The Black Swan of Paris

by Karen Robards

  Number 2 was a house, tall, narrow and dignified, with a stone facade that had been painted a soft, cheery yellow. Windows on either side of the front door had their curtains pulled tightly shut. On the stoop a blue ceramic pot held a colorful mix of poppies and lilies of the valley. The delicate white bells and bright red blossoms fluttered in the breeze that came whistling down the street as Genevieve mounted the steps. In the center of the flowers, a child’s pinwheel whirred as it spun.

  With one more quick look around to make certain she wasn’t being observed, she used the key and let herself in.

  Emmy was waiting for her.

  They acknowledged each other with a quick exchange of glances as Genevieve stepped into a dark, wood-paneled center hallway, the most distinguishing feature of which was a steep staircase along one side that led to the floor above. The hall was cold and smelled musty.

  Moving past her without a word, Emmy closed and locked the door, then turned back. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you. As are you.” The exchange was slightly stilted. Genevieve was conscious of the gulf between them: time, and much else.

  “I’m not, but we’re not here to discuss that.” Emmy beckoned. “Come into the lounge.”

  She led the way into a chamber that was only slightly less gloomy than the hall, thanks to the tightly drawn drapes that covered the large front window. Genevieve got a quick impression of a high ceiling, a long-unused fireplace, a worn carpet, and a few pieces of torn and scarred furniture—and several darker rectangles on the pale green walls where it was obvious paintings had once hung.

  “Whose house is this?” The question was involuntary, prompted because something about the atmosphere made her uncomfortable. As her gaze returned to her sister, Genevieve crossed her arms over her chest. She had no desire to sit, and Emmy didn’t appear to want to, either.

  “It belongs to the owner of an art gallery in Montmartre. He and his family were arrested last year. They’re Jews.” Emmy gestured at the walls. “As you can see, they had a number of valuable paintings. The Nazis took them. The house they simply left. It’s been ransacked several times. Everything that wasn’t stolen has been badly damaged. We’ve been using it as a safe house off and on for some months now.”

  Unspoken but implicit in her words was the near certainty that the owners would never be back.

  It was a tragedy that had become commonplace. Houses and businesses abandoned when their Jewish owners were rounded up and deported could be found in multiples in every arrondissement in the city. They were like tombstones, bearing silent witness to the atrocities that had claimed their owners. Neighbors and those who knew what had happened tended to avert their eyes and walk a little faster when they passed by, as if fearful of bringing such a fate down upon their own heads.

  Genevieve thought of Anna and Rachel. An icy shiver slid down her spine.

  Closing her mind to what she couldn’t help, Genevieve looked at her sister. “You’re with the SOE?”

  Even with the evidence in front of her, she still found it hard to believe, and her voice held a note of astonishment.

  “Vartan should not have told you that. He has a big mouth.”

  “He thought we were working together.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “How did that come about?”

  Emmy took off her scarf. Her hair, always thick as a horse’s tail, was long now and had been braided and twisted into a fat bun at her nape.

  “You know Alain died?”

  Genevieve gave a curt nod. As determinedly as she’d walked away from her family, she hadn’t been able to keep herself from discreetly inquiring about them when the chance presented itself, as it did occasionally as she toured, when she might come across someone who had recently traveled through Cherbourg, or who might have connections with the wine business, or even the odd newspaper. That she had sought out such news was, she saw now, an indication of how much she had missed them, although at the time she hadn’t been prepared to acknowledge that even to herself. Thinking about them had meant thinking about the past, and that carried such pain with it that she’d refused to do it.

  Emmy said, “My husband—my second husband, David Granville—is British. He’s the third son of Lord Granville, the vice admiral, and after we married and moved to England, he was given a job at the War Office. When the Nazis overran France, the SOE was in desperate need of women who were fluent in French to go in and gather intelligence. When they learned that I am French, they approached me. I said no at first, but then David... He couldn’t be talked out of going off to fight. He was with the Eighth Army and got taken prisoner at El Alamein. When that happened, I told them I would go. I’ve been carrying out missions for Baker Street for almost a year and a half now. I got in touch with Papa—” Her voice faltered.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Genevieve said. Her chest ached with the grief she’d been carefully keeping at bay.

  She saw her own pain reflected in Emmy’s eyes. “I know. He was already working with the SOE when I arrived in France. I warned him of the risk he was taking, but you know him. He insisted on carrying on. Remember how Maman was always saying, ‘There’s no doing anything with him once he gets an idea in his head, so the only thing to do is not let it get in there’?”

  That last was said in a tone that mixed affection with sorrow. It was something Lillian had frequently told them as a kind of rule of thumb for how she planned to deal with their sometimes stubborn father. They’d always translated it to tell Papa only what you want him to know. Even as the ache in her chest intensified, Genevieve nodded, and they both smiled a little mistily at the memory.

  “Well.” As though to provide herself with a distraction, Emmy carefully folded her scarf and tucked it into her coat pocket before looking at Genevieve again. Her manner grew brisk. “You said you needed to see me. Here I am. I can’t stay long. Keeping on the move is the best protection against capture.”

