The Librarian Spy(35)

Her outrage exploded in the slap of her hand on the table with a force that jarred her bones and left her palm tingling. “Say something, and don’t you dare tell me to be patient again. I won’t accept it. Not again.”

“He was removed from prison today.” Etienne scrubbed a hand over his hair, mussing what had been neatly slicked back.

Such a statement should have elicited relief, but the haunted expression in his dark eyes made wariness tighten through Elaine like a warning.

“Where did he go?”

Etienne’s fingers dragged down his face, distorting his features until his hand dropped. “They said he left with baggage,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “With baggage? What does that mean?”

He blinked, as if surprised to see her there. “At Montluc, if you are sent with baggage, it means you are going to a work camp. If you are sent without baggage...”

She lifted her brows for him to finish.

“Death.”

The word hung in the air between them, like something alive and agitated and poisonous.

“He is at a work camp?” she repeated with relief. “That is not so bad. I can still send him food, I can—”

“Not where he is going. Elaine, this is a different kind of camp. One meant for those actively defying Germany, not for captured French soldiers.”

She froze, her body numb. “What are you saying?”

“We can’t help him.”

Tears burned her eyes, and the turban on her head was suddenly too tight. Too heavy. She felt ridiculous in the waxy red lipstick and the fashionably wrapped cloth, a painted clown on the receiving end of the worst news of her life.

She had never even written to Joseph to tell him she was sorry, how much she loved him. Tears blurred her vision. Etienne reached for her, but she backed away from his hand.

“You told me to trust you,” she said in a harsh whisper.

Hair had fallen into Etienne’s face, and he raked it back with a growl of frustration. “I thought we could free him.”

Several sheets of paper lay on the counter, and a single, desperate idea came to Elaine. “You need to get a letter to Joseph.”

“I don’t know that I—”

She spun on Etienne. “You promised you’d get him out. I don’t care how you manage it, but you will get this message to him.” The first drawer she yanked open did not contain a pen. Nor did the second.

One appeared before her, pinched in Etienne’s tapered fingers. “Make it small,” he cautioned.

With shaking hands, she tore off a corner of the paper and wrote out the only thing that mattered.

Dearest Joseph,
I’m sorry for everything I said. I love you always.
-Hélène
Those few precious words took up the entire scrap. She folded it in quarters, the edges blurring from tears. With the note held out for Etienne, her gaze locked with his. “Do not let me down.”

He nodded, but even as he did so, his worried expression belied his fear that he would once again fail.



NINE


Ava


While Ava waited for James to investigate the matter with her neighbor, the nip of her unease began to grow teeth. Finally, the afternoon arrived for them to meet at Café A Brasileira in Chiado. Her nerves drove her to arrive early. Instead of merely waiting in the opulent café with its warm notes of ochre and red and gold throughout, brass fixtures polished to a reflective shine, she went to the long wooden counter and ordered coffees for them both.

In the time she’d been in Lisbon, she’d come to appreciate the petite cup of powerful coffee, taking not only one in the morning, but also in the afternoon as was an endemic habit of the locals.

The two saucers and small cups obtained, she settled into a high-backed chair facing the door and freely poured sugar into her bica. Even as the white grains spilled into the tan foam atop her coffee, the action felt wrong. Almost gluttonous.

But in Lisbon, there was no restriction on how much coffee she could drink or sugar she could consume. Bakery windows were filled with delectable pastries glittering with sweet granules sprinkled liberally over their surface and baked into gooey delicious custard centers.

A lean, masculine figure in the doorway caught her attention. She sat up in her seat, bica forgotten as James crossed the black-and-white-checked marble floor.

He took off his fedora with a pinch of his middle finger and thumb and settled it on the empty spot beside him as he slid into the chair opposite her. “His name is Diogo Silva. He runs a newspaper kiosk by Pra?a Luís de Cam?es.”

Ava knew exactly the square he spoke of with its statue of Luís de Cam?es, Portugal’s greatest poet. “So, he needed the magazine to sell then?” she asked. “For the Germans or Japanese to purchase as we do?”

James poured his usual helping of sugar into his bica. “I’m not certain, but his kiosk has been shuttered since he was taken.”

Ava pulled in a breath. “What happened to him?”

He shook his head and held the handle loop of the tiny cup in his fingers. “I don’t know, but your conversation with the Nazi had nothing to do with his disappearance.”

Ava nodded and masked her uncertainty with a sip of coffee. James had put himself at risk enough for her sake. Any additional digging would need to be done on her own. At least now she had a name and a place to investigate and could hopefully Dick Tracy her way to getting more information.