The Paris Agent(58)

“He’ll be well cared for with this woman and her family.”

“How can I go back to France, knowing there is a traitor in Baker Street?”

“You have to trust me when I tell you that there is one bad apple but the rest of our team are exemplary,” he said heavily.

“And if something happens to you while I’m gone? What happens to my son?”

“The moment I resolve the situation with the double agent,” he said, “I’ll be sure to update your file with the precise detail of where he is.”

“How did you find this woman?” I asked Turner the next day. We were sitting in his car on one side of a stretch of parklands opposite an historic convent. I was holding binoculars. Turner was tapping the steering wheel.

“Through a trusted friend,” he said.

I didn’t sleep a wink the previous night after he dropped me to my flat, in such a state of shock that at first, I collapsed in a heap on the sofa. After a while, I became cognizant of the smell in the flat. Food was rotting, laundry needed attention. I cleaned for hours, busying my hands while my mind adjusted to my new reality. Later, I lay for a while in Hughie’s little bed, curled up in a ball. Then I moved to my mother’s bed, still unmade, and I rested my head on a spare pillow, so I could lay and stare at the imprint from her head on her own pillow. I wept for the years when I resented her, and for those beautiful, unexpected years when we were close.

Turner told me he’d arranged a quiet, respectful graveside service at Sidcup Cemetery. My neighbors attended and so did he. He prepaid her headstone but said it didn’t feel right for him to decide upon the inscription. Instead, he left it to me to contact the stonemason upon my return.

Mixed in with all of that grief and concern and shock was a thread of disbelief: a double agent in our ranks? Somewhere near the top of the agency? I was grateful that Turner, at least, could be trusted. Otherwise, I wasn’t sure how I could even consider a return to the field. Agents were beyond vulnerable in occupied territory—entirely dependent on Baker Street to guide our decisions to keep us safe. I asked him to promise me that if I went back, he would keep a hand in my mission. He told me that he was already doing everything he could for all agents in the field. “They’re as safe as they can be,” he assured me. “And you will be too.”

“Here they come,” Turner said now, pointing.

For some reason I’d pictured Hughie’s carer to be about my age but she was older—maybe in her forties. They walked slowly across the path because Hughie was holding her hand but also because he stopped periodically to crouch low to the ground, his other hand reaching toward various treasures. My hands shook as I lifted the binoculars to my eyes. He was smiling, chattering away as he pointed to a flower.

There was something so reassuring about his smile in the morning sunshine that day. I had feared that his cheeks would be tearstained or that he’d be pale or lethargic from grief and fear. That simply wasn’t the case. He was well dressed, his hair combed and his cheeks rosy, his smile and his speech both easy and free.

“Does she speak French?” I asked, turning the binoculars to the face of the woman standing in my place to care for my son. She had a soft smile as she chatted with him, her expression fond and gentle even as Hughie dawdled. In that moment, jealousy and gratitude were at war in my gut. I wanted to hug her to thank her with every ounce of strength I possessed. At the same time, I wanted to tear my son away from her and to take him into my arms.

“Of course,” Turner confirmed. “She speaks French so they can communicate, but she is also teaching him English.”

I stared through the binoculars at my son’s face until it hurt to keep looking. If I was going to do this, I would have to do it quickly before my heart overruled my head. I dropped the binoculars to my lap as if they had suddenly become too hot to hold.

“One more mission,” I said flatly, turning to Turner. “And then I never want to hear from anyone at Baker Street ever again.”

“If the next few months go as we hope they will,” he said soberly, “everyone at Baker Street will soon be busy trying to forget these years entirely.”

“And if something happens to me in the field this time?” I asked, throat tight. “What will happen to him?”

“Had you not returned last time, the carer would have adopted him. That plan has not changed.”

“And you’ll update my file with his location the minute you resolve the security issue in our ranks.”

“The moment I’m sure it’s safe to do so.”

“What do I tell Elwood about this? What do I tell Booth?”

“Nothing at all, Eloise,” Turner said heavily. “They won’t know to ask, and you can’t breathe a word of this until I tell you otherwise.”

We drove home from Beaulieu to Bexley in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts.

“Did you happen to see Chloe while you were in Paris?” Turner asked suddenly as we neared my flat.

“Yes,” I said, but then I added quickly, “There was a crossover of only a few days. I didn’t divulge any details of my mission to her.”

“Did she talk to you about hers?” I hesitated, and he cleared his throat. “It’s quite fine if she did. Her mission was complete by then, you’re a trusted colleague. I know you trained together.”