Chapter Nineteen

Sarah steered Maggie to the Rue Cambon entrance. “Ah, so this is why I didn’t find it before I was captured,” Maggie murmured. “As an ‘Irish national,’ I used the other entrance.”

“Well, how the bloody hell was I supposed to know?”

“No, no—it’s good—if I’d picked it up before, the Germans would have it now. We can only hope it’s still there. What does it look like?”

“Medium-size bag. Black. Anonymous. Heavy. They tied on a label with your name on it.”

Maggie entered the smaller lobby and approached the desk. The concierge was a man she’d never seen before, with sparse white hair combed over a sun-spotted pate. “Bonjour, monsieur. I am Mademoiselle Paige Kelly.” She smiled. “I’m a guest, and while I usually use the Place Vendôme entrance, I believe someone mistakenly left a package for me here.”

“Of course, mademoiselle, but first I need to see your identification…”

“I don’t have it,” Maggie said, her heart beating faster. “I mean, I don’t have it with me. I, er—” She leaned in. “In truth, I spent the evening with a…friend,” she confided. Continuing the ruse, she looked down at herself, then back up at the concierge. “Which perhaps explains my dishabille. In my hurry to get back, I seem to have left my handbag behind.” She attempted a Gallic shrug. “L’amour,” she added by way of explanation.

The man was still hesitating when Maggie caught a whiff of jasmine and rose; Coco Chanel entered the lobby in a cloud of No. 5, en route to her Rue Cambon shop; her black silk scarf covered in white camellia flowers and green leaves. She took in Maggie and her wrinkled dress. “What are you doing, Mademoiselle Kelly, using this entrance and not the Place Vendôme side?” she demanded. “Slumming with the locals?”

“I—I’m picking up a package. And I seem to have left my passport with a…‘friend’ last night.”

“Hmmm…” said the couturiere, raising a penciled eyebrow. She turned to the concierge. “I vouch for this woman. She’s an Irish citizen named Paige Kelly. She has—” Chanel paused. “High-ranking Nazi friends.”

The concierge ducked his head. “Of course, Mademoiselle Chanel, Mademoiselle Kelly.” He bent under the counter. “I’m so sorry. I don’t see anything for you, mademoiselle.”

“It was left several days ago,” Maggie insisted. “It’s a bag, black. It should have a tag with my name on it.” She gave him her most persuasive smile. “Perhaps you could check again?” She tilted her head and widened her eyes. “S’il vous plaît?”

The man sighed but deigned to look again. “Oh, this old thing?” he said. Maggie’s heart lifted. Then, reading the label, “I guess this is for you, mademoiselle. A thousand apologies.” He passed it over. Chanel watched the exchange without a word, an intrigued expression on her face.

Maggie took the dance bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Thank you,” she told the concierge, then nodded in gratitude to Chanel. Maggie began walking out to the narrow Rue Cambon; the couturiere joined her. Across the street and to the left, Maggie could see Chanel’s boutique, with its white awnings and distinctive bold black lettering.

“I’m going this way,” Chanel said, indicating her shop.

“And I, the other.”

As they parted, Chanel leaned in to kiss both of Maggie’s cheeks. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Mademoiselle Kelly—or whatever your name really is—” she murmured, taking the jasmine-scented scarf from around her neck and wrapping it around Maggie’s. “But it’s been droll to watch.” She gave a world-weary smile. “And war is so rarely amusing.” She pulled away and turned to go. She called over her shoulder, “Bonne chance!”

Sarah was waiting at the café across the street. “Here—” Maggie handed her the bag. “You do the honors.”

“Happy to.” Sarah’s smile was grim.

Maggie took in Sarah’s bruised face. “Wait—” She draped the scarf Chanel had given her over her friend’s head and tied it under her chin, in an effort to camouflage the damage. Then, “After all this fuss, do you know what it is?”

“No. And I have no desire to. Did you look?”

“No. If we get recaptured, the less we know the better.”

“Hugh looked,” Sarah whispered. “That’s why I think he let them kill him—rather than tell—” Her eyes filled with tears.

Maggie put her arm around her friend’s thin shoulders. “Then we must get it back safely. For Hugh.” She squeezed. “Let’s go—the nearest Métro is—”

“Why, Mademoiselle Kelly!”

Maggie braced herself, then turned. It was Christian Ruesdorf, eyeing them both curiously. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a smile. “Why, Generaloberst, how lovely to see you.”

