The Darkest Hour(42)

“Yes. I saw the documentation.”

My head spins so fast that I feel nauseous. I stumble, but Dorner reaches back to steady me. “Are you all right?”

How do I even answer that? Dorner appears ready to say more, but the boatman has come up behind us and pulls him toward the boat. Soon they’re aboard and the boatman begins rowing, yet Dorner never takes his eyes off me.

“Thank you!” he calls out. “I’ll never be able to repay you, but remember …” The mist swallows him up along with whatever he wanted to tell me. At this distance I wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway.

T.J.H.

Dorner may not know the name of the double agent, but I certainly do.

Thomas Julian Harken.

November 18, 1942

Dear Luce,

It turns out that Gordo was right all along. We’ve landed in ██████—in ████ if you’re wondering, and I’m sure that you are. That’s why I haven’t been able to write to you sooner.

The French gave us real trouble after we landed. I thought they were supposed to be our allies, but Sergeant Stanton told us that the Nazis are making the French soldiers fight us over here. Something about how ████ is a French colony. I’m sure I’m botching that explanation, but I’m not as book smart as Ruthie is.

You can tell Maman to breathe easy, though. I may have a few bruises, but I still have all of my fingers and toes. We’ve been given some time off while we wait for our transports to arrive, so the boys and I’ve gone swimming in the █████████ and have been stuffing our mouths full of mandarin oranges. There’s sand everywhere, too. It gets in our eyes and our shoes and all over our food. It makes me think about the time when I convinced you and Ruthie to skip school and we caught the bus to Ocean City, but the wind got so bad that we couldn’t eat a bite of Ruthie’s picnic. █████ is sort of like that. No camels sighted yet.

I’m back at camp now, and we’ve taken in some of the French wounded. Most of them don’t speak a word of English, so I’ve been translating to help out the docs. One of the soldiers said that he’s from Saint-Malo and that got me thinking. Maybe we might’ve known him if Maman had never met Papa and never left France, but I guess you and me wouldn’t be here at all if life had turned out that way.

I’m sounding like a sap now, aren’t I? It must be the ████ sun. I’ll write again soon. Until then, give Maman and Ruthie my best and take care of yourself. I’m sorry that I can’t be there to protect you from Papa. More sorry than you know, little sis.

Love you.

Theo





I return on foot to Cherbourg, dazed. The sky overhead is as blue as the jewels at Versailles, but I might as well be walking through fog.

T.J.H.

Those initials punch through me every time I blink, and they haunt me as I wind my way back to the safe house, where we parted ways with Madame Rochette. The farmer there is kind enough to let me rest for a couple hours, but I don’t want to put him in any more danger, so I borrow a few francs and take a fresh change of clothes that once belonged to his dead wife. After that, I leave for the train station straightaway. There’s no time for rest—not after what Dorner has told me.

I board a second-class train car and ignore the greasy-haired man sitting next to me who keeps knocking his knee against mine. For the entire trip I try to make sense out of what Dorner revealed to me. Major Harken, a double agent? A traitor? I can’t see him turning—not for the money and not for the favors, like Travert. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense. What could the Nazis have offered him to make him give up his country?

Maybe Dorner got the initials mixed up, or maybe there’s another T.J.H. within the Parisian Resistance. This could just be a coincidence.

Can it be that simple, though?

I should contact the OSS, but it’s not exactly easy to talk to them. I’d have to radio them, and it could be days before I’d get an answer. Besides, Harken controls our radio.

If Sabine were here, she could send a message to our London office.

Except I don’t know where she is. I don’t know if she’s alive.

I thrust that thought into the dustiest corner of my mind. I need to focus on returning to headquarters first. And then … and then I’ll decide what my plan will be. I don’t know what I’ll find when I return—whether or not Sabine has made it safely, whether Tilly and Delphine have made it back in one piece, and whether Harken will await me there—or what I’ll say to him.

With a whine of its wheels, the train pulls into the Paris station and I begin my trek back to headquarters. The sun drags low behind me and has nearly dipped below the trees by the time I reach the 6th arrondissement. I walk alongside the calm waters of the Seine, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. Suddenly someone bumps into me from behind. I’m sent sprawling forward and I’m about to mutter a curse, but I don’t hit the sidewalk. The very same someone who ran into me grabs me by the arm to steady me.

“My apologies, mademoiselle,” a girl says, “but you should watch where you’re going.”

“Watch where I’m going?” I whirl around to face this dolt, but once I turn I forget what I was going to say.

“Surprise,” Sabine says. She links arms with me and leads me down rue Saint-Jacques toward headquarters.