saying aloud what she’d scarcely dared to acknowledge to herself. “He cares about you in a way he hasn’t about anybody since he lost his wife.” Julian has feelings for you. She heard the words over again in her mind. “And you have your daughter to think of. You made it, Marie. You lived. So many others cannot say that. Why can’t you just take that gift?”
“Because I can’t.” She couldn’t simply leave knowing that Julian had been dropped back into France. She had to find him. She met Will’s eyes squarely. “And neither can you. Which is why you’ll come back for me in a week.”
“But where will you go?” He paused, thinking. “The brothel in the Latin Quarter. You’ve heard of it?”
“Julian mentioned it once. He said that the women there hide our agents.”
“It’s more than that. The whorehouse serves as a clearinghouse for all sorts of information. It’s one of our most valuable safe houses in all of Occupied France, not to be used except in extreme emergencies.” This, Marie thought, must surely qualify. “The proprietor, Lisette, knows half the men in Paris from her line of work. If anyone can make inquiries and help you find Julian, it’s her.”
“I’ll go there straightaway,” she promised.
But Will looked out across the horizon and frowned, still not satisfied. “There won’t be more flights once the invasion starts.” He turned back desperately toward the plane. She could tell he was torn about leaving without her.
“I know,” she replied. “But it’s another week, two at most.”
“One week,” he said firmly. “Find him or not, you’re coming with me. Listen to the broadcasts in case I have to land on another field. And whatever you do, do not return to the flat.”
“I have to go back and see if there is any further word from London over the radio about Julian,” she argued.
“You can’t. Once the bridge has detonated, it won’t be safe any longer. You can’t help Julian if you are arrested. Do you understand?” She nodded. “One week,” he repeated. “I want you on this plane no matter what. Promise?”
“I promise.” A shadow of doubt clouded his eyes. Did he think she would refuse to leave or did he simply not believe she would live out the week?
But there was no time to question. It was nearly ten o’clock. The bridge would blow any second.
Marie kissed him quickly once on the cheek and ran for the cover of the woods.
Chapter Eighteen
Eleanor
London, 1944
Eleanor stiffened, then sat up in bed, gasping for air. She felt for the nightstand lamp in the darkness and flicked it on, heedless of whether or not the blackout curtains were closed. She had the nightmare again where she was running from something. It was as if she was being chased, the space in front of her blackness.
Served her right, Eleanor thought, rubbing at her eyes. She swung her feet around to the floor, then stretched to ease the stiffness in her hips and shoulders. A few hours earlier, she had heeded the Director’s order to go home and get some rest after an unbroken three-day stretch at Norgeby House. That was her first mistake. The nightmares never came when she napped at work because her head was too full of details and organizing the things that had to be done. Only here did she dream of crashes and arrests and a place where all the girls were somewhere dark and nameless, crying for her help, but she could not reach them.
Her internal clock told her it was after four. She stood and walked to the toilet, then started the hot water tap for the bath. It had been five days since she had raised her doubts to the Director, five days since he had turned her away. There had been no further messages from Marie.
And still the Director wouldn’t listen. Though it seemed as if he did not care about the agents at all, Eleanor knew that wasn’t true. Rather, they were simply expendable, collateral damage of a train that was barreling along the tracks, too fast and strong to stop. Her mind reeled back to her conversation on the roof with Vesper, his worry and frustration. If the men in power would not listen to the concerns of their most senior agent, who witnessed it all firsthand in the field, what hope did she have of convincing them?
Worrying would do no good. Pushing down her unease, Eleanor climbed into the bath. She’d run the water