He understood the slang. ‘How does a wireless operator get lumped with chaperoning pilots?’
‘Abject masochism.’
Alex, catching the gist of the conversation, looked offended. Michel met his gaze, and with a slight nod, switched to English.
‘Wasn’t manning a wireless exciting enough? They say Jerry can pinpoint you in half an hour these days with their radio detection finders.’
‘Less than that.’
‘You must be good.’
He looked at me appraisingly, and I stared back. Michel was about forty, but he wore his age well. While his dark hair shone with silver glints, his face was strong and spoke of his confidence and character. It would be good to work for someone like him.
‘I can hold my own,’ I said.
‘And him?’
‘Ask him,’ Alex said. ‘Him might no’ speak French, but does fine wi’ English.’
‘Or Scottish.’ I tried to lighten his mood, but from his dark glare I was, apparently, unsuccessful.
‘And how did you come to be here?’ Michel asked.
‘Shot down by a swarm of 109s.’
‘Bomber or a fighter?’
‘Six o’ one.’ Sinclair straightened his shoulders and raised his head proudly. ‘I piloted a Mosquito.’
‘Beautiful plane.’ Michel clapped Alex on the shoulder and moved on to a trio of men farther ahead.
‘She was,’ Sinclair whispered, mourning the de Havilland as if she were a lover. Then he sighed. ‘I’m guessing that Cécile isn’t your real name either?’
‘Not any more than Nathalie is.’
‘Complicated woman,’ he murmured.
When we neared a farm, Michel dispersed most of his people and fell into step with Sinclair. The remaining woman walked in silence beside me. She was pretty, with long curly hair and an air of naïve sweetness. I didn’t think she was the one who’d called me a collaborating bitch, but looks could be deceiving. Or at least some of them.
‘He’s not bad looking, your Englishman.’ The woman’s voice was carefully modulated, but the coquettish tilt of her head and the way she played with her long curls when she looked at him, gave more away than she, perhaps, intended.
‘Don’t call him English if you want to get anywhere with him,’ I advised. ‘He’s Scottish.’
She nodded, her lower lip pouting as she processed this information. For a few moments, she studied me. ‘Is he your lover?’
Heavens, she was blunt.
‘He’s in my charge. At least until I can get him to safety.’
‘I hope you can do so.’ She didn’t take her eyes off me for a long few moments, before commenting, ‘But you have not answered my question.’
Michel had brought us to a farmhouse surrounded by a couple of outbuildings. He unlatched the barn door, holding it open as the men entered. Aching feet and exhaustion made my voice curt. ‘No. He’s not my lover, and for what it’s worth, I’m not a German spy. I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but by all means, try your luck with him.’
Moving past her, I tried not to laugh at her expression, and joined the men in the barn. Once we were all inside, the door was secured and the windows shaded. Several lamps were lit and crates rearranged to form a circle. Michel pulled the young woman aside. He spoke too softly for me to hear, but whatever it was, it didn’t please her. With one last backwards glance at the Scot, she grabbed a case held out by another man and all but stomped outside.
‘Going to check on my story, I imagine,’ I murmured to Sinclair.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said.
‘We’re the new dogs in the village,’ I explained. ‘The pack is sniffing us out, trying to determine whether to accept us or run us off.’
‘Or kill us.’
‘Also an option, but I don’t think so.’
‘Because you’re Special Operations? What does that mean anyway?’
‘I’m a spy.’
It wasn’t entirely false, but it was a very small part of what an SOE agent was trained to do: explosives, firearms, unarmed combat, sabotage. In short, our job was to prop up the Resistance and make life as difficult as we could for the Nazis.
‘I’m the link between the Resistance and London. Usually,’ I added wryly. I turned to Michel. ‘Now that we’re here, and safe for the moment, would you be able to tell us what you’re planning?’
Michel uncorked a bottle and poured four glasses.
‘You stay in the loft tonight while Mireille, as you guessed, verifies your story. If you are who you claim to be, we will help you get you to the coast. If not?’ He shrugged, his eyes dark and inscrutable. ‘Then perhaps someone else will find you.’
Your body, he meant. I took a small sip of wine and nodded. We were outnumbered, and I wasn’t inclined to fight if I didn’t have to.
He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘When you finish your wine, go upstairs and sleep while you can. Whatever happens, it will not be before dawn.’
*
I moved behind a bale and quickly changed into a cotton shirt and trousers one of the men had thoughtfully provided. When I returned, Alex had rolled up a spare blanket and positioned it lengthwise in the centre of the old mattress. He lay on his side, facing away from me to preserve my modesty. His uniform was neatly folded on the floor beside him.
‘I dinnae like this,’ he said. ‘He’s planning something.’
‘Of course he is. And right now we’re a complication. I don’t think he likes having us here any more than we do.’ I sat on the mattress and plaited my hair. ‘Once the girl validates my story, we’ll be on our way. You’ll be back with your squadron in no time.’
It sounded like a naïve platitude, even to my own ears, but Sinclair didn’t question it. Instead he blew out the candle and allowed darkness to descend. He lay quietly until his breathing evened out.
Sleep was far more elusive for me. I was less worried about Michel’s men than I was the rest of the journey. Each handover came with risks. Would I find someone to escort Alex the rest of the way, or would I have to take
