“I know. We’re making plans for our guests.” Yesterday he’d met with Bentley for a supposed ulcer flare-up. They’d discussed when and how to shut down the safe house and to get Paul, Josie, and Lucie out of France. Paul hadn’t mentioned his relationship with Lucie, but he’d insisted on including her.
If the Germans found evidence that Green Leaf Books was a letter box, Lucie would be shot or sent to a work camp in Germany. And if they discovered any of Paul’s activity, he’d be tortured and shot. Neither of them could risk internment.
But timing their departure was tricky. Before they left, either legally or via the escape lines, all resistance activities had tostop. With the strike on the horizon, Paul wanted to delay his departure as long as possible.
Moreau gathered the last crumbs, squished them together, and popped them in his mouth. “If things happen fast, Silvestre and I will take the guests home. We won’t let them get caught.”
“Thanks. I hope it doesn’t come to that. You two would be in great danger.”
Moreau gave Paul a sidelong glance. “A few years ago, you wanted me dead.”
Paul cracked a smile. “I never wanted you dead. I just wanted you to behave.”
“You shoved a gun in my face.”
“Self-defense.”
Moreau narrowed midnight-black eyes at Paul. “I never understood—why didn’t you fire me?”
Paul returned the napkins to the lunch tin. “You’re a good foreman—the best. And the men like you and respect you, but they also obey you.”
“You could have found someone just as good, someone who didn’t fight you.”
With a shrug, Paul latched the lunch tin. “If he got along well with me, the workers would have hated him, would have seen him as the boss’s lackey.”
“Well ... yes.”
“The men would have turned their anger from me to the new general foreman. I didn’t want that. I’ll take the anger myself and let the foreman have a strong relationship with the men.”
Moreau grunted, his mouth bent down. “That—that was good of you.”
Paul rested back in his chair. “You and I—we’ve always gotten things done while meeting the men’s needs. We’re a good team.”
“I know. I—I’ve always known.”
“You have?” Paul’s eyebrows rose.
“You’re a fair employer. You treat us well. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop pushing you.” He gave Paul’s shoulder a light shove.
“You’d better. It’s your job. And it’s my job to push back.” Paul returned the gesture.
Moreau chuckled. “Pig.”
“Boor.” Paul grinned at him. “So how’s your wife? Your daughters?”
Moreau talked away, mostly about his little grandsons, his pride.
In about half an hour, Moreau would storm out of the office with Paul on his heels, yelling insults at each other for anyone in earshot.
For now they could talk as colleagues. Friends.
31
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER29, 1941
Hunkered in her overcoat at a café table on place de la Sorbonne, Lucie smoothed Paul’s letter with her gloved hand.
She should have burned it, but how could she?
