The Darkest Hour(16)

I jot down Major Harken’s commands in my mind. “What if we think Dorner is lying?”

Harken’s brow arches. “Do you really need me to answer that?”

Ah. “Understood, sir.”

“If it does indeed come to that, however, Sabine will do the job. That’s an order. She has never had any trouble taking out a target, and we can’t botch this task.”

I dip an inch lower into my seat. He doesn’t have to say my name to get the message across that he’s talking about me.

Sabine places her palms on the table. “Then send me in alone, sir.”

“No, and that’s an order, too,” replies Major Harken. “Because if this Dorner is telling the truth, then it’ll be our highest priority to get him across the Channel.”

“Why not dispose of him after he tells us what we need to know?” says Sabine. She gives a little smirk. “He’s a Nazi. He doesn’t deserve this new life that he seeks in England.”

For once, I heartily agree with her, but Major Harken blows out a long sigh.

“Be that as it may, Dorner will be more useful to us alive than dead. He’ll have details concerning the Nazis’ plans and inner workings, which he can share with the SOE. They’ll be able to use those details to our advantage.” He flicks a rare look of annoyance Sabine’s way. “Besides, we’re not like the Nazis. We’re not cold-blooded murderers.”

Sabine isn’t fazed in the least that he has compared her suggestion to murder. “Still, I can get to Dorner on my own. I don’t need assistance.”

“Getting to the drop-off point won’t be a cakewalk, not even for you. There’ll be patrols and barbed wire all over the coast, especially near a major seaport like Cherbourg. That’s why this will be a two-agent job.” He pauses, and his voice goes gruff. “If one of you goes down, the other will finish the handoff.” Before Sabine can offer another word, he slides the handkerchief over to me. “Don’t lose this.”

“I won’t.” I fold the handkerchief carefully and hold it in my hands like it’s the crown jewels of England. “Thank you for—”

“That’s it for our briefing,” Harken cuts me off. “Gather your things and brush up on your aliases. And, Miss Blaise? You better muster some makeup to take with you, too.”

“Pardon, sir?” I say, blinking. I hardly wear makeup here in Paris. It wouldn’t be very fitting of Sister Marchand and it wouldn’t look quite right on Bretta, my schoolgirl alias that I’ve been forced to retire for a few months. Which means …

Major Harken snorts. “Lipstick, rouge, and whatever else you need to look the part. You’ll be traveling under your Fleurette Dupre alias.”

“I’ve never used Fleurette outside of training exercises. I can’t really hold a tone or—”

“You’re no Dinah Shore, but you can sing well enough.” He must notice how I’ve gone pale because he adds, “It’s either Fleurette or I’ll leave you here at headquarters. Your choice.”

I bite back my protest. “I’ll be ready as soon as possible.”

“Bring the guitar, too.”

My stomach flutters because he’s not talking about the guitar, exactly. He’s talking about the guitar case, the one specially made for us by the Research and Development branch. From the outside it looks like an ordinary black case, and it looks even more ordinary on the inside with its plain velvet lining. But under that lining you’ll find a hidden compartment that’s the perfect size for hiding pistols or tear gas canisters or a plump bag of Aunt Jemima, another OSS invention that looks and cooks like regular flour but once you add a detonator and an accelerant you’ll have a powerful bomb on your hands.

Harken nods at the three of us. “You’re all dismissed. We’ll convene again after you’ve packed.”

Tilly claps me on the back to congratulate me before she darts to our room, but Sabine slinks out without looking at me. She’s not happy at all that Harken has paired us together, but happy or not, we’re stuck with each other. These are his orders.

And I, for one, don’t plan on disappointing him.

I go to the weaponry first, which is tucked inside a space that used to be a cellar, and I can almost pick up the sharp smell of onions—but there certainly aren’t any onions in front of me. Instead, on shelf upon shelf, there are over a hundred items that would make any Gestapo officer salivate: lightweight submachine guns, bombs in the shape of coal, candlesticks that explode when you burn them down halfway. I take a pistol attached with a silencer and grab a razor-thin dagger that I can stick into the sheath on my inner thigh. The pens come next. I take two that double as single-shot pistols before I reach for a couple that hide thin cylinders of tear gas. I make sure to handle those very carefully. One slipup and I’ll be coughing up smoke.

The wardrobe closet is my next destination. The entire space is stocked with clothes, purses, shoes, and all sorts of other accoutrements necessary to disguise ourselves on the streets of Paris. Everything looks perfectly normal at first glance, but most of the clothes conceal a deadly secret. Our blouses and skirts are sewn with hidden pockets to stow stacks of bribe money or a handy knife to jab into an unsuspecting Nazi.

I pack quickly and dress even quicker: a cream silk blouse, a soft green skirt that’s full enough to hide the dagger I’ve strapped to my thigh, and a pair of simple black shoes that contain a little surprise—two-inch daggers in each heel. I imagine thrusting one into the neck of Lieutenant Schuster. He’d never see it coming. At the last minute, I tuck a headquarters key and an alternate stack of ID paperwork into the secret blouse pocket. Hopefully, I won’t have to use those papers.