Page 46

“I won’t. And Andrée? Tell him . . . Tell him it was worth it. What he did. Tell him we’ll make sure London gets every word.”

The eleventh arrondissement is on the other side of Paris. Andrée takes a metro line heading in a different direction, changes trains twice, doubles back once to ensure she’s not being followed. The file in her bag weighs heavily on her arm. Information that could win the war. Or get her executed.

Rue de la Roquette is a narrow street, buildings crowded together, washing lines strung overhead. Number 47 is indistinguishable from its neighbors, peeling paint, cracked steps, the tired look of occupied Paris.

There is a concierge, but Andrée manages to slip in behind an old woman with a basket and the concierge barely looks up as the woman stops to chat with her. Andrée climbs the stairs to the third floor, checking each landing. Empty. Good. She raps at the door: three quick knocks, three slow.

The door opens a crack. A woman’s face appears. Suzanne. She looks different, her hair darker, a face free of makeup. She’s dressed like a working-class Parisian. But her eyes are the same. Sharp. Intelligent. Dangerous.

“Andrée,” she says, opening the door wider. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Dancer sent me. We have something that needs transmitting tonight.”

Inside, the apartment is sparse. A bed, a table, a chair. In the corner, Suzanne lifts a loose floorboard to reveal the wireless set. Compact, deadly, the lifeline to London.

Andrée explains about Cat’s mission, the stolen files, the need to split the transmission. Suzanne listens intently, nodding all the while.

“Three a.m., you said. I can do that. U-boat communications—this is priority intelligence. London will want it immediately.” She takes the file, scans the first few pages.

“Code frequencies. Transmission protocols. Position reporting procedures. This is gold, Andrée. Absolute gold.”

“The operative nearly got himself killed. Dogs, searchlights, a fight with the Militia.”

Suzanne sighs. “We’ll make it worth it. I’ll transmit every page. London will have the complete file by dawn.”

She pauses.

“Andrée, I know it’s hard, but agents like this are how we’ll win the war.”

Andrée leaves, lighter now without the file, but heavier with the knowledge of what’s riding on tonight’s transmissions. If the Germans detect the signals, if they triangulate the locations, Dancer and Suzanne could be arrested. Tortured and executed.

But that won’t stop them. In the Resistance, the wireless operators are referred to as pianists. They refuse to stop playing, and this is what makes them invaluable.

Tina walks through Saint-Germain-des-Prés with the confidence of a woman who belongs in this fashionable area. She’s carrying her larger handbag, which today holds five rolls of film: Louis’s photographs of Cat’s stolen documents. Insurance, in case the transmissions fail or are compromised.

Le Fleuron gleams in the afternoon light. Inside, German officers crowd the tables, laughing, drinking wine that most Parisians can’t afford. Tina’s stomach turns, but she keeps her expression neutral, almost bored.

The maître d’ recognizes her. “Mme Levallois. How lovely to see you. Are you lunching with us today?”

“Just coffee, if possible. I’m here to see Mme Burdet.”

“Of course. This way.”

He leads her to a table near the back of the restaurant. Once again, she’s partially obscured by a pillar. Perfect.

Tina orders coffee, real coffee, somehow Le Fleuron still has it—and waits. Around her, conversations flow in German and French. The officers are discussing strategy, while French collaborators laugh altogether too raucously at jokes that aren’t funny. The whole scene disgusts her.

Ten minutes later, Gypsy arrives. She sweeps in as though she owns the place, rather than simply being the manager. Her crimson dress and bold burgundy lipstick are impossible to ignore. German officers turn to watch her glide by. One calls out a greeting and she blows him his kiss, continues to Tina’s table.

“Tina, ma chère. How wonderful to see you.” She kisses Tina’s cheeks and sits with a flourish.

“I’m desperate for a drink. It’s been the most exhausting week.”

The performance has begun. Two old friends, meeting for a gossip. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noting.

They talk about the weather, the shortages, mutual acquaintances. Tina complains about rationing. Gypsy complains about awkward suppliers for her restaurant. Anyone listening would be bored within minutes.

Half an hour later, Gypsy reaches into her bag for her compact, checks her lipstick.