by Sarah Sundin
Randolph would get away with everything, but it was God’s job to deal with Randolph, not Dan’s. If the Lord chose not to punish Randolph, he had his reasons and had no obligation to explain himself.
Captain Short sat next to Dan. “The afternoon watch is almost over, and the first dog watch is about to begin.”
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t like him to state the obvious.
“This isn’t an order, but I’d like to offer you a chance to serve as junior officer of the watch.”
On the bridge. Dan’s mouth dried out at the memory of his conversation with Clive Sinclair. If Dan could perform some valiant deed in battle, that could override Randolph’s evaluation. If not, at least he’d have four hours of pure fun.
“You’ve done an excellent job, and you deserve a reward.”
“Thank you, sir. There’s nothing I’d like more.” This wasn’t a reward for the job he’d performed, but for the decision he’d made a few hours earlier, choosing mercy over vengeance.
“I’d like to see you in action, see what you can do.”
So would Dan. “You think we’ll see more action?”
He shrugged. “Twenty-three U-boats in the area. We’ve probably damaged three. So, you’ll take my offer?”
The words “yes, sir” poised on his tongue, ready to leap into the captain’s ear, but something niggled. He needed a minute of Sabbath rest. “May I have a moment to consider it?”
Thick brows shot high, but he nodded. “Very well.”
While the captain stood and inspected the chart, Dan inspected that niggling sensation. Lord, what’s going on? What do you want me to do?
At the chart, the senior officers discussed the convoy’s upcoming change in course.
Stay the course.
Dan frowned. He’d just surrendered his goal of making admiral. Did God want him to stay that original course and take his turn on the bridge?
That niggling poked him in the gut. Or did God want him to stay the course Commander Lewis had assigned? The commander hadn’t sent him on this cruise to play on the bridge.
Dan swallowed hard, swallowing his ambitions and desires and the knowledge that he’d serve well on the bridge. When it all digested into nothingness, he approached the senior officers.
The captain faced him. “Yes, Mr. Avery?”
“Thank you for your offer, Captain. I’m honored, and I’d love to accept. However, if I’m on the bridge, I can’t debrief pilots or advise the CIC. Commander Lewis’s orders were for me to observe, advise, and gather data. As much as it pains me, I have to decline.”
“Very well.” The captain returned his attention to the chart, to the action Dan wouldn’t participate in.
For the second time today, Dan had chosen integrity. For the second time, he’d surrendered. For the second time, he’d shot himself down.
Dan headed to the CIC.
To a new destination.
Boston
Yvette had fallen into a trap, and Tess was too late to stop her.
She stood on the corner and searched for FBI agents. But everyone scurried by in the rain, hunkered under umbrellas or hunched low in their raincoats. No one lingered. No one observed.
A young woman strolled up to the bakery and leaned by the door, just as Jean-Auguste had done. She wore a raincoat and sunglasses, and she pulled a magazine from her coat pocket.
Sunglasses? In the rain?
It was Solange, serving as lookout for her boyfriend.
Tess’s chest burned. Solange had once been Yvette’s friend.
Down the side street, Tess glimpsed motion. A small heavyset woman darted out of the alley and down the street away from Tess. Madame Robillard.
That left Yvette alone with Jean-Auguste.
A strange sense of hope chased away the burning feeling. Tess had seen Henri’s fighting skills. Yvette had received the same training. Given a chance, Yvette could land that scrawny Jean-Auguste flat on his back.
All Yvette needed was a diversion. Lord, what can I do? What should I do?
Tess wouldn’t be able to get in the front door without raising the alarm, but what about the back door? Did Madame Robillard still keep the key under the mat?
Desperation pinged around in her chest but slowly transformed into resolution. No matter what happened, she couldn’t abandon Yvette to certain death. She had to act now.
Tess lowered her head and strode across the intersection and down the side street. She peeked down the alley. An empty car sat by the bakery door, but no one stood guard.
She took even breaths as she approached, willing her heart rate to slow down. A closer inspection revealed the car was truly empty.
