“How long ago?” he asked, the flame of the match flaring at the tip of the cigarette.
A stream of smoke filled the air. The young man smiled. “I am Phillipe. You will remember, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
If he didn't wipe that grin off his face, Paul was going to wipe it off for him.
“How long ago did you see her?”
“Several days.” That shrug again. “A few weeks. It's difficult to remember.”
Paul grabbed him by the front of his coat.
“Was it several days, or a few weeks?”
The cigarette dangled from Phillipe's lips.
“Three weeks.”
“Where?”
“North.”
That told him very little. They were all north of somewhere.
“Eh! What is this? Phillipe?”
A large man appeared, a thick, bushy beard covering half his face, equally bushy brows over his eyes like feelers on a giant bug.
“This one was asking about Jehanne,” Phillipe replied as he adjusted his coat and cap.
“Eh? How do you know Jehanne?” the taller man demanded.
“We're friends. I was hoping for some word about her, where she might be.”
A long stare, the flat expression.
“She is gone,” the man finally replied, and then motioned to the one called Phillipe.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
DECEMBER 4, 1944
It was coming soon.
They'd been hearing about it for weeks—an Allied offensive to push the Germans out of France and back to Germany. But the bloody weather had stalled everyone off, with storm after storm and mud that bogged down both man and machine. And then there were the fuel shortages. But here in Arras, at the edge of the offensive, the calendar meant the Christmas holiday was close, with a new year right behind it. And hope.
Paul Bennett caught a ride on an armored troop vehicle from their base camp into the city now occupied by Allied forces. The vehicle slipped around a corner, passing boarded-up businesses. But lights glowed near the city center and farther out across the city, in spite of the mandatory blackout.
He'd heard that several of the high command were there in the city hall. Others were encamped in other buildings against the latest storm, while a perimeter had been set up with heavily armed guards controlling traffic in and out of the city.
He'd entered the city earlier with Dunnett. Command wanted photographs for those back home on the evening dispatch, a political move that showed the progress that was being madewith war-weary people back in London. Nothing that revealed their location; all photographs were carefully screened before they were let out to the press. But the sort of photographs that showed locals welcoming the Allied forces—happy faces, grateful wives, and children waving—with other photographs of burned-out buildings, carefully screened to match headlines:
“This is what we're fighting for! The liberation of France...the liberation of Europe!”
Arras had been liberated in September, but the signs of German occupation were everywhere. They passed more buildings, windows blackened, military vehicles sweeping through the rain-slickened streets from the latest storm that had blown in from the channel. Then the spires of the Cathedral of Notre Dame appeared through the swirling rain.
