Page 13

Nine

Rebecca watched the beach from her hiding place, crouched between the trees overlooking the shore. Sunrise was still hours away, but silvery-gray light had begun to seep into the black, announcing that morning was coming. Overhead, birds began to wake, calling softly to each other.

When Rebecca was a girl, her mother used to tell her that birds sang to each other in the morning as a way of making sure everyone had made it safely through the night.

Ma petite colombe, her mother would call her—“my little dove.” As a child, Rebecca would lie awake in the early morning hours, listening to the birds calling to one another, and would feel a sense of hope and wonder cracking open like an egg inside her chest. Now, as she sat in the half dark with the soft murmur of birdsong all around her, she felt a familiar pain—grief and guilt sliding under her breastbone like a knife.

Somewhere off in the trees, a birdcall, different from the others.

Rebecca scanned the surf. It was difficult to see in the dark, but yes, there, just offshore, a small fishing boat.

Rebecca emerged from her place in the trees.

Four men materialized on the beach from the mist, dragging two small skiffs between them, and began to row out to meet the boat.

Rebecca kept watch as the skiffs were loaded up and returned bearing several wooden crates, along with two extra people—a man and a woman.

The man, Rebecca knew. He called himself David Harlowe, although she was never sure whether that was his real name.

He was an Englishman, though he spoke perfect, unaccented French.

He’d been introduced to Rebecca as a member of the Special Operations Executive—English spies charged with giving aid to the Resistance, providing training and supplies.

Rebecca had heard David refer to the SOE as “the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” and he’d laughed when he said it, as if he’d made a very clever joke.

The woman was new. Rebecca took her in as the boats approached the shore.

She was dressed in the French fashion in a full skirt and burgundy coat, but mist clung to her hair and clothes, making her look sick and bedraggled.

Dark circles stood out under her eyes, and her lips were pale.

Rebecca suspected that her time at sea had not agreed with her.

“Welcome back, David.” Rebecca admired David’s skill with French but always took advantage of any opportunity to practice English with a native speaker.

“Good to be back.” David stepped from the boat. “I see the Huns haven’t managed to capture you yet.”

Rebecca peered out across the water at the rickety fishing boat. “I thought you boys normally like to jump out of airplanes when you come to France.”

“Nothing I like better. But I don’t think my companion would have cared for it as much.”

Rebecca glanced toward the woman. “Who is she?”

“To anyone who asks, she’s Chloe Moreau: Parents are from Quebec, hence the accent, educated in Paris. Wife of a French wine merchant, traveling with her cousin to Dordogne.”

“Sightseeing, is she?”

“Something like that.”

“Enjoy your vacation.”

David grinned. “Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not going to Dordogne. You are.”

Rebecca stared at his smug face until she realized that he was serious.

“The hell I am. Do I look like a taxi driver to you?”

“It’ll only be a few hours out of your way.”

She planted her feet hard on the rocky beach. “Take her yourself.”

“I have business up the coast.” Rebecca knew better than to ask what sort of business.

“Let her take the train.”

“I can’t put her on a train by herself, she’s a civilian.”

Rebecca felt a jolt of alarm run through her. “What the hell do you mean, she’s a civilian ? Who is she?”

David did not answer.

“David.”

“They don’t tell me everything, believe it or not.

” The self-satisfied tone evaporated, replaced with something more honest. “I checked with my man at Baker Street, and he tells me no one had heard of her before two weeks ago. Rumor is the order to get her into France came from Winston Churchill himself. That’s all I know. ”

Rebecca turned and looked to her coconspirators, who had nearly finished loading their trucks. “I have business myself, you know.”

“Your business will still be there after you drop her off in Dordogne.”

“I don’t have the petrol. Where am I going to get the fuel for the trip? From you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Your friends are unloading it as we speak. I think you’ll find it’s quite a bit more than the trip requires. Consider it a gift.”

Rebecca considered it a bribe, and not one she could afford to turn down.

“Think of all the mischief you could make.” Even in the dark, she could hear the smile in his voice.

Rebecca watched the woman from a distance. “How is her French?”

“Fluent.”

She looked up over the scrubby hill. A strip of rosy light was beginning to creep over the horizon. She huffed and turned to the woman.

“Welcome to France, Chloe Moreau.”

The woman did not respond.

David cleared his throat. “Lydia.”

The woman called Lydia looked up. “Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

Rebecca looked at David. “If they execute me, I’ll haunt you.”

He grinned. “I’m sincerely looking forward to it.”

