Sighing, she examined the carpet beneath her and ran her fingers across the heavy grey-green wool. The faded swirls showed the wear of years of scuffling feet. A rug rested in the corner beneath a reading chair and table. Claire crawled over to the corner to get a closer look. The rug’s green didn’t quite match the carpet’s.
She gently pushed the chair and table away, then rolled back the rug. Beneath, a ragged square was cut in the carpet. She peeled that back. The floorboards had been sawed away. A square metal safe sat inside the opening. She ran her hands over the metal, felt the sharp corners of the keyhole.
She’d seen von Richter’s keys before. A quick trip to the closet, his uniform jacket pocket. She squeezed the key ring tight in her palm to keep it from jiggling as she crept back. The third key turned; the click made her flinch.
Claire gripped the metal handle and pulled the heavy door open. A holstered Walther rested incongruously on a pile of folders. She set the pistol gently on the floor next to her then reached for the papers.
On the top, a thick envelope with the emblem of the SS. Claire stuck a finger under the flap and peeled it open. Squinting in the dim light, she unfolded the pink pages inside.
Ausweis. Laissez-Passer.
Four blank travel permits. Better than gold. Tucking the papers back inside, she slipped the envelope inside her dress against her skin.
The first folder she opened appeared to be a pile of invoices. She set it aside and picked up the next.
Obere Sicherheit. Sicherheitsdienst.
The SS insignia. She flipped open the cover and her heart stopped. She grabbed the entire pile beneath the open folder and tore into the study. The files spilled onto the desk beneath the glow of the lamp. Her hands began to shake.
Top left of the page, a photo of Grey. The photo was taken surprisingly close, his gaze off to the left. His eyes were dark squints, forehead lined in a frown, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his worn jacket. The text under the photo was written in German. Claire couldn’t make out any of the neatly typed, single-spaced lines. She flipped the page. A photo of Grey and Jacques. They walked shoulder to shoulder, deep in conversation. The next page, Grey and Laurent. Grey had the same scowl; Laurent was smoking a cigarette, one hand on Grey’s shoulder.
Claire took a deep breath and flipped the page. Claire and Grey. It was taken the day they met in jardin du Luxembourg. The photo was taken at the end of the long
allée
of squared-off plane trees. They stood in front of a statue of a couple embracing. Grey was smiling, his face open, boyish almost. She was speaking, the edges of her mouth curving into a grin. Her fingers rested on his forearm. We look like lovers, she thought.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. More photos of her and Grey, photos of her walking alone, photos of her leaving the flower shop. A photo of Claire and Madame Palain in front of the shop, drinking real coffee, the day Claire splurged on her ration cards. The bottom of the photo under Madame’s image was stamped in heavy blue ink,
Geabschaffen
. In von Richter’s hand, the date of Madame’s death and initials,
AvR
.
Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that all noise faded into static. Her gaze went to the bedroom, to the dark shape of the pistol still resting on the floor. The phone rang on the desk. A quick jump and Claire hit the receiver. It stopped, mid-ring.
It was too late. In the bedroom, von Richter cursed, the bed creaked.
Claire jumped toward the safe. Her fingers closed on the holster as her knees hit the carpet. She came up with the Walther, pointed at von Richter.
He sat up blinking, still half-drunk. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Her finger was pressed tight against the trigger. “You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Grey. The flower shop. Me.” She shook the barrel at him. “Who gave you this information?”
He glanced down at the open safe and shrugged, his lips twisted into a hard smile. “The world favors some of us, Claire. It is only that you are currently operating for the wrong side.”
Her finger tightened against the trigger. She saw Grey’s slate eyes.
I promise,
he told her. He promised he would be back for her and the girls.
The ringing phone jarred her attention. She and von Richter stared at each other as they listened to the phone.
“Schneider,” he said. “An appointment. He will be here momentarily.”
Claire could take Schneider too before the guards got her. But she felt the passes pressed against her skin. And she had promised Marta. She slammed the metal gun butt across von Richter’s head. He slumped sideways across the bed.
