Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Somewhere a woman screamed, over and over, world without end. Shrill, heartbreaking screams full of terror and dread. They split the air, split her heart.

Her chest ached, her throat burned. She ran as fast as she could, heart jolting.

A flutter of white silk. A splash of crimson on gray stone ground.

Too late.

It was only as she acknowledged it, faced it, that she realized that the screams tearing apart the once bright afternoon were hers.

The pain woke Genevieve with a jolt, as it always did. Where it always did. Before she knew, before the horrible cold finality of it descended, before she was forced to confront the hideous truth that Vivi—that her child, her baby daughter—was dead.

Before what had to be the worst agony a human being could suffer slashed her heart to ribbons and forever scarred her soul.

She’d tried all day to outwit the dream, tried to ward it off, tried to escape it.

She hadn’t succeeded. It had her in its clutches now, inflicting its torture, flaying her with guilt, regret, grief. Impossible to believe that so much time had passed, that she’d existed in this world for seven years without Vivi in it. Her arms ached to hold her little girl just one more time; the glimpse she’d had of her in the dream had been so real that it seemed impossible that it was not. She’d seen her riot of black curls and chubby little body and wide smile; she’d felt her, in her heart and her soul, truer than a memory, more vivid than any dream.

Right now, in this foggy gray moment between sleep and wakefulness, the anguish felt new again. She had to remind herself that the past was the inalterable past, and she was Genevieve now. The eighteen-year-old she’d been on that day, her birthday, had nothing to do with the woman she was now.

If only she never had to go through another damned birthday again.

Genevieve lay perfectly still, struggling to breathe, while the weight of what felt like a thousand heavy stones crushed her chest.

She tried her best to thrust the dream away. A beloved phantom lingered.

Vivi, Vivi, Vivi.

I’m so sorry.

Hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She did her best to escape the memories, the pain, by turning away from them and striking out into the clouds of groggy gray, fighting through the mist toward consciousness.

Nearby, voices. Men. She kept fighting, concentrated on them.

“—betrayed. Both cells are lost.”

That voice belonged to a stranger. A native-born Frenchman, she thought: his accent was from Picardy. His voice was low and harsh with urgency. She stayed perfectly still—she wasn’t sure she could have moved if she tried—as it penetrated the lingering miasma of the dream.

More details registered: she lay on her side, her head on a pillow, her knees bent. The surface beneath her was soft, and the softness curved up behind her. Her back pressed against it. Except for a slight headache, she was physically comfortable, warm. Safe.

“When?” The reply was a single terse word, but it was all she needed. That voice belonged to Max. She grabbed onto it like a lifeline, let it pull her the rest of the way toward the surface, away from the past, from the pain.

“Two nights ago.”

Max swore. “What happened?”

“They were trying to get an injured British pilot out. There was an informer.”

“Arrested? Dead?”

“Five arrested. One dead. The Crimson Cell leader. Killed in the ambush, before they could arrest him.”

“Name?” Max asked.

“De Rocheford. Baron Paul de Rocheford.”

The name hit Genevieve like a slap to the face, snatching her breath and rendering her fully aware in the same instant. Her eyes flew open. She was, she discovered, on the sofa in the studio with the quilt from Max’s bed spread over her. A single lamp on the dining table lit the space, leaving the majority of the room, including the sofa where she lay, in deep shadow. Max was there. From the papers spread out across it and the pen lying on top of them, she could see he’d been using the table as a desk. Minus his jacket and tie now, his hair mussed and tired lines bracketing his eyes, he was seated in front of it. He looked up at the stranger, an old man with stooped shoulders and a gray beard. A stubbed-out Gauloise still smoldered in an ashtray at his elbow.

Had she heard the man right? Had he really said Paul de Rocheford?

Dead?

Goose bumps raced over her skin. Instinct told her not to move, not to make a sound, if she wanted to hear more.

“Who was the informer?”

“We aren’t sure. Yet. We’ll find out.” The man’s tone promised a grisly end for the guilty one.

Max asked, “What do they know, the ones who’ve been arrested?”

“We’re not sure. De Rocheford was briefed, because his help was needed to prepare for the operation. None of the others were.”

From their attitude, Genevieve got the impression that theirs was a long-standing relationship, and the meeting a scheduled one. At a guess, it was the explanation for Otto’s reluctance to bring her to La Fleur Rouge tonight. Max being visited by strange men at odd hours was nothing new. In Belgium, Austria, Poland, Denmark, Norway, Czechoslovakia, Africa, Spain—everywhere they went, everywhere she performed, there were always strange men dropping in at strange hours on Max. What they spoke of, what they planned, she knew only from overheard fragments of conversations: a bridge blown up in Austria, a factory burned to the ground in Norway, an assassination in Czechoslovakia.

