His senses high, his heart rate high, Paul ran quietly. This would be their last contact on this journey. But that didn’t make it any less dangerous.
When they reached the farmhouse, Ander knocked on the back door.
A woman in a black dress with a black scarf around her head answered the door. She and Ander spoke in the Basque language, then she motioned everyone inside.
Paul stepped in—to a stable. A donkey brayed, and a sheep bleated. The smell of manure hit him, but considering how he had to smell, he couldn’t complain.
The woman trotted upstairs, speaking briskly to Ander. The second floor appeared to be living quarters, but she led them up to the third floor. Baskets of apples, walnuts, and potatoes filled one half of the room, and hay the other.
“Lie down,” Ander told the men. “No talking, no smoking, and do not eat anything unless offered. She will send her son to Bilbao to fetch the British consular officer.”
“Thank you, sir,” Paul said. “We appreciate all your help.”
“Good luck.” Ander tipped the men a salute and disappeared down the stairs.
The smell of apples and the fragrance of herbs drying overhead made Paul’s mouth water, but he stretched out on the wooden floor with his satchel under his head. His companions lay down too.
One step closer to home, and a smile lifted his weary face. What would Lucie think to see him now, stinking and scruffy? He had a hunch she wouldn’t mind.
Where were Lucie and Josie now? Six weeks had passed since he’d seen them, heard their voices, smelled their hair. Not much longer now. Not much longer.
Someone shook Paul’s shoulder, and he woke with a start. The airman code-named Louis leaned over Paul and pressed one finger to his lips, his eyes wide.
Voices rose from below, a man and a woman. Footsteps clumped up the stairs.
Paul held his breath and eyed the opening to the stairway.
A black homburg appeared and a trim, mustached face. “Cheerio, chaps.”
You couldn’t get more British than that.
The airmen sprang over and shook hands with the consular officer in his tailored black overcoat.
Paul shook hands too. “I can’t tell you how glad we are to see you.”
Thin gray eyebrows sprang high. “You’re—American?”
“Yes, sir. Guilty as charged.”
The officer gaped at Paul, at the three airmen. “And you chaps—”
“We’re British, sir,” the man called Philippe said.
The diplomat held up one hand to the airmen. “I’ll take you to the consulate in Bilbao for questioning, then send you to Gibraltar. But you—what are you doing here?” He glowered at Paul.
His stomach squirmed. “I came from Paris, sir. I’m going home to America.”
“In the escape line? This is for men of the Royal Air Force.”
Paul straightened his shoulders. “The resistance sent me because I worked with them and couldn’t risk internment.”
“That is none of my concern.” He brushed a narrow hand in Paul’s direction.
“Please, sir,” Louis said. “He’s one of us.”
Paul gave Louis a grateful look, then addressed the officer. “You were planning on driving four men to Bilbao anyway. If you could take me to the American—”
“You don’t have a consulate in Bilbao.” He raised a pointed chin. “Your nearest consular office is in Madrid. And taking you would be a violation of protocol.”
