She drained her whisky but declined a refill for fear of becoming maudlin. Then Michel came through the door.
Overwhelming relief flooded her. Michel knew everyone in town. He would be able to help her. Suddenly the mission seemed possible again.
She felt a wry affection as she took in the lanky figure in a rumpled jacket, the handsome face with the smiling eyes. She would always be fond of him, she imagined. She suffered a painful stab of regret as she thought of the passionate love she had once had for him. That would never come back, she was sure.
As he came closer, she saw that he was not looking so good. His face seemed to have new lines. Her heart filled with compassion for him. Exhaustion and fear showed in his expression, and he might have been fifty rather than thirty-five, she thought anxiously.
But her greatest anxiety came from the thought of telling him that their marriage was over. She was afraid. It struck her as ironic: she had just shot and killed a Gestapo man and a French traitress, and she was undercover in occupied territory, yet her worst fear was of hurting her husband’s feelings.
He was visibly delighted to see her. “Flick!” he cried. “I knew you would get here!” He crossed the room to her, still limping from his bullet wound.
She said quietly, “I was afraid the Gestapo had captured you.”
“They did!” He turned so that his back was to the room and no one could see, and showed her his hands, bound at the wrists with stout rope.
She drew the little knife from its sheath under her lapel and discreetly cut through his bonds. The gamblers saw nothing. She put the knife away.
M‚m‚ Regis spotted him just as he was stuffing the ropes into his trousers pockets. She embraced and kissed him on both cheeks. Flick watched him flirt with the older woman, talking to her in his come-to-bed voice, giving her the benefit of his sexy grin. Then M‚m‚ resumed her work, serving drinks to the gamblers, and Michel told Flick how he had escaped. She had been afraid he would want to kiss her passionately, and she had not known how she would deal with that but, in the event, he was too full of his own adventures to get romantic with her.
“I was so lucky!” he finished. He sat on a bar stool, rubbing his wrists, and asked for a beer.
Flick nodded. “Too lucky, perhaps,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It could be some kind of trick.”
He was indignant, no doubt resenting the implication that he was gullible. “I don’t think so.”
“Could you have been followed here?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I checked, of course.”
She was uneasy, but she let it go. “So Brian Standish is dead, and three others are in custody-Mademoiselle Lemas, Gilberte, and Dr. Bouler.”
“The rest are dead. The Germans released the bodies of those killed in the skirmish. And the survivors, Gaston, Genevieve, and Bertrand, were shot by a firing squad in the square at Sainte-Cecile.”
“Dear God.”
They were silent for a moment. Flick was weighed down by the thought of the lives lost, and the suffering endured, for the sake of this mission.
Michel’s beer came. He drank half in a single draft and wiped his lips. “I presume you’ve come back for another attempt on the chƒteau.”
She nodded. “But the cover story is that we’re going to blow up the railway tunnel at Manes.”
“It’s a good idea, we should do it anyway.”
“Not now. Two of my team were taken in Paris, and they must have talked. They will have told the cover story-they had no idea of the real mission-and the Germans are sure to have doubled the guard on the railway tunnel. We’ll leave that to the RAF and concentrate on Sainte-C‚cile.”
“What can I do?”
“We need somewhere to stay the night.”
He thought for a moment. “Joseph LaperriŠre’s cellar.”
LaperriŠre was a champagne maker. Michel’s aunt Antoinette had once been his secretary. “Is he one of us?”
“A sympathizer.” He gave a sour grin. “Everyone is a sympathizer now. They all think the invasion is coming any day.” He looked inquiringly at her. “I imagine they’re right about that..