of the courtyard. “Most of the rooms are empty, but any occupants found inside are loyal to the death for the Resistance.”
“Nice to know they won’t run to the Gestapo when they hear guns going off in the basement.”
Flipping open the blade, he brushed his thumb against the freshly sharpened edge. “Target practice happens to coincide with band practice.”
“Clever.” The closest thing he’d seen to a smile all morning flitted across her face as she slipped off her fancy shoes, placing them carefully on the ground with the toes precisely lined up, and joined him on the lumpy mattress. “I assume you’re going to teach me to use that and not stab me.”
“Too valuable to do away with you now. Hold out your hand.” He placed the switchblade diagonally across her palm and closed her fingers around the brown-pitted handle. The deadly weapon looked out of sorts cradled by a hand with perfectly manicured fingernails. “Always hold it like this for better control. Hold it like an ice pick, and you can only thrust down. A novice move that’s easily blocked.”
“Can’t have that.”
A door squeaked open from a third-story flat. Two of his late-night waiters stumbled out onto the tiny balcony with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Leon raised a mug in greeting before taking a sip that curled his entire face with disgust.
Barrett waved a hand and turned back to Kat. “You’ll want to cut in and out, fast, like a snake striking. Aim for the throat, abdomen, or kidneys if you come up from behind.”
A frown dipped her brow as she examined each of the vital spots he pointed to. “Why not simply the heart?”
“Because you’ve the ribs and breastbone to get past.” He tapped the hard bone in the center of his chest. “Only the most skilled should go for it, and even then it’s tricky finding just the right angle. Hit the bone and you’re likely to lose your knife, not to mention the numbing pain shooting up your arm. Now, when you—What’s wrong?”
She was shaking her head, trying to hand him back the knife. “I can’t.”
Leon and Luc sat on boxes, peering over the rail to the lesson below. Across the way on the fourth story, an older woman whose daughter excelled in map reading and explosives opened her window to hang a load of laundry. Moth-eaten and still grimy from being washed in the fouled water trickling through the building’s only remaining pipe, their sour smell clogged the courtyard.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Anderson,” she called.
“Bonjour, Madame Gilbert.”
Kat offered a polite smile to the woman, but it wasn’t enough to hide the quick wrinkle of her nose. Only in that moment did he realize how ill placed she was here. The simple, worn dress did nothing to hide her born elegance and gentility. A far cry from the grime he’d grown up in.
“Bit different than what you’re used to, is it?” Barrett tugged at the collar of his less than pristine shirt. It had never bothered him much, but standing in her presence was like having a torch blaze across the squalor the besieged inhabitants of Paris had succumbed to. “Such is life under occupation.”
“Has all of Paris been relegated to, ah, less than satisfactory living conditions?”
If the situation weren’t so revolting, he might have laughed at her attempt to be polite about their neglected state. “Only for those not in the Germans’ pocket. Food, clothing, electricity, petrol, or anything else of worth goes to the Germans first, then scraps to their local informants, and whatever is left for the rest of us to fight over amongst ourselves.”
“Here one cannot properly wash their clothing, while I’ve been changing my outfits three times a day. How shameful is ignorance.”
“Aye, but you’re ignorant no longer. It only matters what you do from now on. Like with this.” He tapped the knife in her hand. She shook her head, relaxing her grip on the blade. “What’s wrong?”
“When you talk about stabbing throats and puncturing stomachs . . . I can’t do that.”
“Firstly, you don’t stab a throat, you slash it. And second of all, I’m not teaching you this to become an assassin. This is merely self-defense should you absolutely need it.”
“If I come at someone with this, they’ll simply laugh. Who’s going to be afraid of me?”
“Precisely. Use it to your advantage.” Taking her hand, he curled the knife back until it lay flat along the inside of her wrist. “They won’t see it hidden like this, and when