“Yes, sir,” they said in unison with matching salutes.
“Good.” Paul allowed a smile. “I don’t know how long you’ll be here. When it’s time to leave, we’ll give you further instructions.We have sandwiches for you and a jug of ersatz coffee. No tea—don’t even ask.”
“We—we do appreciate this.” The French speaker’s close-set eyes shone with gratitude.
“Thank you,” Paul said. “You may leave the light on to eat. But the sooner you turn it off, the better. Not everyone who works here can be trusted. And as you saw, we get visitors.”
The redhead stood and swept a courtly bow. “We shall comport ourselves like gentlemen to the utmost of our ability.”
“Glad to hear it.” Paul grinned, left the room, and locked it.
Back on the factory floor, he scanned for Moreau. There he was, near the end of the assembly line, where a crew installed windshields.
Paul stood in Moreau’s line of sight, and the foreman soon excused himself and joined him.
“Walk with me.” Paul led him along the far side of the assembly line, mindful of the workers they passed and thankful for the factory noise. “Our delivery arrived, but late—and right under Schiller’s nose. Three packages are in storage.”
Moreau blew out a harsh breath. “I’ll inform Silvestre. How was your meeting?”
“Schiller believed Boucheron. Once the pump arrives, we’ll need to meet the timeline we gave him. In fact, I’d like to come in early.”
Light glimmered in Moreau’s onyx eyes. “Make us look eager to please.”
“Exactly.”
“Dimont had an idea.” Moreau glanced back to the windshield installers. “Next time we receive a shipment of windshields, drop them, break them, maybe make it look as if they broke in transit.”
Paul pondered. “That’s good. After we get the boiler running again, I’d like a week or two of smooth—if slow—operations. The windshield idea will need to wait.”
“I agree. Dimont can use the next few weeks to plan.”
Only twelve men were involved in the resistance work, each man screened by Paul, Moreau, Dimont, and Silvestre for capability and discretion. Each man brought different gifts, a factory within the factory, all parts working together for a common cause.
At the stairway, Paul paused. “I have an appointment with the accountants in a few minutes. Anything else?”
“No, monsieur. Everything goes well.”
Paul regarded this man, long his nemesis, but also long his most valuable employee. “Thanks, Moreau. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Moreau raised one heavy black eyebrow. “You never could.”
Paul chuckled. “No, I couldn’t. You know these men, their strengths and weaknesses. You know every working of our factory.”
With a grunt, Moreau glanced down and scratched at his jaw as if embarrassed. As if pleased.
Realization and conviction flooded Paul’s mind. Just as he craved respect, so did Moreau. So did all these men. And they deserved it.
Moreau hitched up one thick shoulder. “Hate to say it, but we couldn’t do it without you either. Your designs, your organization, your business sense.”
Dare he say it? “My capital?”
The capitalist-hater glared at Paul. “Even that.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll talk to you later.” He mounted the staircase.
“Monsieur Aubrey? You said ‘our factory.’ Not ‘my factory’ but ‘our.’”
“Did I?”
