He held her hand. “It wasn’t difficult.”
“You keep me safe, in a world where almost no one is safe. So now I believe only in you.”
“If you really mean that..
“Of course.”
“There’s something else you could do for me.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to impersonate Mademoiselle Lemas.”
She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Pretend to be her. Go to the cathedral crypt every afternoon at three o’clock, wearing one black shoe and one brown. When someone approaches you and says, ‘Pray for me,’ reply, ‘I pray for peace.’ Take the person to the house in the rue du Bois. Then call me.”
“It sounds simple.”
The champagne arrived, and he poured two glasses. He decided to level with her. “It should be simple. But there is a slight risk. If the agent has met Mademoiselle Lemas before, he will know you’re an impostor. Then you could be in danger. Will you take that chance?”
“Is it important to you?”
“It’s important for the war.”
“I don’t care about the war.”
“It’s important to me, too.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
He raised his glass. “Thank you,” he said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
Outside, in the square, there was a volley of gunfire.
Dieter looked through the window. He saw three bodies tied to the wooden pillars, slumped in death; a row of soldiers lowering their rifles; and a crowd of citizens looking on, silent and still.
CHAPTER 16
WARTIME A U STE R I T Y HAD made little real difference to Soho, the red-light district in the heart of London’s West End. The same groups of young men staggered through the streets, drunk on beer, though most of them were in uniform. The same painted girls in tight dresses strolled along the pavements, eyeing potential customers. The illuminated signs outside clubs and bars were switched off, because of the blackout, but all the establishments were open.
Mark and Flick arrived at the Criss-Cross Club at ten o’clock in the evening. The manager, a young man wearing a dinner jacket with a red bow tie, greeted Mark like a friend. Flick’s spirits were high. Mark knew a female telephone engineer. Flick was about to meet her, and she felt optimistic. Mark had not said much about her, except that her name was Greta, like the film star. When Flick tried to question him, he just said, “You have to see her for yourself.”
As Mark paid the entrance fee and exchanged commonplaces with the manager, Flick saw an alteration come over him. He grew more extrovert, his voice took on a lilt, and his gestures became theatrical. Flick wondered if her brother had another persona that he put on after dark.
They went down a flight of stairs to a basement. The place was dimly lit and smoky. Flick could see a five- piece band on a low stage, a small dance floor, a scatter of tables, and a number of booths around the dark perimeter of the room. She had wondered if it would be a men-only club, the kind of place that catered to chaps like Mark who were “not the marrying kind.” Although the patrons were mostly male, there was a good sprinkling of girls, some of them very glamorously dressed.
A waiter said, “Hello, Markie,” and put a hand on Mark’s shoulder, but gave Flick a hostile glare.
“Robbie, meet my sister,” Mark said. “Her name’s Felicity, but we’ve always called her Flick.”
The waiter’s attitude changed, and he gave Flick a friendly smile. “Very nice to meet you.” He showed them to a table.
Flick guessed that Robbie had suspected she might be a girlfriend, and had resented her for persuading Mark to change sides, as it were. Then he had warmed to her when he learned she was Mark’s sister.
Mark smiled up at Robbie and said, “How’s Kit?”
“Oh, all right, I suppose,” Robbie said with the hint of a flounce.
“You’ve had a row, haven’t you?”
Mark was being charming. He was almost flirting. This was a side of him Flick had never seen. In fact, she thought, it might be the real Mark. The other persona, his discreet daytime self, was probably the pretense.