“Bonjour!” I tried to smile with my eyes, not my mouth, remembering what Sister Margarita had drummed into us at the convent in Dublin: A sister should always have a serene visage and a gracious air. With every breath I could feel the explosives strapped beneath my robe.
My French identity card was in the bicycle basket, tucked in beside the medical equipment. I reached for it and handed it over. I had my Irish passport, too, but I was only going to show that if they tried to arrest me.
The guard looked at the photograph—one of the ones Jack had taken a month ago. Then he searched my face. In the photo I wore nothing on my head, as regulations required. For one awful moment I thought he was going to ask me to remove my veil and wimple to see if I truly resembled the image on the card. But after a couple of moments he waved me through.
My legs were trembling as I climbed back onto the bicycle. I almost got tangled up in my long robes. What an idiot I would have looked if I’d fallen flat on my face. My heart was pounding as I rode away. I was terrified that the guard would change his mind and come running after me. But all I could hear was the rise and fall of the men’s laughter as they resumed their conversation.
I kept pedaling until I could no longer hear them. A few minutes later I spotted a signpost up ahead. It pointed the way to Kermaria and gave the distance I still had to travel. There were no such signs in Cornwall. All over Britain, they’d been removed in case of an invasion. I’d memorized the route to Kermaria, just in case the same thing had happened in Brittany—but it was reassuring to see the signpost.
I didn’t know whether I’d encounter another checkpoint before I reached the farmhouse where the handover of equipment was due to take place. The road took me uphill for a while, and I began to overheat under the layers of cloth on my head and body. I stopped when I reached the brow of the hill. I had no water, but I reached for one of the apples in the basket, thinking that would be better than nothing. I could see a village in the valley below. The sun glinted on the slate roofs of cottages nestled around a church with a spire of honey-colored stone. I knew it must be Kermaria, and that the farmhouse was somewhere to the left of the road I was on, about half a mile short of the village itself. I could see a few lone buildings dotted around. The only clue I had to finding the right one was that it was approached down a lane opposite a field with a timeworn stone obelisk in the middle of it.
The rush of air as I coasted down the hill was a welcome relief. I slowed down when the road leveled out. The hedges were too overgrown to give any view of the fields beyond. The only way I was going to find the obelisk was to dismount and stop at every farm gate until I spotted it.
I’d been walking for about ten minutes when I caught sight of something glistening in the middle of a field of pale golden barley. The sun was lighting up the surface of a jagged slab of pinkish-gray stone that rose above the rippling stalks like a hunchbacked giant. I looked over my shoulder. There was a pathway on the other side of the road—more of a track than a lane. But it had to be the way to the farmhouse the Resistance was using.
I’d only gone a few yards off the road when I heard the crunch of tires behind me. Instinctively I pressed myself into the hedge, pulling the bike against my body. It was useless, of course: the track was too narrow for me to hide from anyone who passed by. My heart hammered as the sound grew louder. I didn’t catch sight of the vehicle until it came around the bend. To my utter relief it was a van with the words “Boulangerie Auffret de Kermaria” painted on the side—the local bakery’s delivery truck. I waited until it had disappeared around another bend, then followed behind.
As I approached the gates of the farmhouse, I heard the van’s engine splutter and die. I crouched behind the stone pillar on one side of the gates, cautious about going any farther. Through the gap between the pillar and the hedge, I saw the back door of the van swing open. And then a woman, her hair flying out behind her as she jumped to the ground. My hand went to my mouth. I’d last seen that face grinning up at me from the belly of the dinghy before a tarpaulin covered it over. It was Miranda.
Chapter 22
I wanted to call out to her, but I bit my tongue. Someone else was getting out of the van. A man. He was tall and well built, olive skinned, with a bushy black mustache. He wore a pale blue shirt and loose-fitting corduroy trousers. Was he from the Resistance? The man I was supposed to be meeting? He was in the right place. But why had he brought Miranda here?
He stood by the van, looking around as if he were trying to spot something or someone. It had to be me he was looking for; he must have seen me when he drove past. There was a coded greeting I was supposed to give when I reached the farmhouse. But I was suddenly afraid to reveal myself—no longer sure who to trust.