Read Chapter 21: The Double Cross

The café was nearly empty when Elise slipped through the back door, the bell above it stilled by her palm before it could ring. Jameson sat in the corner booth, a chessboard laid out between two cups of coffee that had long gone cold. He looked up when she sat down, and she could see the question in his eyes before she spoke.

"He made me an offer," she said quietly. "The fisherman. Tom."

Jameson's fingers hovered over a knight. "What kind of offer?"

"Names." She watched his face for a reaction, found none. "He says he'll give me the names of other collaborators. Every one he knows. In exchange for my guarantee that his family will be protected after the war."

"Guarantee." Jameson's voice was flat. "From who? You? A postwoman with a bicycle and a stack of censored letters?"

"From the people who will come after the occupation ends. The ones who will be asking questions about who helped the Germans and who didn't. He wants me to speak for him. To say he was forced."

Jameson leaned back, his chair creaking against the worn floorboards. "And you believe him?"

"I don't know what I believe." Elise pulled the yarn strand from her pocket—the one Tom had given her, the physical proof that André had been alive in those caves. She wound it around her finger, feeling the rough wool catch at her skin. "But he knew about André. He knew where he was hiding. He knew about the red scarf, about the barn, about everything. And he's been feeding the Germans false names to protect people. Madame Viret confirmed that much."

"Half-false names," Jameson corrected. "You told me the list was half-false. What about the other half?"

Elise didn't answer. She had been asking herself the same question ever since she'd left the docks.

"If he's giving you names," Jameson said slowly, "then he's choosing a side. But which side is he really on? A man who has spent months informing for the Germans doesn't just turn because he's afraid of what happens after the war. He turns because he sees the tide changing. He wants to make sure he's on the right beach when it does."

"Is that so different from what we're doing?"

"It's different when you've got blood on your hands." Jameson's voice was hard now, stripped of its usual careful warmth. "I've seen men like him. They'll sell anyone to save themselves. The question isn't whether he'll give you names—it's whether those names will be true or whether he'll send you after his rivals while his real allies stay safe."

Elise tucked the yarn back into her pocket. "He said he was protecting me. That he put my name on the list deliberately so the Germans would cross me off, think I wasn't worth watching."

"Convenient."

"Maybe. But I believe him." She said it firmly, even though a part of her trembled at the claim. "I've known Tom LeFebvre since I was a child. He used to take André and me out on his boat. He taught my brother how to tie a proper knot, how to read the tide charts. Whatever he's done during the occupation, there's something in him that still remembers who he was before."

Jameson studied her for a long moment. "When is he giving you the names?"

"Tomorrow morning. Six o'clock, by the fish market."

"The docks are crawling with Germans by six."

"He knows that. He says he'll find a way."

Jameson picked up his cup, realized it was empty, and set it down again. "I don't like this, Elise. If he's watched—and he must be, after all this time—then you're walking into a trap. They could be waiting for you. For both of you."

"Then I'll be careful."

"Careful doesn't stop bullets."

The bell above the door rang, and both of them fell silent. A German soldier entered, glanced around the café, and ordered a coffee at the counter. Elise and Jameson waited until he'd turned away before speaking again, their voices barely above whispers.

"Stay away from the caves tonight," Jameson said. "I need to close the western passage. If the patrols follow the tip you gave them, they should be clear of the area by midnight. But if something goes wrong—"

"I'll be witness and guard. Like you asked."

"No." He shook his head. "If something goes wrong, you get out of the harbor. You don't look back. You don't try to find me. You get to LeFebvre and you take those names and you go."

"And leave you?"

"You can't help me if you're dead."

Elise wanted to argue, but the soldier was turning back toward them, and Jameson had already picked up a pawn and moved it across the board. She stared at the pieces, seeing the shape of a game she didn't understand.

He played his part well, she had to give him that. The doctor who was not a doctor, moving through the German ranks with a confidence he'd never actually earned. And now this offer from Tom, who was and wasn't a traitor, and a list of names that could change everything or destroy everything.

She left the café first, walking her bicycle along the cobblestones toward the harbor. The night was cold, the wind carrying the smell of salt and diesel. She kept her head down, her mind turning over what she would say to Tom in the morning. What she would promise him. What she would be able to deliver.

She was still awake when the sky began to lighten, watching from her window as the harbor came to life. Fishermen untied their boats, traders hauled crates, and the German patrols made their rounds with a ritual precision that had become almost dull.

She reached the fish market at ten minutes to six. The stalls were being set up, the ice still fresh, the catch glistening in the pale morning light. Tom was not there.

She waited. Five minutes. Ten. The market filled with buyers, soldiers, women with ration books and sharp eyes. Still no Tom.

A cold knot began to tighten in her stomach.

She moved toward the edge of the dock, where the boats were moored in a ragged line. The tide was low, exposing the green-slimed pilings and the rubbish that collected beneath the boards. She saw a crowd before she understood what it was—a knot of men in German uniforms and work clothes, all staring down at something in the water.

Elise pushed forward, her heart hammering. She heard a man say the word accidental. She heard another say the word drowning.

And then she saw him.

Tom LeFebvre floated face-down between two boats, his body caught against a mooring line. The water around him was tinged red, swirling in lazy patterns that spread outward from his back. A knife handle protruded from between his shoulder blades, glinting in the cold morning light.

"No," Elise breathed.

She felt hands on her arms, holding her back as she swayed forward. A soldier was speaking to her, his voice calm and measured, saying something about a tragedy, about how the fisherman must have slipped and fallen, about how these things happened.

Knife in his back. Slipped and fell.

Elise looked up at the soldier's face and saw nothing there but practiced sympathy. The German claimed it was an accident. The German claimed Tom LeFebvre had drowned.

But the list of collaborators was gone. Whatever names Tom had been carrying in his head had died with him in the cold, dark water. And someone had made sure he couldn't speak them.

She thought of the deal she'd made. She thought of the promise she'd given him. And she thought of the fact that he had told her to meet him at six, but whoever killed him had gotten there first.

Which meant someone had known.

Which meant someone had followed her. Observed her. Perhaps even heard her conversation with Jameson in the café.

She pulled free of the soldier's grip and walked away without looking back, the knife blade still gleaming in her memory, the promise still burning in her chest.

Someone had betrayed them. And whoever it was, they were closer than she'd ever imagined.