The Book of Lost Names(50)
“We have a problem,” he said as soon as he had pulled the door behind them.
“Is it Rémy?” she asked immediately. “Is he all right?”
“Rémy? Oh yes, he’s fine, as far as I know. No, Eva, it’s about some of the papers.”
Eva felt the breath go out of her. “The papers?”
“Do you remember forging papers for a man named Jacques Lacroix? You kept his name, at his request, but you changed his birthdate and occupation?”
“Yes, of course.” Eva had just completed documents for the man the week before. He was nearly twenty-four, but she and Rémy had decided to age him down to seventeen to avoid any risk of his being called to compulsory service, for in his clean-shaven photograph, he appeared as if he could pass. She hadn’t been told what his role in the underground was, but Rémy knew him, and she’d had the sense he was someone important, someone vital to protect. Her throat constricted. “Père Clément, what did I do wrong?”
“It wasn’t you,” he said immediately. “Your documents would pass any spot check, but the blanks you’re using—the ones we don’t get from the prefecture—well, apparently the Germans have some new methods for spotting identification cards and travel permits made from the wrong kind of paper.”
Eva swallowed hard. “Oh no. Monsieur Lacroix…”
“He’s fine. Someone at the jail accepted a bribe, and Lacroix has long since disappeared. But, Eva, the authorities are beginning to understand that there is someone in the area forging documents, and forging them well. That puts you in danger, but it also puts the members of our network in peril.” Père Clément paused. “One of the higher-ups in the underground in this area—a man they call Gérard Faucon—apparently has a way to help, but first, he needs to know he can trust you.”
“Of course he can. Can’t you vouch for me?”
“I already have, but he hardly knows me. He comes from Paris, and he’s trying to implement some things that worked there. He would like to meet you in person, this morning.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Yes, certainly. Is Rémy coming, too?”
“No, he’s—” Père Clément stopped abruptly, cutting off whatever he had been about to say. “No.”
A thread of worry wove through Eva again. “But he’s all right?”
“I promise. Shall we go? I think the documents for today can wait until the afternoon.”
Eva glanced around, her eyes landing on Epitres et Evangiles, her Book of Lost Names, which sat on a shelf, sandwiched between other religious texts so that it blended right in. The more names she added to its pages, the more reluctant she felt to leave it behind, but it was safer here than anywhere else. “Yes,” she said, turning her attention back to the priest. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Père Clément led Eva through a winding maze of snow-caked alleys to a schoolhouse she’d never seen before, where a handful of children sat inside, bundled in sweaters and faded coats as they watched a teacher write something on a chalkboard. “Remember,” Père Clément murmured as they walked around to the back of the building, snow crunching beneath their feet, “Faucon knows you only as Eva Moreau. No good comes from knowing each other’s real identities.”
There was a faded red door on the far side of the schoolhouse, and Père Clément knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a key. Without looking at Eva, he unlocked the door and went inside, gesturing for her to follow.
They entered what seemed to be a large, abandoned classroom at the back of the school. It was dark, but the dirty windows let a bit of light in, and as Eva’s eyes adjusted, she could see desks and chairs empty, askew. It was as if the children who had once studied here had all fled in a hurry, leaving a broken trail as they left. It gave Eva a bad feeling, but not as bad as the one that swept over her when Père Clément said gently that he was planning to depart before Faucon arrived. “He wants to meet you alone,” he said, glancing toward the door.
“But why?”
“I think that some of the things he wants to discuss are best kept between the fewest number of people.” Père Clément’s voice was suddenly stiff, and Eva realized that for some reason, Faucon was shutting the priest out.
“I’m sorry.” It seemed like the wrong thing to say, but it made him smile slightly.
“My dear, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“Are you sure this man can be trusted?”
“Absolutely.” Père Clément didn’t hesitate. “He has proven himself very skilled and useful. And don’t worry, Eva, I won’t go far. I’ll be right outside if you need me. All right?”
She nodded, taking some comfort in the words, but as Père Clément slipped back out into the bright, icy morning, closing her once again into the darkness, she felt uneasy. The minutes ticked by, and she began to wonder whether she should leave. And why wasn’t Rémy here? He was as involved in the forgeries as she was.
She was still thinking about him, her misgivings mounting, when the door opened and a man entered in a flash of frigid sunshine, the collar of a wool overcoat turned up, a cap low over his eyes. When he pulled the door closed behind him, the shadows wrapped themselves around him as he moved into the room. “Bonjour,” he said, his deep voice muffled by his scarf.