‘As for the war that’s coming,’ she said, ‘I’ll be running right beside you, hurling hand grenades. So we can die together.’
‘I won’t let you die.’
‘You watch my back, I’ll watch yours.’
‘It’s a deal.’
She undid his shirt button. ‘Though I’d rather watch other parts of you right now.’
‘I remember the first time you walked into my office looking for a job,’ he said, surprising her. ‘Four years ago. A little scrap of a thing in overalls too big for you. All blonde prickles and attitude. With a readiness to take on anyone who had the gall to deny you something just because you were a girl with a big dream. But you took a perverse delight in rubbing people up the wrong way. Except pilots. You’ve always respected other pilots and wanted to learn from them.’ He smiled. ‘Now they learn from you.’
‘You remember that?’
He nodded.
‘You were scary,’ she told him.
‘Quite right. I wanted to skin your hide for things you did in those early days. You were stubborn as a mule and determined to do things your way.’ He laughed, but it was low and indulgent this time. ‘I fell in love with you that first day.’
Her heart stopped. She remembered that interview. That first rainy day when Martel was the only one willing to take a chance on her, an inexperienced female pilot. But that word. Love? It frightened her more than a thunderhead racing towards her up in the skies.
‘When someone loves you,’ she murmured, ‘they expect things of you.’
Martel drew her into his arms. ‘I only expect you to be you.’
His lips pressed down on hers. It was nothing like a first kiss. Not tentative. Not greedy. Not like he wanted only to take his pleasure in her, to satisfy his own need. Romy had received a thousand kisses in the past, many from men she scarcely knew, but never one like this. This one was full of the kind of heat and passion she’d expect from a man like Martel, but more. Much more. His kiss was so full of love that it changed her.
It tore her apart. And it set her on fire. Is that what love did to you? Took you apart and put you back together in a way that you didn’t recognise? It robbed her of her safety because suddenly all her walls were down, leaving her dizzy and exposed. Love made her want to pour out her soul to this man and that terrified her.
She had worked alongside Léo Martel for four years and despite his occasional grouchiness and his strictness, when it came to providing top-quality service for clients in need of air transport, he was the finest man she knew. And his commitment as a freedom fighter was unswerving. Again and again she had witnessed his courage and loyalty. Then there was that moment in the dusty street in Spain, the stolen second when he cheated death by risking his life for her. Her arms could not stay away from him and they clasped around his neck, her hands curled into his dense dark hair, burying themselves in it as if they had no intention of ever letting go. Her body melted against his. She could feel his heart, quick and strong.
‘Why now?’ her lips whispered against his. ‘After four years, why now?’
He drew back his head to look at her and ran his lips along the curve of her forehead. ‘Because I thought I’d lost you forever on that train. Those hours were . . .’ No more words came. She felt his breath hot on her skin. ‘Everything changed,’ he said at last.
He kissed the length of her throat, his tongue furrowing the dips and curves of her collarbone, teasing a moan from her. ‘But before I tear that hideous dress off you, I have a meeting to go to.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve had no sleep. Go to bed now and get some rest. I will be back from the meeting before—’
She stepped out of his arms, a deep frown on her face. ‘What meeting?’
‘It’s with what remains of our cell – Jerome, Diane and Manu. Plus a couple of new members I have installed to replace poor François and Grégory.’
‘I’ll come.’
He sighed and shook his head at her. ‘No.’
They both knew he was not going to win this one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The two new members looked like killers. Romy wanted to turn and walk out. The tall one had a narrow clever face with lines of discontent and went by the name of Henri. He was a radio operator. So he said. The other one, Noam, was a skilled photographer, he claimed. He was black-haired and had grey pouches under his eyes, eyes that were so still and sharp and dark they looked like gun barrels. Yet it was Martel who had invited these two men in. He must trust them. But they set Romy’s teeth on edge.
