Claire’s anger snuffed out like a cigarette butt tossed in the snow. Would they kill her? Damn. They just might. But she wasn’t about to start following orders. “I could walk away, all right. Straight to the Ritz. The Comte would be pleased to see me. He enjoys a good chat. That would be a hell of a mistake too, wouldn’t it?”
Fear flickered in Odette’s eyes. “Yes. That would be.” She held the crumpled flowers out to Claire, a note of pleading crept into her voice. “Claire. This is more important than I can say. For
all
of us.”
“Oh? Grey too?” Claire said flatly.
Odette scowled.
Must have hit a nerve, Claire thought grimly. “Is it true? Did Grey go back to England, like Laurent said?”
Odette sighed. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “He did.”
A cold sliver jabbed Claire in the chest. He was the same as all the other bastards she’d run across. And now Odette. Kind, genuine Odette demanded she risk her life for them, or what? Death?
Taking a deep breath, she plucked the posy from Odette’s hand and hooked it in the crook of her elbow. She was through with every last one them. After she saved this
connard
, she’d tell them all to go straight to hell. She might not wait until next week to see the Comte. She was getting so tired of wool scratching her raw she dreamed of silk in her sleep. “Tell me what I need to do.”
L
ess than an hour later, she climbed the stairs to the upper level of Gare Montparnasse to await the inbound train from Lyon. The concourse was huge; high ceilings beyond view, lines of tracks butted up against platforms accepting trains from all parts south.
She re-read her instructions from Odette, which were mercifully short. At 11:45 the train from Lyon would arrive. Among the passengers would be an older gentlemen wearing a redstriped scarf. He was called Christophe. She must get him safely to an address she memorized and tell him what she heard.
The hall was surprisingly crowded with families dressed to travel south. They could not be mistaken for summer holiday travelers, their clothes too worn, faces were too still, eyes averted from soldiers, from each other. They were the desperate Parisians with the right papers to join their families in the unoccupied zone, where the fascism was cloaked in the trappings of “Father Pétain” and people managed to keep a bit of the harvest away from the German army.
Claire pushed through the crowd toward the row of platforms. Nearly tripping over a stack of luggage, she bumped into the side of a soldier in feldgrau. He spun to face her, his arm poised to strike. He saw her, paused, then
saw
her. His arm dropped.
Claire watched his eyes run from her face to her feet and back up again. Wehrmacht Heer, regular German army. Not to say they wouldn’t kill you, but they didn’t seem to enjoy it quite as much as most of the SS. And for the Wehrmacht stationed in Paris, their most passionate conquests were usually more directed toward bedding French women than wiping out the existing world order.
Claire smiled at him, tilted her head to the side and let her hair fall back from her face.
“Pardon.”
His eyes flickered in surprise and he smiled back, the face of a man too young to expect attention and too inexperienced to doubt it.
She glanced at the table next to him. Two bored soldiers sat in metal chairs; they rummaged through a suitcase open between them. One held a shirt crumpled in his fist, his other hand deep in the suitcase. His partner smoked a cigarette, only half watching the contents get tumbled about. A tired traveler in a rumpled suit stood in front of them. His face was red and lips puffed out indignantly, but his rigid posture exposed his fear.
The soldier at her side spoke to the seated men. Both looked back to her, a smile hidden behind their lips. Claire turned and walked slowly toward the tracks, swinging her hips as she unbuttoned her coat. She paused on the platform marked
Lyon
, next to the empty tracks. She shrugged the coat off her shoulders and glanced back. All three soldiers stared at her. Well, if she had to be noticed, at least they liked what they saw. All she had to do was drop the flowers in front of the soldiers on her way out and show them some skin, and this Christophe had a free ride. She smiled. Odette had picked the perfect woman for the job.
She looked down at the bouquet cupped in her hands. Ranunculus. She knew it as a buttercup, when she was young. Given to another, it meant
I am dazzled by your charms
. Come to find out, a perfect choice for the day.
As she leaned back against a bench and applied her lipstick, a train pulled into the station one platform down.