The less she knew, Max assured her, the better.

She hadn’t argued. Acutely aware of the terrible fate in store for her if Max was compromised and they were exposed, she hadn’t wanted to know.

Now she did. Quite desperately.

“Who was arrested?” Max’s tone was all business. No emotion there. Genevieve, on the other hand, was a seething tangle of emotion. So tangled, in fact, that she couldn’t quite sort out what she felt.

The man reeled off names. Genevieve recognized none of them. Then he added, “And possibly the baroness. We’ve had conflicting reports on whether or not she was with them.”

“Lillian de Rocheford?” Looking thoughtful, Max drummed his fingers on the tabletop while Genevieve’s stomach turned inside out. Everyone knew what the Nazis did to prisoners. “How is it we don’t know?”

“She wasn’t supposed to be part of the mission,” the man said. “De Rocheford didn’t like her to be involved in anything too dangerous, which this definitely was. It came up last-minute, with no time to plan. But she hasn’t been seen since. Some say she was captured. Some say she was injured but escaped. We haven’t been able to confirm anything yet. It’s also possible that, upon learning what happened to her husband and the others, she’s gone into hiding.”

“We need to find out. Quickly.”

“We’re doing everything we can. Of course, you will appreciate that it’s difficult right at present. We must be very careful.”

“I understand. But this is of the utmost importance.” Max’s voice was coolly authoritative.

He lit another cigarette. If she’d been hoping she was still asleep and this was just another nightmare, that hope was dashed. No dream cigarette could re-create the distinctive burnt-rubber smell of a Gauloise.

The man said, “Getting anyone else arrested will do none of us any good.”

Max drew on the cigarette. “Where are the other cell members being held?”

“Cherbourg. They’ve rounded up dozens of locals, too. It’s bad.”

“What happened to the pilot?”

“He’s being kept separately from the others. He’ll be interrogated, then shipped to a POW camp. We’ve already confirmed that his briefing went no further than the run he was on.”

“Well, that’s something. How certain are you that de Rocheford had no chance to tell the Germans anything?”

“Absolutely certain. There is concern in some quarters about what he might have told the others in his cell, however. Particularly the baroness. It seems he had a distressing tendency to confide in her.”

“Damn it.” There was the briefest of pauses, and then he said, “I want a message sent to Baker Street. Today. Wait for the answer.” Turning, he stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette in the ashtray and picked up his pen.

“I’ll bring it as soon as I have it,” the other man promised as Max tore a sheet of paper in half and scribbled on it. While he waited, the man looked around. His gaze probed the shadows, sliding over Genevieve where she lay on the sofa. Her eyes were tightly shut again by the time his gaze reached her, and she’d drawn her head down into the quilt like a turtle into its shell. The light from the lamp barely touched the sofa, and she wasn’t sure he could even tell that anyone was huddled there. But every instinct she possessed shouted it would be a mistake to let him know that she had overheard.

“Any word from Gunner?” Max asked, still writing.

“Nothing. I fear something may have gone wrong. It’s been almost three weeks.”

“The Krauts are running scared.” There was a note of grim satisfaction in Max’s voice. “I wouldn’t write him off just yet. He may have had to lie low for a while.”

“If we were smart, that’s what we all would do.”

“If we were smart.” Finished writing, Max folded his note and handed it to him.

The man twisted the paper into a tight coil, doubled it, pulled a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapped one out, pinched out the apparently false plug of tobacco in the top, and inserted the paper into what was clearly a hollowed-out middle section. He then put the plug back, restored the cigarette to the pack and put the pack into his pocket.

“I hear Huntsman is being sought far and wide,” the man said. Huntsman was Max, his code name, and the casual warning sent a thrill of fear through Genevieve. Ordinarily she didn’t feel acute rushes of fear, or, indeed, any emotion at all. It was part of how she had survived. But the date always left her feeling especially vulnerable, and combined with Anna and the dream and what she had just overheard, this bit of bad news packed a punch.

There were so many of them, the Nazis. So many who collaborated with them, too. Their spies were everywhere. All it took was an unwary word, a piece of bad luck, the wrong Resistance fighter captured, and it was over. The average life expectancy of an SOE agent working behind enemy lines was five months.

