Maggie stiffened. “His mother?”
As Hugh’s friend, Maggie knew the Englishman’s mother was alive and his father was dead. With their intimacy, Sarah must, too. But why would Jacques?
“I—I assumed,” he stammered.
“But why would you ‘assume’ his mother—and not his father? Why not say ‘his parents’?” Maggie pressed. “Unless you’ve read Hugh’s letters home…”
“I spoke with him when you landed,” Jacques replied easily, recovering. “He must have mentioned her.”
“No,” Sarah responded. “He didn’t. I never left Hugh’s side when we landed. He never discussed his family with you. And that was the only time you had together.”
Maggie looked into Jacques’s eyes; they were blue and brown. They were also sad and shrewd.
“You…” She felt the sting of betrayal. “It’s you! Oh my God—it was you all this time…”
His expression shuttered, and he pivoted swiftly to step back to the cockpit.
“Wait!” She jumped up and followed. “What are you doing?”
“Turning this plane around. Taking us all back to France.”
“And giving us up to the Gestapo?” Maggie challenged.
“You’ve burned me. I’m already under suspicion for working with the Germans—that’s why they’ve ordered me back. If I return to England, and they know I’ve been going through the letters, I’ll be shot as a traitor.”
“And if we go back to France, we’ll be taken by the Gestapo again. To be tortured by your friend von Waltz.”
“I’ll do what I can for you. Put in a good word.”
“How dare you!” Sarah was the picture of cold fury.
“I’m not your enemy—”
“You are. You’re worse than the Nazis.”
He shrugged. “I’ll save you the Nazi-versus-Commie lecture for when we return to Paris.”
“I hate you,” Maggie said, a vein throbbing beneath one eye. She put her face up to his. “And I hate that damn French shrug! You are a traitor. People have died because of you! So we will get you back to London—and they’ll deal with you there. Va te faire enculer, fils de pute!”
Jacques gave her a twisted smile. “I see we’ve gone from Qui vivra verra to profanity. Be very careful,” he warned. “You can’t do anything to me. Who’ll get us home?” Maggie and Jacques were so engrossed in their argument, they didn’t notice Sarah rise and move to the toolbox.
“Gus,” Maggie said resolutely. “Gus will get us home.”
“Gus can’t even keep his eyes open. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s wet himself. He’ll get you home all right—in a ball of fire.”
“You never had a friend at a morgue,” Maggie said, thinking it through. “You knew von Waltz killed Calvert. It was the Germans who were using her radio. That’s why her messages never had their proper security checks…”
“Erica Calvert committed suicide,” he said. “I had nothing to do with having her killed. She died rather than collaborate with the Gestapo.”
“So, the letters home—did you have them transcribed for your Nazi friends? Or photographed?”
“Photographed,” he said. “In a little flat not far from Avenue Foch. Didn’t take long.”
“And Bar Lorraine,” Maggie pressed. “Has it always been compromised?” She looked to Sarah. “Is that where they captured you?”
Sarah moved closer to the two, hiding the wrench behind her back. She nodded.
“I told you not to go to Bar Lorraine, to go to the safe house instead!” Jacques cried. “I tried to save you!”
The wrench in Sarah’s hand slammed into Jacques’s skull with a wet crunch. Maggie gasped as he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Sarah dropped the bloody wrench and took a step back. “He betrayed Hugh and got him killed. I’d rather take my chances in the sky than go back to France,” Sarah rasped. “You?”
Maggie didn’t reply. She knelt beside the injured man to take his pulse. “He’s alive.”
“Too bad.”
Maggie examined the gash on his head. “It’s superficial. He won’t be out for long. We’ve got to tie him up.”
Sarah dropped the wrench and went to the toolbox to get a length of rope. “We might die up here,” she said matter-of-factly, stooping to bind his wrists.
“Better in a plane than the basement of 84 Avenue Foch. We need to wake Gus up.”
“How?”
“We have those pills we got in case we needed to keep going—Benzedrine. If we give him a few, it might shock him awake.” Maggie sat down on the bench and took off her right shoe, twisting the heel. It moved, and the cellophane packet with two round pills dropped into her waiting palm.
“You’re sure that’s not the cyanide?”
She gave a sad smile. “No, those pills are in my lipstick case.”
Maggie lifted Gus’s head. She placed the tablets in his mouth, then poured liquid from the flask down his throat. He spluttered noisily, then swallowed. “Good boy,” Maggie said, patting his back as he gagged and his eyelids quivered. “That should work in a few minutes.”
“Maggie?” Sarah asked.
“Yes?”
“Autopilot or no—someone should probably be flying this plane.”
—
Moonlight was streaming through the cockpit windows, illuminating the instrument panel. Maggie was as terrified as she’d ever been. Still, she forced herself to slip into the pilot’s leather seat. She rested her hands lightly on the yoke, staring out at the cloud formations in front of her. Her heart was hammering.
She was petrified to take her eyes off the sky, but she knew she had to look down at the instrument panel. She checked the altitude. Miraculously, the plane seemed to be holding steady. She checked the fuel—the tank was just shy of full. We’re in the equivalent of a tin can hurtling through space and time, she realized, simultaneously wanting to cry and giggle.
She looked up as Gus staggered in, supported by Sarah. In the shadows, the pilot’s eyes were rimmed with red and his skin looked clammy. “Here you go,” the dancer said, helping the injured pilot into the navigator’s chair.
“Oh, you should be the one in the pilot’s seat—” Maggie said, starting to rise. She wanted nothing more than to relinquish the terrible responsibility.
“I can’t operate the rudders with my injury,” he slurred. “If we’re…going to do this, you need to be my legs.”
“Are—are you sure? I barely passed my driving test back home in the States. Never did learn to parallel-park, if we’re being completely honest.”
“No need for parallel parking up here.” Gus attempted a grin and failed. “I’m afraid if I try to move, I’ll pass out from the pain.”
“I’ve had far too much Cognac to fly anything.” Sarah clapped him on the shoulder, and he winced. “All right then—you two do what you need to do. I’m going to keep an eye on our Judas in the back.”
“So,” Maggie said when she and Gus were alone in the cockpit, her heart a cold fist. “This is flying.”
“You can do it, miss.”
“Sure.” Maggie sounded less than convinced. “Just like driving my Aunt Edith’s ’thirty-two Ford back home. And it’s Maggie, please—not miss.”
“All right, then. That’s the altimeter, that’s the vertical speed indicator, that’s the artificial horizon, and that’s the compass.” Gus pointed to each in turn.
A sudden patch of turbulence made the aircraft sway. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, reciting the decimal places of pi. Three point one four one five nine two…
“Don’t close your eyes—whatever you do!” Gus insisted. “We’re going to Tangmere, yes?”
She somehow managed to nod.
“Good—I’ve taken off and landed there before.” He eyed the compass. “Three hundred fifteen degrees magnetic—we’re on course. Keep her steady.”
They flew in silence for a while. “How do you feel?” she asked, desperate to break the tension.
“Not up for the Lindy Hop, I’m sorry to say. But the pills helped.”
Without taking her eyes from the sky, Maggie put her hand to his forehead. He was on fire. “You’ve got a fever.”