reeled back to the night she had seen him on the roof of Norgeby House. After promising him that she would send word of his return flight as a priority transmission, she had gone straight to the radio room. “I need to arrange for a drop. Tell Marie, ‘Romeo embresse Juliette.’” It was one of the prearranged codes to signal for the arrival of personnel.
Marie hadn’t been on the radio at the time. But a few hours later the return message had come: “Do not use the usual site. Land at the field outside Les Mureaux instead. Original location compromised.” She wanted to ask what had happened to the original field. Les Mureaux was farther west than they typically dropped agents, not close to any safe house. But there was no way to do so safely or openly over the radio. Julian would find out when he returned.
Eleanor’s mind raced now as she recalled the message changing the drop site. “Julian,” she said aloud. The Director’s eyes widened as he grasped the significance of the name. They had no confirmation he had arrived in France. Had they dropped Julian quite literally into the arms of the enemy?
“Ask if the Cardinal landed,” she ordered now. Jane looked at her questioningly. The message was not discreet enough, too overt. But Eleanor did not care. “Send it!”
Jane coded then clacked the message. There was no response. A minute passed then another. “House to Angel,” she typed, sending the beacon. “House to Angel.” Jane tapped the code over and over again, pausing between each time, listening carefully. There was no sign of an answer.
Marie, or whoever had been impersonating her, was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Marie
Paris, 1944
Five days. That was how long Marie had been in the cellar of the whorehouse. Marie looked around the tiny space, its dark, close confines reminiscent of the gardener’s shed where Julian had left her that first night. She lay her head on the filthy, perfumed-soaked pillow, too tired to care who might have used the creaky mattress previously. Her clothes were grimy and she could smell her own stench beneath them. Across the room there was a laundry basket, a bustier with the nipples cut out carelessly strewn on top. How, Marie wondered, had she gotten here?
After leaving Will at the Lysander, she’d started back through the woods. A few minutes later, she’d heard a rumble, low and deep. The bridge. She’d turned back, daring to stop only for a second to see the way the explosion illuminated the night sky. The detonation had worked after all. She felt a moment’s pride, quickly replaced by panic. The Germans would come swiftly after those they believed responsible. She had to keep moving.
Despite her promise to Will, Marie did not go immediately to the brothel in Paris. She needed to check the area for any sign of Julian. She had desperately wanted to return to the flat and try the radio again, but remembering his warning, she had not. Instead, she had gone back to the safe house where Julian had brought her the morning after she’d landed, hoping he might have gone there. But the château was deserted. The old library had been hastily abandoned, dirty plates still on the tables and spoiled food left out. There was a pile of ash in the fireplace where someone had burned papers. Marie put her hand on it, hoping it might still be warm. But the fire had gone out days ago. There were chairs overturned and she wondered if there might have been a raid by the Germans. It appeared the other agents had simply disappeared.
Marie made her way to Paris then, taking a train to the outskirts of the city. She spent the sleepless hours between darkness and dawn hidden in an alley so she didn’t get arrested for breaking curfew. The next morning she hitched a ride with a toothless lorry driver who was too interested in staring at her legs to ask questions.
At last, she reached the Left Bank, a tangle of narrow, crowded streets and leaning tall houses that seemed in itself the perfect place to disappear. If she’d had enough money, she might have stayed on her own and not gone to the unfamiliar brothel, as Will had instructed.
Finally she reached the whorehouse on Rue Malebranche and climbed the side stairs above the bistro. A woman no older than herself, wearing more makeup than she had ever seen, answered the door. “I’m Renee Demare,” she began,