Please, Lord. Let it be there. Tess lifted the rubber doormat. A key smiled up at her.
As she stood, her raincoat rustled. That wouldn’t do. She shed the coat, her cover, her shoes, and her jacket.
Then she slid the key into the lock, rotated it slowly and quietly, and turned the doorknob with just as much care. Lord, this is the bravest and craziest thing I’ve ever done. Please don’t let it be the stupidest. Please help me save Yvette.
Tess eased the door open. Angry voices sounded from the seating area. The kitchen was empty. She slipped through the door and wedged her jacket in the gap so it wouldn’t click shut. If the FBI came, they could sneak in the same way.
“You’re a fool. You might have gotten away with one murder, but not two.” That was Yvette’s voice, strong and determined.
“Oh, I have a plan.” Jean-Auguste chuckled. “By the way, I had an alternative plan in case you died and Henri survived.”
Tess’s stomach tightened. So he’d confessed to the murder, the pig. She tiptoed across the kitchen, testing each wooden board for creaks.
“It’s an excellent plan, my sweet,” Jean-Auguste cooed. “Solange wants you dead. I told her you heard a rumor that she and Henri had a tryst. She’ll tell the police you flew into a jealous rage and poisoned your lover. Madame Robillard sold you the pastries and—”
“That’s a lie.”
“What does it matter? Madame Robillard will say you came to the bakery today, distraught. You confessed the murder and were determined to commit suicide. She talked you out of it. Then she respected your request for solitude and left—to fetch the police to arrest you. But when they arrive an hour from now, they’ll find you hanged yourself. A tragic end.”
Tess gripped the counter by the phone, and the blood tingled its way out of her face. He planned to hang Yvette. Not if Tess had any say in the matter.
She lowered herself to hands and knees and crawled behind the half-door that led to the seating area.
“Even if I knew anything, I wouldn’t talk,” Yvette said, low and dark. “And if you torture me, you’ll leave marks. They’ll know it wasn’t suicide.”
“That’s why you’re in a straitjacket, my pet. But if you’re a good girl, I’ll give you cyanide and you’ll die a quick and honorable death, rather than the lingering death you deserve.”
A straitjacket? How did Jean-Auguste and tiny flustered Madame Robillard get Yvette into a straitjacket?
Tess crawled past the basket of rags and along the back of the display cabinet.
“See the cyanide capsule? Isn’t it pretty? Just give me the names of the other OSS agents.”
OSS? It was true. Yvette was indeed a spy . . . for the Allies!
“I am not—”
“We know you are. We knew when they recruited you and Henri last July. We followed you to the training camp you attended every weekend. We knew you were about to leave for France.”
We? Wasn’t Jean-Auguste alone? Tess lifted her head just enough to see through the glass.
Yvette sat in a chair, bound in a white straitjacket. Jean-Auguste strolled in front of her with a gun. And a man and a woman stood by the chair. The woman held a gun to Yvette’s head.
Tess sank to sitting. Oh no. Three people with guns. Yvette needed more than a diversion—she needed a mirac
le.
“Death by hanging,” Jean-Auguste said. “Fitting for a traitor.”
“You are the traitor, Nazi swine.” The sound of spitting.
“Such passion, sadly misplaced. The Nazis are good for France. I know. I am from Strasbourg, on the border. My father was French and my mother German. My father died in the trenches for France, but do you know how his countrymen rewarded his sacrifice? They raped my mother in front of me and killed my older brother for trying to stop them.”
Tess clapped her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t gasp.
“The French . . .” Jean-Auguste’s voice ground to new lows. “I went to Germany when Hitler came to power. I saw what he did, the order and prosperity he brought. And I cheered when he conquered France. He is bringing the same order to France.”
“He brings no order,” Yvette said. “He brings terror and disorder, and so do you. You tore this group apart, turned us against each other, betrayed our sources.”
Tess’s head spun. Jean-Auguste had been sent by the Nazis to do all those things—and he’d succeeded.
