*
Secrets intact, even if my virtue wasn’t, we climbed down the ladder an hour before dawn, for Michel’s briefing in the barn’s large room.
‘As you may know, the Germans have closed most of the fishing channels heading north. If you head towards England, you’ll be caught in their net. So you will head for Spain. A fishing boat will take you as far as Bilbao. From there you take a train to Madrid. Your embassy will arrange your trip home.’
‘Spain?’ Alex’s face broadcast his dismay.
How long would it take us to get back? At least by checking my credentials with Baker Street, Mireille had let Buck and Vera know that I was here, and still alive.
‘Be careful. The border police arrest people sneaking into the country,’ he added.
How many people like Alex, like me, had he helped? He wouldn’t answer even if I asked.
Instead I simply said: ‘Thank you, Michel.’
He rubbed his eyes. ‘The boat is called Le Rêve. She’s not big and certainly not pretty, but she’s fast and hasn’t got caught yet.’
‘The Dream,’ I translated. How appropriate.
‘It’s white, edged in blue. The man who’ll take you is called Antoine Gamay. You’ll be able to spot him –’
‘He has eyebrows like caterpillars,’ Armand said, demonstrating by waving his fingers from his brow.
Michel wasn’t amused. ‘Not now, clown.’
Armand shrugged, good-naturedly, and handed Alex a thin envelope with Spanish notes.
‘You’ll need this when you cross the border,’ he said. ‘It’s the best we can do, but don’t let anyone find it on this side of the border. I’ll drive you to the outskirts of the village. I can’t go any farther without being recognised. You’ll want to buy provisions there. Make it look like an impromptu picnic.’
‘But instead of heading out on a yacht, we find a fishing boat?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave tomorrow morning dressed as fisherfolk?’
Michel shook his head. ‘Too risky. Every day you remain brings you closer to being captured.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Even if you looked the sort, and you don’t, fishermen don’t usually take their women on the boat with them. Bad luck, you see. So you get on the boat, and you all get below – out of sight. Fast. Got it?’
He waited for both of us to nod before holding out his hand, first to Alex and then to me.
‘God be with you.’
*
Despite Michel’s faith in Mireille, I wasn’t convinced. Trusting anyone else was dangerous, and Alex had chosen me over her. She didn’t strike me as vindictive, or foolish enough to risk someone she was interested in to destroy a rival; then again, I hadn’t expected Jean-Roger Demarque’s betrayal in Paris. My fingers stretched and clenched in turn, wishing for the comforting grip of the PPK, knowing that it wasn’t possible without attracting undue attention.
The village wasn’t large, but was comfortable in its anonymity. Fish-sellers and restaurants touted the local catches, and the small harbour at the edge of town was mostly empty, the fleet of ketches and trawlers having already gone to sea. If it wasn’t picturesque, at least it did possess a wall devoid of broadsheets with Alex or my likeness on them, a boat that would take us away from France, and a village shop.
Wearing the SS uniform and a grim look, Alex stomped beside me, deep in thought. He waited until we were far enough from the nearest person to risk sharing those thoughts with me.
‘I know we dinnae have much time left, Nathalie. But I wanted to thank you.’
I raised an eyebrow and tried not to smile when he blushed.
‘No’ for that. Well, yes, for that too. What I meant is that ye’re doing your best to get us out and I ken I’m no’ helping.’ He rotated his shoulders as if trying to shift an uncomfortable weight. ‘And that hurts. I dinnae like not being able to hold my own.’
‘For someone who wasn’t trained for this, you’re holding up amazingly well. Sure you don’t want to trade a Mozzie for French lessons and a wireless? I think I know someone who’d be willing to teach you.’
He snorted, but his expression softened.
‘No’ cut out for it.’ He linked his fingers with mine. ‘You told me what you were yesterday, but ye ken what I am as well. I cannae make you any promises, Nathalie, but . . .’ He took a deep breath and his words came out in a rush. ‘When we get back, will ye allow me to call on you?’
I stared at him. Suddenly he looked young and awkward.
‘Alex, just how old are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’ A wry smile. ‘One of the oldest in the RAF, I think.’
It was experience, I supposed. Losing his friends, his wingmen, must have made him mature quickly. I had guessed about twenty-five. A three-year difference between us wasn’t so bad, but five?
‘Christ, Nathalie, stop laughing. I ken ye’re older, and I dinnae care. Will ye step out wi’ me, or no?’
I leant over and kissed his cheek.
‘Count on it. Now, go and look for the ship while I buy food for our “picnic”.’
Still smiling, I walked into the village shop and watched as the woman lined my purchases on the counter. As she tallied the cost, I glanced out of the window.
A pall fell over the square as a dozen drunk soldiers formed a rough circle. It wasn’t large enough to kick around a football, but whatever was in the centre held their full attention. Just outside the circle, standing apart but intent on the proceedings, was the grey-haired man we had seen in the restaurant, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t participating in their game but he wasn’t stopping it either. Whatever reason he had for being here boded ill for our escape; he struck me as too observant not to notice us or to wonder what had brought us here.
One of the soldiers, a big brute of a man, kicked forward. An
