Echoes Page 0,130

stopped, four men got out. They were wearing rough farm clothes and wool caps. The plane was in the air again in less than three minutes. The drop had been perfect. And within less than two minutes, the locals had disappeared and returned to their farms. The three men Colonel Montgomery had brought in went with them. They were on other missions, and would not see him again until they were back in England. They were dispersing to the south later that night. He was working alone, as he often did. With Amadea this time. She led him back to the farm where she lived, without saying a word. And took him to an old horse stall at the back of the barn. There was a trapdoor in the floor that she pointed to, in case he heard someone coming. There were blankets, and a jug of water under the trapdoor. They were to drive to the outskirts of Paris the next day to meet with Serge.

Amadea said nothing to the man known as Apollo, she simply looked at him and nodded as he watched her, and as she was about to leave, he whispered, “Thank you.” He meant not only for that night and the warm blankets, but for her willingness to do the mission. He knew everything about her background and the risk she was taking. The only thing he did not know about was Jean-Yves, which was unimportant in relation to what they were doing. He was a member of the British Secret Service, and of extremely high rank. He also knew that in her past life she had been a nun, which he had found intriguing. He knew she had left the convent to save the others.

She nodded again, and left to go to her own room at the back of the kitchen. In the morning, she brought him breakfast. He was wearing the same rough clothes as the night before. He looked clean, rested, and neatly shaven. And even in the rough work clothes, he looked impressive. He was as tall as her father had been, and had once been as blond as she was. Now the fair hair was mixed with gray. He looked to be in his early forties, roughly the same age her father had been when he died, and there was a vague resemblance, although her father had been French not British. But she could see how this man could easily pass for German. He looked like the ideal specimen of the master race. It would have been hard for him to pass unnoticed anywhere except in a crowd of Germans. He looked anything but French. And when she brought him breakfast, he spoke to her in German. His was just as flawless as hers, and as natural to him as English, as French and German were to her. She spoke English, though not as well, and this time she answered him in German. She asked him if he had slept well.

“Yes, thank you,” he said politely, looking deep into her eyes. He seemed to be searching for something, and she had no idea what it was. He needed to know her better, to sense her reaction to things, her timing. If they were going to pose as man and wife, he had to truly know her, and sense her, with more than just words.

“We leave at four this afternoon,” she said quietly, avoiding the ever-searching eyes.

“Don't do that,” he corrected her. “You know me. You love me. You are not afraid of me. You look me right in the eyes. You are comfortable with me. We have been married for five years. We have had children together.” He wanted her to learn her role, and feel it, so that it was part of her.

“How many children?” she asked, looking at him again, as he directed. What he was saying was not unreasonable, and she understood what he was trying to do. It had nothing to do with her. It was a role they had to play. Well enough to stay alive. Any slip either of them made could cost the other's life, or both, and she knew that. This was far more difficult and dangerous than meeting aircraft at midnight in a field.

“We have two. Two boys. Three and two. This is the first time you have left them since they were born. For our anniversary. I had business in Paris, for the Reich, and you decided to come along.