“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.
I’d been grateful for a distraction and had stepped into his shoes happily—but now that I was about to head back to France, I wanted reassurance. Had the security issues at the top of the organization been resolved? Was I in safe hands? Was my son still safe?
Turner specifically told me not to mention our conversations about a double agent to Elwood, but this was my last chance to inquire about him, and so I drew in a breath and asked, “Is Mr. Turner coming to see us off?”
She seemed confused by the question.
“Didn’t he explain this to you when he asked you to step in with the recruit training? He’s been called away.”
“He didn’t say when he’d be back,” I said.
“Is something wrong, Fleur?” she asked, eyebrows knitting. “Anything you would speak to Gerard about you can also speak about with me.”
But that wasn’t true at all. I still could not imagine that Elwood was the SOE’s bad apple but I also couldn’t take the risk of being wrong about that and perhaps ruining Turner’s operation to expose her.
“Everything is fine, Miss Elwood,” I said quietly.
She assessed me carefully, then nodded and signed the final line on her paperwork.
“Colonel Maxwell sends his very best wishes,” she murmured. “We all know you’ll represent us—and Britain—well.”
“I won’t let you down,” I said.
“That’s the last thing in the world I’m worried about,” Elwood said, as I spun on my heel and walked to the plane.
The pilot was right to worry about that trip—it was one hell of a flight. Even flying low to avoid radar, we did not escape that turbulent weather. The first few hours were so rough that Remy spent much of them curled up in a ball clutching a bucket. By the time we were at the drop zone, I was so happy to be leaving the stench in the body of that plane, I insisted on going first.
The jump went perfectly—my first contact with the earth smooth and steady, until all of a sudden, my ankle just gave way. In a miserable re-enactment of the jump that went so badly wrong during my training, I was dragged along behind the chute, clutching desperately at the grass trying to slow myself. When I finally came to a stop, I lay limp against the earth, trying to catch my bearings. I released myself from the parachute as I twisted to sit up, only to find that just touching the bottom of my shoe to the ground was enough to spark a pain so intense, I barely noticed heavy footsteps on the ground as a man approached me.
“I’m Marcel,” he said uncertainly. “That was quite a landing. Are you hurt?”
“My ankle,” I whimpered, reaching to gingerly touch it through my flight suit.
“The safe house isn’t far from here but we will have to walk,” he said hesitantly.
I didn’t feel up to walking anywhere, but I realized the alternative was probably lying on the field until the Germans found me. There was a flurry of movement to my right, and then Remy landed gracefully nearby.
“If you two can bury the parachutes,” I muttered, “I’ll try to figure out how to walk.”
The safe house was a little over a mile from the drop zone, but I knew from my first step that it was going to be the longest hike of my life. My ankle couldn’t support my weight, so I had to drag myself across the French countryside, hopping on one foot and leaning on a stick Remy found for me. He and Marcel were walking behind me, carrying our cases.
“Can I help you?” Marcel asked uncertainly, after a while.
“No thank you,” I said stiffly. I hated to ask for help even at the best of times, but I did not want to appear weak in front of these men I was now to serve so closely with. I was busy trying not to panic. It took weeks for my ankle to feel strong again last time. What would I do if this injury was just as slow to heal?