The Lost Girls of Paris

by Pam Jenoff

  Worrying would do no good. Pushing down her unease, Eleanor climbed into the bath. She’d run the water too long and it was now well above the four inches permitted by wartime regulations. She savored the excess with a mix of guilt and defiance. She did not linger, though, but washed quickly. Time to get back to Norgeby House, to begin her wait anew. It was not just Marie she was worried about. They’d had no word from Josie for two weeks and Brya’s last transmission had been weak as well. It was as though the girls were sliding from her fingers, their voices growing weaker in the darkness of the storm.

  Eleanor got out of the tub and dried, then reached for her robe. She had just started to dress when there was a knocking down below. She listened to see if it was one of the usual early morning sounds, the milkman swapping out the bottles, lorries making deliveries down the street. But it had been an actual knock at the door. There were voices, her mother’s low and puzzled, a male one tense and urgent. Dodds, the butler at headquarters who also doubled as her driver. He was at least an hour ahead of schedule to pick her up—and he never got out of the car to fetch her. Eleanor dressed quickly, still buttoning as she went down the stairs.

  For the first time, Dodds stood in the doorway, looking out of place and uncomfortable. “What is it?” Eleanor asked.

  Dodds shook his head, not wanting to speak in front of Eleanor’s mother, whose eyes were wide, realizing once and for all that her daughter did not have a job in one of the high street shops. Eleanor grabbed her bag from its peg by the door and raced out the door after Dodds without a word. Her hair flew out behind her and as she sat in the back of the car, she began rolling it into a knot with her fingers. “Tell me.”

  “The Director said to get you in a hurry. Something about the transmissions.” Eleanor’s heart stopped as she imagined a thousand different scenarios, all of the things that could have gone wrong. She kept coming back to just one.

  “Bloody hell,” she swore. She never should have left headquarters. She pressed her foot against the floor of the car, willing Dodds to go faster even as they skidded too quickly across the rain-slicked streets.

  When the car pulled up in front of Norgeby House, the Director himself was waiting for her at the door—a sign more alarming than the predawn summons itself. “It’s a message I don’t quite understand,” he said, casting aside his usual discretion and speaking in the corridor as they walked toward the radio room. “From one of the southern networks.” Not Vesper’s circuit, she realized with faint relief. “Something doesn’t look right.”

  He handed her a piece of paper, an already decoded message asking for the details of an arms drop. But the W/T who sent it was male—not one of hers. Eleanor exhaled slightly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not familiar with this operator.” She wondered why the Director had called her in at this hour regarding a transmission that had nothing to do with her girls. “If you’d like, I can pull his file and compare the fist print.”

  The Director shook his head grimly. “No need. One of the radio operators flagged the message because it is supposed to be from an agent called Ray Tompkins.”

  “Tompkins was captured at a safe house outside Marseille nearly three weeks ago,” Eleanor said, recognizing the name.

  “Exactly. This message cannot possibly be from him.”

  A cold chill ran up Eleanor’s spine as she looked at the note once more. “It could be someone else from his team,” she ventured hollowly, knowing as she spoke that the words weren’t true.

  The Director shook his head. “The other two members of that circuit who knew how to transmit were arrested days earlier. No, I’m afraid we must assume the worst—someone else has gotten hold of the radio and is using it.”

  Eleanor let the reality sink in. One of their radios had been captured weeks ago, and someone (the Germans, presumably) had gotten the crystals and the codes to keep playing it back, as if it was still operational. But would the Germans really have dared to play back the radios of the captured agents, knowing they might not have the security checks quite right and risking detection? Yes, because it had worked. She thought back over the not-quite-right transmissions. They had been short at first, tentative questions. Only after she had responded had they began asking for the locations of arms drops and other valuable information. It was the thing she had feared most, though she had not quite understood it—or perhaps had not wanted to.

  Eleanor studied the transmission, looking for answers that were not on the page. Her frustration rose. She had raised her concerns to the Director. Why hadn’t he listened?

  “There could be ramifications across all of F Section,” the Director said. “I need your help assessing the damage, and figuring out how to mitigate it.”

  Eleanor thought wildly about the messages that London might have sent to the field across that wireless set during that time, the information that they had unwittingly put into the Germans’ hands. They might have revealed safe houses, weapons caches—or worse yet, the identities of agents themselves. The southern circuits were less familiar to her because none of her girls had deployed to them. She would have to comb through the files. It would take hours—no, days.

  Her blood chilled as she remembered her conversation with Vesper that night on the roof. He had mentioned a Marseille agent who had contacted the circuit, aided them in getting TNT. If the Marseille circuit had been compromised and had reached out to Vesper, the latter network might be compromised as well.

  She had to warn them. Eleanor broke into a run. “Wait...” the Director called after her. But Eleanor didn’t stop as she sprinted down the stairs to the radio room.

  “Marie Roux,” she ordered. “I need to send her a message.”

  Jane looked puzzled. “She isn’t on the scheds for another twenty minutes.” Protocol prohibited transmitting to agents in the field off schedule. If the agent wasn’t at her radio, she wouldn’t be able to receive the message at all.

