October 1943
France
The two armedguards outside the glass hotel door watch me with a mix of interest and disdain.
I glance over my shoulder to see if the vehicle Jacques was in is behind us. “Please, tell me where my papa is. He’s sick. He needs medical assistance.” Their manhandling of him might make his cough worse.
“He’ll be here soon enough,” is the only answer I get. The Gestapo agent pushes me forwards.
I stumble, my legs refusing to cooperate. My arms and shoulders ache from my hands being secured behind me for what feels like forever.
The other two Gestapo agents lead me into the building and escort me to the front desk. The man behind it could easily be a hotel employee if not for his Army uniform.
Bile rises in my throat. This man looks nothing like Johann, but that doesn’t dull the reminder that I’m pregnant. Pregnant with a baby whose father is the enemy.
“We have Angelique D’Aboville,” the stocky agent says in German to the soldier. “Captain Krüger is expecting us.”
The man nods at them, and I am taken into the awaiting elevator. We ride it to the top floor, where I am escorted down the hallway and into a suite designed for French aristocrats.
Under different circumstances, I would appreciate the crystal chandelier and the intricate gold patterns on the walls. Under different circumstances, I would enjoy the lush red carpet and the exquisite paintings. Under different circumstances, I would dream of holidaying in a place like this.
A heavy, ornate desk is situated in the middle of the room with two wooden chairs in front of it. The faint metallic scent of blood and fear looms in the air like a phantom.
The stocky agent drags me to one of the chairs and pushes me into it. I lose my balance and fall onto the cushioned seat. The hem of my skirt flutters up, revealing the bandage wrapped around my calf—the bandage concealing the gunshot wound I got during the mission five days ago to destroy the train tunnel.
I subtly move my feet under the chair, attempting to keep the injury out of plain sight. I don’t need to give them any evidence to support their claims that I am English. And a bullet wound on my calf will only raise questions I don’t wish to answer.
The handcuff is removed from one wrist and fastened to the arm of the chair.
“What is that from?” The question is spoken in French. The stocky agent points at the bandaged leg.
“A crow spooked me while I was working in my papa’s vineyard,” I reply, “and my leg brushed on something sharp.”
He kneels and unties the knot of the bandage. His actions aren’t gentle, and the friction of fabric against my wound tears at the scab. I don’t so much as flinch.
The bandage is ripped from my skin, taking parts of the scab with it. A searing pain shoots through my calf, and my muscles tense. Blood trickles down my leg and pools in the heel of my worn-out shoe.
The door behind me clicks open and shut. The two Gestapo agents stand to attention and salute. “HeilHitler!”
A terse male voice responds in kind.
I take the moment to scan the room, searching for something to aid my escape. But given that I’m handcuffed to the chair, my options are practically nonexistent.
“I hear you found Angelique D’Aboville,” the new addition to the group says in German. His tone is crisp, the temperature of frost.
“That’s right, sir.”
“That’s good. I was hoping you would succeed in tracking her down.” The man belonging to the voice moves in front of me and continues to his desk. He pulls out the chair behind it but doesn’t sit. Captain Krüger, I assume. The man’s height stretches well above where I am seated, his shoulders broad and threatening. Another time and place and he might have been considered distinguished. “Did she cause you any trouble?”
The stocky Gestapo agent’s posture becomes less rigid. “No, but she insists on speaking in French and pretends not to understand English.”
“Is that so?” Captain Krüger’s eyes roam over my features. “She is most certainly the woman they call Carmen. Did she have hercarte d’identitéon her?”
The stocky agent hands him the papers he found in my handbag. There’s nothing incriminating in the bag, other than the secret pocket, which is currently empty.
Captain Krüger inspects the papers and gives a small nod. “She is indeed the whore who has been feeding secrets to the other side.” He puts the papers on his desk, moves around it to stand in front of me, and speaks directly to me in English, “Madame D’Aboville, would you like something to drink before we have our little conversation? Perhaps some tea?”
I look from man to man, as if hoping one of them will translate his words. “What did he say?” I ask the stocky agent who does speak French.
