The Paris Agent by Kelly Rimmer

Author:Kelly Rimmer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Published: 2023-04-21T16:06:21+00:00

* * *

“How did you find this woman?” I asked Turner the next day. We were sitting in his car on one side of a stretch of parklands opposite an historic convent. I was holding binoculars. Turner was tapping the steering wheel.

“Through a trusted friend,” he said.

I didn’t sleep a wink the previous night after he dropped me to my flat, in such a state of shock that at first, I collapsed in a heap on the sofa. After a while, I became cognizant of the smell in the flat. Food was rotting, laundry needed attention. I cleaned for hours, busying my hands while my mind adjusted to my new reality. Later, I lay for a while in Hughie’s little bed, curled up in a ball. Then I moved to my mother’s bed, still unmade, and I rested my head on a spare pillow, so I could lay and stare at the imprint from her head on her own pillow. I wept for the years when I resented her, and for those beautiful, unexpected years when we were close.

Turner told me he’d arranged a quiet, respectful graveside service at Sidcup Cemetery. My neighbors attended and so did he. He prepaid her headstone but said it didn’t feel right for him to decide upon the inscription. Instead, he left it to me to contact the stonemason upon my return.

Mixed in with all of that grief and concern and shock was a thread of disbelief: a double agent in our ranks? Somewhere near the top of the agency? I was grateful that Turner, at least, could be trusted. Otherwise, I wasn’t sure how I could even consider a return to the field. Agents were beyond vulnerable in occupied territory—entirely dependent on Baker Street to guide our decisions to keep us safe. I asked him to promise me that if I went back, he would keep a hand in my mission. He told me that he was already doing everything he could for all agents in the field. “They’re as safe as they can be,” he assured me. “And you will be too.”

“Here they come,” Turner said now, pointing.

For some reason I’d pictured Hughie’s carer to be about my age but she was older—maybe in her forties. They walked slowly across the path because Hughie was holding her hand but also because he stopped periodically to crouch low to the ground, his other hand reaching toward various treasures. My hands shook as I lifted the binoculars to my eyes. He was smiling, chattering away as he pointed to a flower.

There was something so reassuring about his smile in the morning sunshine that day. I had feared that his cheeks would be tearstained or that he’d be pale or lethargic from grief and fear. That simply wasn’t the case. He was well dressed, his hair combed and his cheeks rosy, his smile and his speech both easy and free.

“Does she speak French?” I asked, turning the binoculars to the face of the woman standing in my place to care for my son.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.