The Darkest Hour(4)

“Is it broken?”

“No, no, but”—I wince—“I must have rolled it.”

“You poor thing.” He looks at me with such pity that I know I’ve played him like a Glenn Miller record so far. I wish that Harken were here to see me, but he’d likely huff that my job isn’t even half done. So I focus on what comes next.

Set the trap.

I throw Travert a sheepish smile. “Forgive me for asking, but might you walk me to the courtyard? There’s a bench where I can rest for a bit.”

Travert hesitates. I don’t think he would refuse a nun, or have I misjudged him? My worries soon vanish when he offers me his arm. “Lead the way, Sister.”

I lean on him while I hobble upon my poor bruised ankle. We’re standing so close that I can smell the sweat staining his jacket, and I think how easy it would be to slip my dagger into his side and up into his heart, but I need to question him first. My knife will have to be patient.

Travert helps me to the bench, and before he can turn away, I pull out a box of cigarettes from my pocket.

Dangle the bait.

The box’s edges have creased after jostling in my habit, but Travert stares at it like it’s a treasured church relic, which isn’t surprising with the war rations in full force. “A small token for your troubles?” I ask.

“Why, thank you,” he says, snatching the cigarette from my hand. I mask my smile. The cigarette I gave him has been lined with sodium pentothal, a special concoction sent to us by the OSS’s Research and Development branch to relax its victims and coax the truth out of them.

“Please don’t tell Father Benoit that I have these.” I tuck down my chin, faking embarrassment. The Nazis have outlawed smoking for women—I suppose they don’t see it as very ladylike—but many Frenchwomen have skirted around the law. I offer Travert a match, and he can’t seem to light the cigarette fast enough before he takes in a long draw.

“I hope your maman is well?” I ask, waiting for the chemicals to seep into his bloodstream. “We’ve missed her at mass these last few weeks.”

“Her health hasn’t been the best, but I’ll pass along your condolences.” Travert takes a seat, and I’m pleased to find his eyelids wilting like thirsty flowers. That’s the calming effect of the chemicals at play.

“How has your work been going at Je suis partout? Will I be reading more of your articles soon?”

“Perhaps next week. My old witch of an editor has been giving me trouble about deadlines.”

The sodium pentothal must be working its way into his veins. Usually Travert tells me only pleasant things about his job at Je suis partout, a “newspaper” that shouldn’t even be called that since its pages are full of German propaganda. As he drones on, I nod and pretend to be fascinated, all the while unscrewing the rosary to release the needle-thin dagger hidden inside of it.

I decide to take my questioning in another direction.

“Tell me, monsieur,” I say, “how are things going at your other job?”

“My other job?”

“You know what I mean.” I drop my sugar-sweet tone and grip the knife handle, ready to block his exit if he runs. “How you’ve been passing Allied secrets to the Nazis.”

“How did … ? That isn’t true! I’ve done no such thing!” He drops the cigarette and fumbles to his feet, but I’m faster. Grabbing him by the collar, I thrust a knee into his belly to keep him from crying out before I force him to the cold stones of the courtyard.

“Don’t lie to me, Travert. We’ve been watching you.” Our noses are inches apart as I thrust the blade at the underside of his chin.

“We?”

I don’t elaborate. I should ask him about his Nazi handlers, but with him quaking like a frightened altar boy I want to scare him a little more. I want him to feel a sliver of the fear that those airmen felt when they discovered that Travert had duped them.

“Two men died at your hands,” I spit at him. “We trusted you with their lives, but you turned them over to the Germans.”

“I had no choice! Maman needed her medicine and I needed—”

“New shoes? A fat cut of beef at Le Boeuf sur le Toit?” I say. His face drains of color when he realizes that I have been watching him. “The entire city might be starving, but why should you care? You’re sitting at the best table in the house, drinking your Burgundy wine and ordering more sauce for your steak.”

“You’re mistaken! I’ve never set foot inside that place!”

I press the knife closer, shaving off the tips of his stubble, and that’s all it takes to break him open like a summer melon. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I didn’t know!” he heaves. “Truly, I didn’t know that the Nazis would kill them. Please, Sister Marchand, or whoever you are!”

“Somehow I doubt that, monsieur. Tell me the names of your Nazi liaisons. What are their ranks?”

“They never told me any such thing. You must believe me!”

I thrust my elbow into his gut because he’s squealing too loudly. Thick tears course down his pathetic face, and he’s begging me to think of his mother, please oh please. But I’m not Father Benoit. I can’t be soft-hearted like the old priest. The Nazis robbed me of that when they killed Theo. The pain of his passing still chafes at my heart, and I’ll never stop regretting that I didn’t make things right between us before he died.