by Candace Camp
Ian sat down in a straight chair beside the window. He knew it could be awhile before his visitor showed up. It was impossible to judge exactly when the other man would be able to slip away. Ian pulled a small leather-backed notebook from an inside pocket of his suit jacket and opened it, removing a pen, and began to jot down notes. Ian Hedley was not a man to waste time.
About an hour later he heard the sound of a key in the lock, and the door opened to admit a tall, slender man. He was dark-haired and handsome, with sharp, light eyes, and he was dressed in clothes of a distinctly foreign cut. All in all, he was a much more noticeable person than the old man who had ridden up in the elevator, which was why he had slipped in the side door of the hotel and taken the stairs.
He closed the door behind him and Ian rose. “Hello, Philippe. It’s nice to see you again.” He extended his hand, and the younger man shook it with a quick, hard grip.
Philippe looked thinner to Ian; the skin of his face seemed stretched to tightly across his bones. His pale eyes were coldly furious. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he began without preamble.
“About what?” Ian returned mildly.
“Do you know what Alyssa is doing? Or is she acting on her own?”
Ian sighed and sat down. “The less you know about our other operations, the better it is for both you and us.”
“It’s plain what she’s doing! Anyone who knows her would realize why she’s consorting with Nazis and collaborators.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“Merde! It very much concerns me.” Philippe slammed his fist down on the desk beside Ian. “My God, what else do you expect me to sacrifice? I have given up everything! My reputation is shattered. Alyssa despises me. I live everyday among people I hate and I have to smile at them. And now you expect me to idly stand by while the woman I love is in danger?”
“I expect you to do your duty,” Ian retorted. “Just as Miss Lambert will do hers.”
“Then she is working for you?”
“You know she is.”
“Why? How could you put her into this? If I could work out her scheme, so will others. She’s a wonderful actress, but anyone who has spoken with her in the past would see the inconsistencies in her views. What happens then? Have you thought of the peril she could be in?”
“Everyone that helps us is aware of the potential risks.” Ian sidestepped Philippe’s question.
“And how clearly do you believe she was thinking when she agreed to do this? After all that happened in Paris? Would she even have considered putting herself in this position if it weren’t for the wrenching her heart just received? How could you do it? You knew how she felt, how wounded and angry she was, and you took that pain and twisted it to your advantage. How could you ask her to seduce dangerous men to obtain secrets for you!”
“Alyssa does this of her own free will. I didn’t coerce her. She wanted to do whatever she could to fight the Nazis, and this was where she could be the most useful.”
“Seducing Nazis?” Philippe sneered.
“I asked Alyssa to gather information for me by returning to Washington and acting as her father’s hostess. I never asked her to seduce anyone. I don’t inquire into Alyssa’s personal life. She does a job extremely well, and that’s my only concern. It’s all I can afford to care about. None of us can put his or her personal wants first right now; you should know that better than anyone. How Alyssa accomplishes what she does isn’t really my affair. If she has sacrificed more than a human being ought to sacrifice, it has been her decision to do it for the good of this world. She hasn’t been alone in making that kind of decision. And whatever she has done, to me she is and will remain a lady.”
“Of course she’s ‘a lady.’ Do you think I’m worried about her reputation? That I am acting out of jealousy? Whatever she has done won’t change her essential goodness any more than it will alter my love for her.” Philippe sighed and for the first time sank down into a chair. “It’s what it will do to her inside. I know how it feels to smile at these snakes and pretend not to care, to stand by while people are being murdered and carted away. You can tell yourself that you are selling your honor for the better good, hold onto the fact that it’s all a lie and pretend that inside you are still the same. But you aren’t. It stains your very soul. It slices the humanity from you, strip by strip.” Philippe sighed and closed his eyes, his face unaccustomedly vulnerable. “I never want Alyssa to feel as I do when I look at myself in the mirror.”
“I know.” Ian’s voice was kind. “I’m sorry. For all of it.”
Philippe’s eyes opened, and he gave the older man a half smile. “I know you are.”
“Alyssa is strong. She’s handling it very well. And at the first hint of suspicion from them, I will pull her out of it.”
“Will you promise that?” Philippe stared intently into the other man’s eyes. “Will you swear to it?”
“I swear it.”
Philippe nodded. “Then that must do. Now… shall we discuss how you plan to steal the French hoard of gold in St. Martinique?”
Chapter 12
Alyssa had difficulty sleeping that night after Ian left. For a long time she had managed more or less not to think about Philippe, but seeing him tonight had broken her carefully constructed barriers, and memories rushed in. She remembered dancing with him, walking through the Bois de Boulogne, sitting beside him at a sidewalk café. She thought of the night she had met him, when she had struggled not to let him seduce her. She hadn’t done a very good job. But then she had thought he was dangerous just because he was a wolf—if only that had been his worst quality.
She thought of his green eyes and thick black hair. She remembered his hands upon her body. His lips. Why did she still find him so damned desirable? Why was her heart so rebellious? She ought to hate him. She did hate him. He had killed her love. What he inspired in her was nothing but desire. It seemed wrong that desire should be so strong.
