The Paris Agent(63)

Which version was correct—the story where the business ran out of raw materials, or the story where the Nazis took it over? In the scheme of things, the confusion of facts did not matter much, except what possible reason did Mr. Turner have to lie?

Soon, he had been in Paris for six weeks. The arrests had all but stopped and he was making excellent progress, expanding our network of local contacts quickly and efficiently, preparing the city for what was hopefully an inevitable wave of Allied troops. But he’d also reshuffled the entire circuit, breaking it into two branches which would no longer interact. Given his unusual visibility operating under his real name, he had decided to keep some distance between himself and most of the network.

“Should I stay away from the apartment now, sir?” I asked him, more than a little relieved at the thought.

“I’ve got particular work in mind for you in the future so you’ll maintain distance from the rest of the network just as I will. I’ll still have you liaise directly with Veronique for updates to Baker Street, but any other messaging you’re involved in will be completed by dead drop only.”

I assured Mr. Turner I was at his disposal and prepared to start the new arrangement but felt a pang at the thought of being cut off from the other agents. Life in the field was lonely and it seemed the circle of allies around me was to shrink even further.

I shifted a few small sacks of flour, exposing the wooden shelving below, then stuffed a note into a large crack in the shelf, and put the sacks back in place. This grocer was a supportive local contact, and his flour shelf was my most frequent dead-drop location to reach an agent known as Campion. On my way out, I stopped to purchase some Jerusalem artichokes to mash for my dinner.

As I slipped back into the street to walk away, I saw Campion standing on the balcony across the street. He was leaning on the railing but the minute he caught my eye, he turned to walk back into the apartment, gesturing with his hand as he left, as if to draw me closer.

I wasn’t sure what to do at first. Turner had made it quite clear that I would not liaise in-person with agents like Campion, but Campion was visibly distressed. In the end, I decided I had to investigate.

A few minutes later, I climbed the stairs to the apartment, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Campion met me at the door and ushered me inside.

“I can’t find Mahaut,” he told me anxiously. Mahaut was a w/t operator, one I’d liaised with previously myself. “He missed a meeting with me a few days ago so I went to the safe house where he had been staying. His belongings are still there but the host told me he hasn’t been in since last week. A local source said she’d heard a rumor that one of our agents went to a scheduled meeting and found the Gestapo waiting for him. Have you heard of any arrests in the last few days?”

“No,” I assured him. “The arrests stopped shortly after César left.”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “There have been countless arrests of local resistance operatives and I’m certain some of our agents have been arrested too. Hell, I’ve seen no one except you all week. No couriers, none of the w/ts. Something doesn’t seem right.”

“I’ll talk to Turner,” I said, bewildered. “Just sit tight.”

I rushed back to the apartment, only to have Turner dismiss Campion’s concern.

“I suspect Campion is simply hearing old rumors. We haven’t lost a pianist—or an agent of any kind—since I arrived.”

“Have you seen Mahaut yourself lately?”

“I have,” Turner assured me. “He is free, active and doing good work.”

“I need to go back to let Campion know,” I said.

“Certainly. But remember—dead drop only.”

“He’s somewhat distressed, sir,” I admitted. “I think he needs reassurance.”

Turner nodded and reached for a notepad. He scribbled down a brief note, then handed it to me.

“Use your drop box. I’ll meet him myself tonight—the details are all in the note. It won’t take me long to clear this up.”

Turner seemed every bit as comfortable in Paris as he had in England—still quick to offer a smile, at ease and relaxed. Not a single thing about his body language suggested to me that he was lying about Mahaut’s fate. Still, I still tossed and turned that night, mulling it all over in my mind. I told myself that while a certain degree of paranoia was helpful and useful in the field, Turner—of all people!—knew what he was doing. I was in a position where I had to trust him, and second-guessing his every decision was not helpful. I had to let it go.

A few days later, I rode my bicycle to meet Veronique to deliver another update.

“Turner requests some munitions and more cash—both francs and marks,” I told her. “Another week of no arrests.”

She frowned.

“But that’s…” she blurted, but quickly broke off, shook her head and looked away, pursing her lips. “Never mind. Copy that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Veronique. Please, tell me.”

“Campion was arrested this week,” she said flatly, her tone almost accusing. I stared at her in shock.

“What? When!”

“A few nights ago. He went to a meeting and the Gestapo were waiting for him.”