“Betraying a traitor is honorable. Your Henri made a deadly mistake when he gave me a false lead. They were quite angry with me in Germany. Now I’ve redeemed myself.”
“The bomb. You tried to frame us, but you failed.”
“True, you didn’t get arrested as I’d hoped, but it turned the FBI off my trail, since I made sure I was seen in New York. Liese here threw the bomb on Madame Robillard’s signal.”
Tess pressed a hand to her head. Fixing the curtains? That was the signal?
“How could you involve Madame Robillard in this mess?” Yvette asked, her voice hard. “She’s been like a mother to you, to me, to all of us.”
“She is so simple. She has only one care—her boys in Paris. Anything that threatens them must be eliminated. I convinced her France must submit to German rule, and that Resistance attacks and Allied invasions will destroy the country. That includes OSS spies stirring up trouble. She will not stand for that.”
Queasiness turned in Tess’s stomach. How could the kindly baker allow Jean-Auguste to turn her against two friends? How could she become an accomplice to murder?
“And Solange?” Yvette said. “You hoped she’d spill information on Henri and me. I followed you at the Cocoanut Grove in disguise. You got her drunk and tried to make her talk. But there was nothing to spill.”
“She certainly doesn’t know anything. But she was a pleasant diversion.”
“What will you do to them?”
Breath froze in Tess’s mouth.
Jean-Auguste’s chuckle—she hated the sound. “One evening this summer there will be a tragic fire when they’re closing the bakery. I’m afraid no one will survive. But that is your last question. Now you will answer mine. Who else is in the OSS?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. But I don’t understand . . . whatever made you think we were in the OSS?”
“No more stalling. Your FBI friends will not storm in. They don’t know you’re here. And if they came, we’d shoot you with your own little spy gun and we’d shoot them too. So the choice is yours—cyanide or hanging?”
“I will never talk.”
“All right. Klaus, Liese, get the gag back on her. The noose is tied to the ceiling fan. It’ll hold—I tested it. Get her up on the table.”
Tess squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears against the sounds of struggling. Whatever made her think she could help? One unarmed, untrained woman against three armed spies? And Yvette bound and gagged?
She buried her face in her knees. If they found her, they’d kill her too. If she left and called in help, she’d be too late. Again.
I’m so sorry, Yvette. I failed you.
Tess couldn’t save Yvette. She could only save herself.
44
South of Greenland
The flight deck rumbled above Dan’s head, and the men in the CIC braced delicate equipment.
Two TBFs had landed without sighting U-boats. However, the convoy remained unmolested. Either the Allies’ defenses were keeping the Germans at bay, or the submarines were gearing up for a coordinated attack.
Dan cruised the cramped compartment in the dim light. The SG microwave radar scope and the SK long-wave radar scope sent out plaintive unanswered pips, bright green light sweeping circles around the fluorescent screens.
Speakers on the bulkhead broadcasted sonar pings and radio chatter, none revealing enemy activity.
Dan leaned over the plotting table as if it would yield new insight. Convoy ON-184 had cut a curving path through the seas south of Greenland, now bearing to the southwest. Dark crosses for enemy ships lay strewn in the convoy’s wake, but how many lay ahead?
The last Avenger had landed from the afternoon patrols, and the Bogue was scheduled to secure from flight quarters. But something restless stirred inside Dan.
“Sir?” the Huff-Duff operator called to the CIC watch officer. “I might have something.”
Dan charged over. A green light pulsed feebly in the center of the oscilloscope, and occasional tapping sounds came from the speaker. “Tune it some more.”
As the operator fiddled with the switch, the light and sound only grew fainter.
The watch officer coached him, but nothing helped.
Dan’s foot jiggled. A U-boat was sending a message nearby, but without bearing and range, the Bogue couldn’t vector aircraft. They needed that information before the transmission ended.
His fingers itched to get to work. “Sir, may I have a try?”
The watch officer and operator stared at him.
