“She's not here,” he said. “I haven't seen her since Bouville.”
The food was mostly tasteless, but hot as promised. The coffee was better.
“Is she well?” It seemed a foolish question, all things considered, when what he wanted to ask was if she had mentioned him, passed any messages along in case they met up.
Nico nodded. “The last I saw her. Then she left with another group.”
“Do you know where?” A question he had no idea if Nico would answer.
He'd learned more about her in the weeks since they were together, a shrugged shoulder when he asked a question of one of the French Resistance when their unit crossed paths, no answer at all when he mentioned the name he'd learned, Jehanne.
Or a grudging nod, “That one is fearless. The Germans have a price on her head.”
“Paris, maybe?” Nico answered in that way that might mean something, or nothing at all.
Paris. Dangerous, still held by the Germans. They weren't about to give it up without a fight.
According to Dunnett, they were headed north as well—Belgium, and it was going to be bad. Dunnett couldn't wait.
He flicked a cigarette into the fire beyond the table. Would he ever see her again? Did she want to?
Nico scraped his plate clean, then stood. “Merci.” He thanked him for the meal, then reached inside his jacket.
“She said I was to give you this, if I saw you again.” Nico handed him an envelope.
“She said to tell you that she didn't burn it.”
Paul tore open the envelope that contained a folded note, and a photograph.
Dear Paul,
We are moving again, there is still much to do. I think of that night and your funny smile when I said that I knew what was beneath the kilt.
I pray you are safe—you and your camera. Do not think too harshly of my camera skills. I borrowed it from a friend.
You must continue to take your photographs, so the world will know.
It was signed with just her initial, “M.”
He took out the photograph. It was a black-and-white shot, poor lighting, the hand less than steady as if quickly taken, but it was enough that he recognized the tapestry and remembered what she had said at the abbey.
“I would burn it before I would let the Germans have it!”
There had been reports of raids across the whole of France after the Allied landing, including the rumor of a raid at the abbey and other places they passed through, valuable artwork and priceless artifacts stolen in a last, defiant, humiliating act by the German army.
The tapestry had meant a great deal to her, an important symbol of so much that had been lost, and her refusal to see it confiscated to decorate some high-ranking German official's bungalow or tent. Her people's history, she had called it, with that fierce passion.
The tapestry was safe. Somewhere.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Where the hell was Innis?
James marked the time on his watch: ten seconds, fifteen, twenty.
Pick up the fuckin' call!