Von Richter’s suit jacket hung by the door. She slit a hole along a seam of the lining and slipped in the folder. She shrugged on the jacket and dropped the Luger in a deep front pocket. Her shoes, her purse, and she caught her reflection in the mirror as she walked out the door. Face pale, her eyes dark burning circles.
Claire crept down the hallway, jacket pulled tight, the folder pressed stiffly against her through the thin fabric of her dress. She glided down the stairs, her head erect, chin out. Soldiers stood guard below her on each side of the stairwell. She’d passed them hundreds of times tucked in von Richter’s side or on her way back to the room. Now, in a rumpled dress and man’s jacket, her eyes wild, they watched her approach with hard stares.
The sharp corners of the folder bit into her rib cage. She felt perspiration break out under her arms and run down her back.
Schneider met her at the bottom rung. He took in von Richter’s jacket, her face. His eyes widened. “Where is the Sturmbannführer?”
“Sleeping one off.”
He examined her. His mouth tightened. “You will come with me to see him.”
“Non, merci.”
Her hand slid inside the jacket pocket, reaching for the gun.
He spoke a sharp command to the guards. The soldier at her side grabbed her above the elbow. “Come with us,
Fräulein
.”
She went cold, her finger slid over the trigger.
“Madame Badeau, what seems to be the problem?” The Comte stopped in front of the soldiers. “Lieutenant,” he said to Schneider in a cool greeting then looked back to Claire. “Sturmbannführer von Richter will be upset if you’re late with his breakfast, no?”
Claire painted a smile on her face and shrugged her shoulders as if it was something that couldn’t be helped.
Schneider glared. “I just phoned. He didn’t answer.”
The Comte’s lips turned up in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He didn’t answer you, you mean.”
Schneider flushed. “You spoke to the Sturmbannführer?”
The Comte didn’t answer, dismissed Schneider with his eyes. He turned to the soldiers. “Perhaps I should take your names so I can let the Sturmbannführer know who held up his breakfast and his mistress?”
They looked at each other, to Schneider, then back to the Comte. Claire felt the grip release on her arm.
The Comte let a smile creep into the corner of his mouth, he extended an elbow for her. They walked arm-in-arm through the salon toward rue Cambon.
“It is a good thing, I think, my assistant was not able to retrieve
Le Monde
for me this morning, no?”
Claire nodded, still unable to loosen her grip on his arm. In her mind, she counted the seconds before Schneider found von Richter. Before they would be after her.
She found her voice as they approached the front doors. “You told me to be careful when you saw me with von Richter. What did you know?”
“Not enough. Never enough.” He reached down and pulled his arm free of her, patted her hand gently. “This I do know. It has been a long night for France. Leave her now or you won’t live to see the dawn.”
“How long did you know about me?”
He examined her as if deciding what she could hear. “About you? A long while.”
Images clicked in her brain. The dinner long ago. Had he left her the note about the Resistance leader in his trash? Had he given her a chance to save Christophe? She looked up at him. His eyes were sad. She recognized the weariness she saw. Of someone who had played the game too long and lost too much to get there.
“Are you a good man?”
He looked genuinely surprised, like no one had ever considered it. He shook his head, a sad smile. “Not yet.” He turned to the concierge.
Claire took a breath and marched purposefully through the double doors. She could almost hear Schneider’s voice ring out, feel the impact of bullets tearing into her back. A glance back inside. The Comte leaned against the concierge’s desk; a newspaper folded under one arm. He smiled at her as the door closed.
She turned to face the street, wrapping von Richter’s jacket closer about her. Soldiers positioned on each side of the door watched the hem of her dress fluttering around her pale thighs in the soft summer breeze. She pasted on a flirty smile and started walking. She fought the urge to look back, kept her pace measured, her hips swinging.
A yell echoed from inside the hotel and Claire burst into a run. A whistle blew as she rounded the corner onto rue Saint-Honoré. A quick turn onto rue Duphot and she ducked into the dark space between two buildings. Pressing herself against the bricks, she peeked toward the intersection. Pedestrians on rue Saint-Honoré scattered off the sidewalk, spilling into the street as an invisible wave crested the corner. She jerked her head back in as troops pounded into view. A long whistle echoed off the buildings. Claire looked behind her.
