Mark

The safehouse was a full three stories tall, with a narrow staircase the only means of moving between floors. Mark took the steps two at a time, heedless of the thundering clatter that he raised as he barrelled towards the top floor. The first door he came to was made of splintery oak, and he rapped at it hard with his knuckles. “Wight? How’re you doing, buddy?” Without waiting for a response, he pushed it open.

Inside the room, Wight lay huddled in a narrow, sagging bed, covered in a thin blanket. He groaned and threw a hand up to block the light spilling through the open door, which landed with malignant accuracy on his face. “Close that damn thing. Were you raised in a barn?” He slurred the words, as though punch drunk.

“Part of the time,” Mark said, pushing the door most of the way shut. Tiny pinpricks of morning light leaked around the thick black curtains over the windows, outlining the shape of Wight in his sickbed. A metal pail sat on the floor beside him, stinking of vomit. The man’s mustache drooped, and his hair lay slicked against his head with sweat. Mark wrinkled his nose at the musty, stuffy air. “We have to get you out of here. There’s no way this is good for you.”

Wight squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket up over his eyes. “Just don’t make me go outside.”

“Well, you’ll have to. We’ll be headed to Orléans soon, to take you to a hospital.” Mark pursed his lips. “At least, I hope so.”

Wight peeked out over the sheets. “How are we getting there?”

“By train, if the resistance can manage it.” Mark grimaced. “Though there may not be much chance of that. We may end up split up in cars or wagons.”

Wight turned green at that. “Oh god, I’m gonna be sick again.”

Mark scrambled back as Wight grabbed for the pail. He wretched into it, coughing and groaning. Mark waited to say anything else until the splattering stopped and Wight came up, wheezing.

“You sound awful. Can I get you anything?”

Wight shook his head, wiping a dribble of sick off his chin. “Some peace and quiet. But thanks.”

Mark let himself out the door, easing it shut behind him and rubbing at his own head where the German officer had clubbed him. Probing at the healthy sized goose egg, he winced. He’d been lucky. His headache had faded with a good night’s sleep, but a little harder or sharper of a blow and he’d be in as bad of shape as Wight. No one in Liliane’s team had the faintest idea how to treat Wight’s skull fracture, and he hadn’t improved much over the past couple of days. He was talking and a bit more alert, but that was about all that could be said for him.

Another member of the team was upstairs too; Johnson looked up at him from the bench at the end of the hall. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’d been staying close, in case Wight were to call out or need anything.

“How’s he look?”

“Better.” Mark said, taking a seat beside the big man. “But still not great. At least he’s talking now.”

The corner of Johnson’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “A little bit,” he agreed. “Won’t it be great when he’s back to his usual sarcastic self?”

Mark leaned forward on the bench, resting his arms on his knees. The safe house had swollen with scattered resistance fighters retreating from their previous bases of operations. Each bore the same story of gestapo turning up on their doorsteps, without any warning. A coordinated strike across the city, landing with pinpoint accuracy. Mark’s head drooped; the French Resistance was doomed, and with the house full to bursting, he and his comrades had to squeeze into two small rooms, little more than closets, on the top floor.

Johnson thumped him on the back. “Chin up, Mark. We’re not dead yet, thanks to your little grenade trick.”

The image of Roger’s ruined skull flashed through Mark’s mind. The vacant eyes staring through him, their ever-present spectacles on the floor. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image. “Yah. Thanks.”

They both lapsed into silence, lost in their individual thoughts. Mark rolled the series of events back in his head. He’d pulled the pin on the dud grenade, dropped it down the stairs, and rushed the lead officer. I should have gone for the guy with the pistol to Roger’s head, he thought. The one I tackled didn’t even have his gun out.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself.

“Hrm?” Johnson said, looking up at him over his crossed arms. “What’s that?”

“Me.” Mark looked at the floor. “I went for the wrong soldier, back at Francois’ house. I could have saved Rogers.”

“Kid, don’t play ‘what-if.’ It’s not productive.” Johnson shook his head. “It’s impossible not to make mistakes in combat. Too much happens too fast for any human to keep track of it all.”

Mark lifted his head. “Well sure, but still…”

Johnson went on. “Let’s say you had gone for the man holding Rogers, what then? Maybe you get there in time, maybe you don’t, but then the lead officer isn’t tied up dealing with you. Maybe you save Rogers, but I get shot coming down the stairs after you.”