When she did at last drift off, she slept lightly, fitfully, with dreams about Philippe that were by turn sensual and scary. The next morning when she awoke she felt drained, as if she hadn’t slept at all. She picked at her breakfast, then simply sat, staring into space. What was she to do?
She dreaded the idea of seeing Philippe again. Her heart couldn’t stand it; just the thought of him made her ache. She was afraid that if he kissed her again, if he trailed his hands over her body as he had last night, she would succumb to him. The only way she could be sure she would not do so was to remove the temptation from her path. She must not go where she might see him. That meant breaking her date with Paul tonight, for he had planned to take her to Betty Haskell’s party, and Alyssa was certain Betty had invited Philippe.
She wondered how long Philippe would be in Washington, how long she would have to avoid him. Some perverse instinct in her made her yearn to be with him as hard as she longed to run from him. Perhaps she should go to visit her mother for a few days. It would be warm in Georgia, the trees bursting into bloom. She could rest; it had been a long time since she’d taken a good rest. It would be a pleasant break—and, far from Philippe, her wayward heart wouldn’t have any chance to lead her astray.
Alyssa went upstairs to pack, pausing only to phone her mother to tell her she was coming and to dash a note off to Paul, canceling their date. Her packing was disorganized and jumbled and took far longer to do than usual, but by late afternoon she had finished. As she was fastening the clasps of her suitcase, the doorbell rang downstairs, and moments later the maid stuck her head in the door. “Gentleman downstairs to see you, Miss Lambert.”
“Thank you.” Alyssa’s chest tightened. She told herself it wasn’t necessarily Philippe. The odds were that it was not he. Yet somehow she knew it was. On shaky legs she walked down the stairs and into the formal parlor.
Philippe stood by the mantel, studying a Lalique vase. He turned at her entrance, and Alyssa felt the familia
r jolt of love and eagerness that she couldn’t quite suppress. “Hello, Philippe.”
“Alyssa.” He simply gazed at her for a moment.
Alyssa remained standing, curling her hands over the back of a chair to hide their trembling. How could he do this to her from clear across the room? He made her want him simply by being. She thought of his hard, lithe body against hers last night, and her breath quickened. “Why are you here?”
Philippe cleared his throat and glanced away. “I came to apologize for what I said last night.”
It was the last thing Alyssa had expected him to say, and she stared at him in amazement.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did; I had no right to tell you what to do or who to see. I have no claim on you—other than loving you.” He looked at her then, his eyes boring into hers. “Even the most despicable of people can love. And I love you. I never lied about that.”
Pain sliced through Alyssa, leaving her heart torn and bleeding. “What do you want from me?”
“You know what I want. What I’ll never be able to have again. Your love.”
“Oh, you have that,” Alyssa flung bitterly. “You have that. You broke my heart, destroyed every illusion I had about you. But somehow I can’t stop loving you.” Tears choked her voice, and she whirled away.
“Alyssa.” Philippe came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her hair, resting his cheek against it for a moment. Alyssa could fell his breath against her scalp, the warmth of his skin, and she longed to lean back against him, melt into his arms. “I love you. I love you every second of every day. From the first moment I saw you. All these months I didn’t stop loving you, or wanting you. I’ll never stop.”
“No! Philippe, no.” Tears streamed down Alyssa’s face. She wanted desperately to turn in his arms and hold him, give herself to him. “I can’t. If you loved me, you’d stop saying this. You wouldn’t ask me to—“
“I’m not asking you for anything!” His fingers tightened on her shoulders, then he released her and stepped back. “I know how you feel about me. Being with me would leave you feeling… soiled.” His voice dropped on the word. Alyssa turned to look at him. His face was bleak, his mouth harsh. “I hate myself for what I’ve done to you. I never meant to cause you pain. I swear it. If I could take it back from you, I would. But, please, no matter what I’ve done, don’t ever believe that I didn’t love you.”
He bent to kiss her. His lips were hard and searching against hers, but he broke away quickly. He turned and walked through the door. Alyssa wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold back the sobs that beat at her chest. She trailed after Philippe into the hall and watched as he opened the front door.
He paused, hand on the doorknob, not looking at her. “You needn’t worry about Chermé. I won’t tell anyone what I suspect.” He started out the door.
“Philippe!” Alyssa cried, and he turned back to her. Feelings she could not express boiled up in her. “I’m not having an affair with Paul Chermé.”
Something sparked in his eyes, and for an instant Alyssa thought he would come back and sweep her into his arms. But he only nodded and walked out the door. Alyssa burst into sobs, leaning against the wall for support. Slowly she sank to the floor, crying. Philippe was gone. Again.
*****
During the months that followed, Alyssa’s work was her only refuge, and she clung to it with grim determination. Nothing was too small, too dangerous, or too boring. She tackled each task as if it alone might win the war, and she wasn’t satisfied until she turned up the answer to any question Blakely asked. Yet she never felt as if she was doing enough. There must be more. Something more difficult, more important, more immediate.
