The Paris Spy by Susan Elia MacNeal

Author:Susan Elia MacNeal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2017-08-08T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

At Bar Lorraine, a pair of wizened men in denim coveralls played backgammon. A woman in a striped dress and shapeless gray cardigan sat in one corner, reading the paper, eating what looked to be dandelion salad, while a man with hunched shoulders played la belle lucie with worn cards. The burly barkeep was doing a crossword puzzle with a broken pencil, the newspaper spread over the zinc counter.

At the bar, a German with a camera around his neck ordered a glass of vermouth in French. “Sorry for my accent,” he said, reaching in his pocket for coins.

“No, it is très jolie,” joked the barkeep.

The restaurant stilled to absolute silence.

“It is not,” protested the German, his face creasing in a wide grin. The atmosphere eased instantly, and the woman in the corner gave a nervous chortle of laughter.

Sarah arrived, out of breath, and waited for the man behind the bar to finish at the brass cash register. “May I see Jeanne-Marie, the daughter of Ora?” she asked, as she’d been instructed.

When the barkeep replied, “Jeanne-Marie’s not here,” Sarah very nearly turned and ran.

The right response, the one she’d been schooled to expect, was “Don’t you mean Babs?”

The man noted her panicked expression. He added, in a lower voice, “My brother, who owns the café, is on holiday. I’m helping him out this week. In all ways.”

Sarah—sleep-deprived, hungry, and heart still pounding from her run-in with the undercover SS officer—nearly collapsed with relief. She whispered, “Thank you.”

The barkeep nodded, and one of the waiters went to her, leading her through the tables to the kitchen. The waiter rapped at a door three times, then opened it. Inside, it was dark.

When he flipped on the overhead lights, Sarah winced against the glare, then let out an anguished cry.

“Bonjour, madame,” an SS man in a black leather coat said, his gun pointed at her. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

—

When Maggie left the House of Ricci, half the sky was a brilliant blue, the other dark with clouds. She held up one palm, testing for rain.

Feeling no drops, she melted into the crowd of pedestrians going to the green-and-white-tiled Madeleine Métro station and followed them down the stairs. As the train arrived, she got on, but then bolted from the car at the very last moment—watching to make sure she wasn’t being followed. As she walked back up the stairs to the street, a sudden breeze from the departing train tugged at her skirt, making it flutter around her legs. Feeling exposed, she did her best to smooth it down while walking as fast as she could in her fashionable shoes.

She emerged aboveground and doubled back: pausing before shop windows, checking who was around her in the reflections, relying on her memory to spot someone, anyone, familiar. She started when she noticed the pencil in her bun. It was unusual, it stood out, and it could get her made if she wasn’t careful. She plucked it out and tucked it into her purse, trying to look absentminded rather than terrified.

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