load the gear into the back and drive off.
They go through town which takes very little time, Fouras being no metropolis, then they head east, keeping near to the north bank of the Charente River, and come at last to a small wood and tin shack beside a tiny jetty.
They unload the gear onto dirt and the Renault promptly drives away.
“Do not move, mademoiselle,” Marie says. “They will wish to look at you.”
Rainy nods. She raises her hands above her head and slowly turns a complete circle. She can’t imagine what the unseen watchers will be looking for, but she generally applauds caution.
The door of the shed opens. It is dark within.
“After you,” Marie says.
Rainy hesitates for a moment to let her senses take in the scene, the area, the placement of a row boat at the jetty, a second shed a few dozen feet away. She notes deep tire tracks in the mud at her feet, too big to be the little Renault. Then, satisfied, she steps into the shack.
Hands grab her, twist her around to face the wall, and begin a rude examination of her body. The searching hand quickly finds her Walther and draws it out. Then they find the knife strapped to her thigh beneath the dress.
A match flares and a flame glows from an oil lamp set on a small table. The dim light reveals two people. One is an older man, short, dark complexion, pitted as if by smallpox or an adolescent bout of severe acne. He wears a shabby gray suit that looks as if it was cut for a man two sizes larger. His eyes are yellowed but alert, suspicious, cautious, skeptical.
Rainy is obscurely gratified to see that he is wearing a dark blue beret, just exactly what she expects of a maquis fighter.
The second man is younger, perhaps midtwenties, a bare inch taller than Rainy herself. He has an impressive pile of dark hair, clear dark eyes, an idealist’s wide brow, and a nose that looks as if its lines were drawn by an artist. He’s a good-looking fellow, or would be if not for the surly expression on his lips. He strikes Rainy as wishing to convey that he is not impressed by her. Which is fine, since she’s not bowled over by him either.
Marie does introductions. The younger man is her big brother, Étienne. The older man is called Monsieur Faisan, literally Mr. Pheasant, yet another cover name presumably.
Faisan jerks his head at Étienne and Marie and they scuttle off to haul the boxes of weapons and explosives inside. Rainy keeps the box of currency with her. She eyes the Walther on the table, noting the way the butt is turned, rehearsing a desperate grab, should it be necessary. Passwords are all well and good, but many an agent has been picked up in this region. She can assume nothing.
No one has yet spoken directly to Rainy and she’s content to leave it that way as Marie and Étienne unwind oilcloth and take out weapons and explosives and the precious radio.
Faisan when he speaks, speaks only French.
“Des beaux cadeaux,” Faisan says. Nice presents.
Rainy’s French is not as good as her German. Good enough to fool the average Wehrmacht soldier manning a checkpoint, but not a true Frenchman.
“You’re welcome,” she says in French.
“You’re a woman,” Faisan says, looking as though he’d like to spit.
“And you’re a smuggler,” Rainy says.
Faisan’s brow rises. Étienne moves slightly forward as if he’s going to do something, then subsides.
“Why do you say that?” Faisan asks.
Rainy shrugs. “Isolated shack by a river, a second shack with a padlocked door, tracks made by a heavy truck. And you seem cautious but not paranoid, meaning you feel fairly safe here. So you are a smuggler, and I’m guessing the Germans know it.”
“Why would you guess that?”
Rainy shrugs. “You’re not nervous enough. The Germans know you’re a smuggler, and they don’t mind because I’m guessing they get a cut.”
Suddenly Faisan’s face transforms. He smiles, revealing various nicotine-stained teeth interrupted by gaps. “A woman, but not a stupid woman. Welcome to France, madame . . .”
“Mademoiselle,” Rainy corrects. “But more to the point, Lieutenant Alice Jones, US Army.”
“Where is the rest of the invasion force, did you forget to bring them?” Étienne says.
“Never fear, monsieur, they are coming.”
Faisan shrugs as if to say he hopes so, but will believe it when he sees it.
Marie fetches a bottle of cognac and four small glasses. She pours and hands them around.
“La France libre,” Rainy says, and they drink a toast. To a free France.
“Aux alliés,” Faisan counters. To the Allies.
Faisan sits in a rickety chair, suddenly looking tired. Rainy wonders if Faisan has been sick recently. He does not look well.
Étienne takes over the conversation. “And now, with all pleasantries aside, Lieutenant—”
“Alice will do,” Rainy interrupts.
“As you wish. Mademoiselle Alice. We welcome you, and we welcome your gifts, but why are you come?”
“The Das Reich division.”
None of the three French people are surprised. Waffen SS tank divisions often carry names as well as numbers, and the Das Reich, also known as the Second SS Panzer Division, is a name all-too familiar to the resistance as well as to Allied war planners.
“They aren’t here,” Étienne says.
“No, they’re spread between Limoges and Valence D’Agen, three hundred kilometers from here,” Rainy says.
“Then you know all that we know.”
“The brass would like to know more: morale, the condition of their equipment, fuel supplies, ammunition on hand . . .”
“They wish to see how quickly the Das Reich can head north,” Étienne says smugly.
Rainy shrugs a non-committal confirmation. It is no secret that the Allies are planning an invasion, the whole world knows it. And it’s no secret that it will come somewhere in Brittany. When the invasion comes, the Das Reich division will be moved north to counterattack. Panzer divisions, tank divisions, are an obsession of Allied war planners, especially the well-equipped, well-indoctrinated Waffen SS panzer divisions. The Das Reich may have as many as 20,000 men and 200 tanks as well as artillery. The Das Reich is a big, strong, brutal weapon, a massive iron fist, and if it reaches the invasion beaches it could literally grind vulnerable Allied troops under its tank treads.
Étienne arrives at a decision after a quick glance at Faisan. “We cannot deliver you to Valence, we have no . . . connections . . . there. But we can get you to Limoges. The woods southwest of there are full of panzers under cover.”
Rainy nods. One step at a time. “All right.”
“We travel by boat up the river to Cognac. There we will meet a lorry that makes regular runs to Paris and can make a stop in Limoges. Do you have identity papers?”
Rainy produces a forged identity document naming her Madame Nicole Amadou, French war widow. Étienne looks at the document carefully. “This is good work.”
“I’ll pass that along to the SOE—they made it for us.” The SOE, British Special Operations Executive, are far more experienced at forging French documents than US Army Intelligence.
“We will travel as fiancés, engaged to be married. Marie will accompany us as chaperone, so have no concern on that score.” He waves her away, as if she had been hoping for a romantic interlude with him. “We will say that we are en route to Limoges where our mother