He gave them a slight smile. “I was trained too.”
The operator turned a pleading look to his officer. “Please, sir?”
“Be my guest,” the watch officer said to Dan.
“Thank you, sir.” Dan tossed his cover onto the desk, sat down, and pulled on the earphones. Please, Lord. Show me.
“Now hear this,” blared over the loudspeaker. “All hands, secure from flight quarters.”
Dan and the watch officer exchanged a look of alarm. The Bogue needed to launch aircraft, but first they needed coordinates.
Holding his breath, Dan focused his eyes and ears on the Huff-Duff. He massaged the switches under his finger, listening for taps and watching for the green blob to elongate in any direction.
Dits and dahs tickled his eardrums, and he homed in on them. The blob stretched longer, east to west, turning more and more into a figure eight.
Either east or west—but which?
The watch officer grabbed the closest intercom phone and flipped the switch for the bridge.
Dan swiped moisture from his upper lip and resumed his assault. Come on. Come on. Where are you?
The figure eight flickered, then pushed its way slightly northeast—067 degrees, off the Bogue’s port quarter.
The watch officer thumped Dan on the back and spoke into the intercom.
Dan tugged off the headphones and handed them to their rightful owner. “Thanks for letting me play with your toy.”
“Yes, sir. Any day, sir.” The sailor plopped into his seat.
Men sprang into action. After the watch officer informed the bridge, he contacted the other Allied ships with Huff-Duff. One more reading was required for distance, but at least the pilots had a bearing to chase down.
The alarm sounded flight quarters only six minutes after the Bogue had been secured. But it had been a false security.
Dan stared at the plotting board. Another black X on the blue sea.
Another wolf ravenous for blood.
Boston
Tess crawled toward the kitchen, tears hot in her eyes. She thought she’d changed, but she was as arrogant as ever, thinking she could help Yvette.
Thumps and grunts rose from the seating area. “Ow! Why you—”
“Don’t hit her. We must not leave marks.”
On hands and knees, Tess passed the half-door. In front of her in
the kitchen, a bank of ovens ran along the wall, the knobs all pointing true north.
Memories of Dan dug sharp claws into every corner of her heart.
She could picture him in his office, watching her with a cute little smile as she played with his compass. What had she told him? “Even if you take side trips or spin around or veer off the path, the compass stays true. You can always find your way.”
Not today. How had she veered so far off the path? She’d prayed with every step.
Except about her decision to escape.
Tess paused, her hands splayed on the oily floor. Why did you let me come here, Lord? I can’t save Yvette. Only you can.
Something crashed, wood on wood, and the men cussed.
“Don’t let her kick over the table again,” Jean-Auguste said.
Tess’s jaw tightened. Good for Yvette. She wouldn’t die without a fight, a good member of the OSS to the end.
And what was Tess? An officer in the United States Navy, sworn to protect her country against all enemies.
Three enemies stood in this building, and they didn’t know Tess had overheard their confession. She could report to the FBI and have them all arrested.
That was why she’d come. Tess crawled past the basket of rags. Dampness seeped through her stockings at her knees. Madame Robillard hadn’t finished cleaning up the spill.
A fire hazard. Tess could envision flames licking up from the rags, from the oil on the wooden floor. Jean-Auguste had planned such a fire. But if Tess reported to the FBI, there would be no fire and Madame Robillard and Solange would survive to face a jury for their crimes.
No flames clawing for the ceiling. No black smoke rolling through the building. No one stampeding for the exits, the locked exits. No hands stretching through the door, begging for rescue. No screams ripping the night air.
No spies fleeing the flames into a rainy afternoon.
Tess stifled a gasp. A diversion.
“Don’t let her sag. Get her upright. She needs to be standing for the noose to reach.”
More thuds and grumbles and swearing.
Starting a fire? It was a crazy idea, a stupid idea, and she latched onto it. If she could drive away the spies, she might be able to save Yvette. If not, at least Tess wouldn’t die a coward and Yvette wouldn’t die alone.