“But MacDougal-”

“The Sergeant wants you to stick to established plans. But there was no established plan for this.” He shook his head. “You did the best any of us could.”

Mark sat quietly for a moment longer, digesting Johnson’s words, then stood. “That helps, actually. Thank you.” I’m not going to let that happen to anyone else, though, he thought to himself with stubborn determination. He left Johnson sitting on the bench and made for the narrow staircase, the ancient floorboards creaking under his feet as he worked his way through the cramped halls. Key resistance members had known of its location, so that they could contact Fleur-de-Lis, exchange messages, and get information. A hub of intelligence, driving resistance activities through the city. Now it was half hospice for the wounded and half refugee center, as the Resistance gathered in what strays it could. In truth, the rooms they’d been given were a luxury. He edged around men laid out on the floors of the halls. Boiled white linen table clothes wrapped some of them, makeshift bandages soaked through in places with dull reddish-brown blood.

He found Liliane on the second floor, standing at a table. Francois loomed like a vulture behind her shoulder. They spoke in quiet voices, papers scattered across the table in front of them. Liliane pointed at something on map pinned down in front of her, while Francois shook his head. On the wall across from them, a set of aviator’s goggles hung with a cap, out of place among the paintings that decorated the other walls. Mark spared it a moments’ consideration; did they have a pilot here? That could be useful.

“Non,” Liliane said in sharp rebuke to Francois. “If we all flee, then what good are we? We’d be little better than bandits, hiding in the woods.”

“Without a network of safe houses, we are sitting ducks,” he shot back. “Especially the wounded, we can’t take them to any local hospitals, with the Nazis watching for combat injuries.”

Liliane glared at him. “They won’t be any better off out in the countryside. The plan-” She tapped the papers in front of her for emphasis. “-relies on having resistance members in place in Paris itself. We can’t just change everything.”

“Sometimes plans have to change, Lily,” Francois said wearily, running fingers through his hair. “We can save most of them by splitting everyone into groups and trickling them out a few at a time. Groups of two or three won’t raise much suspicion.”

“And then what?” Liliane leaned over the papers, her lips pursed. “That would mean the end of the Resistance, the end of everything we’ve worked for. It would mean giving up.

“No,” Francois said again, his mouth set in a grim line. “It just means taking some time to regroup. If we stay in Paris right now, we’re doomed. Better live to fight another day.”

Mark cleared his throat. “Anything we can do to help?”

They turned to look at him. Francois narrowed his eyes in a glare, and Liliane rubbed at her mouth, looking a little frazzled. “Mark. Come in, please.”

Francois’s lips puckered like a prune. “Perhaps it would be best if he waited outside.” He glared at Mark as he made his way in to stand on Liliane’s other side.

“The man saved your life, Francois,” she chided him gently. “And we need to go over their route in any case.”

Mark found himself looking at her freckles as she talked. They bunched up on her cheeks, charming in a way that he hadn’t known freckles could be…

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He blinked. Francois was glaring daggers at him, and Liliane had one eyebrow arched, a polite, bemused smile on her face. He’d been staring.

He offered her his most charming smile, the same one that had saved him from endless trouble growing up. “You want to go dancing sometime?”

She blinked at him, like he was crazy. “You know we’re at war, right?”

“Right, but after that, I mean.”

“Sure, Mark.” She shook her head, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Just as soon as we’ve saved all my people, chased the Germans out of Paris, and won the war, we can go dancing.”

“It’s a date then,” Mark said with a cheeky grin, and Francois’ scowl deepened even further. “So where are you sending us, after we get Wight to the hospital in Orléans?”

“South.” She ran her fingers into her bun and pulled at it, looking back down at the map. “From Orléans to Tours by truck. You may be able to get aboard a train in Tours, as far as Bordeaux. Then on to Toulouse, and over the Pyrenees mountains. Once you’re in Spain, it should be easy. The trains run from Barcelona to Madrid, then South to Malaga.”

That sounded easy enough. “And then?”

Francois shrugged, taking up the thread. “And then it’s a hundred-mile drive along the coast to Algeciras. You’ll bribe a fisherman to ferry you across, and then you’ll be in Gibraltar. That was the most dangerous section; it’s heavily patrolled.”

Mark frowned. “What do you mean ‘it was’ the most dangerous section?”