The mood in the room was tense. The gaping holes where François and Grégory should be were staring at them but no one mentioned their names. The meeting had shifted to the Pigalle district in a poky apartment above a dog-grooming salon and the stink of canines sent images of Josephine Baker’s little furball dog into Romy’s mind. Hot on its heels came a desire to rip out Herr Müller’s tongue. But Manu had launched into a long account of how General Douville had come into his barbershop as usual, but this time with von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s right-hand man, at his side.
‘I could have sliced the Nazi bastard’s throat open as he sat in my chair. Easy as cutting butter.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
It was the photographer with the gun-barrel eyes who asked. He was aiming them straight at Manu.
Manu was bald and soft and took his life in his hands reporting the chatter he heard in his barbershop each day among the government officials who had taken a shine to his place. But colour rose in his cheeks now.
‘I’m not a killer,’ he stated flatly, ‘and never will be.’
‘Shit-scared, that’s why,’ Noam muttered, but fell silent after a harsh look from Martel and took to picking his nails.
‘The battle of Ebro River, give us news on that,’ urged Diane, the milliner to a government minister’s wife. ‘How is it going for our boys?’
By our boys she meant the Spanish Republican soldiers. They all did that, thought of them as ours.
Martel kept it brief, his jaw set hard as if his words were chips of glass. ‘General Mendez gave me details. It is a brutal battle being fought in hell down there, God help them. Each day five hundred enemy cannons are firing more than thirteen thousand rounds at our Republican troops, while two hundred of Franco’s Nationalist aircraft are raining bombs down on them all day.’
Diane wailed and buried her face in her hands, her absurd hat of emerald bows tilted at a precarious angle. Romy shut down her mind. The image of flesh shredded and limbs ripped off was too much. She’d had no sleep, no food and, more importantly, no drink all day. She shouldn’t have come. Martel was right.
‘But our Republican troops are fighting back,’ he continued. ‘They are stubborn and they’re brave. Modesto is leading them in an assault on the town of Gandesa with T-26 tanks, and the Fifteenth International Brigade will be launching a fierce attack alongside them.’ His hands were rolled into fists at his sides. ‘But it’s the enemy aircraft – Hitler’s Condor Legion, and the Aviazione Legionaria from Mussolini – that are doing the damage. They outnumber Republican planes by at least two to one. So, with thanks to Jerome for his financial wizardry, we start flying planes down there tomorrow.’
All eyes turned to Romy.
She nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
Martel’s gaze narrowed on her. ‘I think not. I can find another pilot for this job.’
‘Why?’ Manu asked.
‘I thought you said Romaine was an excellent pilot,’ Diane objected.
‘She is. But she has done enough. It is dangerous work, Diane, and she deserves a break.’
‘I don’t need a break,’ Romy insisted. ‘Where in Paris are you going to find another pilot you can trust to keep his mouth shut?’
‘She’s right,’ Henri agreed, the one with the clever face. He shrugged with amusement. ‘You’re stuck with her.’
Romy decided that now was the time to mention Horst Baumeiste
r. It would distract Martel from the question of who should shuttle the planes down south.
‘Tomorrow evening I am dining alone with a German, one of Hitler’s delegation over here to hold discussions in Paris with Daladier’s Popular Front government and—’
‘No,’ Martel interrupted. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Of course it’s dangerous,’ Diane said with a warm smile for Romaine. ‘But it’s excellent news. What we need is—’
‘No.’ Martel’s single word swelled to fill the room.
Henri leaned forward, a wolfish smile on his face. ‘Why not? She can do it.’
‘If I can find out information from Horst Baumeister on Franco’s plans for troop movements and the Condor Legion in Spain, it could save hundreds of lives,’ Romy pointed out. But she could see a vein in Martel’s neck, taut as a bow rope.
‘No.’
‘She can do it, Martel,’ Henri said. ‘She can look after herself. She has a taste for danger.’
‘You don’t even know her, Henri, so don’t interfere in—’
‘I can see it in her,’ the new member said in a soft hiss. ‘If she had to, she could be a killer.’
‘Shut up,’ Martel snapped. ‘Keep out of this.’
A killer.
