The Paris Agent(70)
“That’s such a shame. But I still don’t understand why Read was so angry with you that day we met him.”
“Ah, that’s the simplest part of all of this. Your father mentioned they had to drive because Fleur couldn’t walk. He seemed to be struggling to explain himself, so I tried to prompt him and asked if she’d hurt her ankle. Remember?”
“I do.”
“I completely forgot that I only knew Fleur had a history of ankle issues because I read the incident report in her classified file.”
“Of course.” I wince. “So Harry didn’t catch you that day?”
“He suspected right away, actually,” Theo says, groaning as he covers his face with his hands. “Harry went to the evacuation point after I pulled the fire alarm and there were only a handful of people there so it was obvious I was missing. He confronted me as soon as he came back upstairs. Maybe we could have gotten past it if I’d been honest, but like the bloody idiot I am, I flat-out denied I’d been in the file room and we argued. Eventually he gave me the benefit of the doubt and allowed me to stay on to finish up my Master’s but our relationship was never the same. I changed paths after that. To be honest, I was so ashamed of lying to Harry, I realized I had to make peace with the uncertainty of my origin, and to do that I had to move on from that area of study. I suppose I probably set up the family history group as some kind of penance. I can’t change what I did that day in Harry’s office, but I can help others to find their own stories. I do get a lot of joy out of it. You should have seen Mrs. Underwood a few weeks ago when she managed to find her grandfather’s birth certificate all on her own! It’s so fulfilling seeing those men and women finding their own pasts, even if I can’t find mine. And I do enjoy teaching, even if it’s not what I thought I’d wind up doing.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I say. Theo gives a self-conscious shrug.
“So now you know. Mrs. White dumped you and your dad into the hands of a criminal mastermind so ineffective he accidentally confessed to his accuser right at the scene of the crime.”
“Have you considered the possibility that this Chloe might still be alive?” I ask Theo suddenly.
“I have to believe that if she survived the war, she would have come back for me.”
A sudden thought strikes me.
“I could ask Dad…”
“If he knew Chloe?” Theo pauses, then shrugs. “I suppose you could. It’s certainly true that the male agents outnumbered the women ten to one. The odds aren’t astronomical that he might have met her. But even if he did happen to come across her, it doesn’t help me much. He wouldn’t know her real name or any details about her life.”
“Even if he has a memory of her, that would be something that you could know,” I say, thinking of the way I knew my mother, and how every aspect of that knowledge is precious to me now. Theo smiles sadly.
“I suppose there’s no harm in asking.”
C H A P T E R 17
ELOISE
Paris, France
June, 1944
“I don’t care if the weather is bad,” I exclaimed, as I stood beside a bomber at RAF Harrington Airfield, mirroring the pilot’s posture as he stared up at a stormy sky. Beside me stood Remy, an agent I’d met two nights earlier on our first attempt at the flight. “Bad weather in England does not mean bad weather in Corrèze. Let’s go.”
“What do you think?” the pilot asked Remy, who shrugged.
“We can always turn back again if it’s too rough.”
I’d never been a patient woman, but now, every night we delayed meant another night away from my son. I just wanted my mission to begin so I could come home.
The bad weather that week did at least help the cause in a roundabout way. While Hitler’s men were listening to fake radio chatter from Dover and preparing for a fair-weather invasion at Pas de Calais, the Allies launched a surprise invasion during a break between two thunderstorms the previous night, successfully landing via the sloping, inhospitable beaches of Cotentin Peninsula near Caen. The mood across the UK was euphoric. We had a long way to go, but the tide of war was turning. And now, as soon as I could convince this pilot to take me there, I’d be parachuting to a field outside of Limoges to meet with my new circuit leader.
“Okay.” The pilot turned back to nod toward Elwood, who was standing a few feet away, reading from a clipboard. “I heard this weather might last another week, so this might be as good as it gets.”
An hour later, I was walking through the usual procedure—Elwood double-checking each item of clothing and my pockets, issuing me my new identity documents.
I’d called Turner’s secretary a few times since I received my orders, but she was noncommittal about his availability. My last attempt had been that very morning, when I called into her office and told her in-person that I was being deployed.
“I really need to speak with him before I go,” I said flatly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, giving me a bewildered shrug. “I can’t tell you where he is because I don’t know where he is. It’s top secret.”
I had not spoken to Mr. Turner in two months—not since a week after my return from Normandy, when he called me at home, sounding harried and rushed, to ask me to take over his role training new recruits until my mission details were finalized. Higher priority work was taking him away, he told me, but I wasn’t to worry—he had everything under control.