“He says ‘was’ because we’re not entirely sure if we can even get you out of France.” Liliane confessed, grimacing. “A few months ago, once you were south of Bourges you were pretty much home free, save for that last section. Now…”

Francois cut in. “Now you will face patrols and checkpoints the whole way.” He smiled a small, nasty smile. “Bribes for Spanish officials are expensive, and we’re cut off from all of our safe houses along the line. No way to get you good identification. The cost of turning tail and running has gone up, I suppose.”

Mark knew the older man was goading him, but that knowledge only stoked his temper. “What’s your clever plan, then? To hang around in the woods until the Nazis fit you for a hemp necklace?”

“If it comes to that, I will wear it with pride.”

“Enough,” Liliane broke in with a snap. “If you two want to butt heads like a pair of goats, do it outside.” She rubbed at one cheek. “We can’t do anything yet in any case. It may be weeks yet before it’s safe to start sending people away.”

Mark broke away from glaring at Francois to look at her. “Why is that?”

Francois snorted. “The Gestapo flood the streets and the catacombs like worms, stumbling in the dark. They do not know the tunnels, but there are a lot of them down there, searching.”

Liliane nodded. “We had thought to use the tunnels to smuggle out the worst hurt…Men with injuries rouse suspicions. But we cannot risk the Nazi’s stumbling onto this location.”

Mark shuddered at the thought of going back down into those tunnels. “Well you don’t have to convince me. I’d just as soon not go back down there.”

Francois smirked at him. “Ah, you did not care for our catacombs? Does the dark hold some dread for you?”

“Only if you’re down there,” Mark retorted, but there was too much truth in the barb for him to shake it off easily.

Liliane rolled her eyes. “Francois, can you check in with the cook to see how we are for food? I might have to send you out to try and find some more.”

“As you wish,” he said.

“We paid Phillipe for a large food delivery just before we were found,” Mark offered. “He won’t have sent it yet. You might be able to get him to bring it here instead.”

Her face broke into a grateful smile, honest and warm. It made her eyes bright. They were a light brown shade, flecked with green, and he basked in their glow for a moment, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Why Mark, that would be much appreciated. This is the same Phillipe that you’d find at that seedy bar… Les Guêpes?”

“That’s the one.”

“I know the patrols are heavy, but do you think you could get to him, Francois?” she asked, turning her liquid eyes on him.

Francois nodded, his scowl fading to a thoughtful expression. “I know him. Will your Sergeant be alright with that?”

Mark hadn’t considered that. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. After all,” he shrugged, “It’s not like we’re going to be able to get our money back, and there won’t be anyone to take delivery at your house.”

Francois laughed at that, a short bitter bark. “I suppose that is true. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Wait.” Liliane commanded, stopping him short. She reached down to a messenger bag at her feet that Mark hadn’t noticed before. “You were seen yesterday, yes?”

“Briefly,” Francois admitted, reluctantly.

“Then hold still.” She brought the bag up to the table and thumped it down, pulling it open to reveal a vast array of brushes, paints, powders, and what looked suspiciously like bundles of hair. She pulled out a jar and held it up next to Francois’ face, her lips pursed, then exchanged it for another.

“Getting dolled up for a hot date?” Mark asked, bemused. Francois shot him a nasty glare but stayed silent.

Liliane set to work, dabbing a brush into the jar’s contents and then applying it to Francois’ face in quick, even strokes. She darkened the area under his eyes, and drew heavy shadows at the corners of his mouth in a line that extended up to the sides of his nose. A finer brush came out next, adding details. Mark blinked in consternation; the whole process didn’t take her more than a few minutes, but Francois aged ten years before his eyes like magic. It wasn’t perfect; if he looked closely, he could see the powder, but it was certainly impressive.

“That’s a useful bag,” Mark noted, as Liliane pulled a gray, ragged wig out of the bag and perched it on Francois' head. “You’ve got a whole theater costume department in there!”

She chuckled. “Not quite, though I have a few outfits. Your commander even gave me one of the uniforms that you took...not sure how to put that one to use, and I had to clean it up a bit.” She kept her eyes on Francois as she talked, pursing her lips and considering her handiwork. “There,” she said to Francois, finishing with some fine lines, penciled around his lips. “You look very distinguished, but less like yourself.”

