The Secret Agent by Elisabeth Hobbes

Author:Elisabeth Hobbes [Hobbes, Elisabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

There was a checkpoint at the square in front of the theatre. Sylvie waited in line to hand her papers over, the curdling feeling in her stomach growing stronger with each step she took towards the front of the queue. The checkpoint was not too busy. Good for ensuring she would be on time, not so good for slipping through without being questioned or having her bag searched. When the queues were greater, the sentries in charge of examining papers did not pay as much attention.

‘What is your purpose here today, fräulein?’

The sentry turned Sylvie’s identity paper over, examining it closely. She took a breath. There was always the worry simmering just beneath the surface that the forged papers would be spotted.

‘I am going to La Cigale. I am meeting a friend for lunch.’

‘Who is this friend?’

Sylvie gave Dieter’s name and rank, glad she has practised the tongue twisting syllables of the German title. The sentry looked her up and down and wrinkled his nose disdainfully. He handed Sylvie’s paper back.

‘Proceed.’

Sylvie stepped through the checkpoint.

‘Whore!’

Sylvie stiffened and turned around.

The culprit was the middle-aged woman who had been in the line behind Sylvie. She had muttered the word loud enough for Sylvie, the guards and the other people queueing to hear. The woman sneered, sniffed and spat on the ground. A couple of bystanders murmured in support. Sylvie walked away, head down and cheeks burning with shame.

She arrived at the restaurant with time to stop around the corner and reapply her lipstick and smooth her hair. Her hand shook as she fumbled in her bag. She was apprehensive anyway, but the confrontation had shaken her more than she would have expected.

She might be making a terrible mistake. A chance meeting and walk was one matter, but this was a date, to use the American term. In the eyes of the French it put her firmly into the despised category of a collaborator, and she felt like one. Women who consorted with the enemy were the lowest of the low. In eyes of the woman in the queue, Sylvie thoroughly deserved the insult. Sylvie didn’t blame her for the contempt, but she wished there was a way of explaining that she had a purpose to fulfil. She pulled herself up straight. She had a job to do, and she doubled her resolve to find some useful information from Dieter.

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