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Louis and Tina suppress giggles. Tina squeezes Louis’s leg under the table.

They order. The champagne arrives. Gypsy pours, and they toast to nothing in particular, just three old friends having lunch. Around them, the restaurant hums with conversations held in German and French, the sound of occupation made mundane.

“I hear you have a new addition to your household,” Gypsy says, cutting her pork into small pieces, to savor.

“We do.” Louis keeps his face neutral. How does she know? “Our grandniece. Staying with us while her mother recovers from an illness.”

“Of course. How kind of you to take her in.” Gypsy’s eyes are sympathetic. She knows. Everyone in the network knows by now.

“These are difficult times for children.”

“Very difficult,” Tina agrees.

They eat. They talk about inconsequential things: the weather, the shortages, how Paris has changed. Anyone listening would hear nothing suspicious. Just three friends, making the best of bad times. With each swallow of their food, both Louis and Tina think of Andrée and Josie and how this is one meal they won’t be sharing.

Halfway through lunch, Gypsy reaches for her handbag. It’s large, expensive, the kind wealthy women carry. She opens it, pulls out a compact, checks her lipstick. Sets the compact on the table. Reaches back into the bag, removes a small leather folder.

“I brought those photographs I promised you, Tina. From before the war. I thought you might enjoy them.”

She hands the folder across the table. Tina takes it, opens it. Inside are photographs, real ones, from years ago. Gypsy and her late husband at a party. Tina and Louis at the same party. Innocent. Ordinary.

But beneath the photographs Louis can see the edge of something else. Papers. Folded thin. Documents.

“How lovely,” Tina says, closing the folder carefully. “May I keep these? I’d like to show Andrée.”

“Of course. They’re yours.”

Tina slips the folder into her handbag. The one Louis brought. Large enough. Deep enough. The exchange is complete.

At the next table, a German officer calls for more wine. The waiter hurries over. No one is watching Louis and Tina and Gypsy. Why would they? Three French citizens, having lunch, sharing memories. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noting.

“Coffee?” Gypsy asks.

“Please,” Louis says.

The coffee arrives. Real coffee, rich and dark. Louis savors it, knowing it might be months, years even, before he tastes it again. Across from him, Gypsy is telling a story about one of the German colonels, how he got drunk and tried to sing French opera, badly. She’s laughing, bright and carefree.

But her eyes aren’t laughing. Her eyes are hard.

“I should go,” she says finally. “I have an appointment this afternoon. A new supplier for the restaurant. One must keep the Germans well-fed after all.” The bitterness in her voice is barely concealed.

“Of course. Thank you for lunch,” Tina says.

“My pleasure. We should do this more often. It’s good to remember we’re still human, still French, still ourselves despite everything. This is on me, my friends.”

She stands. Louis and Tina stand. They embrace. Gypsy picks up her handbag, lighter now without the folder, and sweeps from the restaurant. The German officers watch her go. One raises his glass to her. She blows him a kiss.

Louis and Tina sit back down.

“Brave woman,” Tina says quietly.

“Foolish woman. She takes too many risks.”

“Perhaps. But we need her. We need what she can learn.”

They stand, gather their things. Tina’s handbag, heavy now with the folder, with secrets, with intelligence that could save lives or end them.

They walk through the restaurant. Past the German officers. Past the collaborators. Past the waiters and the maître d’. Out into the November cold.