Francois smiled at her, and the faux wrinkles deepened. “Thank you, Lily. I will be back in a few hours.” Inclining his head to Liliane, he turned and left, boots clomping on the stairs.

Mark watched him go. “Sure, for you it’s back in a few hours. We were lucky to get him back once every few days.”

Liliane chuckled, putting her tools away and returning to her papers. “Don’t hold that against him. He had brothels to visit.”

“Ha! Yes, he seems the type, doesn’t he?”

She tilted her head back up to look at him, her smile cooling. “Pardon?”

“Uh…” Damn, but the warmth had gone straight out of those eyes. What had he said? “Just that, uh, it would explain why he was spending so many nights out.”

“You misunderstand me,” she said. Her voice was polite, but the smile dropped away entirely. “He was not…patronizing the brothels. He was collecting information.”

“Oh.” His face flushed. “From the, uh, the ladies?”

“From the whores?” She smirked at his uncomfortable blush. “Yes. Soldiers love to pillow talk, you see?”

Realization dawned on him. “So that’s how you always knew so much about troop movements!”

“Yes.” She nodded. “The occupying soldiers have their favorites, and some of them talk of when they’re leaving. They drop hints about where they’re going, and when. Even if they say nothing, the ladies notice when a man who’s been seeing her stops. We put all the tidbits together and try to make sense of it, and of anything else that leaks through. Information is power.”

“So…” He paused, hunting for safer ground. “How did a lovely young lady like you end up as spymaster for the French resistance?”

She snorted, either at his clumsiness or the flattery, he couldn’t say which. “Not where I expected to be, I assure you,” she answered, throwing a quick glance across the room.

He followed her gaze to the goggles and helmet hanging on the opposite wall. “You were a pilot?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t know they let women fly.”

“Oh, sure they let us fly,” she said, her voice bitter. “From the factory to the airfield. But we had to take the train back.”

“What, you wanted to go into combat?” He asked, aghast.

“Why not? The Russian’s have their Night Witches.” She ran a hand through her hair, pulling at it. “Little chance of that now. I wasn’t about to fly for that traitor Pétain, and being stranded here when they surrendered…” She shrugged. “I made the best of things.”

“Why didn’t you just…I don’t know, grab a plane and make for England?”

She turned her head to look at him, her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyebrows knit together. “Now why didn’t I think of that? I would have only had to steal a plane and dodge the Luftwaffe while flying over a hundred miles of occupied territory, and the Channel.” She shook her head again, the loosened bun of her hair bobbing. “No. Some of the pilots closer managed to make a run for it, I’ve heard. But from here, it would have been a fantastically terrible idea.” The way she said it suggested she thought that it should have been obvious to anyone with half of a brain.

Thumping footsteps interrupted them, saving Mark from having to make an answer. Another resistance fighter stumbled to a halt at the door, gasping, with his beret askew. “Another one has just shown up,” he panted without preamble. “Just turned up on the doorstep. Fleur, you better come have a look. He’s in a bad way.”

They cascaded down the stairwell after the man, two steps at a time, with Liliane pushing ahead in her haste. In the front room, a man lay stretched out on the carpet, with MacDougal and a handful of resistance fighters clustered around him.

Mark came to a stop at the last step, horrified. The man’s face looked like a smashed tomato, red and blotchy with bruises. His eyes had swollen almost shut, and his nose lay squashed to one side of his face, with his lips torn to shreds. When he opened his mouth to speak, blood dribbled out. He groped for his comrades with broken fingers.

“Mon dieu…” Liliane gasped, rushing to him. “Is that Gaston? Simon, go, call one of the medics down here!”

“They’re coming,” MacDougal said, from where he knelt by the man’s head. He put his hands on the fellow’s shoulders. “Steady there lad, you’re safe.”

Mark took a hesitant step forward. “What on earth happened to him?”

“Looks like they tortured him.” MacDougal leaned closer; the man was trying to talk but could only manage whispers. “Says that he got loose this morning.” He sniffed, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “Are you drunk, son?”

Mark felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. You didn’t go drinking looking like that. But if you beat a man to a pulp, then poured alcohol down his throat, where would he retreat to? Wherever he felt safest. “In that condition?” He waved at the man’s hands, his bloodied face. “Look at him.”

MacDougal lapsed into silence, leaning back on his heels. “Damn it all,” he swore. “He didn’t escape. They let him go on purpose, to see where he’d go.”