“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.”
“That’s…” I glanced at her uncertainly. “Are you sure? When was this meeting?”
“I don’t know. I heard about it secondhand. All I know is that he was anxious about his situation the last time I spoke with him and now he’s probably at Avenue Foch.” The mention of that address was enough to send chills down any agent’s spine. It was the headquarters of the counter-intelligence branch of the SS, the Sicherheitsdienst.
I had little rapport with Veronique. We’d only met in person a few times, and at every encounter, I’d found her cold almost to the point of hostility. W/t operators had the hardest job of all—their encryption methods were incredibly complex and they were constantly on the run, stalked endlessly by the Germans with their radio direction finding equipment. Veronique had already outlasted the rumored six-week average time frame a w/t operator in Paris evaded arrest. At times, when she’d been abrupt with me, I’d wondered if she was buckling under the strain.
Now, I wondered if she, like me, just had no idea who she could trust.
Something was definitely off. I just did not know how to figure out where the rot was coming from.
I was treading very carefully with Mr. Turner now. I wanted badly to trust my circuit leader, but the timing of Campion’s arrest left me uneasy. A few days after I spoke with Veronique, he called me to his apartment and asked me to deliver some cash to an address in the 4th Arrondissement. As I was leaving, I noticed a slip of paper, curled up beside the hallway runner.
I didn’t break stride as I bent to scoop it up, stuffing it into my brassiere as I walked down the stairs to the street. And only once I’d completed my drop and returned to my own room did I fish it out to read it.
It was a notice of debt—1000 francs, due within a week. There was no name on the notice—not even an address. But beside the total due, someone had scrawled the word blackjack.
I told myself it didn’t matter one bit if Mr. Turner was gambling after hours at some sketchy underground club. Even during SOE training schools, when the instructors would walk us to pubs, to ply us with drinks to see if alcohol loosened our tongues, Mr. Turner was known to always seek out the local bookmaker. Like his drinking, gambling had never hampered his work. And perhaps this gambling club was where he was recruiting new contacts.
If I hadn’t already been feeling uneasy, I’d have convinced myself to ignore that little slip of paper, but my senses were on high alert. I buried it under a loose floorboard in my room, the place where I kept my spare counterfeit currency and identity cards—my other “insurance policies.”
C H A P T E R 16
CHARLOTTE
Liverpool, England
1970
“I just wanted to check in on Noah,” Theo tells me quietly when he calls a few days later. “I’ve been thinking about him. I hope he’s alright. I’m just so sorry the meeting with Jean was…”
“…a disaster?” I finish miserably.
Theo sighs.
“Is your dad ready to talk about it yet?”
“No,” I mutter. I’ve tried—God, how I’ve tried. Every time I strike up a conversation with Dad, he snaps at me or makes an excuse to leave the room. Each night, he retires early, locking himself in his bedroom with the dog. He wasn’t this irritable even in the depths of acute grief and I am beside myself with worry. “I know he’s a good man. He would never, ever have done anything to put those other agents in danger. And if Marion or Jean were trying to suggest my dad was a double agent, then—” I break off, indignant. “Of course he wasn’t! I mean, right? Just because Dad’s memories of the time aren’t the best and he says he feels a little guilty about something does not mean he betrayed his country. It sounds like it made good sense for them to pull over that day. Maybe if they had surrendered, Fleur would still be alive and my dad wouldn’t have wound up in hospital. Right?” Theo doesn’t say anything, so I try again. “Right, Theo?”
“It was very hard to get a read on their conversation at Jean’s house, especially because your dad isn’t ready to discuss it yet. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard a rumor of a double agent in the SOE ranks. But to lead a group of agents directly into an ambush would make little sense even if your dad was conspiring with the Germans. I mean—why risk his own life when he could have just called them and given them the location of a safe house?” Theo breaks off, then adds quickly, “Not that I’m suggesting he was…”