He crossed the café toward them, smiling broadly. Then, to Maggie’s astonishment, he bent and whispered in her ear, still smiling, “They’re searching everywhere for you. And for your friend, too.” Maggie stared up at him, wondering if he was part of a trap, desperately trying to think of a lie to tell.

“The German man you helped that day—the drunken fool sightseeing—was my younger brother,” Ruesdorf continued. “I didn’t mention it at the time, because I didn’t want to seem as if I were giving him preferential treatment,” he said, his blue-green eyes sincere, his smile serene, as if they were discussing favorite teas. “I would like to repay you in kind. What do you need?”

Maggie had no choice but to trust him. “Your car,” she replied urgently. “We need your car.”

“I have a little sports coupe today. Pale gray. It’s parked just down the block.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the keys, pressing them into her hand. “Be careful taking turns at high speeds. I just want you to know”—Ruesdorf leaned closer—“I like to read. I have a garden. I used to have Jewish friends. I never wanted to be a Nazi.”

“Thank you,” Maggie stammered, stunned by this sudden turn of events.

“Enjoy your drive, mademoiselle.” He rose, clicked his heels together, and bowed. “Au revoir.”

Before he could turn away, Maggie rose impulsively. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. “Au revoir—et merci, Christian.”

Maggie drove while Sarah navigated, lying down on the backseat in case any of the other cars were looking for a vehicle with two women. She was using a map they’d found in the glove compartment. As the gray of the city segued into bright green countryside, Maggie kept checking the rearview mirror, making sure they weren’t being followed. Sarah finally spoke. “Maggie—when they were questioning you, did they…know things?”

Maggie thought back to von Waltz and shuddered. In the tension of the escape, she hadn’t had time to think about all she and the Obersturmbannführer had exchanged during her interrogation. “He knew about Beaulieu. And about Arisaig.” She rubbed at one eye; a piece of grit had gotten in.

“He knew my real name. And Hugh’s, too. And”—Sarah faltered, remembering—“he’d read my letters home. He referred to specific things I’d written to my mum. Very specific.” Sarah looked to Maggie. “Did he read any of your letters?”

Alas, my branch has fallen from the family tree. Once again, Maggie checked the mirror. “I didn’t send any. And he didn’t know my real name—at least as far as I know.”

“But how could he have read my letters?” Sarah mused aloud. “The Germans must have someone in London…”

Without taking her eyes off the road, Maggie blinked hard until the mote finally came out. “—or someone in Paris.” Oh, God. She felt dizzy. “Jacques’s associate—Reiner—picks up the letters from all the agents that are left at Bar Lorraine. When there’s a departure, Reiner puts them on the returning plane. He could stop off at any time—have them transcribed or photographed…Taken the copies straight to von Waltz.”

“If Reiner’s working for the Nazis, every agent coming into France is compromised.” Her eyes widened. “But why aren’t we all getting picked up at drop sites? Or shot down? Why are they letting agents leave?”

“Because—because they’re letting us go on purpose. Because they’re playing the long game.” Her thoughts roiled. “The Luftwaffe must be working with von Waltz, Sarah—they’re letting us get through. If he allows the SOE networks to grow under his watch, they’ll know a lot more about what our side has planned, including—”

“Oh, Maggie!” Now Sarah, too, knew what was at stake.

“—the location of the invasion.” Maggie glanced once again at the mirror. “When we get back to London, we’ll report Reiner. But first we need to get Elise.”

When Maggie and Sarah arrived at the convent, Elise made sure they ate, then waited for them to bathe and change into clean clothes—novices’ dresses and veils, the same as Elise wore. When the two agents met up in the Mother Superior’s parlor, they startled at the sight of each other, then laughed.

“Of all the costumes I’ve had to wear…” muttered Sarah. “And I’ve had to wear quite a few over the years.”

The Mother Superior knocked, then opened the door. “Welcome, ladies,” she said. Elise stood beside her.

“Thank you, Mère St. Antoine, for your kindness,” Maggie told her. “We know the great risk you and the sisters are taking—”

“You are quite welcome,” the nun replied. “And thank you for helping our…guest. Elise tells me you’ll all be leaving soon. Of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“Thank you, Mère,” Maggie repeated. “If it’s possible, I need access to a wireless today. The BBC makes coded broadcasts about the flights’ departures. I must be certain our flight is still scheduled before we make the trip to the airfield.”

