The Darkest Hour(3)

“I’m sure he’s on his way.” I place a careful hand on the door, a small reminder of our agreement. Father Benoit can’t back out of our plans now. After weeks of coaxing, he finally decided to help us catch René Travert, who has attended Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis for decades. Father Benoit didn’t want to betray a loyal parishioner, but he came around when I told him what Travert had done: how pious René accepted a handsome bribe from the Nazis and turned over two British airmen who had been stranded in France after their plane was struck down north of the city. We entrusted their care to Travert, but he delivered them like lambs to the Germans—all for a new pair of shoes and a wallet fat with cash.

I think about those airmen now, both of them so young. They were fighting the Nazis just as Theo had done, and remembering that fact will make my job easier tonight.

There’s movement across the street, and I find the middle-aged Travert walking past the alleyway. My pulse jumps at the sight of him.

“I’ll be discreet like we discussed,” I say to Father Benoit. “Can you see to it that no one enters this courtyard for the next half hour?”

He grimaces. “Very well.”

“Thank you, Father. I truly am—”

“Have mercy on René, as our Lord is merciful with all His children.”

I give him a tight smile because that’s the best I can do. I told him that I’d only imprison Monsieur Travert. I don’t like lying to a man of the cloth, but he never would’ve helped me if he knew the truth of what we do in Covert Ops.

As I turn to go, Father Benoit places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I shall say a prayer for you, my child.”

He slinks back into the church, and I keep my mouth shut because I doubt he’d like what I’d have to say. The truth is, despite the clamminess in my fingertips, I don’t need Father Benoit to watch over me tonight. I don’t need his kind thoughts, and I certainly don’t need his prayers.

But I can’t say the same for Monsieur Travert.





My hand curls around my rosary while I race to intercept Travert. I had planned to greet him at his usual pew inside, but bumping into him out in the open will work in my favor. The fewer people who see me, the better. Major Harken would surely approve of that.

Travert’s brown suit hugs his portly frame while his thinning hair resembles an abandoned bird’s nest atop his shiny scalp. I’ve gotten well acquainted with Travert’s balding head. For over a month now, I’ve been tailing him, watching him meet with his Nazi liaison in the perfumed shadows of the Tuileries Garden and seeing him smile at the leather shoes that his bribe money has afforded. I even know what he eats for breakfast—a hot cup of beef broth, thanks to the citywide coffee rations. I’ve learned quite a lot about Monsieur Travert, perhaps more than even his own mother.

Right before he reaches the church doors, I stumble into him and say, “I’m so sorry, monsieur!”

He jerks his elbow away but then catches sight of my face. “Sister Marchand?”

I nod; he has no clue of my true identity. To hide in plain sight, the girls of Covert Ops will dress as students or secretaries or humble sisters of the cloth, and our targets rarely give us a second glance. Little do they know that we’re the blades they never see coming. For instance, Travert and “Sister Marchand” have exchanged pleasantries for weeks, ever since we discovered that he attends mass three times a week. Major Harken never thought that a traitor like Travert would be so pious, but even he can be wrong at times.

With our sights set, Harken had sent in Sabine first as usual. She had cozied up to Travert at his favorite brasserie, La Closerie des Lilas, dressed to the nines in her Clarinda alias—red lips, blond wig, and a black dress that made use of every one of her curves. But even with her Veronica Lake good looks, Travert had spent his entire meal admiring the restaurant’s lilac garden instead of Sabine’s carefully displayed cleavage. Afterward, Sabine had scoffed and told Harken that Travert must have been nearsighted or preferred the company of other men, but I’d seen the annoyance behind her rouge. It was the first time I had seen the unflappable Sabine look so very flapped, and I’d hidden my grin at that. Maybe that’s petty of me, but I couldn’t help it, not when she tosses me a snooty glance whenever she gets the chance.

Tilly had tried her hand next, opting for her Laverne alias, a chatty bookseller who’s far too friendly for her own good. On a warm day in May, she followed Travert onto a stuffy métro car and plopped herself into the seat next to him. She had chitchatted about the Nazi-sponsored rowing regatta on the Seine and how fun it would be. Then she leaned into Travert and whispered, “They’re not so bad. The Germans, I mean. Wouldn’t you agree?” But he didn’t look up from his newspaper.

With our options running low, it was my idea to give Sister Marchand a try, but Major Harken wouldn’t hear of it. Every time I brought up the idea he’d shoo me out of his tiny office to return to his folders stamped Classified—Zerfall, but Tilly helped me convince him in the end. We figured that Travert might open up to a nun. And just as we hoped, he has played right into our hands.

Travert takes me by the elbow. “Are you hurt, Sister?”

“I don’t believe so,” I say, but I flash him a stricken look when I straighten. “Oh, my ankle!”