Romy stood abruptly. ‘I must leave now.’ Without looking at Martel she picked up her bag and walked to the door.
‘Romaine, please do not have dinner with the German.’
She closed the door quietly behind her.
A killer? It takes one to know one.
Romy ran down the stairs, and when she looked down at her hands, her heart leaped to her throat because they were covered in scarlet, in thick sticky strings of blood that trailed from her fingers. She blinked hard. The blood vanished. Her fingers were smooth and pink once more. Nevertheless, her father’s blood was there, just under the skin, she knew it. But only she could see it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FLORENCE
She is not here. I know it the moment I walk through the door off the street. I feel a coldness in the fabric of the house despite the July heat that bakes its stone walls and it tells me my sister is not within them. Nevertheless, I climb the five flights of stairs to check her room under the roof. I could be wrong.
But no, I am not wrong. The room is empty. Stifling, shabby, unloved and empty. The bed is unmade, which annoys me intensely. Downstairs, the concierge handed me the key to save her legs the bother of the stairs, so now I lock the door behind me while I wait for my sister. I open the window to tempt in some sluggish air and the noise of the city’s incessant traffic comes at me like a slap in the face. I retreat into the room. I make the bed and smooth out the pink damask bedcover which I’m pleased to see looks clean. Well, cleanish. Only then do I sit on it.
I sit there for an hour. And then another. I am here for one reason. One reason only. To warn Romaine off the dinner with Horst Baumeister because I don’t trust him. I don’t know what he’s up to or what he thinks he can gain by pursuing my sister, but I don’t believe he has invited her to dinner just because she is an aviatrix and has a pretty face.
He scares me. I don’t know why Roland can’t see it. My husband is usually so sharp to sniff out trouble before it explodes in his face, that’s why he’s good as his job. But this time he shrugs and says they are perfect for each other. He looked at my expression and laughed. So it is all up to me to protect her.
I feel sick, the kind of sickness where your gut is on fire and the sweat on your palms betrays you. Tremors pass through me each time I tell myself that my fears are groundless, but it is not the German I fear. It is the Algerian brat. The pain in my gut starts burning its way up to my throat when I think of Karim’s son and the way he looked down at his shoes to hide his hatred.
I will give him no money. I would rather throw it into the Seine and watch it sink into the black mud. Because this boy must be all too aware of the kind of money I inherited – even if Romaine refused hers – and if he thinks for one second that he can pressure me into giving some of it to him, he will never stop. He will ask and ask, demand and demand, until he sucks me dry. And every handout will be an admission guilt.
Dear God, how could Romaine be such a fool as to lavish her money on him and his mother all these years? It is like signing her own death warrant.
And mine.
Doesn’t she see it? She must stop. Right now. Between Horst Baumeister and Samir Abed, my sister is walking on a razor-edge that will cut us both to—
The door bursts open. A kick from outside ruptures the lock. The noise of it explodes into the room and I leap to my feet, but I am not someone who panics. Ask Roland. I am not someone who loses control and starts screaming as if their brains are running out of their mouth. I remain calm. I hold my nerve. I face the intruder.
‘Get out!’
The stranger is tall, extremely tall, and his long limbs seem to reach into all corners of the small room. I get a flash of fair hair and a heavy cruel mouth as he comes at me. Fast. Full of menace. Intent as a wild boar on goring its victim. Before I can utter a sound he has me flat against the wall, his forearm jammed across my windpipe, his hard muscular body crushing mine.
I am helpless.
I cannot cry out. I cannot breathe. Blood is roaring in my ears. My mouth opens but nothing comes out and it dawns on me that I am about to die. My attacker’s face, one cheek pockmarked like buckshot, starts to blur, his features melt into each other. I swing a feeble foot at him but connect with nothing.
Who are you?
My lips form the words but no sound emerges.
His face pushes so close to mine, our noses are almost touching and I can smell sweet cologne on him. It turns my stomach. He is no older than I am but his eyes are ancient and lifeless, pale grey eyes cut from marble. His mouth almost touches mine.
