Page 57 of One More Secret

F. The signal that it’s safe to drop the load.

Three parachutes descend from the low-flying Lysander as it continues south along the route. We turn off our torches.

As soon as the first long wooden box hits the ground, we run towards it, quickly pry open the lid, and check the contents. I detach the parachute and dig a small grave for it in the soft ground.

While I’m hiding the parachute, the men carry the box to the waiting lorry parked out of view and unload the weapons Baker Street sent us. They return with the empty container, and four of the men carry it to the lake to be submerged deep under the surface.

The remaining members of the party search for the two other containers. We work in silence, focused on our task, conscious that at any second we could be facing the wrong end of a gun. Talking is a distraction, a luxury none of us can afford.

It takes several minutes to locate the second box. The men carry it away, and I bury the parachute. Exhaustion settles inside me, heavier than the weapon-filled containers. The same exhaustion that makes up every red blood cell, every organ, every nerve. The same exhaustion that’s been a familiar part of me since I landed in France three months ago.

The burst of energy because of the danger we face is the only thing that keeps me going.

I finish my task and stand, stretching out the aching muscles in my lower back.

Pierre approaches, moonlight gleaming off his blond hair, shadows carving strong angles in his face. “I found the final container.”

I open my mouth to reply, but a yawn overpowers the words. We’ve had to be here for the past five nights, waiting to see if the parachute drop would happen. Then a few hours later, we’ve had to go about our daily routines so as not to draw suspicion.

“Halt!” The sharp voice slices through the air with the intent to kill. My body turns cold. Cold like the lake in January, freezing my heart and my lungs and my thoughts.

Bloody hell.How did I not hear the Germans advance on us? What happened to the man who was supposed to keep watch?

I don’t know how many of them there are. The voice came from behind me.

Pierre grabs my hand. “Do you trust me?” His fear-hitched words are quiet and cracked.

And then…he’s kissing me.

For a second, I remain frozen, too stunned to know what to do, too stunned to speak. But I do trust Pierre. Trust him more than I trust my ex-fiancé. More than I trust my sister.

Shock and fear and dread collide and combust into anger. Anger at this soldier. Anger at those who betrayed France. Anger at those who betrayed my heart. The heat thaws me, brings me to my senses, and I return the kiss.

Return the kiss because our lives depend on it.

Pierre’s plan might save us, might be our chance to escape.

Or it might get us executed.

My hands rest on his shoulders. His arms go around my waist. My back is still to the soldiers. Only Pierre can see them. His body trembles slightly beneath my touch.

“What are you doing out here?” The words spoken in German are stiff, but I can also hear the exhaustion in them.

Pierre and I jerk apart as though embarrassed to be caught kissing and turn to the soldier. Pierre doesn’t understand German, and he isn’t aware I am fluent in the language. It was my fluency in both French and German that made me desirable to the SOE.

Two German soldiers are standing several yards away, pistols aimed at us. The young soldier looks to be Pierre’s age and is tall and skinny. The other one is several years older and looks as if he plays sports in his free time.

A tiny wave of relief pumps through my body that they aren’t SS. We’d have no chance if they were.

“Pardon?” I say, feigning a lack of understanding for German, my voice shaky, my tone respectful.

The younger soldier laughs. The cruel sound assaults the night air, fuelling my anger and fear. “They don’t understand us. The simpletons only speak French.” He snorts, his gaze still on us. “It is well past curfew. What are you doing here?” This time his words are spoken in broken French.

I bite my lower lip, looking nothing like an SOE agent and looking every part of the role I’m about to play. “You won’t tell anyone you saw us here, will you?” I infuse the words with a quiet, my-papa-will-kill-me-if-he-finds-out desperation. “We know we aren’t supposed to be out after curfew, but it’s the only time we can be together.”

I speak slowly so the soldier can understand me, but my heart rate is five times the speed of my words.

The younger soldier laughs once more, the sound as cruel as before, and he roughly translates what I said for the benefit of his comrade. I don’t possess the vocabulary for some of his foul words, but I do comprehend the general gist. My cheeks heat, and I glance down, hoping neither soldier notices.

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