*
We stopped at an open field far enough from the town to risk speaking in English. A handful of trees clustered into a corner, under which Sinclair set up the little picnic.
He took a swig from the beer bottle. ‘Not bad.’
‘I’m sure the shop girl would be glad to hear it.’ I sat beside him and looked at the meagre feast. ‘Damn, I forgot to buy glasses. And a knife . . .’
I looked meaningfully at his ankle where he sheathed the small blade.
‘You’re no’ using my sgian dubh to serve lunch.’
He ripped off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth.
‘No? Well, fair enough. Your little dagger has other uses.’
‘That it does,’ he said through a full mouth.
He moved to one knee, and pulled the knife from his sock.
‘Can you teach me how to throw it?’ I asked. ‘Like you did this morning?’
He eased back and looked at me with calculating eyes. So far, he hadn’t commented on the bloodstained clothes he found me in, or the ease with which I’d killed the SS man earlier. It wouldn’t last.
‘First I want to hear how an English girl comes to be in Occupied France.’
‘Wrong turn at Brighton?’
‘Ye’re wanting me to guess?’
‘Go ahead. This could be fun.’
I leant back, enjoying the sun on my face, and a rare moment of peace. When I opened my eyes, Sinclair was giving me an odd look.
‘What?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Ye’re one cool customer, Nathalie. Do you kill men often?’
‘Only when they’re trying to kill me.’
I looked away. How could I explain that the moment I thought of them as men – as sons and husband, fathers and lovers – I was done for? It was easier to pretend they were the dummies we used in training – mannequins moving on unpredictable tracks.
His warm hand closed over mine. ‘You did well.’
‘I’m still alive,’ I murmured.
He squeezed my hand and, reaching, produced a multi-tool pocketknife from a pocket.
‘Let’s hope you stay that way.’
He unfolded a small metal curl and worked the cork from the wine bottle.
‘Convenient,’ I murmured.
‘Ye can thank the uniform’s previous owner.’
He handed me the bottle, laughing as I raised it to my mouth. Harsh tannins assaulted my tongue, and I struggled to swallow. I looked at the label. It wasn’t the wine I had selected; the shop girl must have switched it. Damn her.
‘No’ a good vintage?’ Sinclair drawled.
‘Better than what you can find in Scotland.’
I took another mouthful, more carefully this time.
He squinted into the sun. ‘That doesna take much. Ye’ll be fluent in French then?’
‘Oui.’
‘Why is it so hard to get you to talk?’
‘Usually it’s hard getting me to shut up,’ I admitted.
His full mouth twitched and I was surprised at how much I was enjoying his company. He took another swig of beer and sighed.
‘At least one of us can speak the native lingo. I can’t speak a word, short of finding . . . ah. Yes. No French.’ A red flush crept up his cheeks.
‘Finding a whore?’ I guessed. His eyes raised in shock. Did he think I’d never heard the word? ‘You can say that in French but you can’t order a glass of wine or a loaf of bread?’
‘One phrase isn’t that hard to remember,’ he said. ‘Dinnae get me wrong – the nuns tried to teach me French in school. The “Auld Alliance” and all that. It just didn’t take.’
Catholic, then. And well educated, for all he dismissed it. Coupled with the comment about his accent when we first met, a picture of Alex Sinclair was beginning to form: of a man who achieved whatever he set his mind to, despite the odd ‘stupid decision’. A useful ally to have.
‘How’s your German? The Boche can get away with not speaking French, but you may have a problem if you don’t understand German either. Did the nuns manage to drum that into you?’
‘Never thought I’d be needin’ it.’
I frowned. ‘Your head injury will buy us a bit of time, but not a lot. My German is passable, Squadron Leader. I’ll teach you enough to get us through.’
‘Alex.’
‘What?’
‘“Squadron Leader” is a mouthful. Ye may as well use my name. Alex.’
‘No. Your name is . . .’ Bracing one hand on his chest, I reached into his breast pocket for his papers, opening them with a flourish. ‘Heinrich Weber.’
He grabbed them back and repeated the name.
‘No. The Germans pronounce W’s like V’s, and ch’s, well, rather a bit softer than you would.’ I demonstrated, exaggerating the sounds. ‘Try again.’
‘Hein-rik Vayber.’
‘You know, he probably goes by Heini.’
I struggled to keep a solemn expression. He stared for a few seconds before bursting out in laughter.
‘Fine, then.’ He got to one knee. ‘Ye teach me what you can, and I’ll teach ye how to throw the sgian dubh.’
That afternoon we made a game of it, although it was anything but funny. Chances were that I’d never need to throw his knife, but how well he grasped the language could make all the difference to our survival. He’d never be able to speak well enough to fool the Boche, but as long as he could fool the French, we’d be fine.
‘We should keep moving.’
I reluctantly gathered our things and allowed Sinclair to help me up. He had a nice smile and a sharp dagger. There were worse travel companions.
*
The countryside passed in a blur of farms and vineyards, interspersed with small towns and villages, all but indistinguishable from one another until the motorcycle stuttered. Sinclair guided it to the side of the road and cut the engine.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Out of petrol,’ he said.
‘And your German isn’t good enough to get more. Even if we had petrol coupons.’
He gave me a dark look. ‘We passed a town a couple o’ miles back. We can turn around or keep walking until we find the next town. What do you think?’
‘There’s still plenty of daylight. Let’s keep going.’
When those SS soldiers were reported missing, someone would start looking for