The Mother Superior gestured to Elise. “Please show them to the radio our guest is using.”

“Also,” Sarah said, “how will we all get to the airfield? Won’t we all be conspicuous?”

Elise smiled, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You’ll go in coffins!” she exclaimed.

“Sorry?”

“Coffins,” Elise repeated. “You see, we have an infirmary. The enfants are here for life. And so we have a morgue and, well…coffins.”

“If they are without family, we bury them here, of course,” Mère St. Antoine added. “But sometimes their families wish them to be in ancestral plots or mausoleums. And so one of our sisters will drive the body, in its coffin, to the enfant’s church. They handle the arrangements from there.”

“And how do you transport the…coffins?” Sarah asked, face pale. Maggie knew she was thinking about Hugh, so recently dead.

“We have a funeral coach, of course.”

Maggie and Sarah looked to each other. “Of course.”

“No, I’m not going in a coffin,” insisted Gus. Maggie, Sarah, and Elise were all in the pilot’s room in the chapel near the morgue, listening to Gilbert and Sullivan on the wireless:

Things are seldom what they seem,

Skim milk masquerades as cream;

Highlows pass as patent leathers;

Jackdaws strut in peacock’s feathers…

Elise was sitting on the edge of his bed, cleaning his wound, while Sarah paced, standing guard near the door. “Gus,” Elise admonished, “you’re a pilot, a captain—you’ve been shot down in battle over enemy territory—and survived. Surely you can get into a coffin for a bit.” In the church tower, the bells rang out. It was getting late.

“No,” he insisted, real panic in his voice. “I’m not doing it! Small, windowless spaces terrify me! What’s that called again?”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Inconvenient?”

Maggie was perched on a wooden stool in front of the wireless radio, moving the dial by increments through static and atmospheric crackles to keep Radio Londres coming in.

Black sheep dwell in every fold;

All that glitters is not gold;

Storks turn out to be but logs;

Bulls are but inflated frogs…

“Claustrophobia,” Elise corrected.

“Hush,” Maggie admonished. “Try counting backward from a hundred,” she told Gus.

“What happens when I get to zero?”

“Start again.”

They listened as the BBC announcer came on with the evening’s deliberately obscure messages personnels. “Before our next song, please listen to some personal messages. ‘Mathilde has blond hair,’ ‘There is a fire at the bank,’ ‘All good men will come to a party.’ ‘The dice are on the table.’ ” And then, “ ‘The night has a thousand eyes…’ ”

“That’s it!” Maggie twisted the radio’s dial off. “The night has a thousand eyes” was their cue the rendezvous was on. “It’s tomorrow night!”

“Where are we going?” Gus asked, his face white.

“There’s a field near Amboise, where we flew in. The plane will be there.”

“Amboise,” Elise repeated thoughtfully. “That’s nearly thirty kilometers away. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible.”

That night, under the light of the full moon, Elise drove the convent’s hearse through the shadows, the headlights covered with slatted blackout covers. Maggie navigated. She read from a worn Michelin map by the moonlight pouring through the car’s windshield, the heavy black bag at her feet. Sarah and Gus were hidden in wooden coffins in the back. “We’re not being followed,” Maggie said. But she looked back, just to be sure.

“A mercy. But I’m more concerned with roadblocks and checkpoints.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, then both women began to speak at the same time. “You first,” Maggie said.

“No, you.”

“Please.”

Elise took a breath. “I was just going to say that even though I got the parents and you didn’t, we both made our own families, didn’t we? I with the nuns here, and you in England, with your friends. Even in the brief time we’ve been together, I can see the bond you have with Sarah.”

Maggie thought of Sarah and of her friends back home—David and Freddie, Chuck and Griffin, even K. And, yes, John across the ocean in Los Angeles. Elise was right; they were her family now. “Do you ever think of what you’d be doing if there weren’t a war?” she asked her sister.

“We spoke of it lightheartedly before, but I’d like to think maybe I can still be a doctor,” Elise replied seriously. “Go back to university when all this is over. Because I do believe this war will end someday. Somehow.”

“I saw how you were with Gus. You’re obviously a wonderful nurse. You’d make an excellent doctor, if that’s what you want.”

“What do you think you’d be doing?”

“I’d probably still be in graduate school, studying mathematics. Not Princeton, as I’d always wanted—they don’t admit women—but at MIT. Still, when I think of myself there, I see myself as bookish and closed off. Living in a black-and-white world of numbers and theory, not truly alive.” She adjusted her wimple. “Passive.”