Ten feet farther and the opening ended at an oversized iron gate, bound with an enormous medieval-looking lock. Sloping pavement behind the iron bars descended into darkness beneath a tall building. She ran to the gate, peering into an underground garage. Voices called out from the street, a whistle shrilled, and heavy footsteps pounded closer. Her heart skittered but she forced the panic down. Head tilted back, she noticed a slender opening between the closed gate and the iron crosspieces above.
Her body trembling, she clenched her purse in her teeth, gripped the bars, wedged a foot against a rung and lifted herself in the air. Another breath, another step. The edges cut into her palms; she wedged her knees between two bars to climb higher. She gripped the horizontal bar above the gate, got herself sideways, shoved one foot through, a leg, then another leg. The air wheezed from her chest as she pulled her torso through. Her elbows smacked against metal and she slid. The weight of her falling body jerked her grip loose, and she was in the air.
Claire hit the cobble floor with a thud and rolled like a ragdoll down the steep slope to the parking lot floor. She lay gasping in the darkness, listening to shouts as soldiers ran past the alley. She pushed herself up to her elbows and froze. Two soldiers faced the gate, their forms outlined against the sunlight. She held her breath and closed her eyes. The gate rattled and they were gone.
Forcing herself to her feet, she found her purse and felt her way across the dark empty space. A dim corridor led to a heavy wooden door that opened up onto rue Saint-Florentin. Claire blinked in the sunlight and merged into the flow of pedestrians. She ducked onto the first side street. Tracing her way south, she slipped through private courtyards and twice backtracked out of blind alleyways until she was walking along the Seine, her slim heels clicking on the cobblestone path.
The chalk-grey pont Royal stretched over the dark river. Claire stopped on the bridge midway across. She sagged against the railing, leaning her elbows over the edge. She felt brittle, like too-hot glass that would explode at a touch. Grey, Madame Palain—how many other people had died because of her? Ignorant little dirt farmer—you should have stayed back home. It would be so easy to slip over the barrier, to ride the churning ripples and eddies to the sea. She squeezed her arms close. The folder corners bit into her stomach. No. There was still time. Not everyone had to die.
O
n rue Bezin, Claire paused in the doorway of a small neighborhood charcuterie, the cases nearly empty of meat. The
boucher
sat in the corner at a table reading the paper. He glanced up at her, shrugged apologetically toward the empty cases and went back to his paper. Claire looked back down the boulevard, scrutinizing people walking past. She thought she could spot a Nazi tailing her, but a
Resistánt
? Odette, Jacques, Laurent; they looked Parisian, nothing more. How could she tell who was sent to kill her?
Claire hurried across the street. She entered the Oberons’ apartment building and pressed the button for the fourth floor inside the cage elevator. As the elevator edged upward, Claire pulled the envelope holding the passes from her décolleté.
At the fourth floor, Claire knocked on number 42. A low call, Martin cracked the door open. After a quick check, his lips twisted into a warm smile.
He waved her through the slim opening. “Bonjour, Claire. This is a surprise.”
A quick peck on each cheek, her eyes scanned the room. “Where are Madame Oberon and the girls?”
Martin pointed to the closed door off the salon. He took in her clothes, her expression. His face paled. “To be safe, Adele hid the girls in the closet when we heard the door.”
The apartment was even homier than when she’d been there before. The scent of simmering broth. A photo of their son on the mantel, surrounded by half-burnt candles. A storybook left open on the arm of the couch. Martin must have been reading with Anna before Claire knocked.
“Tell Adele they don’t need to hide, but I must speak with you both, alone.”
Adele hurried out at Martin’s call. Her expression went from happy surprise to pinched fright. Her eyes lingered on Claire’s face as they embraced.
Claire pressed the envelope into Martin’s hands and walked to the window. He stared at the seal.
Totenkopf.
The SS skull and bones. Slipping on his eyeglasses, he unfolded the papers. “What exactly is this?”