“Ah.” He was wearing a fleece-lined leather jacket and scarf. A messenger tote was slung over his shoulder; Maggie noted it was the same one Reiner had carried when he’d arrived at the Charcots’ house, six days ago. “One more passenger than expected—shouldn’t affect the fuel we’ll need.”
“You’re the pilot?” Maggie asked, surprised. She remembered he’d told her that he could fly. Still, she wasn’t expecting to see him personally taking the plane to England.
“I am.” He winked. “I’m needed back in London, so—two birds, one stone, et cetera.”
As Gus took a step forward to offer his hand, he buckled and collapsed; Jacques caught the Englishman in his arms as he fell.
“What’s the matter with him?” Jacques asked Maggie.
“Injury and infection.”
Elise was bent over his leg. “So much blood….His wound must have reopened during the drive—all those bumps in the road.” In the moonlight, the bandages looked black and wet.
“Is he strong enough to travel?” Jacques asked.
“He must get back to London. He has blood poisoning. He needs to be in a hospital.” Elise looked to Maggie, then rose. “I want to thank you,” she said slowly, “for coming to France for me.”
And all at once, Maggie knew what was coming. The tone in Elise’s voice was a regretful prelude to goodbye.
“No…” Every fiber of Maggie’s being had led her to this moment, to getting Elise on this flight to London, to safety. We’re so, so close…“Elise, you have to come with us,” she insisted. “Please.”
“The enfants need me,” Elise explained gently. “And maybe I’m meant to be a nun. But I’ll never know if I don’t stay. Go,” she urged. They embraced fiercely.
Finally, the younger woman drew back, smiling, although tears glimmered in her eyes. “I’ll pray for all of you. Especially for you, Maggie, my dear, dear sister. Now that I’ve gotten to know you better, I think you may need my prayers most of all. But I feel better, knowing you’re fighting this war with us.”
Maggie felt tears sting her eyes. To have come so far…“Elise—” she pleaded.
“Shhh,” Jacques warned. “Voices carry.”
“Promise me, Maggie,” Elise whispered, “you’ll never kill again.”
“I can’t promise you that,” Maggie answered. “But I do promise I’ll do everything in my power not to.”
“Yes—I understand. And the next time we see each other, there will be a Tricolor over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”
“Well, you never know—I may be back to France sooner than you expect…”
“You need to leave.” Elise kissed Maggie and embraced her once more, holding her close. “It isn’t safe to linger.”
Elise was right: for a moment, Maggie had forgotten they were in enemy territory. She looked to Jacques and Sarah. “Let’s get Gus on the plane. It’s time to go.”
—
The interior of the twin-engine Hudson was constructed of gray metal, dented and drab, with benches along each side of a narrow aisle. A row of small windows lined each wall. Tiny flickering green lights cast a sickly glow.
Jacques dumped his leather satchel on a bench, checked his watch, then made his way through the open door to the cockpit. Maggie lifted a heavy box of tools and set it on the floor as Sarah helped Gus to the bench and strapped him in, propping him up between them. The pilot closed his eyes, head lolling. The engine roared as it came to life.
Maggie put a hand to Gus’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” she called above the noise, feeling safe enough to switch from French into English.
“He’ll make it,” Sarah replied grimly. “He’s got to. Someone should.”
For the first time, it occurred to Maggie that this part of the mission was just as dangerous as what had come before. Perhaps even more so. They could be attacked by the Luftwaffe, they could crash, they could…Stop it! She forced herself to take a shaky breath. You escaped the Gestapo—you can make it across the English Channel.
Maggie reached over and grasped her friend’s hand. “Look, whatever you need when we get home, Sarah—if you need a place to live, my house is yours. If you want to be left alone, I’ll make you meals on trays. If you want to go out and get drunk every night, I’m your girl. If you want to go back to the ballet, I’ll sew ribbons on your toe shoes and darn your tights. I’m here for you—whatever you need.”
Sarah looked her friend in the eye. “Honestly, Maggie, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next two minutes, let alone the next two days. It hurts. I never thought anything could hurt so much.”
“I’m here for you,” Maggie repeated. “And I’ll always be here for you.” The aircraft lurched forward, then began to move, rattling and shaking as it rolled faster and faster over the grass.
And then they were airborne.
Chapter Twenty
Inside the cabin of the plane, it was cold and noisy. Maggie and Sarah both slipped into shearling-lined flight jackets and helped Gus into his. The Englishman was falling in and out of consciousness. Over his head, Maggie met Sarah’s gaze; the dancer had the black bag next to her, with its own safety belt. They nodded, acknowledging what they’d been through. Hugh should be here with us, Maggie thought, blinking back hot tears. Hugh should be going home, too. From the closed-off expression on Sarah’s face, she knew her friend was thinking the same.
The plane climbed steadily. Maggie stared out the window; with the full, bright moon, there were few visible stars. Far below, shadows shrouded the farms.
And Elise—Maggie felt a pang of bitter disappointment. Her sister wasn’t returning with her to London. But they’d made a connection, and that was something. Her loneliness had been eased. She had a sister. A sister who might be in Occupied France, but still—a sister. Family.
And, really, she admired her sister’s commitment to the enfants and to finding her path in life. This is where you belong, Elise. And, maybe—if we’re lucky—we’ll see each other again…
The aircraft leveled off. They flew smoothly for minutes, until, without warning, the plane lurched sideways, causing them all to rock violently. “The wind,” Maggie said, if only to reassure herself. One of the gray-painted panels began rattling.
Sarah pulled something from Gus’s breast pocket. “I saw your sister put this in,” she told Maggie, holding up a small flask. “Don’t think he’d mind if I had a sip, do you?”
“Go ahead.”
Sarah took a long pull, then put her feet up on the toolbox. “Your sister has good taste in Cognac.” She offered the flask to Maggie, who shook her head.
“Maybe later.”
“I wish I had a cigarette,” the dancer said, taking another swig.
“You might want to pace yourself.”
“Sod that.” Sarah tipped back the flask, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Sarah—you remember how we were talking about Reiner and the letters? Reiner’s not the only one who has access to the letters.”
“Bollocks.” Sarah unbuckled her safety belt and made her way to the satchel Jacques had left. “Let’s see what we have here.”
“Sarah—”
She opened the bag; it was full of papers and letters. The dancer rifled through the envelopes and pulled one out. “This is my last letter home—I wrote it the day before Hugh and I were captured. Left it at the assigned drop-off.” She examined it in the sickly light of the cabin, then slid next to Maggie. “It’s been opened.”
Maggie didn’t see any rips or tears. “How do you know?”
“Look here—it’s wrinkled, like it’s been held over steam. And there’s too much glue on the envelope flap. Someone opened it, then resealed it.”
Maggie suddenly remembered Jacques’s warning: Trust no one.
“My God.” Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears it almost blotted out the engine’s roar.
Jacques appeared from the cockpit. “We’re good,” he told them. “The weather’s holding and no Messerschmitts in sight.”
“So who’s flying the plane?” Maggie asked, keeping her voice level.
“She’s on gyroscopic autopilot—we should reach Tangmere in no time.” He looked to Sarah. “My condolences about Hugh.”
She said through clenched teeth, “Thank you.” The rage radiating from her was palpable.
“His mother will be proud,” Jacques said gently.