“So, in some ways the war has been good for you?”

“War is never good,” Maggie retorted with bitterness. “Never. There’s never a ‘good’ war—but I do think we’re fighting a just war. That said, we don’t get to choose the times we live in, do we?”

Elise rubbed at her nose, then confessed. “That’s why I was so angry with you—so afraid of you. When I saw you kill, I thought you had lost your humanity.”

“I hated it,” said Maggie. “I hated doing it and I still hate that I did it. I’ll remember that young man as long as I live.” Her hand crept to her own bullet scar. “But Elise, I—I had to do what I did. I had to. I’ve made my peace with killing him. And I won’t apologize—” There was a loud explosion. Elise slammed on the brakes and the hearse skidded to a stop.

A muffled voice called from the back. “Did they shoot us?” It was Sarah.

Elise grimaced, reaching for the door handle. “Just a tire.”

“A tire,” Maggie repeated, getting out to take a look in the moonlight. The fun never ends.

Together, Maggie and Elise took the spare off the back of the car, then slid the jack under the axle. “Can you believe,” Elise managed as she worked, “that some men don’t think women can change a tire?”

Maggie stopped and looked up. “For goodness’ sake, keep quiet!” she whispered. “There’s a checkpoint ahead!” A uniformed German soldier was approaching. “Keep working,” she muttered.

“I’ll throw the jack at him if he gets any closer—”

“Keep your voice down, Sister.” Maggie realized after the words were spoken that Elise might think she was trying to force their relationship rather than stay in character as a novice nun. Well, there was nothing to do about it now.

The officer stopped a few feet away from the women. “My goodness! Nuns! What on earth are you doing here this time of night?”

“Flat tire,” Maggie explained easily. “We’re from the convent of the Filles de la Charité, which houses an infirmary for the mentally ill.”

The soldier crossed himself. “I can help you if you’d like.”

“Thank you, sir.” Maggie knew refusal of his offer would only mean more suspicion.

“It’s my pleasure, Sisters,” the German assured them as he rolled the damaged tire off the road and bent to attach the new one. “You know, most of you French women snub us. Won’t let us help with anything.”

“Well, we’re certainly grateful,” Maggie gushed, desperate to mask the fear in her voice. If he finds Sarah and Gus…

“It’s shortsighted of the French not to be kinder to us—not speak to us, not invite us to visit their families. I should very much like to get to know Paris from the inside. Yet these cold Frenchmen hold us at arm’s length—and women, well, they’re even worse!” he complained, tightening the lug nuts on the wheel. “It’s so sad to see Paris under these circumstances. The so-called City of Light is famous for its good living and beautiful women. Wine, women, and song, right? Not for me. At least you have been polite to me, Sisters.” He spun down the jack, and the car settled on its tires.

“Of course,” Elise responded with forced cheer.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the tools back to her. “Oh!” he said, peering in. “Are those…coffins?”

“They are, sir,” Maggie said, heart in her throat. Would he want to search them?

“Alas,” Elise explained, “two of our charges have died, and we’re transporting them back to their home parish.”

He shuddered. “God bless you both.” He came around to the front of the hearse. “I’m a bit lonely here,” he admitted, before saluting smartly.

“Sometimes loneliness can be a good thing,” Maggie said as they climbed back into the hearse.

Jacques was waiting for them. In the moonlight and the glow from the hearse’s slatted headlights, Maggie saw his silhouette as he stood in front of a corrugated-metal shed at the end of a makeshift airfield. An RAF Lockheed Hudson was parked in the rough grass.

The air was damp and cool. Maggie’s shoes sank into the spongy earth as she stepped out of the vehicle. Somewhere, an owl called mournfully.

Jacques ran to embrace Maggie. “You made it!”

“It was close,” she admitted. “A little side trip to Avenue Foch.”

He kissed her forehead. “But you made it.” Then he turned to scowl at the hearse. “What’s in there?”

Maggie walked back and swung open the doors. “More passengers.”

The coffins were heavy. Gus was wild-eyed and breathing heavily when he was finally released.

“It’s all right,” Elise comforted him as he flailed and tried to stand.

“You did it!” Maggie said as she handed Sarah the precious bag.

“I thought we were done for at the checkpoint,” Sarah said softly.

Elise nodded. “So did I.”

