Page 63 of The Paris Agent
Sometimes in war, impossible calculations needed to be made. The death of those German soldiers would never bring my husband back to life but might just save Marcel and Remy...and who knew what goodthose two might bring to the world.
A sense of acceptance came over me as I fired the last bullet. I looked down at my ankle, now purple and yellow and black, so swollen the skin had stretched. There was no way I could run. All I could do was accept that I would be captured, and to do my best to honor my country through whatever my imprisonment brought.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I shouted, glancing cautiously around the tree. The Germans, sheltering behind their cars, peered out at me. I threw my useless Sten gun away from the tree and slumped back against the trunk. “I can’t walk. If you want me, you’re going to have to come and get me.”
C?H?A?P?T?E?R18
JOSIE
Paris, France
May, 1944
I excelled in the art of evasion during my training. During practice sessions, I was commended by Mr. Turner himself for my high level of skill identifying when someone was covertly following me.
Since my arrival in France, I’d discovered that the real world was very different to the calm environs of Beaulieu, the location of the SOE “finishing school.” The streets of Paris were often busy, sometimes even crowded with pedestrians, and most of the time it was impossible to be certain I was not being followed.
A skilled operative might have followed me for days without me realizing. Fortunately for me, Veronique did not appear to be particularly skilled.
I spotted her within a block of leaving my hotel one morning. She was hanging back a few dozen feet and at first, I assumed she was trying to contact me—perhaps to slip a note into my hand as she passed, perhaps requiring urgent help. I stopped to look in a shop window to give her an opportunity to catch up but when I looked back to see where she was, caught sight of her ducking into a laneway to hide.
I kept walking but slower now, turning the situation over in my mind. Obviously a confrontation was in order, but where, and when? After another few blocks, I stopped to rummage around in my purse, and looked up to find her bending over unconvincingly to adjust her shoe. She didn’t even think to turn away from me, so I got an excellent view of her face.
Enough. The time was now. At least in part because the girl needed to realize she was terribleat this.
I turned and walked directly toward her, and she spun on her heel, as if she was going to try to outrun me, but there was little chance she’d lose me without breaking into a sprint, and to do so would be to draw too much attention. I caught up to her just as we neared the laneway she hid in just a few minutes earlier. I hooked her by the back of the arm to tug her into the lane with me.
“You’re following me,” I said, when we were deep in the laneway, sheltered from prying eyes. She scowled at me.
“I was just—”
“There’s no point lying. Iknowyou were.” She stared at me defiantly, but there was also a glimmer of fear in her eyes. I released her arm and stepped back, bewildered. “Veronique. My God, relax, we’re on the same side. Why on earth are you tailing me?”
“What possible reason could you have to be going to Malgier Labelle’s building every day?” she demanded, raising her chin.
“What are you talking about?”
“Malgier Labelle. He works with theAbwehr.” TheAbwehr—the German military intelligence organization.
“I’ve never even heard of him, Veronique! The only place I regularly go is Turner’s apartment.”
“You meet Turner at his apartment?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. I felt myself flushing as I nodded. “But you aren’t goingtohis apartment for your meetings. Not regularly. That’s...”
“It is in keeping with our cover story!” I said defensively.
“I’ve seen you go to Labelle’s building,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“When?”
“Yesterday. The day before. The day before that!” If her effort that morning was any indication, my failure to notice her following me was an indictment that I’d become too complacent there in Paris, lulled by the regularity of my routine with Turner. “Yesterday you walked past the building at ten, but you only walked a few blocks away, stopped in at a café, and then returned. The second time you passed, you went inside.”
“You’re talking about Turner’s building.” I walked past at ten and the vase was not in Turner’s windowsill. I walked past again an hour later because it was almostalwaysthere by lunchtime, and it was. “Is this building on Rue Lapointe?”
Veronique suddenly deflated, the air leaving her lungs in a rush. She closed her eyes as she nodded.
“Before he disappeared, Mahaut told me he’d heard a rumor that Labelle lives in that building.”
“Mahaut is still operating. Turner has seen him!”
