On the pier, the grey-haired man stood at the edge, still firing even as we moved out of their range. He pointed to the harbour master’s hut and one of his men ran to it.
One man and one woman: fugitives. Assassins. They saw me pull the gun on the old man; they would think I’d shanghaied the boat and give chase.
‘Alex,’ I said, ‘get off me – I can’t see.’
He remained silent and heavy on my back.
‘Damn it, Alex!’
I pushed back with my good shoulder, and he obligingly rolled on to his back. The man who stood outside the hut argued with the harbour master as we shot forward – one small fishing boat amongst many.
Victory surged through me.
‘We made it, Alex,’ I breathed. ‘You’ll be back in Blighty for the weekend.’
He remained silent. One arm was lightly draped across his chest, and his hazel eyes were closed, his face relaxed. I hoped he hadn’t hit his head again. It seemed like ages, but it had only been a few days since his plane was shot down. I shook him.
‘Wake up, you oaf. Alex, we made it!’
My hand froze on his chest; it was damp, far more so than our last sprint would warrant. I raised it, horrified to find it covered in blood. With the coppery stench came a rising panic.
‘Alex?’
He didn’t reply. He didn’t move.
‘Alex?’ Oh God, no. Oh God, Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. ‘Alex! Open your eyes, you Scottish bastard! Don’t you dare leave me!’
I fumbled for the buttons on his tunic, ripping them from the cloth. The pings of metal on wood was lost in the rush of the sea; the denial roaring in my mind.
His shirt was stained crimson but his face was serene in the evening’s light. The boat bucked against a wave and I looked up at the old man. Saw the pity in his eyes.
I stretched out alongside Alex, resting my head for the last time on his chest.
‘My name . . .’ The words were soft, forced through the lump in my throat. Important, even though he couldn’t hear them any more. ‘My name is Elisabeth.’
My tears mingled with Alex Sinclair’s blood as the skiff shot out of the harbour and headed south.
To Spain. Where we would be free.
Chapter Eight
The fisherman sewed Alex into an old sail, his eyebrows as protesting as my soul as the second man I loved, or could have loved, slipped beneath the surface.
He’s not Philip.
I knew that, of course. My husband’s ship had been torpedoed years ago, but the memories, the emotions were as fresh as if they were yesterday. We must have landed near Bilbao at night, or at midday. It didn’t matter; I remembered little of the journey. Blocked out the walk to the city and the train to Madrid. Clad in the fisherman’s clean shirt, I looked like a street tramp, but at least I wasn’t detained.
The walk from the station to the embassy was measured by the pain of blistered feet, and an aching soul.
Of my interview with the Consul-General at the embassy, I remembered a bit more. He sat across a sea of mahogany from me, a tall man, powerful – with the aura of a doer rather than a pencil-pusher.
‘My name is Elisabeth de Mornay, code name Cécile. Special Operations Executive in London.’
‘What can I do for you, Miss de Mornay?’
His fingers twirled a gold pen in circles on his desk. Mine couldn’t have been the first interview of this type he’d had to endure.
I didn’t bother to correct him. ‘I need to get back to London.’
‘Why?’
‘My cover was blown,’ I explained. ‘I need to debrief with my CO.’
‘And who might that be?’
He had to know who Buck was, but I played along.
‘Major Maurice Buckmaster. Chief of F Section.’
The C-G considered his response as an ormolu clock on the mantle tracked the time.
‘Why should I believe you?’
He stood up and poured himself a brandy. It was rude of him not to offer me one, but now was not the time to lecture him on manners.
‘You shouldn’t.’
He raised his eyebrows, sipped his drink and waited for me to continue.
‘Contact Baker Street. Buck will vouch for me.’
Outside the window, palm trees swayed in the hazy light as people bustled along the streets, preoccupied with their normal day-to-day lives. Did they know what was happening? Did they care?
I was sick of war, sick of death. Would anyone blame me for walking out of the door and disappearing into the throng? There were worse things than sitting out the rest of the war in obscurity, and I’d done my part. Transmitted twice a week to London for six months before leaving Paris. I was exhausted, mentally and physically.
The war could go hang.
The C-G poured two fingers of Carlos Primero into another glass and handed it to me.
‘I’d be a fool not to.’
The correct response was: ‘And you’re no fool, sir’ but I was too tired to play the game.
‘May I ask what you were doing in France?’
‘You can ask.’
‘But you won’t tell?’
‘No.’
He smiled wryly, and sipped his brandy. ‘You got out alone?’
Hazel eyes and Viking cheeks; Alex’s shade stood at my side.
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Where are they now? Exactly?’
‘At the bottom of the Atlantic.’ There was no pleasure in watching him cringe. ‘Not by my hand,’ I added, although he didn’t ask.
‘I’ll need names, of course.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Alex had family, and they deserved to know that he had died a hero. ‘Squadron Leader Alexander Charles Sinclair, of 105 Squadron, was shot down near Vouvray with his navigator Tim Fielding. Fielding died in the crash and I was escorting Sinclair out of France. We’d almost made it.’
The C-G pushed my glass closer to me.
‘I have a feeling there’s a story there.’
‘There’s always a story. Just not always a happy ending. He tried to save a woman who was beaten to death by the Nazis. He was shot and I wasn’t. Because he shielded my