  “I wanted to be sure you knew about Maman. She must be rescued, but I have no idea how to go about it. Vartan thought you could do it. I’m available to help any way I can. Sometimes being the Black Swan is very useful for things like getting admitted to places. Or getting out of them.” At the last moment, Genevieve had second thoughts about adding what she’d learned the previous night. It occurred to her that, just possibly, as an SOE agent herself, Emmy might feel compelled to honor the order Max had been given. Almost as soon as the notion occurred, though, she rejected it. Emmy and their mother had always been extremely close. Whatever else might have changed in the ensuing years, she was as sure as it was possible to be that that had not.

  “I’ll remember that.” Emmy’s tone was noncommittal.

  Genevieve said, “There’s one more thing you should know. I’ve learned that the SOE has given orders that Maman is to be killed if she cannot be immediately rescued.”

  Emmy frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

  Loyalty to Max kept her from revealing the details. Protecting him and his operation was ingrained in her by now.

  She shook her head. “I can’t say. But it’s true, I give you my word.”

  Emmy said, “I trusted you enough to come and meet you, and to bring you here. It’s your turn to trust me.”

  Genevieve gave her a long look. Emmy’s face was older, with shadows in her eyes that spoke of difficult experiences and hard lessons learned since they had last seen each other, but she knew it as well as she knew her own. She knew her sister’s character as well as she knew her own, too. In the end it wasn’t even a tough decision to make.

  She said, “I’ve been working for the SOE, too. For—someone—who got a message from—I’m quite sure it was London. I happened to see it. It was an order, I believe from whoever is in charge there. It said the baroness was a threat, and this person should see that she was executed if she couldn’t be rescued.
Act quickly, he was told.”

  “I haven’t heard of any such order.” She paused and seemed to reflect. When she spoke again, it was almost as if she were talking to herself. “But then, I wouldn’t. I’m based with the Maquis, and I work with a network of cells to coordinate airdrops and sabotage and intelligence gathering, things like that. Papa’s cell was one of those in my network. Now that it’s been destroyed and can be of no more use to us, I wouldn’t ordinarily be involved. I would have been notified that the cell was gone, and that would have been that. It’s only because Vartan contacted me—because of the personal connection—that I went to Cherbourg. That I’m here.”

  Genevieve felt a flutter of alarm. “You do mean to rescue Maman?”

  This time Emmy’s smile was small and grim. “It won’t be easy. But of course I’m going to try. I have friends I hope can help. Papa knew something that I’m afraid he told her, which the boche must suspect. Which anybody must suspect who knew how they were together. That explains why they’ve kept her alive and brought her here to Paris. She must be being very brave, holding out, but they will succeed in torturing it out of her, and then they’ll execute her.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “I can see why your friend was given that order. If she was not my mother, I would agree with it.”

  Genevieve was horrified. “You would agree with murder? Of an innocent woman?”

  “The fight is so desperate, and the consequences of losing are so enormous. If the Nazis prevail, it will be the end of the world as we know it. They will engage in mass slaughter on a scale that makes everything they’ve done up until now seem like nothing. Any of us who survive will wish we were dead, I promise you.”

  Genevieve shivered. “What does she know that’s so dangerous?”

  Emmy grimaced. “If I’m right, and I’m very much afraid I am, details of the planned Allied invasion of France. The Nazis have gotten wind of it, but everything possible is being done to mislead them as to when it will happen, and where. It’s vital that they not learn the truth.” Her gaze locked with Genevieve’s. “There. I’ve told you a big secret. Now you must tell me one. Who is this man you’re working for? He’ll be trying to locate Maman, too. Perhaps I can use what he’s turned up in his search. At the very least I must know who to watch out for.”

  Still Genevieve hesitated. “You would not—I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “Oh, is he cute?”

  That unexpected bit of teasing, the sudden sparkle in Emmy’s eyes, was so like the Emmy of old that Genevieve was startled. It brought her sister back to her as nothing else had, in a way that was heartwarming and gut-wrenching at the same time.

  “It isn’t that,” Genevieve said, and was only aware of how defensive she sounded when it was too late to do anything about it. Emmy’s smile flashed. Genevieve frowned quellingly at her, and suddenly it was as if all those years they’d spent apart had vanished in the blink of an eye. “He’s doing important and valuable work, and to interfere with it or cause harm to come to him would be a huge disservice to the partisans. Also, it would be wrong.”

  “I understand your concern for his work.” Emmy’s tone was grave, but that teasing sparkle still lurked in her eyes. “If we’re lucky, we’ll never come anywhere near him, and if we’re not, you can be sure we’d never do anything to harm one of our own agents. I just prefer to approach this nearly impossible task with as much information as possible. So who is he? Come on, je te tiens, tu me tiens, I need to know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Emmy’s casual use of their catchphrase from the old days disarmed her. It was one more nearly irresistible reminder of the tie that had once bound them. That did bind them. For better or worse, they were sisters, and in it together, still.

