The Darkest Hour(27)

“Marie-Louise?” says Madame Rochette, waiting for my answer.

I almost tell her that my hands are tied until Sabine’s arrival because that’s what Major Harken would want me to do.

But is it really?

I realize then that it isn’t Major Harken muddying my thoughts and holding me back. It’s my own doubts. They’ve been dogging me since my first mission and they’ve grown louder since my run-in with Travert, but I know I need to give them a great big heave out the window. I didn’t claw my way through training and now to Cherbourg to turn tail and wait in the corner. Theo was no coward, and I won’t be, either.

I get up from the table. “Lead the way, please,” I tell her.

I follow Madame Rochette upstairs and into a bedroom so narrow that it barely fits an iron bedframe and an ancient-looking set of drawers. Heavy curtains cover the closed window, turning the air stale. Madame Rochette uses her shoulder to scoot the drawers aside, which reveals a false panel in the wall. She pries it open with her fingernails.

“Hello?” she calls out. “It’s me. Madame Rochette.”

The windowless attic lies in shadow. From the back of the space, a man steps forward, and as he enters the room I stiffen at the sight of him.

This has to be a mistake. This can’t be him. Major Harken made Dorner sound like a grizzled Nazi officer my father’s age. I peer back into the attic, waiting for someone else to join us, but the attic is as empty as a bombed-out tank.

Madame Rochette makes the introductions. “Monsieur Dorner, the Resistance has sent a representative to see you.”

The man tilts his head at me. “They sent a woman?” he says in French.

“Yes, a woman,” I say sharply. I’ll count that as the second notch against him, the first being that he’s a Nazi. “You’re Dorner, then?”

“Yes, Alexander Dorner.”

We’ll see about that, I think. I thank Madame Rochette and march into the attic. The space is cramped—just a closet, really—and the ceiling slopes at a sharp angle, so my head nearly grazes the rafters. The room lacks for a window, but a few beams of sunlight filter in through the old slats of the roof.

I frown all over again. Dorner can’t be much older than Theo was before he died, and I have to admit that he reminds me a little of my brother, too, with the sandy hair that won’t lie flat and the lanky frame that could use a good bit of filling out. But that’s where their similarities end. Theo never wore glasses, while this Dorner fellow sports a tortoiseshell pair. My brother also had that trademark glint in his eye, but there’s no trace of that in this man’s eyes. No, Dorner’s are big and blue and innocent, like a little choirboy’s. However, if he truly is who he says he is, then those eyes will be far from innocent.

Dorner straightens and smooths the wrinkles of his button-down shirt. “May I ask what happened to Philippe and Louis, the ones who escorted me here?”

“They have other tasks to attend to,” I lie.

“They promised me that—”

“I don’t care what they promised. You’re under my authority now. If you have an issue with me, I can alert the Gestapo of your presence.”

“Please,” he says swiftly, “don’t. I think we’d all like to avoid them if necessary.” He offers me a polite smile, which I don’t return. “I don’t want to start out on the wrong foot.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Then let me apologize.” His offer sounds genuine enough, but it does little to stamp out my suspicions. He’s too young, for one thing. He’s too polite, for another. And for a man on the run, he’s far too calm. He should be jittery like Monsieur Travert, who nearly soiled himself after I dropped my Sister Marchand routine. But maybe Dorner is made out of tougher material than Travert was. He’d have to be to survive the journey out of Germany and into France. Or maybe all of his nerves subsided when he saw that the Resistance had sent in a woman. If that’s the case, I’ll be sure to kick those nerves right back into him. We practiced interrogations for weeks at training, and now I’ll put them to good use.

Dorner uses a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his forehead. “I hope you’ll accept my apology, mademoiselle … ?”

I leave his question hanging between us while I walk about the room, noting which floorboards creak and which ones don’t, allowing the silence to stretch and grow to unnerve him.

“You can call me Marie-Louise,” I tell him, and leave it at that. I search for where we can sit. Establish the hierarchy, I think. Since Dorner is a whole head taller than I am, I gesture for him to take a seat on a turned-over fruit crate that he’s using as a nightstand while I take the rickety dining chair left abandoned in the corner. When we’re both seated, I’m the one with the height advantage.

“I should thank you for meeting with me,” he says. There’s that smile of his again, but we’ll see how long this prim-and-proper routine will last. What I’d give for a pack of chemically laced cigarettes, but they were all left on the train.

“You can keep your thank-yous,” I say bluntly. “I’m not meeting with you as some favor. I’m here because you claim to have important information.”

“I do indeed.”

I scowl. “I’ll be the one to determine that. So allow me to tell you how this meeting will proceed. I’ll ask the questions; you answer them. If at any point I detect a lie out of you, we’ll take a short walk to the Gestapo office in Cherbourg. Are we clear?”