I snatched the paper up as I shot to my feet, intending to run to Adrien’s apartment, to have him plan right away to send the message to London. But Noah stood and caught my hand. He tugged me gently forward, and to my shock, he pressed his lips to mine. Liquid fire shot through my veins—a delirious joy and pleasure that was both unexpected and somehow, inevitable.
“This operation will take every bit of our energy and focus for some time yet,” he whispered, brushing my hair back from my face. “But the minute that factory is gone, you and I are going to figure this out.”
C H A P T E R 10
ELOISE
Rouen, France
February, 1944
“Papers, please, mademoiselle.”
After several days in Rouen, I knew the drill and I handed over my paperwork to the young Milicien automatically. It was early afternoon, and I was returning to Madame Laurent’s butcher shop, hopeful a third visit might yield me some progress. The young apprentice had so far made it clear he did not want to tell me more about his boss’s arrest—he wanted nothing to do with the resistance and was determined to keep his head down and keep the business going. But I’d visited several other addresses from Basile’s list and was yet to find a single contact still free in the community. The butcher’s shop had been a hub of resistance activity only a few months earlier and I hoped that if I persisted, the apprentice would at least point me in the direction of what remained of the network.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Rouen, Miss Leroy?”
“Family, sir.” I’d delivered the answer several times over those past few days. It rolled off my tongue without a second’s hesitation. What would Giles think if he could see me there in Rouen? He’d have worried, but ultimately I knew he’d be proud of me.
“You don’t have a permis de sejour,” the Milicien said suddenly, frowning.
My stomach dropped. The other guards had not noticed my missing permit, but Basile had warned me that I needed one, just in case.
“Look, it’s not the kind of thing every guard is going to pick up on,” he had explained when he instructed me to secure one. “Some of the Germans don’t know to look for it, some of the French militia think it’s unnecessarily bureaucratic. But if you happen to get checked by the wrong guard, they might even arrest you for failing to secure it. Don’t forget to register when you arrive, just to be safe.”
Don’t forget to register.
How had I made such a careless mistake? It was distraction…first by the Wehrmacht colonel’s offer of a ride from the station the day I arrived, then because I was excited and anxious to see if Jérémie arrived to check the drop box.
I had missed an important step to my mission, and the worst thing was, Basile specifically told me not to forget.
I was so embarrassed and furious with myself there was nothing I could do to stop my face turning red.
“I…”
“Miss Leroy,” the Milicien said sharply. “Even as a visitor from another town in the zone, you are required to have a permis de sejour for your time in Rouen. Can you offer any explanation for your failure to secure one?”
My pulse pounded through my head, leaving my thoughts cloudy with frustration.
“I just arrived this morning on the train,” I blurted, but I regretted it immediately. It was a stupid lie and it might even be disproved if they tried to check. And what if they arrested me and took me to a prison or an office and I happened upon the Wehrmacht colonel I met when I did travel to Rouen? He would surely remember me. Oh God.
The Milicien frowned as he looked from me back to my papers, then he waved to a companion, standing by a nearby covered truck. This was the first time since my arrival that a second guard had become involved during a security check. The two men reviewed my papers together, and then the second guard looked up at me.
“Miss,” he said. “Come with me.”
They left me seated in a long hall at the Palais de Justice for eight long hours after my arrest. Strangers bustled through the hall, glancing at me, but never stopping to talk. There was a gallery to the right above my seat, and every now and then, I’d notice movement there. When I glanced up, I’d usually see an officer in uniform, staring down at me. Everyone was watching to see if I panicked.
But I wasn’t panicked. I was still so frustrated with my carelessness that a self-directed rage was boiling away inside me and it was all I could think about. I could only hope it wasn’t obvious that my thoughts were running wild and I was struggling to rein them back in.
Would they try to verify my arrival time—perhaps to ask the station attendants at Gare Saint-Sever if they’d seen me alight the train from Paris that morning? Or perhaps someone had been tailing me for some days, in which case, I was already exposed and the lie would only condemn me further. What if they searched my shoulder bag—what if they found the false panel in the bottom, which still contained my currencies, and forged rations cards and alternate identity papers? I carried it everywhere I went in case I had to flee in a hurry if my cover was blown.
If these men found that material, they’d take me to the Stand aux Fusilles and shoot me then and there, and it would be all my own fault.
Before I left for my mission, right at the airport as I was boarding the plane, Miss Elwood had offered me the standard SOE “L pill,” a lethal cyanide pill. They offered every agent the same on deployment—it was a comfort to some to know they had on hand a quick, efficient way to end their life if a situation became too intense.
I’d refused the pill, arrogantly convinced I’d be smart enough to evade capture and even if I was captured, strong enough to withstand any interrogation. I breezed through my mock interrogations during the SOE training. I was even lightly beaten at one point, left with a black eye and some painfully bruised ribs, and still, I held my tongue.
I never doubted for a second that I’d be able to do so in a real interrogation, not until the minute I found myself in that hallway. A real-world test was potentially upon me and my courage was about to be tried—truly tried—by interrogators who might opt to use no restraint at all, unlike my instructors. I mean—hell—it was Mr. Turner who “beat” me that night, the nicest of all of the instructors, even when he was attempting to appear menacing. I’d have no such mercy from these men. What if, the moment I felt physical pain, I started to babble SOE secrets—names, addresses, code names, plans? It was all there in my mind. Was that secure?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I had to calm myself down. An image of Chloe’s face popped into my mind and I remembered vividly a conversation I had with her the day of our first real physical challenge during the initial few days of SOE training, and the mental trick her mother taught her to quieten her mind when life was hard.
Let’s go somewhere lovely. What does it look like there? I let myself remember my husband’s eyes, big and blue and sparkling, framed in long eyelashes. I let myself imagine the unique, remarkable safety that came with his arms around me, a circle of strength and restraint. What does it smell like in the safe place? I never did figure out the right way to describe Giles’s scent. It wasn’t just the soap or cologne he used. Beneath all of that, there was a deeper scent—masculinity and sensitivity and power and safety. Just Giles, and even years after his death, I could still bring it to mind. How do you feel in your heart? Loved. Wanted. Known.