Page 32 of One More Secret

They might be talking about the costumes and set design and production, but they weren’t at the theatre to enjoy the show. Allaire attended the production to gain new intelligence to relay back to London. The slip of a tongue. A boastful comment. Any tiny morsel is desirable if it helps bring an end to the war. With the Allies the winner.

I smile while they regale me with stories about their delightful evening. Smile while I pretend everything in the world is all right.

Élise points to the large pond, and we head towards it.

A man walks in our direction. He’s tall and handsome, but the strain of war mars his expression as it does for everyone else in the park. He catches sight of us, and his face breaks into a welcoming grin. To an onlooker, it appears as though he wasn’t expecting to run into his friend here.

“Élise, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” His tone is all Parisian charm, and his French sounds natural. I can’t tell if he grew up speaking the language because one of his parents is fluent in it, or if perhaps he really was born in France.

Élise gives him an easy-going smile.

“And this is my cousin Carmen,” Allaire tells him. “Carmen, this is Christian.”

Christian is his code name. For the sake of security, we don’t know each other’s aliases. I offer Christian my hand to shake.

“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and plants a soft kiss on it.

I release a delighted giggle. His hazel eyes belay a warmth and humour that seem out of place during these days of uncertainty and despair.

His white dress shirt, black trousers, and black shoes would have been in better shape prewar, but that does not diminish his striking good looks. His clothing only serves to enhance them.

This man’s role isn’t to blend in, to become invisible. His job with the SOE is to associate with powerful individuals, to be noticed, to charm both men and women alike, to glean from the enemy the intelligence Baker Street will salivate over.

When it comes to women, how far will he go to gain the information? One of the guidelines our training imparted on us is sleeping with the enemy to gain secrets is frowned upon. But I am certain Baker Street would not condemn him for his actions if it meant ending this war sooner.

Christian releases my hand. “And how are you enjoying our fair city?”

“It’s beautiful. I wish I could travel here more often. But with everyone gone because of the war, I need to help my father with the work around the house and the vineyard.”

“Well, I hope you’re able to visit your cousin more often. I would enjoy showing you all the delights the city has to offer.”

I bite back a laugh and smile graciously. I am certain he speaks this way to all women. I can almost imagine the fifty-five-year-old widowed courier blushing at his words, and she is not one to easily fall for a man’s cheap flattery. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I visit.”

The four of us exchange words for a few minutes, and Christian bids us goodbye. We need to keep to the cover that we just happened to come across him while walking in the park.

Allaire and Élise return to their flat. I head for the train station.

I’m barely out of the park when I spy a family in thread-worn clothing and wearing the recognizable black armband with the yellow star on it.

The two little boys are huddled against their mother’s legs. An SS officer shoves their father to a truck filled with other men. The man climbs in, the stoop of his shoulders resigned. Another officer pushes the mother and her sons towards a different truck.

Anger coils hotly in my muscles, and I have to rein in the urge to run across the street and grab the family from the Nazis. To hide them away. To spit in the officer’s scowling face.

Or better yet, to knife him the way I’ve been trained to do.

But I cannot do any of those things.

It won’t help the family. It might make things worse. As much as I hate it, I must stick to my task, even though my heart tells me that is not the right thing to do.

I curl my fingernails into my palms and hurry forwards before the Nazis’ attention is diverted my way.

I don’t go directly to the train station. I walk along a relatively empty street, pause to look in a shop window, then casually glance in the direction I came from. No one is following me.

At the station, I head for the correct track and board my train. I take an empty seat in the middle of the car and slip on my mask of indifference.

Two Wehrmacht soldiers enter the train car, and my near relief that no one is after me stumbles and falls, sending my heartbeat into a mad scramble.

“Papers,” one of them barks in French, his harsh German accent twisting the word into something ugly.

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