The Paris Agent(74)

“Climb into the loft and pull the ladder up behind you,” I instructed him quickly. “Hide yourselves and the ladder behind the hay—and don’t come out, no matter what you hear or what happens. If the Germans come in and Marcel makes a noise, hold your hand over his mouth.”

“But—”

I couldn’t spare any more time to reassure him. I drove away then, spinning the wheels violently as I went. I glanced up into the rearview mirror in time to see Remy struggling up the ladder with Marcel over his shoulder. It wasn’t a great plan, but it gave them at least a chance, especially if I could draw the Nazis away to buy them some time.

Could the Germans have seen how many people were in our car from that roadblock, even at such a distance? If it all happened so fast, perhaps they didn’t even realize there were three of us in the car. If I got lucky, maybe they wouldn’t even go back to look for Remy and Marcel.

It was easy to drive haphazardly running on only three tires. I swerved from one side of the road to the other, driving as fast as the car would allow me to travel, moving toward the armored vehicles even as they drove toward me.

The gap between their vehicles and mine seem to be shrinking by the second. When a shot rang out and another one of the Citroen’s tires blew, I jammed on the brake. As the car came to a stop I threw myself from the driver’s seat, pulling the canvas bag behind me. There was a tree ahead—just an apple tree, but it would give me something like cover. I scrambled across the ground on all fours to reach it, then lined up the boxes of ammunition on the ground in front of my legs.

Behind me, the German cars came to a stop right near the Citroen. I glanced back and did a quick count of vehicles.

My ploy had worked. All four German cars had followed the Citroen. There was shouting—in German, and then in clumsy English and French, ordering me to give myself up. But I had been praying for a moment like this one for years. The revenge I craved was right in front of me now—all I had to do was take it.

I leaned around the tree and fired off rounds in warning toward the Germans. It would not deter them, but it seemed only fair to give them a chance to flee before I started shooting at them.

Shots came back toward me in return, and the time for warning fire was over. I had eight boxes of ammunition but the Sten shot so quickly that if I wasn’t careful, I would burn through it in minutes. I had to draw this out to make sure that Remy had a chance to hide properly.

For the next thirty minutes, I toyed with the Germans. I rationed those bullets as if they were made of pure gold—firing rounds, pausing and allowing them to come closer, firing more. I felt no guilt when I saw some of those men go down hard, but I was somewhat surprised to find I also felt no joy. Collectively, the Germans had taken so much from Europe and they had taken so much from me, but when the moment for revenge came, I fired that gun for an altogether different reason.

The first time I went to France for the SOE, I was seeking revenge for Giles. That second time, I was there seeking peace for Hughie.

Sometimes in war, impossible calculations needed to be made. The death of those German soldiers would never bring my husband back to life but might just save Marcel and Remy…and who knew what good those two might bring to the world.

A sense of acceptance came over me as I fired the last bullet. I looked down at my ankle, now purple and yellow and black, so swollen the skin had stretched. There was no way I could run. All I could do was accept that I would be captured, and to do my best to honor my country through whatever my imprisonment brought.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I shouted, glancing cautiously around the tree. The Germans, sheltering behind their cars, peered out at me. I threw my useless Sten gun away from the tree and slumped back against the trunk. “I can’t walk. If you want me, you’re going to have to come and get me.”

C H A P T E R 18

JOSIE

Paris, France

May, 1944

I excelled in the art of evasion during my training. During practice sessions, I was commended by Mr. Turner himself for my high level of skill identifying when someone was covertly following me.

Since my arrival in France, I’d discovered that the real world was very different to the calm environs of Beaulieu, the location of the SOE “finishing school.” The streets of Paris were often busy, sometimes even crowded with pedestrians, and most of the time it was impossible to be certain I was not being followed.

A skilled operative might have followed me for days without me realizing. Fortunately for me, Veronique did not appear to be particularly skilled.

I spotted her within a block of leaving my hotel one morning. She was hanging back a few dozen feet and at first, I assumed she was trying to contact me—perhaps to slip a note into my hand as she passed, perhaps requiring urgent help. I stopped to look in a shop window to give her an opportunity to catch up but when I looked back to see where she was, caught sight of her ducking into a laneway to hide.

I kept walking but slower now, turning the situation over in my mind. Obviously a confrontation was in order, but where, and when? After another few blocks, I stopped to rummage around in my purse, and looked up to find her bending over unconvincingly to adjust her shoe. She didn’t even think to turn away from me, so I got an excellent view of her face.

Enough. The time was now. At least in part because the girl needed to realize she was terrible at this.

I turned and walked directly toward her, and she spun on her heel, as if she was going to try to outrun me, but there was little chance she’d lose me without breaking into a sprint, and to do so would be to draw too much attention. I caught up to her just as we neared the laneway she hid in just a few minutes earlier. I hooked her by the back of the arm to tug her into the lane with me.