use it to shame a benefactor into helping them. I shuddered at the thought of how many innocent bystanders were unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire. At least the soldier went in with training and a gun.
“Have pity on me, miss.” A young man approached—one of the ones without wrappings. A few wisps of blonde hair clung to his balding head, and his skin had a gray tinge. His dry lips parted slightly as he spoke and, though he did wear a jacket, I could see acid burns running down the side of his neck.
I acknowledged him with a quick nod and promptly handed him a few francs. I made sure not to touch his hand, but it wasn’t out of fear. I wasn’t about to forget that an alchemist had carefully crafted it to destroy the body on contact. The soldier was lucky enough to survive whatever had hit him. Maybe he had been far enough from the blast not to be immediately obliterated, but it didn’t mean The Plague wasn’t still working on him and slowly killing him.
“You’re afraid of me...aren’t you?” He took the money and clenched his fist. Two of his fingers were missing.
“If I were afraid, I would’ve ignored you like those two people ahead who just passed you by.”
The Gray Tower Trilogy: Books 1-3 Page 9