  But Eleanor, in her desperation, needed to try. “Do it.”

  Jane adjusted the set in front of her, set the frequency and crystals where she normally reached Marie. She sent a call over the wireless, testing if Marie was on the other line. There was only silence. “Nothing.”

  “Try again.” Eleanor held her breath as Jane tried once, then again, to summon Marie over the radio.

  A moment later, there came a clicking. “She’s there,” Jane said brightly.

  Eleanor did not share her relief. “Ask her if there are parasols in Hyde Park.” The message was code for whether an airdrop had been received. She wanted to ask more directly about Vesper and whether he had returned safely. But given her uncertainties, she didn’t dare.

  There was a pause as Jane used the worked-out key to code the message and send it, then more clicking. A moment later came the return. “The message says ‘confirmed,’” Jane said slowly as she decoded the letters.

  “That’s it, just ‘confirmed’?” Jane nodded. The response was alarmingly brief. Eleanor wanted something more to authenticate that it was really Marie. “How does her fist print look?” she asked.

  Jane shrugged. “With such a short message, it is absolutely impossible to tell.”

  Of course. Eleanor hesitated. She needed to know more, but did not dare say much. “Ask if the parasols were red or blue.” Blue meant people; red meant supplies. Jane coded the message and sent it swiftly. There was a hesitation in the return, and uneasiness crept over Eleanor like a cold chill. Something wasn’t right.

  “We’re going to have to end the communication soon,” Jane reminded. It wasn’t safe for the agents to transmit for more than a few minutes.

  But Eleanor couldn’t stop. “Send this.” She scribbled a message on a piece of paper and handed it to Jane, whose eyes widened. “Have you seen Arlene O’Toole?” the message read. Using actual names over the radio was forbidden. Arlene was a trainee who had dropped out of Arisaig without eve
r making it through the course, though. She wasn’t in the field and they both knew it—as did Marie.

  “Are you certain?” Jane asked. Eleanor nodded grimly and Jane began coding.

  After she sent the message, the response came quickly. Eleanor read over Jane’s shoulder as she decoded the text: “Have seen Arlene. All is well.”

  Eleanor’s blood ran cold. The radio was being run by an impostor.

  She looked back over her shoulder where the Director stood and their eyes connected, sharing the full scope of the horror. The radio had been compromised...but for how long? Eleanor racked her brain for the messages that had been sent to Vesper circuit recently, assessing the damage. A few arms drops, perhaps. There had not been many new agents deployed, fortunately.

  Only the return of Julian. Her mind reeled back to the night she had seen him on the roof of Norgeby House. After promising him that she would send word of his return flight as a priority transmission, she had gone straight to the radio room. “I need to arrange for a drop. Tell Marie, ‘Romeo embresse Juliette.’” It was one of the prearranged codes to signal for the arrival of personnel.

  Marie hadn’t been on the radio at the time. But a few hours later the return message had come: “Do not use the usual site. Land at the field outside Les Mureaux instead. Original location compromised.” She wanted to ask what had happened to the original field. Les Mureaux was farther west than they typically dropped agents, not close to any safe house. But there was no way to do so safely or openly over the radio. Julian would find out when he returned.

  Eleanor’s mind raced now as she recalled the message changing the drop site. “Julian,” she said aloud. The Director’s eyes widened as he grasped the significance of the name. They had no confirmation he had arrived in France. Had they dropped Julian quite literally into the arms of the enemy?

  “Ask if the Cardinal landed,” she ordered now. Jane looked at her questioningly. The message was not discreet enough, too overt. But Eleanor did not care. “Send it!”

  Jane coded then clacked the message. There was no response. A minute passed then another. “House to Angel,” she typed, sending the beacon. “House to Angel.” Jane tapped the code over and over again, pausing between each time, listening carefully. There was no sign of an answer.

  Marie, or whoever had been impersonating her, was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marie

  Paris, 1944

  Five days. That was how long Marie had been in the cellar of the whorehouse. Marie looked around the tiny space, its dark, close confines reminiscent of the gardener’s shed where Julian had left her that first night. She lay her head on the filthy, perfumed-soaked pillow, too tired to care who might have used the creaky mattress previously. Her clothes were grimy and she could smell her own stench beneath them. Across the room there was a laundry basket, a bustier with the nipples cut out carelessly strewn on top. How, Marie wondered, had she gotten here?

  After leaving Will at the Lysander, she’d started back through the woods. A few minutes later, she’d heard a rumble, low and deep. The bridge. She’d turned back, daring to stop only for a second to see the way the explosion illuminated the night sky. The detonation had worked after all. She felt a moment’s pride, quickly replaced by panic. The Germans would come swiftly after those they believed responsible. She had to keep moving.

  Despite her promise to Will, Marie did not go immediately to the brothel in Paris. She needed to check the area for any sign of Julian. She had desperately wanted to return to the flat and try the radio again, but remembering his warning, she had not. Instead, she had gone back to the safe house where Julian had brought her the morning after she’d landed, hoping he might have gone there. But the château was deserted. The old library had been hastily abandoned, dirty plates still on the tables and spoiled food left out. There was a pile of ash in the fireplace where someone had burned papers. Marie put her hand on it, hoping it might still be warm. But the fire had gone out days ago. There were chairs overturned and she wondered if there might have been a raid by the Germans. It appeared the other agents had simply disappeared.