On December 7, over a year since she had returned to the United States, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Within days the United States was at war with Japan, Germany, and Italy. The United States was now allied with England, and the Axis embassies in Washington, D.C., were closed. Alyssa knew her job here was over.
Days after Pearl Harbor, Alyssa requested a meeting with Blakely and told him that she wanted to work more actively against the Nazis. He tried to discourage her. He had come to like Alyssa over the months of working with her, and he hated to think of what might happen to her if she became any more involved in the clandestine warfare going on between England and Germany. But finally he promised to send her request back up through channels to Ian, now referred to only as Pliny.
Three weeks later, Alyssa received her last visit from Blakely. He was being reassigned to a South American embassy, where he would be more useful to “the organization.” And, he went on somberly, he had received instructions that Alyssa was to fly back to England the following week to meet with Pliny.
Alyssa flew the secret northern route, squeezed into the gun turret of a Ferry Command, accompanied by one small suitcase of durable clothes. Her feet were encased in sensible heavy socks and shoes, her body in woolen slacks, a flannel shirt, and sweater, with her long mink coat over it all. Even so, she thought that she would freeze to death before they landed. These northern Ferry Command flights from Canada were so secretive that not even the RAF knew about them, and as sometimes happened, the RAF itself fired upon Alyssa’s plane as it approached Scotland. One engine was damaged, but the pilot managed to land safely. They need do nothing more, Alyssa thought, to test one’s courage and determination than to send a person across the Atlantic on a northern flight.
She didn’t pause to rest in Edinburgh, but took the night train to London, eager to see Jessica again before her meeting with Ian Hedley.
*****
Jessica Townsend sat at her desk in Evington Court, an old manor house a little southwest of London which “the organization” had taken over as their headquarters. She waited patiently, headphones on her ears. She was one of the best radio-telegraphists at Evington Court. She had worked there for over a year now, and in all that time her job had been the only thing in her life. Though she was supposed to work in three-day shifts, each one followed by a leave of thirty-six hours, in truth she spent almost every day there, working longer than normal shifts and rarely taking more than a day off every two weeks.
She straightened, adjusting her headphones slightly. A message in code was coming across. Quickly she jotted it down. “From the Duke,” it began, and excitement began to jump in Jessica’s stomach. The Duke was the code name for the most important agent in occupied France; no one knew his identity, and his messages were always of the utmost secrecy, reported only to Ian himself. Jessica’s fingers flew, taking down the message. It was a listing of military movements—numbers, times, and places in precise detail. The familiar fist of the operator finally stopped, ending with his code name “Fire.”
Jessica ripped off her notes from the pad and quickly typed the message. It had been a valid transmission. That was always the greatest worry—the fear that the operator might have been captured by the Nazis and forced to send false messages or that the Nazis themselves were using the transmitter. To safeguard against that, all messages must end with the operator’s code name, and a meaningless word—changed every month—had to be inserted into the message. If the word “brandy” was in the message, it meant that the operator, known as a “pianist,” had been captured and was being forced to transmit. Also, Jessica could identify most of the telegraphists’ individual styles, or “fists,” so that she recognized it if the message was sent by someone other than their own operator.
When Jessica had finished typing up the message, she took it down to Ian. His office was a damp little cubicle in the basement of the house, where Ian sat hunched over his papers, bundled into an extra sweater and suit coat to combat the chill.
He smiled at seeing her. “How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, thank you. I have a message from the Duke.”
He reached for it silently and read it, frowning. Jessica didn’t linger, but immediately climbed back up the stairs to
her attic post. It was a long night, with several messages, and when dawn came, she was glad to retire to the bedroom on the floor below, which she shared with three other radio-telegraphists. She sank down on the narrow iron-frame cot and was soon asleep.
A gentle hand shook Jessica’s shoulder, and she flew up, instantly alert. Ian’s secretary stood beside her cot. “Viv?” she asked, puzzled.
“He wants to see you.” There was no need to ask who. Viv handed her a cup of tea. “I thought this might help.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Jessica took a sip of the strong, sweet liquid. Standing up, she ran her hands through her hair and straightened her wrinkled skirt. She thought of what her grandmother would say, seeing her setting off for a meeting looking like this, and the thought made her smile. She picked up the teacup and followed Viv, drinking as she went. She wondered why Ian wanted to see her. Perhaps he had a question about the message she’d received from the Duke. Her mind went scurrying back to it, trying to remember any hesitations, unclear words, or inconsistencies.
But she knew as soon as she stepped inside the office that Ian was not going to question her about a message. He gave her an odd, sad smile. Fear clutched at Jessica’s heart. What could have happened?
“Please, my dear, sit down.” Ian tried to make his face reassuring. He came around his desk and looked down at her. “I hardly know how to begin.” Ian had grown very fond of her over the past years, probably as fond as he was of her friend Claire, his own niece. He hated to hurt her, and he knew this news would. Yet it would ease her, too, for it would end the uncertainty with which she had lived for so long. “Jessica, my dear, I have news about Alan.”
Jessica’s head snapped up. “Alan!” That was the last thing she had expected to hear. Her mind couldn’t adjust for a moment. Then a trace of optimism flared in her. “Is he—“