The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(53)
Outside the church, Jacques leaned against one of the columns, hat at a slant, a collaborationist newspaper under his arm. He was dressed well, as he had been at Maxim’s—flannel trousers, white shirt and striped tie, houndstooth jacket. When he saw Maggie, he grinned like a matinee idol and raised his hat.
Their eyes met. He made a “follow me” gesture with his head. She felt a stab of irritation—she had another lead on Elise—but she followed anyway. Jacques was her contact; he must have something important to tell her if he had made a point of tracking her down.
He led her to a park, a small one—only a city block’s worth of space—but beautiful, with yellow and red roses and pleached trees. It was surrounded by boxwood hedges, and a fountain in the center was topped by a statue of Joan of Arc. A few dun-colored sparrows perched on her outstretched bronze arms while others splashed in the water.
They reached a wooden bench, greenish with lichen and age. Jacques sat on one end and opened his newspaper. Maggie sat on the other. Except for two men in tweed caps playing chess in a far corner of the park, they were alone, with only the faint sound of a car in the distance and the occasional birdcall.
“You know, when they invaded, I left Paris—on a motorcycle, if you can believe,” he said softly. “People were leaving in cars, on bicycles, with horses and carts, walking and pushing their belongings in baby carriages or strapped to their backs.”
He turned a page of the paper. “When cars stalled or ran out of gas, people would scream at each other, cursing, ready to kill to gain a few more feet in the endless queue out.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Crisis may bring out the best in the British, but it produces the worst in us French. I have never seen so much ugliness and selfishness. And that was before the Nazis got here.”
“It must have been terrible,” Maggie said.
“Others had it worse. I survived. And I made it to England.”
“How did that happen?”
Jacques folded the newspaper, slid a bit closer to Maggie, and put an arm along the back of the bench. “I was a pilot for Air France and was offered a job flying planes for the Vichy government, which I couldn’t turn down—or else they’d send me to a work camp. So I flew for Service Civil des Liaisons Aériennes de la Métropole.” He glanced upward, as if remembering his time in the sky. “I’d fly from Paris to Vichy and back. To the colonies in North Africa, to Italy. At one point, I had a layover in Marseilles and through another French pilot made contact with British intelligence. We were transported out of France via the Pat line to Gibraltar. It was more than I’d ever hoped for—I had a chance to go to England. To fight for France.”
The church bell behind them rang the half hour. Maggie watched as the birds, ruffled and wet with their bath, hopped to the edge of the fountain to begin their preening, and tried to be patient. “How did you end up with the Firm?”
“I was recommended to F-Section, because I was a pilot who knew France well, and could convince farmers to let us use their fields for landing our Lysanders and Hudsons. Before I came along, they were landing in bogs. Or running into trees on unchecked fields. And so I came to be an Air Movements officer, in charge of getting all of the SOE agents working in and around Paris in and out. I also coordinate with the farmers who own those fields we use and the various Resistance workers who run the safe houses here in Paris.”
Maggie had looked away from him again, scanning the park to see if anyone was watching them. “What’s that like?”
“We French can’t agree on anything.” He laughed, without humor. “We’re a country with over three hundred types of cheese. How easy do you think secretly organizing a bunch of Frogs is?”
Maggie snorted. Jacques turned to her, and their eyes met. “What did you do before the war?” he asked, suddenly serious.
“I was a student. And then a secretary. And then a tutor.” No need to say to whom. “Why aren’t you flying now?”
“The people in the Firm—they want me on the ground. Organizing.” He gave her a sardonic grin. “My parents died before the war. Perhaps they were lucky.” He shook his head. “But I will continue to fight, to my last breath. My country is still at war with Germany, even if it looks like we’ve surrendered. Pétain and the generals have given up, but the people have not. The war is still being fought, in the shadows. The Boche may have won this skirmish, but they have not won the war—and they will never win this war.”
Maggie was moved by the fervor in his voice. Across the park, she could see a boy, dressed in raggedy clothes, searching through garbage bins.
She felt a sudden flash of hot shame. How could she wear such frivolous clothes in an occupied country? She knew she and Jacques looked like comfortable and well-fed collaborators. There were two versions of Paris, she realized. Versions that existed simultaneously, like Notre Dame and its rippling reflection in the Seine, like yin and yang—collaborator and resister. She bit her lip and tucked one ankle tightly behind the other.
A flock of ducks swooped down and landed on the grass, quacking and strutting, the drakes with their vivid purple sashes and iridescent heads waddling after the more dowdy hens. The boy at the garbage bins turned and smiled, taking a small slingshot from his pocket. He whistled to the ducks as he crept up to them, as softly as he could in his wood-soled shoes. “Hello my lovely L’Orange,” he called, taking aim. “Come here, dear Salmis, darling Confit!” He had the face of a child and the eyes of an old man.