The snick of a gun’s safety preceded a voice demanding we raise our hands above our heads.
‘French,’ I breathed. ‘They’re speaking French!’
It was my own hope that spoke; not all Frenchmen were on our side, but my instincts told me that this was the Resistance, and that we hadn’t found them so much as they’d found us. Smiling broadly, we raised our arms.
Against the pale wheat, dark shapes began to materialise. Men, women too, moving surrounding us.
‘An SS dog and his bitch,’ someone sneered.
‘If he’s dumb enough to come out by himself, then he’s dumb enough to die here.’ The voice rang with authority and hatred.
‘Repercussions?’ Another voice. No less strong, but pragmatic.
‘We’re not Germans,’ I protested, my optimism turning to bile.
‘Sod the repercussions,’ the first man said. ‘Take them into the woods and shoot them.’
Chapter Six
The Resistance fighters formed a loose circle around us. There were six of them: two women and four men. Their faces maintained the same expression, resolute bordering on hatred. Their guns, a mix of handguns and rifles, American, British, and even German, gleamed dully in the moonlight.
‘He’s not a German,’ I told them. My hands, still raised, turned outwards in protest. ‘I’m not either. He’s an RAF pilot. We’re English!’
Sinclair stiffened, but he didn’t correct me.
‘Is that so?’ The man who’d just sentenced us to death stood forward. ‘Then why’s he wearing an SS uniform?’
The words were out before I could stop them: ‘Well, I couldn’t get him to the bloody coast in his RAF kit now, could I?’
‘I like this one – she has spirit,’ one of the other men said.
‘Collaborating bitch,’ someone else disagreed.
‘Take the blasted gun!’ I pushed my pistol into a pair of waiting hands and jabbed Alex in the side. ‘Give them the Luger, will you?’
He handed over his gun, but he was looking at me with a strange expression in his eyes – like I was a creature he’d never seen before.
‘What?’ I asked.
Alex continued to stare at me with an expression midway between horror and fascination. Was he surprised that a woman would snap back? Or did he resent being told what to do by one? When our future was being discussed around us, and in a language he didn’t understand, he’d have to deal with that hurt on his own. We had bigger problems.
‘Who are you?’ the Frenchman asked, echoing Sinclair’s unspoken question.
‘You can call me Cécile. Most of my friends do, anyway.’
Actually, none of the people I called close friends these days knew my real name. And those who knew the name I was born with would be horrified to see me now.
Alex’s shoulders stiffened and he looked away.
‘And who are you, Cécile?’
The man stepped closer, and despite whatever he felt for me, the Scot moved in front of me, shielding me with his own body. His chivalry was misplaced. I put a hand on his shoulder and stepped around him.
‘I’m an agent for Special Operations Executive,’ I said. ‘Check with Baker Street. Or better still, give me a wireless and I’ll contact them myself.’
The leader gestured for his men to circle us and herded us westwards in silence. We weren’t restrained but we were no less their prisoners. We would be treated as the enemy until proven otherwise. My feet hurt and I was exhausted, but no one would tell us how much farther we had to travel.
‘Your new friends seem better at asking questions than answering them,’ Sinclair noticed. ‘How did you know they were on the right side?’
‘If they were Germans, they wouldn’t have called you an SS dog.’
His full lips twitched. ‘And if they were tryin’ to trap a few Resistance fighters?’
‘Then we’d have been stuffed the moment you opened your mouth.’
He grunted and we passed the next few minutes in uneasy silence. Every so often he would flash me a wary glance, as if he was trying to gauge how much he should worry based on how worried I was.
The man in charge paused at the side of the path and waited for us to catch up.
‘Tell me, Cécile. What do you do for Baker Street?’
‘That depends on what’s required. And who’s asking.’
‘I’m the one with the gun. Good enough?’
‘No,’ I bristled. ‘You’re not the first man to wave a gun in my face, and if you were inclined to shoot me, you’d already have done so.’
He might not understand the words, but my tone was clear enough.
‘Steady,’ Sinclair cautioned. It was too late for that.
‘You’re asking me a lot of questions, but I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here. We passed a town that has more swastikas than Berlin. We’re heading away from that place so I’m guessing you’re not going to bring us to the Boche, but I’m not going another step until we have some answers.’
He returned my gaze. ‘You’re not in a position to negotiate.’
He was right, but that didn’t stop me from folding my arms across my chest and giving him a mutinous look.
‘Oh hell,’ Sinclair groaned.
The Frenchman’s dark eyes narrowed as he considered me. Finally he nodded.
‘You can call me Michel.’
‘And the second question?’ I prompted.
‘Let’s just say I’ve nothing against the Germans, so long as they’re on the other side of the Maginot Line.’ His mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘I’d like to think I’m helping them go home.’
Despite myself, I laughed. Alex, unable to follow the conversation, looked taken aback. Without taking my eyes off the Frenchman’s, I laid one hand on Alex’s arm to stop any reaction.
‘Fair enough, Michel. As I said, I’m a pianist. Been working in
