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“Ready.”

“Then let’s go to lunch with the enemy.”

Le Fleuron sits in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, its cream-colored facade elegant even under occupation. Once, this was where Paris’s aristocracy gathered. Now, German officers fill the tables, their gray uniforms a reminder of who controls the city. The French who still come here are either collaborators or very, very careful.

Louis and Tina approach the entrance. A doorman, his face carefully neutral, opens the door. Inside, the restaurant is warm, opulent, obscene in its plenty when the rest of Paris starves. White tablecloths. Crystal glasses. The smell of meat cooking.

The maître d’ approaches. “Monsieur?”

“Levallois. Table for two. Twelve thirty.”

The man consults his book. “Ah yes. This way, please.”

They’re led through the dining room. Louis counts six tables of German officers. At one, a colonel laughs at something his companion says. At another, two younger officers lean close in conversation, their voices low. None of them pay Louis and Tina any attention. Why would they? An elderly couple, well-dressed, respectable. Invisible.

Their table is near the back, tucked beside a pillar. Not the best table, but perfect for their purposes. Partially hidden. Easy to leave quickly if needed.

“Your waiter will be with you shortly.” The maître d’ gives them each a menu and disappears.

Tina places her handbag on the empty chair beside her. Louis is opposite her, his back to the room, able to see the entrance, the kitchen door, the exits. Always know the exits. That’s the first rule.

A waiter appears. Young, nervous. “May I bring you something to drink?”

“Water for now,” Louis says. “We’re waiting for someone.”

The waiter nods and retreats. Minutes pass. Louis studies the menu without seeing it. Beside him, Tina’s hands are folded in her lap, perfectly calm. But he knows her. Knows the tension in her shoulders, the slight tightness around her eyes. She’s as nervous as he is.

At 12:40 p.m., the door opens and Gypsy enters.

Gypsy. Even her code name suits her: flamboyant, impossible to ignore. She wears a crimson dress that turns heads, her dark hair swept up, lipstick bright. She moves through the room like she owns it, nodding to the German officers as if they’re old friends. One calls out to her in German, and she laughs, responds in perfect German, touches his shoulder as she passes. When the owners, her friends, fled to England, they entrusted her to manage Le Fleuron, do what was necessary to keep it open, its history and prestige intact. They chose well.

Louis feels his jaw tighten. He knows it’s an act. Knows she’s gathering intelligence, playing a role. But watching her charm the occupiers turns his stomach.

She reaches their table, and her expression shifts. Warmer. Real. “Louis. Tina. How wonderful to see you. It’s been far too long.”

Louis stands, kisses her on both cheeks. “Gypsy. You’re looking well.”

“One does one’s best in difficult times.” She sits, arranges her skirts. The waiter reappears immediately. Of course he does. For Gypsy, service is instant.

“Champagne,” she tells him. “The thirty-four, if we have it.”

“Of course, madame.”

As soon as he’s gone, Gypsy leans forward. Her voice drops. “Three bottles. That’s what I serve them every night. Three bottles of champagne to four German officers. They talk. They boast. They forget I’m listening.”

She smiles, but there’s steel in it. “Fools.”

“Is it safe, being so visible?” Tina asks quietly.

“Safer than hiding. They think I’m a collaborator. They think I’m charmed by their uniforms, their promises. Let them think it. Meanwhile, I find out exactly where they’re sending troops, which units are moving, when the next roundups are planned.”

She picks up her menu.

“If you don’t mind, I am going to dine with you—just three old friends catching up. Shall we order? What our chef has done with the pork we received yesterday is magnificent.”

Pasting a smile on her face, Gypsy looks around the room before turning back to Louis and Tina.

“If it weren’t for the pigs dining with us, we would have no pork. No meat at all,” she whispers.