Page 12

ould hear.

Rainy puts the barrel of her Walther PPK—a German weapon, a souvenir—against the bridge of his nose. He goes cross-eyed to focus on it.

She puts a finger to her lips and says, “Shhh.”

Silence. It extends. Nothing but the soft shush, shush, s-i-i-i-g-h of the waves and the flapping of a decorative flag on the short pole that marks the rendezvous.

Then comes the crunch of footsteps on sand. Rainy strains to hear. Yes, just one set of feet. One person.

He appears as formless movement within shadow, then comes at last to where the fluorescence of the hissing surf illuminates his . . . no, her face.

In French Rainy says, “Où et la tortue?” Which in English means, “Where is the tortoise?”

A girl’s voice, high-pitched despite her attempt to lower it to a husky whisper, says, “Allé à la mer.” Gone to sea.

“Is it the season for it?”

“Tortoise is always in season.”

With the exchange of code phrases concluded, Rainy exhales. “All right, Navy. Put my gear ashore and you are free to go.” There’s some grumbling, but it’s very, very quiet grumbling.

Rainy slips the automatic pistol into the leather holster sewn into the back lining of her formless black coat.

“I’m Lieutenant Jones. Alice Jones.” She extends her hand.

The girl, a rather lovely young woman of maybe seventeen with blond hair, shakes her hand firmly. “Marie DuPont.”

This, like Alice Jones, is most likely an alias.

“I have some things to carry, if you don’t mind helping,” Rainy says.

“Of course!”

They divide the weight: a radio encased in a rubberized, waterproof container; a locked tin box containing five thousand dollars’ worth of counterfeit Vichy French francs and German reichsmarks; a satchel containing thirty-two pounds of TNT in half-pound blocks helpfully labeled “High Explosive,” and “TNT” and “Dangerous,” and a separate, smaller canvas pouch with thirty-two fuses; and a broken-down-for-easier-shipping Fusil Mitrailleur Modele 1924 M29, the standard French infantry light machine gun, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.

All told it is something like 125 pounds of gear, and it is a struggle for the two of them to drag and haul most of it across the beach to the road. Waiting there is an aged Renault, still with wooden spoked wheels, which has been somewhat crudely remodeled as a panel truck.

Seeing them struggling, a man emerges from the Renault to help, gathering what they’ve left. A burning cigarette butt illuminates a craggy, whiskered face. They dispense with introductions and quickly load the gear into the back and drive off.

They go through town, which takes very little time, Fouras being no metropolis, then they head east, keeping near to the north bank of the Charente River, and come at last to a small wood and tin shack beside a tiny jetty.

They unload the gear onto dirt, and the Renault promptly drives away.

“Do not move, mademoiselle,” Marie says. “They will wish to look at you.”

Rainy nods. She raises her hands above her head and slowly turns a complete circle. She can’t imagine what the unseen watchers will be looking for, but she generally applauds caution.

The door of the shed opens. It is dark within.

“After you,” Marie says.

Rainy hesitates for a moment to let her senses take in the scene, the area, the placement of a rowboat at the jetty, a second shed a few dozen feet away. She notes deep tire tracks in the mud at her feet, too big to be the little Renault. Then, satisfied, she steps into the shack.

Hands grab her, twist her around to face the wall, and begin a rude examination of her body. The searching hand quickly finds her Walther and draws it out. Then they find the knife strapped to her thigh beneath the dress.

A match flares and a flame glows from an oil lamp set on a small table. The dim light reveals two people. One is an older man, short, dark complexion, pitted as if by smallpox or an adolescent bout with severe acne. He wears a shabby gray suit that looks as if it was cut for a man two sizes larger. His eyes are yellowed but alert, suspicious, cautious, skeptical.

Rainy is obscurely gratified to see that he is wearing a dark-blue beret, just exactly what she expects of a maquis fighter.