“I hear that, too.” Imperturbable as always, Max got to his feet and reached for his stick. Of course, being searched for by the Germans was merely business as usual for him; nothing to worry about at all. She told herself that, and let that particular fear go as the hideousness of the rest overwhelmed her. The two men moved away, their voices too low now for Genevieve to overhear. A moment later the rattle and ding of the lift announced the stranger’s departure.

Max knew nothing of her life before. Why should he? She’d been Genevieve Dumont for nearly four years when they’d met, already established as a singer, her name legally changed to the stage name she’d assumed from the time when she’d put France behind her, as she’d thought, forever. No longer able to survive as the girl who had been Vivi’s mother, she’d fled her country, her old life, everything and everyone she’d loved, after her daughter’s death, because all of that was inevitably associated with Vivi, and she could no longer bear to be in any part of that world without her daughter in it. The person she was now, the person Max knew, was a totally different creature from the girl she’d been then. The only part that survived was her singing voice—and that damned haunting, hellacious dream.

Dashing a hand across her eyes to eliminate any lingering trace of tears, Genevieve pushed the quilt aside and sat up. Her head throbbed and her stomach still wasn’t back to normal, but the rampant fear stampeding through her veins trumped everything else.

Max’s brow was furrowed and he seemed to be lost in thought as he turned away from the lift.

“What was that about?” She pushed a hand through her hair, lifting the curtain of black curls away from her face. She still wore her evening dress, but her shoes had been removed, she assumed by Max, to whom she also gave credit for the quilt and pillow. Her stockinged feet encountered the cold floor. Given the blackout quality of the curtains it was impossible to be sure, but her impression was that she’d slept for a few hours and it was close to dawn.

At her question he looked up quickly, and his expression changed. A second later the overhead light came on and she blinked.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to hear that—” Her voice wanted to break; oh, God, she wouldn’t have expected to feel so devastated. The trick was to approach what she really wanted to know sideways rather than head-on. “The Nazis are searching for Huntsman.”

His grimace dismissed that as unimportant. “Oh,” she continued, “and some baron’s been killed and his wife is missing. Or did I get that wrong?”

His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t listen to what doesn’t concern you.”

The clipped quality of his answer made it clear: she had not misheard. It was all she could do to fight off the wave of dizziness that assailed her.

“You shouldn’t talk about what doesn’t concern me where I can listen.”

“Touché.” He stood over her now, looking down at her closely. “You feeling all right?”

She must have paled, she realized. Certainly she was sweating.

“My head hurts.” She closed her eyes and let her forehead drop into her cradling hand, the better to hide her face from him. Her answer wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t why she was suddenly feeling sick as a dog. That tangle of emotions she was experiencing was unraveling strand by strand.

“I believe it’s called a hangover.” His voice was dry. He was walking away from her. A moment later she looked up at the sound of running water to find that he was in the kitchen filling a glass.

She said, “That man—have you worked with him before? Is his information usually reliable?” The tiniest sliver of hope that someone might have got it wrong burned inside her.

“Reliable enough. Why all the interest?” He came back toward her carrying the glass; it held a cloudy white liquid that fizzed. Alka-Seltzer, if she had to guess.

“He saw me.” If her mind hadn’t been clogged by burgeoning panic, she would have artfully gone to work to tease all the details out of him. But artfully was, she feared, beyond her for the moment.

“No, he didn’t. At least, not so he would ever recognize you again. It was too dark. And you were bundled up to your nose in a quilt.” Max stopped in front of her, handed her the glass. “Drink this.”

She took it, looked at the mixture, made a face. “I’m really more of a ‘hair of the dog’ kind of girl.”

“Not anymore, you’re not. Drink it.”

“Fine.” Maybe it would help. She raised the glass to her lips, drained the contents, shuddered.

“Good job,” he said.

Still grimacing at the chalkiness of it, she shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet. I could still puke.”

He smiled.

The rattle of the arriving lift claimed their attention. Otto stepped out of it, bundled to the eyeballs in overcoat, muffler and hat. In one hand he carried a leather valise.

“So?” Max greeted him.

Otto replied with a terse nod.

At the sight of his familiar figure, Genevieve was both relieved and disappointed. She’d dreaded the arrival of another operative almost as much as she’d hoped for it. One with more information about the fate of the de Rochefords.

Information she found herself craving like an addict craves morphine, even if some tiny remaining clearheaded part of her warned that maybe she really didn’t want to know.

Through the unraveling strands of anger and betrayal and bitterness, she’d broken to the hard nugget of truth at the tangle’s core.

The person she used to be was still there, alive inside her after all.

Genevra de Rocheford.

And, despite everything, she quaked with shock and fear over the fate of her estranged parents.

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