Montpellier
snapped up on the board. SS soldiers strode out from an invisible doorway behind her. A dozen or more spread out into the crowd. They surrounded the platform, their faces masks, bodies poised like blades. Silently, they watched each person disembark and thread past them. Claire glanced back to the Wehrmacht soldiers who gripped their guns and stood. They weren’t expecting this visit.
Claire adjusted the bouquet in her hands. She glanced back down the stairwell. The exit was clear. She could walk away.
But she didn’t.
She knew how much the SS had been told. They were in the station because they expected a threat from the south. The fact that they are standing at the other platform proved they still don’t know which train and they didn’t know who.
Claire watched the SS scrutinize each passenger. A captain stood back a few steps, his eyes darted from person to person, face expressionless. He watched a businessman in a faded blue suit carrying a briefcase, his head down, walking too fast. The captain nodded his head. With military precision, two soldiers closed the gap between them, leaving the man pinched in the middle. Each grabbed an arm and marched, half dragging him between them, toward the door. A third soldier grabbed the abandoned luggage and strode along behind the others, stepping over a lone black shoe.
Claire turned her head away, her stomach queasy. He probably wasn’t going to get a chance to miss that loafer. Remaining passengers hurried by, avoiding the eyes of the SS. A small girl stopped to pick up the lost shoe. Her mother jerked her arm and scurried away.
With the tilt of his head, the captain indicated another man. Two more soldiers moved. She heard the man pleading as he was hauled away.
I have Ausweis. I have papers.
Claire looked down at the flowers in her lap. The petals trembled. Why the hell was she in the middle of a SS raid? She forced her eyes back to the captain. What was he looking for? Men traveling alone? People without obvious reasons for arriving in Paris?
The train from Lyon rumbled in the station. The remaining soldiers regrouped on her platform, spread out in a semicircle facing the train. They were a step in front of her; she smelled the sharp smoke of German Roth-Händle cigarettes on their uniforms.
The time to get out was now. Claire stood, tugged at her dress and smoothed her hair, stared hard at the exit, but her feet wouldn’t take her there. She planted a smile on her face and slipped in between two soldiers.
The doors opened and travelers streamed off the train. All blanched when they saw the uniforms; their strides faltered then picked up again as they hurried by. Claire watched the officer. His eyes zeroed in on a man, plump with a receding hairline. He looked offended when they pulled him aside. A loyal Vichy man, no doubt. He was hauled away, struggling. Not so loyal for long.
The skirmish was forgotten as her target exited the train. He was wiry, shorter than she’d expected. Thin glasses rode on a hawk nose. His thick head of white hair was carefully combed. A trimmed mustache lined a serious mouth. He carried a valise; a coat was slung over an arm. A red and white striped scarf was tied around his neck.
Claire saw the officers eyes flick over toward him.
“Mon cheri!”
Claire threw herself in his arms. “Kiss me,” she whispered, her mouth on his cheek.
Surprise flickered in his eyes but he recovered, gamely pulling her into his arms and planting a dry kiss on her lips. He tasted of tobacco and coffee.
Her arm anchored in his, she pulled him toward the soldiers.
“Excusez-moi,”
Claire said, her tone light, and led with the flowers held out in front of her chest.
The SS in front of her didn’t give way. With her momentum, she pressed up against him, felt his gun against her thigh, the patch on his uniform pocket scratched her collarbone. She swallowed the bile that surged in her throat, looked up and smiled through the burning that threatened to choke her.
His hard stare flicked down on her, a tongue slid through thin lips like a snake tasting for fear. Her smile was pinned on; the blood pounded in her ears as she held his gaze. He stared for another moment then shoved her away with a stiff arm.
She pushed Christophe through the gap created in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the officer turn his head toward them. One nod and they were dead. The young Wehrmacht soldier from the table of feldgrau moved to block their path, his eyes on Christophe’s case.
“What about a search for me, soldier?” She turned her head; the officer was watching. She had to make a friend and fast. She leaned in to the soldier, licking her lips. “A girl needs to make a living. But—” She slid out a blossom and set it on the table in front of him. “You look so strong. I haven’t had a good search in ages.”
