Page 101

He set down his glass. “Eve, if I can—”

“So, what are you going to do now?” She cut him off fast, before he could say anything he’d regret.

“I was sent to Russia for a while, during their bit of upheaval. Siberia. The things I saw . . .” He sat blank-faced for a moment, and Eve wondered what he was seeing through the curtain of remembered Russian snows. She didn’t ask. “It’s Ireland next for me,” he resumed. “To run a training school.”

“School for what?”

“People like you.”

“Who n-needs people like me anymore? The war’s over.”

He laughed bitterly. “There’s always another war, Eve.”

Eve didn’t even want to think about the next war, or a generation of new, fresh-faced spies who would be fed into its gaping mouth. At least they’d have a good teacher. “When do you leave?”

“Is your wife going?”

“Yes. And our child.”

“I’m glad you had—that is, I know your wife wanted a ch-child.” How wearying these courtesies were; Eve felt like she was struggling under a boulder. “What did you decide to name—”

He spoke softly. “Evelyn.”

Eve stared down at the sticky tabletop. “Why not Lili?” she heard herself ask. “Why not Gabrielle, or any of your others? Why was it me, Cameron?”

“If you could see yourself, you wouldn’t ask.”

“I can see myself. I’m a w-wreck.”

“Nothing could wreck you, Eve. You’ve got a core of steel.”

Eve took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I d-deceived you. Ran out when you were sleeping and went back to Lille when you didn’t want me to return.” Her voice was thick. “I’m so sorry.”

Eve looked down at the table where his hand lay next to her maimed one. His shifted a little so that his thumb grazed the tip of her nearest finger.

“I wish—” Eve began, and stopped. Wished what? That he wasn’t married? Eve was too much of a mess to step into the place at his side even if that place was empty. That they could find a bed and curl up together anyway? Eve couldn’t bear to share a room with anyone; the nightmares were too bad. That they could go back a few years, to before? Before what, Siegburg? Lili? The war? “I wish you were happy,” she said at last.

Cameron didn’t lift her hand to his lips in the old gesture. He lowered his head to the tabletop instead, and pressed his worn mouth to her abused knuckles. “I’m a broken-down army officer with a lot of dead recruits on my hands, Eve. I don’t have it in me to be happy.”

“You could resign from the army.”

“I can’t, really. Because as many dead as I’ve got behind me, there are more in front, waiting in Ireland to be trained . . . And I know I’ll do better by them than asses like Allenton.”

He was more than halfway drunk, Eve realized. He’d never insulted a superior aloud before.

“I’m still useful,” Cameron said, pronouncing his words carefully. “I can go to Ireland and train up the next generation of cannon fodder, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go on working until I can’t anymore. Then I suppose I’ll die.”

“Or retire.”

“Retirement kills people like us, Eve. It’s how we die if the bullets don’t get there first.” He smiled bitterly. “Bullets, boredom, or brandy—that’s how people like us go, because God knows we aren’t made for peace.”

“No. We aren’t.” Eve leaned down and pressed her own lips against his hand. And then they drank until it was time for Cameron’s train. He held his liquor like an Englishman, glassy-eyed but still ramrod straight as they headed up the pier.

“I go to Ireland in a week.” His voice was as bleak as if he were going to hell. “Where are you going?”

“Back to France. As soon as possible.”

“What’s in France?”

“An enemy.” Eve looked up, brushing the dry wisps of hair out of her eyes, feeling the weight of the pistol in her satchel. “René Bordelon, Cameron. I am going to kill him if it’s the last thing I do in this life.”

That was Eve’s use, now that the war was done.

Cameron’s eyes puzzled her, a study in agony and indecision. Later, Eve would go over that look very carefully and realize just how well he’d pulled the wool over her eyes. “Eve,” he said at last. “Didn’t you know? René Bordelon is dead.”

CHAPTER 37

CHARLIE

June 1947

I braced myself the next day for Eve’s sarcasm, because absolutely no one could have looked at Finn and me and not known exactly what had happened. Both of us were heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, I couldn’t keep a smile off my face, and Finn cast so many sideways glances at me, I was surprised he didn’t tip the car in a ditch before we even got out of Grenoble.

But Eve was silent from the moment she climbed into the Lagonda. When I looked back at her she was gazing off over the hills, and I liked that better than having her make trenchant comments about the way Finn and I covertly held hands in the front seat. “What happens when we get to Grasse?” I tried asking her.

An enigmatic smile.

I groaned. “You are so infuriating, you know that?” But I couldn’t stay cross. Finn’s fingers twined through mine were rough and warm, and I was so happy it nearly stunned me. I’d felt nothing but numbness for so long, and then felt the numbness shattered by grief and guilt and anger—those things were still there, but they were overlaid now by this rich, quiet glow. It wasn’t just the sleepless night we’d shared. It was the way Finn had gone downstairs for coffee while I sat combing my hair, and come back with not just coffee but a plate of crisp bacon charmed out of the hotel cook, all because he knew I was craving it. It was the way I’d looked at myself in the mirror and seen not the angry girl setting her chin at an angle that told the world I don’t care, but a happy young woman with a French tan and a scatter of freckles. It was the face of someone who did care, and was cared for in return.

I shook my head slightly to disrupt my own thoughts. I didn’t want to examine the happiness too closely; I was too afraid it would fall apart. I was content to let it be, never releasing Finn’s hand, but turning around in my seat again as we drew nearer Grasse and having another go at Eve. “Let’s have it. How are we going to find Bordelon?”

“I’m still turning my plan over for weak points, Yank,” she replied. “I know perfectly well I’m not entirely level on the subject of René—”

“You mean not entirely sane,” Finn muttered.

“I heard that, Scotsman.” She didn’t sound angry. “I’m not all there, and we all know it, so I’m making sure this plan hasn’t got holes. Because this could easily get cocked up, and I have no intention of letting that happen.”

“How can I help with this plan of yours?” I asked, but Finn muttered something as Eve began to answer. “What is it?”

“That oil leak.” He dropped my hand, pointing at a dial. “Need to tighten a few things . . .”

“We’re only an hour from Grasse.” I gave the convertible’s dashboard a thump. “This old bucket!”