‘Merde,’ Michel muttered, the only visible sign of his nerves.
I finished my Pernod as the goon finished searching the woman’s satchel and signalled for her to move to the door. His colleague would search her person for anything suspicious, like the set of forged documents hidden in the lining of my handbag. My fingers explored the underside of the table for a nook, a nail, anything to hide the documents on, but found nothing.
The goon searched two other tables before coming to us. Michel’s shoulders arched in a Gallic shrug. He retrieved his documents from his breast pocket and handed them across with a neutral expression. I hoped I looked as blasé as I placed my own papers on the table. The goon’s nose flared as his thumb stroked my photograph. His head tilted to one side, watching my reaction as his fingernail worried the edge. His eyes were black, almost opaque, beneath a single dark brow. A corner of his mouth rose. From across the river, Notre Dame rang half past ten. I met his gaze.
‘Curfew’s approaching.’
He tossed my papers onto the floor, watching them scatter. Michel shook his head, warning me to hold my tongue. Teeth clenched, I dropped to my knees to collect them. The goon stepped closer so that his crotch was level with my eyes. Options ran through my mind. I could easily disable him. Even kill him. But for what purpose? A fleeting satisfaction followed by incarceration? Holding that thought in my mind, I waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
He stood back and pointed to the man at the door. I’d passed the first hurdle; the second would be worse.
The second thug emptied my handbag on the table, watching as the detritus of my daily life scattered across it. I caught the compact before it fell to the floor. Buck had given it to me the night I parachuted in to France last December. I ran my fingers over the words etched onto it. Bonne Chance. I hadn’t thought I’d need luck back then, but I wouldn’t mind a healthy dose of it now.
He stared at my silver cigarette case, and I held my breath. The Nazis had decreed that smoking was unladylike. I refrained in public only because I had to. Would he use that as an excuse to arrest me?
‘It’s mine,’ Michel said, picking it up. ‘The lighter as well.’
Snatching the case from his hand, the thug opened it up, inspecting it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d used it to carry notes, but this time it was empty. He slid out a cigarette and lit it. Blew the smoke in Michel’s face.
‘Is it?’
‘Her bag is big enough to carry it.’
‘So it is.’
The goon peered inside, and then ran his fingers around the interior, feeling for any anomaly. He must have touched the papers, felt the ridges in the lining. The tingling in my spine intensified.
My bag was thrown aside as he moved to inspect my coat. I tried not to sigh. The coat was clean; the danger passed. Michel was shovelling my belongings back into the bag when the goon rotated his finger. I followed his instructions, turning while he patted down my back. I focused on the wall, trying not to react, but when he reached around me and fondled my breasts, my temper erupted.
‘Cochon!’ I whirled around and barely stopped myself from driving my knee between his legs.
He gave me a slow, smarmy grin. It was a challenge; he wanted a reason to arrest me. A reason that his fat fingers hadn’t found. I was seething, but not stupid. A trip to the Gestapo’s headquarters wasn’t on my agenda. I raised my head, looking down my nose at him. He laughed, and waved us through, as if it were all a game.
‘Opportunistic sod,’ I growled once we were on the other side of the door.
‘Fucking pig,’ Michel agreed. He put one hand at my back and guided me into the crowd. ‘Do not forget – they are closing in,’ he murmured. ‘You must be careful, Cécile.’
‘Always.’
We walked together as far as the Pont Neuf. As he leant in to kiss my cheek, Michel reminded me: ‘No unnecessary risks, ma chérie.’
Pierre Alaunt was proof that sometimes being careful wasn’t enough. I mentally formed the message to Buck as I passed the darkened lamp posts that lined the bridge. The City of Lights, temporarily extinguished. And yet, there was something oddly comforting about it. In daylight, it was easy to get distracted. The dark allowed the senses to come alive. Only in the moonlight would I have noticed the man on the far side, scuttling along the Quai des Grands-Augustins, hunched into a dark coat despite the warm night.
A sensible woman would continue home, but he held my attention. Memory put a name to the face: Jean-Roger Demarque, a collaborator who lived in my district. If he was up to something, I wanted to know what it was. Ignoring Michel’s warning, I followed him.
Demarque eased down a side street, pausing outside a bistro where a group of German soldiers tried to persuade a pair of women to stay for one last drink. He looked around and, satisfied that he’d attracted no undue attention, stepped inside.
The blackout curtains were drawn, hiding him from sight. In truth, I’d already risked too much. With the incriminating second set of papers in my bag, and curfew fast approaching, I needed to get home. Whoever the little weasel was after would have to fend for themselves.
Instead of moving, I counted the seconds with each heartbeat, with each couple rushing past.
Five minutes later Jean-Roger emerged, flanked by a German officer and two soldiers. I followed at a discreet distance as he
