“Please no,” Ivy whispered. But Thelma’s chest still rose and fell. “Please don’t take her, Lord. Not yet.”
chapter
22
St. Aubin
Tuesday, July 13, 1943
Standing on the breakwater, Bernardus gazed down into the water, bright turquoise in the afternoon sun. “This would be perfect for sabotage.”
Gerrit whipped his gaze in all directions. No one else stood on the breakwater at St. Aubin, but dozens of men worked at the adjacent gun battery. “We’ve already discussed this.”
“Everything’s changed.” A frenzied look filled Bernardus’s light blue eyes. “The network is blown, and we have no way to help.”
“I hate it too.” Gerrit scanned the bay capped by St. Aubin’s Fort on its tiny island. “We have to take comfort in knowing dozens of our maps were delivered.”
“Or captured.” Bernardus clapped his hands to his hips. “And for what good? The Allies just invaded Sicily. In the Mediterranean. They aren’t coming to France.”
Not this year, and Gerrit shoved his jaw forward. Would his maps even be relevant when the invasion did come?
“Here we are, building for our enemy.” Bernardus jerked hishead toward the gun battery of sand-colored stone. “But I have an idea.”
“I don’t want to hear about—”
“Listen. On a dark night when the tide is out, we creep along the base of this breakwater, plant explosive charges, and blow up the breakwater. That will wreck this harbor.”
“Bernardus.” Gerrit bored his gaze into his friend. “You know all the reasons sabotage is a bad idea. We cannot do this.”
Bernardus pulled back a bit, and his gaze darkened. “You meanyoucannot do this.”
Down by his side, Gerrit’s left hand flexed. Was he trying to control all the details again? Or was this as awful an idea as it seemed? “You’re right. I cannot. And you should not, especially alone.”
Bernardus wrenched his head to the side. Whatever plan he was concocting, he couldn’t do it by himself.
Then Bernardus fixed a fierce gaze on Gerrit. “The Allies will win.”
“Yes, thank goodness.” Even the Germans seemed to know it.
Bernardus poked a finger at Gerrit’s chest. “What will they say about us after the war? They’ll call us collaborators, even traitors.”
“We’re working for the resistance. They’ll—”
That poke turned to a shove. “They’re all dead. Or will be soon. See if that changes your mind.” Bernardus pushed past him and marched up the breakwater.
Gerrit groaned and followed. Surely, some in the network survived. Surely, some of the maps had reached England and would prove their loyalty.
At the base of the breakwater, Gerrit headed for the shed used for construction site headquarters. With RAF raids increasing, the “Aubin Hafen” open casemate was scheduled to be enclosed with reinforced concrete to protect guns and gunners.
In the shed, Ernst Schmeling leaned over a table spread with blueprints. He smiled at Gerrit as he entered. “You’ll be pleased to hear we caught the murderer yesterday.”
A sickening feeling twined in his gut. “Murderer?”
“That Russian swine we saw murder a German guard.”
Not “manslaughter” or “self-defense,” but “murder.” Marchenko would be executed after all, and Gerrit could no longer help him. “Where—where has he been?” His voice sounded choked, sounded like treason.
The Jounys, everyone who helped Marchenko—all were in danger.
