Stung by Lucie’s rejection, on the night she’d kicked him out of her store, he’d retrieved invitations from his wastepaper basket and accepted them all. An American society widow who kept house with a high-ranking German officer. A French banker who knew everyone’s business and told itunder the influence of champagne. A French businessman whose company made airplane engines for the Luftwaffe, as Lucie had accused Paul of doing.
If Paul had to embrace the role of collaborator to conduct espionage, he might as well give it all he had.
A loud whine pierced his office door, then an ominous thunk.
Paul bolted out of his office and to the balcony overlooking the factory floor.
White smoke plumed above the steel presses.
“Oh no.” Paul ran down the stairs and jogged across the floor to the most expensive equipment in his factory, the machines that pressed steel into fenders and hoods.
Jacques Moreau was already there, overseeing an argument among half a dozen men. French words flew so quickly, Paul caught only a fraction of them.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I saw him.” One man pointed at another. “Foulon threw a wrench into the press.”
Foulon flapped a broad hand at his accuser. “You lie, Lafarge. A belt broke. It happens.”
Lafarge thrust his sharp nose in Foulon’s face. “It happens when you throw a wrench in.”
Paul held up both hands. “Enough. Moreau, what happened?”
Moreau and Foulon exchanged a glance, then Moreau turned his insolent gaze to Paul. “A belt broke.”
Lafarge’s face grew as red as the scarf around his neck. “You weren’t here. You saw nothing.”
Paul saw clearly. Foulon had committed sabotage, and Moreau was covering for him.
He swept a hard gaze over the men. “Did anyone else see anything?”
Murmurs of “non” circled.
Lafarge shoved another man. “You! You saw him.”
“I saw nothing.”
Foulon stared at his scuffed shoes, his cheeks pitting. Guilty.
No anger surged in Paul’s chest. Only ... admiration. Envy. “I won’t fire a man based on a single witness.” Much less a witness like Lafarge, whose name frequently surfaced in Moreau’s reports as a whiner and brawler.
“Start the repairs,” Paul said. Then he beckoned to Moreau and Foulon, led them to a private spot near the wall, and looked Foulon full in his close-set eyes. “Don’t do that again.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t do it again,” Paul said slowly, firmly.
Foulon’s scruffy jaw shifted forward.
Paul crossed his arms. “The Germans have stiff penalties for sabotage, and I don’t want any extra attention from the occupation authorities. Understood?”
Foulon’s jaw remained set, but the fire in his eyes dimmed. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Back to work.”
The man shuffled toward the assembly line.
Moreau remained, staring at him. “That’s all?”