His eyes widened. He said nothing, but nodded his head sharply.
She glanced back at the captain. Another poor soul was getting dragged away. She faced the soldier. “You’ll be here later? After they leave? What’s your name?”
“Günter. Leave your grandfather at home.”
Claire turned to walk away.
He grabbed her arm. “And you, your name?”
“Evelyn. Don’t forget me.” One last smile and Claire reached for Christophe. She looked back as they reached the stairs.
The captain was watching. He nodded. The SS soldiers moved.
Christophe spoke for the first time, the immaculately smooth voice of a learned man. “I suggest we run.”
They charged down the stairs, pressing through the crowd. Claire jerked Christophe into a tiled hallway off the main passage.
“Where are we going?” he gasped. He wasn’t up for a sprint.
“I don’t know.” Claire pulled him around a sharp corner. The hallway ended past them at a closed door. They pressed themselves against a wall. Christophe reached out and rattled the knob. The door was locked.
Across the hall, a thick, wirehaired woman hunched over a mop in a dirty puddle flecked with suds. She paused mopping and looked up, her eyes dull. A low shout echoed from the main corridor. The woman stared.
Claire peered around the corner. A group of soldiers ran past. The captain walked by, paused in the hallway and looked down toward them. Claire jerked her head back and faced the woman, pleading for silence with her eyes. One word, one look. She was with a known
Resistánt
. They would both be dead.
Christophe struggled to catch his breath. He spoke softly to the woman, as if to a child. “Madame.”
A shout echoed down the hall. Heavy footsteps pounded closer. The woman reached a gnarled finger toward them.
“Madame,” Christophe said, his voice cracking.
She lurched past them to a second locked door nearly invisible against the white tile wall. With the flick of a key, the door opened.
Claire and Christophe charged into the darkness. The door clicked shut behind them. They held their breath, heard the footsteps pass. The other door rattled as the soldiers tried the lock.
Claire held one hand in front of her; the other clutched Christophe’s arm.
“Are you alright?” Christophe said.
“Better now. Do you have a light?”
“Yes. Hold on.”
A match flared. The flickering flame lit their faces. The tunnel was dark and wet. Moss-covered concrete walls led away into the distance. The air smelled old and sour.
“Where the hell are we?” Claire tightened her grip on his arm.
“Think of it as a wine cellar, my dear, and we are on our way to an exceptional Bordeaux. Say a Latour ’29?” Christophe’s teeth glinted.
Claire grinned weakly. “How about champagne? Bollinger, Grande Année?”
“I think a bottle of each would do nicely.” He took a step forward. “Did you say your name was Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, as if she answered an important question. “Well, Evelyn, we better get moving. I don’t know how far back the vintner keeps the good bottles.”
L
ight was fading as they crawled out of a vent hole near the Métro’s rue d’Odessa exit. They had walked underground for hours, arm in arm, each foot testing the next step, the only sounds their footfalls and the relentless drip of water down the carved rock walls around them.
Once outside, Claire and Christophe slipped into the rush of people trying to make it home before curfew. It was pitch dark when they entered the apartment building on rue Férou. As Odette directed, Claire led Christophe up three flights of stairs, then knocked softly on the door marked 33. “It is Evelyn.”
The door opened an inch.
“Entrez,”
a low voice commanded.
They slipped through the entry into a dark room. The lights flicked on and they stared into a ring of pointed gun barrels. A tense breath then a thick man, one cheek puckered with a curved scar, pushed through and hugged Christophe. At that, the men lowered their guns and joined in greeting Christophe or as they called him now, Monsieur Kinsel.
Claire allowed herself to be pushed aside in the rush. Even she knew Kinsel was famous. She had read articles in
Le Temps
about this mysterious criminal who set up a network of alliances throughout southern France. What the Nazis would have done to her if she had been caught with Kinsel . . . Her knees wobbled and she sagged against the door, seemingly forgotten. And, for once, grateful for the lack of attention.