···

Clean morning light washed over the landscape as Rebecca drove toward Dordogne in her trusty Citroen.

She’d changed out of her soggy trousers and into a nondescript skirt and blouse.

The sea air had caused her hair to frizz, and she arranged it the best she could in her tiny compact mirror, making herself look as meek and ordinary as possible.

Lydia seemed to have recovered from her journey, but still appeared anxious, fiddling with her new French clothes as she stared out the window.

“You need to relax,” Rebecca said.

Lydia looked startled.

“If you look like you’re nervous, people will wonder why. Do you know your cover?”

Lydia cleared her throat. “Chloe Moreau. Born in Quebec. Came to Paris before the war to attend school. Married to Philippe Moreau, a wine merchant from Bordeaux, for two years, no children. On my way to Dordogne to see the castles, with my cousin, Rebecca Gagne.”

Rebecca kept her eyes on the road. “Good. Now say it again, but try not to sound like you’re giving an oral exam.”

Lydia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Let me make something clear,” Rebecca said.

“I’ve done things since the occupation that are punishable by death.

I’m not talking about distributing pamphlets, although they’ll kill you for that too.

I’ve been fighting these bastards tooth and nail for three years, and I’ve never been caught.

And do you know why? Because I’m careful, and I’m smart, and I’m an excellent liar.

You? I don’t think you’re a good liar, which means you’re going to get caught.

And if you get caught, I get caught. And I have not survived this long only to die in front of a Nazi firing squad because some English tourist wants to play at being a spy. ”

Rebecca drove with her knuckles white against the wheel, anger simmering just under her skin. Harlowe had put them all in danger by saddling her with this ridiculously unprepared Englishwoman, and for what? What could possibly be so important in Dordogne that it could justify the risk?

Lydia’s gaze fell to her lap, and Rebecca heard her take a shaky breath. She was just beginning to feel the slightest pang of guilt for her harshness when Lydia spoke again.

“Do you really want to know what I’m doing here?

” she asked quietly. “I’m here because Philippe and I had a fight.

” Rebecca glanced at her. “I suppose I’m the one who started it.

I thought we were going to try for a baby.

He promised we would, but now he hasn’t touched me in months.

” Lydia’s lips trembled, a red flush creeping into her cheeks.

Her eyes were rimmed with tears. “I finally got up the nerve to talk to him about it, and…” She shook her head.

“He doesn’t want a baby. He said he did, but now he doesn’t.

I think there are other women.” Lydia removed a handkerchief from her handbag.

“He doesn’t love me. And I’m just…I’m so ashamed.

I needed to get away, but what to tell everyone?

What to tell my parents ? So I told them all I was going to Dordogne to see the chateaux.

But actually, I’m running away from my marriage.

Oh, Rebecca. You won’t tell anyone, will you? ”

Rebecca stared at Lydia, and Lydia smirked, dabbing away the tears.

“Bien joué. That was very good. A little melodramatic, but still.”

“Thank you. I thought perhaps if I cried, it might make anyone who talks to us—”

“Want to stop talking to us as quickly as possible. Yes. Perfect. Can you do it in French?”

“But of course.” Lydia launched into her story again, in French, and this time with fewer tears. Rebecca listened carefully, then pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Lydia looked around, confused.

“Get in the boot,” Rebecca said.

Lydia stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“The luggage compartment. I believe you British call it ‘the boot . ’ You need to get in it.”

“Why?”

“Because your French is shit.”

“It is not! I was top of my class. I speak French like a native.”

“You speak French like you learned it in an English boarding school. The town up ahead is crawling with milice, and we will be stopped.”

“Milice?”

“French militia. Nazi-collaborating scum. Looking for spies and Resistance fighters, and with that accent, even an imbecile will know that you are an Englishwoman.”

“I’m not getting in the bloody boot,” Lydia said.

“Then you can walk to Dordogne.”

Rebecca waited as Lydia considered her options and then got out, slamming the door behind her. For a moment, Rebecca was sure she would storm off, but she only stood by the back of the car, arms crossed, waiting. Rebecca got out and opened the boot.

“The moment we’re clear of them, you let me out,” Lydia said.

“Fine.”

Rebecca watched as Lydia arranged herself. She curled up on her side, then seemed to think of something.

“What if they look—”

Rebecca slammed the hatch and returned to the driver’s seat. She took a deep breath, gripping the wheel to steady her hands.

“If they look inside the boot,” she said, “then we are both dead.”