“Jacques,” said Maggie, “this is my half sister—”

“Sister,” Elise corrected.

“Sister,” Maggie agreed, smiling broadly.

“Ah.” He was wearing a fleece-lined leather jacket and scarf. A messenger tote was slung over his shoulder; Maggie noted it was the same one Reiner had carried when he’d arrived at the Charcots’ house, six days ago. “One more passenger than expected—shouldn’t affect the fuel we’ll need.”

“You’re the pilot?” Maggie asked, surprised. She remembered he’d told her that he could fly. Still, she wasn’t expecting to see him personally taking the plane to England.

“I am.” He winked. “I’m needed back in London, so—two birds, one stone, et cetera.”

As Gus took a step forward to offer his hand, he buckled and collapsed; Jacques caught the Englishman in his arms as he fell.

“What’s the matter with him?” Jacques asked Maggie.

“Injury and infection.”

Elise was bent over his leg. “So much blood….His wound must have reopened during the drive—all those bumps in the road.” In the moonlight, the bandages looked black and wet.

“Is he strong enough to travel?” Jacques asked.

“He must get back to London. He has blood poisoning. He needs to be in a hospital.” Elise looked to Maggie, then rose. “I want to thank you,” she said slowly, “for coming to France for me.”

And all at once, Maggie knew what was coming. The tone in Elise’s voice was a regretful prelude to goodbye.

“No…” Every fiber of Maggie’s being had led her to this moment, to getting Elise on this flight to London, to safety. We’re so, so close…“Elise, you have to come with us,” she insisted. “Please.”

“The enfants need me,” Elise explained gently. “And maybe I’m meant to be a nun. But I’ll never know if I don’t stay. Go,” she urged. They embraced fiercely.

Finally, the younger woman drew back, smiling, although tears glimmered in her eyes. “I’ll pray for all of you. Especially for you, Maggie, my dear, dear sister. Now that I’ve gotten to know you better, I think you may need my prayers most of all. But I feel better, knowing you’re fighting this war with us.”

Maggie felt tears sting her eyes. To have come so far…“Elise—” she pleaded.

“Shhh,” Jacques warned. “Voices carry.”

“Promise me, Maggie,” Elise whispered, “you’ll never kill again.”

“I can’t promise you that,” Maggie answered. “But I do promise I’ll do everything in my power not to.”

“Yes—I understand. And the next time we see each other, there will be a Tricolor over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

“Well, you never know—I may be back to France sooner than you expect…”

“You need to leave.” Elise kissed Maggie and embraced her once more, holding her close. “It isn’t safe to linger.”

Elise was right: for a moment, Maggie had forgotten they were in enemy territory. She looked to Jacques and Sarah. “Let’s get Gus on the plane. It’s time to go.”

The interior of the twin-engine Hudson was constructed of gray metal, dented and drab, with benches along each side of a narrow aisle. A row of small windows lined each wall. Tiny flickering green lights cast a sickly glow.

Jacques dumped his leather satchel on a bench, checked his watch, then made his way through the open door to the cockpit. Maggie lifted a heavy box of tools and set it on the floor as Sarah helped Gus to the bench and strapped him in, propping him up between them. The pilot closed his eyes, head lolling. The engine roared as it came to life.

Maggie put a hand to Gus’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” she called above the noise, feeling safe enough to switch from French into English.

“He’ll make it,” Sarah replied grimly. “He’s got to. Someone should.”

For the first time, it occurred to Maggie that this part of the mission was just as dangerous as what had come before. Perhaps even more so. They could be attacked by the Luftwaffe, they could crash, they could…Stop it! She forced herself to take a shaky breath. You escaped the Gestapo—you can make it across the English Channel.

Maggie reached over and grasped her friend’s hand. “Look, whatever you need when we get home, Sarah—if you need a place to live, my house is yours. If you want to be left alone, I’ll make you meals on trays. If you want to go out and get drunk every night, I’m your girl. If you want to go back to the ballet, I’ll sew ribbons on your toe shoes and darn your tights. I’m here for you—whatever you need.”

Sarah looked her friend in the eye. “Honestly, Maggie, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next two minutes, let alone the next two days. It hurts. I never thought anything could hurt so much.”

“I’m here for you,” Maggie repeated. “And I’ll always be here for you.” The aircraft lurched forward, then began to move, rattling and shaking as it rolled faster and faster over the grass.

And then they were airborne.