Page 61 of The Paris Agent
“We pray that we wake up and my ankle is miraculously healed,” I deadpanned.
“There is no plan,” Marcel said, sighing. “Not yet, anyway. Fleur will rest it tonight and we will see how she is in the morning.”
I knew as soon as I woke up that my prayers had not been answered. My first thought was that my ankle felt monstrously swollen, just as it did the first time I sprained it. When I tentatively moved my foot, pain shot up my leg. Leaning on the stick Remy had found for me, I hobbled all the way outside to use the outhouse, and by the time I made my way back, Marcel was seated at the dining room table. He winced when he saw my ankle.
“I’m okay,” I said even though I knew I was not. Marcel tapped his fingers against his cheek thoughtfully as I made my way to the table. “Can’t I just stay here for a few weeks, until it heals? I know it’s not ideal for the mission but...”
Marcel shook his head.
“One of the Maquisards owns this house. We need to be gone before his family returns from a trip tomorrow. We simply have to get you to the next safe house.”
“I can try to cycle,” I said uneasily, peering down at my swollen ankle. “Walking is painful, but cycling might not be so bad.”
I pushed my chair back. I thought I’d limp to the bicycles to try to ride, but as soon as I took a first step, my weakened ankle gave way and I only kept myself from falling by awkwardly catching the chair to hold myself up. Marcel pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I find it so frustrating that they ask so much of you women,” he said, scowling in frustration. “You get injured falling out of a plane but I’m still supposed to ask you to cycle halfway across France. They send Chloe halfway across the country, all on her own to a city where she knows no one, and I had to let her go. Whatever happened to men protecting women? It’s just not right!”
I knew for sure then that this was the man Chloe had fallen in love with during her mission. The concern and affection in his eyes as he spoke about her was unmistakable.
“Marcel,” I said flatly. “Chloe may be slight, but she is far from fragile. She doesn’t need you to protect her. Nor do I. My gender has nothing at all to do with this ankle and I am every bit as capable as a man.”
Marcel rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Sorry. Of course. I don’t mean to insult you, Fleur. Nor do I mean to suggest that Chloe is anything but fiercely capable. Sometimes I feel this war goes against every piece of common sense and social convention I’ve ever understood. And I don’t just mean about women—I mean, my God. These bastards have no respect at all for human life, and I always thought that was one thing we’d evolved to agree upon. It’s like the rules are topsy-turvy and sometimes I just can’t make sense of it.”
“I understand that,” I said heavily. “Boy, do I ever.”
“I can’t figure out how to make an evacuation work, either,” he said suddenly, groaning softly. “The full moon was days ago and there was barely enough light for the landing last night. Perhaps they could try tonight—but it’s sixty miles ride even to reach my w/t, so I’d have to cycle all the way there and back in one day,andwe’d still have the problem of where to put you today.”
“Can’t you get a car?”
“The Germans have prohibited car travel. They’re trying to slow the resistance down after the landings.”
“But we needn’t drive the whole way,” I suggested. “And perhaps we can take the back roads...”
“I really don’t know,” Marcel muttered. “A dead agent is no good to anyone.”
“Can you think of an alternative?” I asked him. “It sounds very much like even if you’re to send me home, you still need to get me to the next safe house to wait for the next moon.”
“Okay,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I know of a Citroen we can borrow. We’ll leave in an hour.”
The trip was uneventful at first. It was a beautiful day—a light breeze had blown in overnight and pushed every hint of cloud away. But despite the beauty of my surroundings and the calm start to our journey, I couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding that morning. My injured ankle left me unusually helpless. Baker Street sent some munitions with Remy and I to be distributed to the Maquisards around Brive-La-Galliarde. Marcel wanted to hide the Sten gun and ammunition in the boot of the car, but I insisted they remain in the back seat with me. If things went awry and I couldn’t run, I could at least try to shoot my way out of trouble.
“It will only take a few hours even traveling the back roads,” Remy said. He had made it very clear that he agreed that the car was the smartest way for us to travel. It seemed that Marcel was the only one with any reservations, but even he could see there was little alternative.
They took the front seats automatically—Remy driving, Marcel beside him in the passenger seat with the map. On an ordinary day in the field, I might have argued for a more active role, but I was distracted, staring down at my misshapen ankle and wondering how long it was going to take me to be useful again. As we neared the village of Salon-La-Tour, I was startled out of my reverie when Marcel suddenly cursed.
“What’s this...” Remy asked uncertainly. A few hundred feet ahead, at the bottom of a hill with a long, gradual slope, a cluster of German vehicles stretched across the road.
“It’s a roadblock,” Marcel muttered.
“Turn around,” I said, leaning forward to rest my hands against the back of the front seat. Remy did not react, so I said it again, more urgently this time. “Remy, turn the car around.”
Marcel glanced back at me, and his gaze dropped towards my foot.
“Our options are limited...” he said, then he swallowed. “There’s nowhere to turn off unless we try to drive through a field, and that will only draw attention to us. And if we turn around now, they’ll surely follow us.”
A sudden vision of Elwood and Booth at the airfield flashed through my mind. Turner assured me it was safe for me to return to the field, but what if he was wrong, what if the Germans had already been alerted to our mission, and by someone right there in Baker Street?