  Marie made her way to Paris then, taking a train to the outskirts of the city. She spent the sleepless hours between darkness and dawn hidden in an alley so she didn’t get arrested for breaking curfew. The next morning she hitched a ride with a toothless lorry driver who was too interested in staring at her legs to ask questions.

  At last, she reached the Left Bank, a tangle of narrow, crowded streets and leaning tall houses that seemed in itself the perfect place to disappear. If she’d had enough money, she might have stayed on her own and not gone to the unfamiliar brothel, as Will had instructed.

  Finally she reached the whorehouse on Rue Malebranche and climbed the side stairs above the bistro. A woman no older than herself, wearing more makeup than she had ever seen, answered the door. “I’m Renee Demare,” she began, using her cover. “Will sent me.” She didn’t have any sort of password and she hoped that his name would be enough. There was a flicker of recognition around the woman’s eyes.

  “Where is he?”

  “He flew a plane back to London.”

  “You should have gone with him. Things are very dangerous now,” the woman hissed. “I’ve had two other agents knock in the past day.”

  “Who were they?” Marie asked.

  “Agents from Montreuil, seeking shelter. I had to turn them away.” Marie expected to be sent packing as well. “I’m Lisette,” she added.

  “I need a place to stay for the next six days until Will comes back for me.” Marie could see the woman calculating the risk, weighing it against whatever loyalty she owed to Will.

  Finally, Lisette nodded. “Six days. No longer.”

  Lisette led her down to the cellar. “One more thing,” Marie said. Lisette turned to her, arms folded. “Vesper didn’t return as expected. But we think he’s somewhere in-country. I need to find him.”

  “Impossible,” Lisette snapped. “Do you have any idea what has happened out on the streets in the past twenty-four hours? More than a dozen agents have been arrested, and almost all of the safe houses have been discovered.” Marie thought back to the deserted villa. Had the other agents been arrested there? If the Germans had that location, they might know about her flat as well. She regretted then leaving her radio intact, lest they come looking for her and discover it. “And the locals who were helping have grown scared and started turning folks in. It’s a miracle you made it here,” Lisette added. “To start asking questions now would be suicide for all of us.”

  “Please.” Impulsively, Marie reached out and touched Lisette’s arm. “You must understand—I didn’t fly out with Will because I need to find Vesper. I can’t simply sit here.”

  But Lisette shook her head emphatically. “If you stay here, you must stay out of sight. Otherwise you will risk this location—and my girls.”

  “Then I can’t stay,” Marie countered.

  “All right,” Lisette relented finally. “I will make inquiries for you. But you must stay hidden.”

  Marie wanted to argue that she herself had to go looking. But what chance did she have really, without connections or any link to the locals here? No, Lisette was her best and perhaps only chance of finding him. “Thank you,” she said finally.

  “I’ll ask around for you. But don’t get your hopes up,” Lisette cautioned. “With all of the arrests, it’s all but over now.”

  So Marie waited helplessly in the cellar for five days, her hope of finding Julian fading. Each night Lisette came back with nothing. No news of his whereabouts. Marie saw his face constantly, and she wondered where he was and whether he was hurt.

  A creaking from above pulled Marie from her thoughts. Footsteps, too heavy to be Lisette’s. One minute passed, then another. Then silence. A cold sweat broke out on Marie’s skin. But the footsteps creaked
again on the floor above, followed by a rattle and clink sound. She relaxed slightly. Probably Anders, the barkeep, setting out the clean glasses from the night prior. The whorehouse had a quiet rhythm during the day, silent preparations for the boisterous evening that always followed.

  There was an unexpected, high-pitched ringing, the bells above the front door to the bar as it opened. Marie tensed once more. The girls all used the discreet back entrance and almost no one came here during the day. She crept up the stairs from the cellar and peeked through the crack in the door. Two gendarmes had entered the bar.

  “Have you seen this woman?” Once of the policemen held up a photo. Anders’s expression did not change, but Marie knew without a shadow of a doubt they were looking for her.

  Anders shook his head. “She isn’t one of our girls.” Marie prayed the barman would keep her cover.

  “Marie Roux,” the policeman pressed. They knew who she was. But how?

  “She isn’t here,” Anders said, and retrieved a bottle of expensive cognac from beneath the counter. “We’re closed,” he added, extending the bottle toward the man. Marie held her breath. Would the bribe work?

  “We’ll be back tonight,” the policeman said ominously, taking the bottle Anders offered and starting back toward the door.

  When the door had shut behind the gendarmes, Marie slumped against the door frame. But her relief was short-lived: hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her back into the cellar, nearly throwing her down the stairs. She struggled to escape the grasp.

  It was Lisette, her face flushed with anger. “Idiot!” she growled, her voice angry and low. “What were you doing up there? Are you trying to get us all killed?” Marie searched for a good answer and found none. “Here.” Lisette thrust a piece of hard baguette at her.