The Paris Agent(36)
“You don’t seriously mean to suggest we expose ourselves to Sauvage to ask him permission to destroy his family’s business?”
“I know it seems crazy,” I said urgently, as I reached to take his hands in mine. “But if we cannot present an alternate plan to Baker Street, they will attempt another bombing raid and they seem to have already given up figuring out what went wrong with the first one. How many other innocent lives could be lost if they try a second time?”
“How do we know we can trust Sauvage?”
“We don’t,” I said simply. Noah flinched as if I’d slapped him. “But Jullien is a good man. I’m sure of it, and that’s always been your instinct too, right? That’s why you wanted to recruit him before we fully understood the situation with Mégane and the children.”
Noah ran his hands through his hair, then gave me another incredulous look.
“This is madness.”
“We present it to Sauvage as a choice—his choice. The factory will be destroyed either way but if he supports us, we can make sure it’s done safely.”
“I need to think about this,” Noah mumbled, glancing at me in disbelief. “Either you’ve lost your mind altogether, or you’re a genius.”
“Both things could be true simultaneously,” I joked weakly, and Noah barked a laugh.
When I arrived home from my work at the Travers house the next day, Noah was at the dining room table in our apartment, staring at a slip of paper. He had a pencil in his hand, and he tapped the end on the table anxiously.
“Still thinking about what we discussed last night?” I asked him softly as I sat beside him. Noah did not look up. I glanced down at the paper. In his now-familiar scrawl, he’d written the words flowers blossom in the spring.
“I needed to know if we had a chance of making your idea work before I took it to Baker Street,” he said.
“Okay…”
Noah looked up at me, his gaze brimming with anxiety.
“I cycled to Jacou and called from a pay phone. I just called the factory and asked to speak to Sauvage. His secretary didn’t want to put me through but I told her it was life or death. I told him that I am an agent of the British government and that his suspicions about the factory being the target of that last air raid were correct. I told him it’s inevitable that the factory will be destroyed. I told him that there may be a way that we can ensure it is done safely.”
I held my breath as I waited for him to continue. When he just stared at me, I prompted impatiently, “Noah! What did he say?”
“He didn’t believe me at first. Not about the bombing—it’s abundantly clear he understands his factory was the target. He didn’t believe that I am who I said I am so I told him I’d arrange proof. He’s going to listen to Radio Londres tomorrow at seven a.m.” The Nazis prohibited the French from listening to the BBC station broadcast from London to France, but many French citizens kept a secret wireless receiver for the explicit purpose of tuning in. The broadcasts were mostly intended to counter Nazi propaganda and to motivate the French resistance, but from time to time they were also used to communicate messages to agents like us in the field—seemingly innocent phrases that communicated a deeper meaning. Noah dropped the pencil onto the paper and jabbed at the words with his forefinger. “If he hears this message on Radio Londres tomorrow, he’ll give us everything we need.” Noah looked up at me. “He doesn’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”
I snatched the paper up as I shot to my feet, intending to run to Adrien’s apartment, to have him plan right away to send the message to London. But Noah stood and caught my hand. He tugged me gently forward, and to my shock, he pressed his lips to mine. Liquid fire shot through my veins—a delirious joy and pleasure that was both unexpected and somehow, inevitable.
“This operation will take every bit of our energy and focus for some time yet,” he whispered, brushing my hair back from my face. “But the minute that factory is gone, you and I are going to figure this out.”
C H A P T E R 10
ELOISE
Rouen, France
February, 1944
“Papers, please, mademoiselle.”
After several days in Rouen, I knew the drill and I handed over my paperwork to the young Milicien automatically. It was early afternoon, and I was returning to Madame Laurent’s butcher shop, hopeful a third visit might yield me some progress. The young apprentice had so far made it clear he did not want to tell me more about his boss’s arrest—he wanted nothing to do with the resistance and was determined to keep his head down and keep the business going. But I’d visited several other addresses from Basile’s list and was yet to find a single contact still free in the community. The butcher’s shop had been a hub of resistance activity only a few months earlier and I hoped that if I persisted, the apprentice would at least point me in the direction of what remained of the network.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Rouen, Miss Leroy?”
“Family, sir.” I’d delivered the answer several times over those past few days. It rolled off my tongue without a second’s hesitation. What would Giles think if he could see me there in Rouen? He’d have worried, but ultimately I knew he’d be proud of me.
“You don’t have a permis de sejour,” the Milicien said suddenly, frowning.