The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [75]
“A Sturmbannführer recognized you,” Grey said, his voice hard.
Heat churned up inside her. After all she had faced, she was to be examined by Grey?
“Claire,” he said, as if commanding a stubborn child and moved close.
Her calves smacked into the bed as she jerked away. “Go to hell,” she said, her voice shaking.
“How did he know you?”
Up close, Claire saw his cheek was swollen and red. A memento from the streetlight or the Nazis. A stab of guilt she brushed aside.
“He is a Sturmbannführer, for god’s sake. The SD on his armband is Sicherheitsdienst. Nazi intelligence. Who is he to you?”
“Your concern for my welfare is overwhelming,” Claire said, in spite of herself, her voice cracking.
Grey stopped and stared at her. His frown gave way to concern. His eyes scanned her face. “What happened in there?”
Claire felt the start of a sob, covered it with a laugh that came out too loud. What could be said? His bruised cheek was so close. What happened after she ran? She shook her head as if shaking off the question. “I completed my mission. What does it matter?”
He stared at her like he didn’t believe her. A breeze rattled the shutters against the window frame.
“His name is Albrecht von Richter,” Claire said.
“And he knows you?”
“From New York. From before. I hadn’t seen him since I left.”
“How well does he know you?”
Claire shrugged.
“He was very intent on finding you.”
“He was in a business deal with my husband.”
Grey stared, his eyes were nearly black, mouth set. He didn’t believe her, she could tell.
“Well. It’s true. And he couldn’t have been positive that it was me.”
“He was sure, Claire.”
“But my identification said Claire Badeau. I gave them an address in Montparnasse. Nothing tied me here.” She hated the note of pleading in her voice.
“He knew you. Personally. You weren’t just some grainy photo on an identification card. An SD Sturmbannführer can tear the city apart brick by brick to find you. Everything we’ve built could be destroyed.”
“I didn’t ask to go to goddamn Gestapo Grand Central.”
He sighed, shook his head. “You have to leave here, tonight.”
“No.”
He reached for her, then stopped. He pointed toward the window. “We are hiding people who will die unless they get out of France. Their escape line has been compromised. We are their only hope.”
Claire stared at her hands.
“Tomorrow morning, before daylight, I will drive a truck into the countryside. A simple farmer on his way home. But with a wounded American pilot and two civilians hidden inside the truck. In a few days, they will be transported out to freedom.”
“So?”
“A farmer needs a wife. And the civilians, well, they need a woman.”
“Need me for what, exactly?” She didn’t try to hide the frustration in her tone.
“They are girls, Claire. Young, too young. At the farm, I can’t—”
“I am needed here.”
“We need time to try to get a handle on von Richter to try to contain the damage. It doesn’t have to be forever if you leave tonight.”
She didn’t believe him. Sneaking away in the darkness always meant forever.
He looked around. “You may bring a small bag.”
“What about Madame Palain? I need to tell her good-bye.”
A quick headshake, no.
“A note, then,” Claire said.
His jaw twitched. “Nothing. In this, that is the kindest farewell that can be offered. I’ll be below, when you’re ready.”
She stared at the room through the flickering candle. Her window and Paris outside. The dresser Georges had found and carried up the stairs on his shoulders. The mirror Madame brought Claire from her own bedroom. The single rose posed on the silver tray, un petit monument to La Vie en Fleurs.
Claire packed three dresses, a thin slip, a toothbrush and panties. Flipping a drawer upside-down, she retrieved the jewelry roll and a wad of francs. The Cartier’s sharp edges pressed through the fabric into her skin as she gripped the silk roll.
If she took the necklace, it meant she wasn’t coming back. She strode to the window, swung open the shutters. A quick scan of the street to make sure it was clear and she leaned out over the ledge and