‘Mademoiselle Duchamps,’ he rumbles and he kisses me roughly. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He thinks I am Romaine. No, no, no. I try to shake my head but nothing responds. My brain is screaming for air and oxygen. Mist, like cobwebs, covers my eyes and I am going to be sick. The pain. The noise. The sadness. It is too much. I try to remember something but instead a blackness rolls in, dragging me under. My legs buckle. If he were not holding me jammed to the wall, I would be in a heap on the floor.
Only then does he pull back his arm. Air whoops into my starved lungs, sweet as honey, but it is agony as it forces its way through my battered throat.
I try to speak. A hoarse croak. I try again. A whisper escapes. ‘I am not Romaine Duchamps.’
‘You lying bitch.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Fuck you, putain. I hear you like to put it about.’
He tries to force his lips on mine but I turn my head and he bites my ear instead. I feel blood drip on my neck.
‘I am not Romaine Duchamps,’ I whisper again.
‘Blonde. Curly hair. Pretty. Lives up here.’ His hard mouth curls in an ugly smile. ‘You’re her.’
‘I am her sister.’
‘Like fuck you are.’
‘I am, I swear.’
‘You’ll do,’ he says, ‘just as well.’
I haul more air into my chest and the mist starts to retreat. My thoughts join up. He has an accent. Slight. But there. A German accent. Anger coils inside me, ice-cold, and I slam my forehead into his face. It catches his cheekbone and hurts me more than my attacker.
‘Who sent you?’ I try to shout, but my voice breaks into pieces before the words are all out.
But suddenly he seizes the front of my silk dress and tears it apart like paper. Instantly his hands are all over my breasts and his mouth is bruising my lips.
Vile. Hateful. Revolting. Blind fury tips me over the edge. I fight and I bite, I kick and struggle, I turn into a wild creature as I try to break free, but this violent stranger picks me up by the throat and throws me across the bed. I scream. But it is no more than a hoarse cough.
Fea
r ricochets. I lash out and my nails slice open his pocked cheek, but he laughs and pins both my wrists above my head on the bed with one hand.
‘I am not Romaine Duchamps,’ I spit in his face.
‘No matter. You can tell her what it was like.’
I can barely breathe, his body is crushing mine. His free hand pushes into my pants, I feel them tear and I try to scream again as his fingers explore. He chuckles, a sour, hateful sound, and reaches under him to undo his belt.
That is the moment when we hear the noise. I’ve never heard anything like it. It sounds like the wail of a banshee from hell. I turn my head and look to the door. My sister is standing there, her face twisted with rage, her mouth wide open in a war cry that stops my attacker in his tracks for all of two seconds. But when she hurls herself at him where he lies on top of me, he bats her aside with a ferocious punch to her chest. She falls. Disappears from my sight.
‘Romaine, run!’ I shout to her.
But when she rises from the floor, her face has the shine of an avenging angel and each hand clutches one of the empty whisky bottles from under the bed. Without a word she slams the first one down on the back of the bastard’s head. He utters a soft grunt. Nothing more. Collapses on me. The bottle had shattered and blood trickles down on me, along with jagged spikes of glass. He groans faintly.
The second bottle crashes down on him, this time square on his temple. The noise is terrible. I feel him grow immediately heavier. I see one eye slowly filling up with blood, like a red tide sweeping in, and a scarlet stream bubbles briefly from his nostril. I know he is dead.
I try to push the weight of him off me but he is too heavy – or I have lost the strength of my limbs. I realise I am shaking. My hands, my legs, my head, my lips. All shaking. A thunderstorm rages inside them. Romaine rolls him off me, on to the pink cover and wraps the inert body up in it.
With a strength I would never have credited her with, she propels him off the bed. He hits the floor with a thud that rocks the room. I stand there numb and shaking while she snatches a towel from a hook on the back of the door and sweeps the shards of glass off the bed on to the floor and brushes them up against the pink parcel that now looks more like a roll of carpet than a human being.
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