  As Genevieve came to that realization, the last bit of her reserve with her sister melted away.

  Who could she trust in this matter if not Emmy?

  “My manager,” Genevieve said. “Max Bonet.” She saw no need to add that Max was really Max Ryan, a Brit. A tiny sliver of caution on Max’s behalf? Perhaps.

  “He’s based in Paris?” Emmy’s tone was all business.

  Genevieve shook her head. “I’m constantly on tour. He travels with me. Before Paris, we were in Brussels. Next we tour France, and then we go to Madrid. As an artist, I can move freely between countries. I can do a lot of things ordinary citizens can’t. Max uses that.”

  “How did you get involved with him?”

  “He helped me out of a jam in Morocco and started acting as my manager.” She saw no reason to go into more detail. “I didn’t know he was with the SOE until later.”

  “Must have come as quite a shock.”

  “It did.”

  “Ironic that we both took such different routes only to end up in the same place. Could you ever have imagined that we’d end up as spies?”

  “Never.” Genevieve’s response was heartfelt.

  “It’s an insane world.” Emmy grimaced. “My code name’s Merlin. As in the hawk, not the wizard. What’s yours?”

  “I don’t think I have one. Max keeps me out of it as much as he can. In case something should go wrong.”

  “Probably wise of your Max.”

  “Believe me, he’s not my Max.”

  “If you say so. For our network, your code name will be Lark. Anyone who works with me will know you by your code name only, if I have to mention you at all. If I send someone to you, or any message comes from me, that’s the name that will be used. If you get a communication that’s supposedly from me that doesn’t use Lark or Merlin, don’t trust it. It’s not from me.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Congratulations, you just officially became a War Bird.”

  Genevieve looked a question.

  “That’s what they call us, back in London. Because we’re women—birds, as the Brits say. They think it’s funny. Men can be so juvenile.” She made a face. “So I played right into it and picked bird names for my network. I don’t think Baker Street’s gotten the joke yet.”

  Genevieve smiled. “Maybe one day.”

  “Maybe. All right, let’s get on with this. The first thing to do is find out where Maman is being held. See if you can discover from your—oh, sorry, not your Max where he is looking, and if he should find her, let me know at once. Or if you have any other sources of intelligence, particularly among the boche, this would be the time to tap into them. If someone as prominent as Baroness de Rocheford is being imprisoned and tortured in Paris, there will be whispers of it floating around. If you learn anything, you can leave a message here. Put it beneath the rug on the left side of the fireplace.” She walked over and lifted the corner of the rug to demonstrate. “Right here. If you do leave a message, pull the pinwheel out of the flowerpot out front and lay it on its side among the flowers. That way I’ll know to come in and look. The flowerpot is a signal, by the way. As long as it’s out there, it’s safe to come into the house. If it’s ever missing, don’t come anywhere near. Understand?”

  Genevieve nodded. “Yes. I may not be able to find out anything,” she cautioned. “A lot of German officers hang around backstage, but they don’t usually have anything on their minds but the girls. And Max tends to be closemouthed.”

  “Well, do what you can. And take care not to let him or anyone else catch on to what you’re doing. If the Nazis get an inkling, they could lay a trap for us with Maman as bait. As for Max, you mustn’t tell him anything about me, or that I’m going to try to rescue her.”

  “Why not?”

  “He might try to stop me from interfering, by, say, reporting me to headquarters. This is outside the scope of what I’m supposed to be doing, and if they find out, I’ll almost certainly be ordered to stop and return to my assignment. Not that I’d obey, but it would complicate things. Or he might work faster to try to get to Maman before I do, so
he can use his own judgment on how to deal with the problem she represents. The only people who care if she comes out of this alive are you and me, you know. Everybody else on our side just wants to silence her before she can tell what she knows.”

  Cold gripped the nape of Genevieve’s neck as she faced the truth of that. “I thought of telling Max who I really am—he only knows me as Genevieve Dumont—and that the baroness is my mother, and asking him to take killing her off the table and concentrate on rescuing her instead.”

  “Will he do that, do you think?”

  Honesty forced her to say, “I don’t know.”

  “Then it’s best to say nothing, rather than alert him to the fact that you have an interest in this. If he’s guarded in what he says to you, or if he lies outright, it might send us looking in the wrong direction. The time frame for saving Maman is so short we can’t afford to make a mistake.”

  “Maybe you two could work together.”

  “I doubt he would agree. And even if he did, what would happen if we reached her and he decided that the better course would be to execute her?” She shook her head. “That would end badly for one of us. No, I’d rather work on my own, with people I trust.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to rescue her?”

  “I’m going to do my best.”

  That wasn’t the guarantee Genevieve had hoped for, but she suspected it was honest. “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you? When you find her, and about what happens?”

  Emmy nodded. “If I have a message for you, I’ll lay the pinwheel down in the flowers just as you’re to do for me. The message will be in the same place, under the rug. If we should have to stop using this house, if you come by and the flowerpot is gone, I’ll find a way to get a message to you. I saw you coming out of the Ritz. You’re staying there?”