The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [50]
“Oh, oui.”
“He made a connection with a convoyeur from the Bourgogne on that trip.”
Nicolas explained that the escape-line organizers had trained with the Free French in England, then sneaked back into France to find people to establish safe houses, to make the false IDs, and to act as guides. The Bourgogne network led the flyers from Paris south to Pau or Perpignan and linked them there with other guides for the rest of the journey. “All that is very familiar territory to you, Marshall.”
“Yes and no. I was mostly kept in the dark. After I returned, I was debriefed in London, but I couldn’t tell them much. And after the war, I just wanted to forget it. It was over.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Nicolas. “But now you want to know. That is normal. I’m trying to contact the man who was principal in the Bourgogne, and I’m waiting for him to answer my call.”
“Well, I appreciate this, Nicolas. I’ll have to give you more than a Bugs Bunny jacket this time.”
Nicolas laughed. “It is my pleasure and my duty, Marshall. It would be an honor to me to help you in this quest.”
“Of course they could all be dead, or citizens of New Caledonia by now.”
“Ah. Life is an adventure, Marshall.”
“So it is.”
“I’m going to check more in the libraries. I may take the train into Paris one day and check some holdings in the National Archives or the bibliothèque.”
“I could do that, perhaps?”
“It is no problem to me. Besides, Marshall, you may need better French for research at the very proper and bureaucratic Bibliothèque nationale! I mean no offense.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
MARSHALL BOARDED A TAXI with his luggage and a bag of laundry. He had found a suitable place in the Fourteenth Arrondissement, south of the Montparnasse Cemetery. The concierge, who lived on the ground floor, was a laconic country woman from the north. Her husband had returned to their village for the summer to help his aged father with his fruit orchard.
In the lobby of the apartment building two chairs sat in a tiled nook with a potted plant and a wall telephone with buzzers. Marshall had rented a two-room furnished apartment up two flights. He squeezed his belongings into the Tom Thumb elevator and dashed up the stairs to meet it.
The apartment was spacious enough, with a large living area overlooking a small park, a minimalist kitchen, a shower, and a plain bedroom with a narrow but long-enough bed. There was even a bidet.
Exploring the neighborhood, he found a small market on the rue d’Alésia and stocked up on supplies, everything from cornflakes to toilet paper. He toted his bags back, then tried to figure out bedding. He had never bought sheets in his life. Where did one buy them in Paris? The concierge was out. Should he call Jim in the Dordogne?
A pleasant woman at the counter of the neighborhood tabac directed him to a department store near the Denfert-Rochereau Métro, and without—he hoped—seeming too stupid he selected a pair of sheets, a light fuzzy blanket, and a flat pillow. In the apartment, he arranged his possessions. He set his brain bag and typewriter on the table that would be his desk and stowed his clothing in the plain, massive armoire, which smelled like old shoes.
He examined his place. The wood floors were worn, the radiator was dusty. There was no TV, no radio, no clock. All he could hear was the murmur of the small refrigerator and the occasional sounds of traffic. This, he realized, was the only home he had made for himself since he arranged his corner of the barracks at Molesworth.
He was alone. No one back home knew where he was.
WIDE AWAKE IN THE MIDDLE of the night, he did a preflight walk-around, then ran through a preflight checklist in the cockpit. Instead of counting sheep, he tried to count and name all the switches, controls, and dials in a 747 cockpit—tachometer, fuel-flow indicator, radar altimeter, autopilot trim indicator, airspeed … flap position … hydraulic-system pressure …
He had to get his bearings. The search for long-lost friends from the war was beginning