The Alice Network

  “If the bastard’s dead, that’s the beginning of the end. I’ll be off in the morning as soon as curfew lifts.” Lili stowed the message in the lining of her sewing bag—she was Marie the seamstress tonight, with Marie’s papers, props, and mannerisms—and began unhooking her buttoned boots. “I’m not passing this one off to a courier. I’ll take it to Folkestone myself. Perhaps buy a morally questionable hat while I’m in a country where I can wear it. Though one has to wonder if you English can do morally questionable anything, even hats . . .”

  “You can g-get to England?” That surprised Eve. She already couldn’t believe how fast and how effortlessly Lili passed from German-held France to Belgium and back. The distance might be small but the territory bristled with danger, yet Lili seemed to ghost right through the danger. Could she even ghost across the Channel now?

  “Bien sûr.” Lili’s voice was muffled as she changed with brisk efficiency beneath the cover of a voluminous old nightdress. “I’ve been three, four times this year.”

  Eve fought down a sudden surge of homesickness for Folkestone, its sandy English beaches and boarded English piers and Captain Cameron’s English tweeds and warm eyes. Eyes that actually blinked on occasion, and didn’t make her skin crawl like sharp French eyes . . . Eve gave a shake of her head, dismissing the stab of jealousy that Lili had seen Cameron more recently than she. “If you’re traveling to England tomorrow, you take the bed.” They had an established routine now when Lili needed to rest in Lille: she was Eve’s friend, a sewing maid come to visit, staying overnight rather than violating curfew. They’d run this act past two German inspections, and seeing Lili melt into Marie who was even dimmer than the corn-blond Christine was truly fascinating.

  “I won’t argue.” Lili dropped the folded pile of her shirtwaist and skirt and flopped down, telling some story of how she crossed over into Lille this morning. “I had a report from a source in Lens tucked into the pages of a magazine—would you believe I dropped it coming off the train?” A decidedly wicked laugh as she shook her fair hair down. “A German soldier retrieved it for me, bless him.”

  Eve smiled, making herself a pallet of blankets next to the narrow bed, but the smile was an effort. She hadn’t been smiling very much since last night, and Lili, in the middle of another story, seemed to notice.

  “All right, what’s wrong with you?”

  Eve looked at the leader of the Alice Network. In her old nightdress, Lili appeared far younger than her thirty-five years, her blond hair bushy and wild like that of a little girl who had been playing rough all day. But her eyes were old and knowing, and the sharp edges of her cheekbones pressed against her paper-thin skin. Don’t burden her, Eve thought with a pang that hit straight under the breastbone. She suddenly understood Violette’s grim protectiveness, because now Eve felt it too. Lili carried so much, and she made the burden look light—but it was wearing her thin as a blade.

  “Merde,” Lili said in exasperation. “Out with it!”

  “It’s not important—”

  “Let me be the judge of that. You’re no good to me if you crack up.”

  Eve sank down on her makeshift pallet below the edge of the bed, staring at her folded hands. “René B-Bordelon wishes to seduce me.” The words fell like weights.

  Lili tilted her head. “Are you certain? You don’t strike me as an accomplished player in the game of seduction, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

  “He licked my n-neck. Then he said he wanted to have me. Yes, I’m certain.”

  “Quelle bête,” Lili said softly. Taking out her little silver case of cigarettes, she lit two. “Normally one discusses bad men over a stiff drink, but a smoke will have to do. Take it! Clears the mind and kills a hungry stomach.”

  Eve imitated Lili’s two-fingered hold, then hesitated, quoting her mother. “Tobacco is a g-gentleman’s vice, not a lady’s.”

  “Tais-toi. We’re soldiers in skirts, not ladies, and we need a damned smoke.”

  Eve set the cigarette to her lips, inhaling. She coughed, but she liked the taste at once. Bitter, and she’d tasted bitterness in her mouth since the moment last night when René stepped close.

  “So,” Lili continued, matter-of-fact. “Bordelon wants you. The question is what happens when he presses the issue. How much trouble will he make for you, if you refuse? Would he report you to the Germans?”

  She was seeking Eve’s professional estimation, clearly. Eve paused, taking another sip of smoke and coughing less. Her stomach rolled sickly, but more from the thought of René than the cigarette. “He wouldn’t b-bother the Germans with a personal grudge; he saves his favors till he n-needs them. But he’d likely fire me. He’s not used to b-being refused anything.”

  “We could find you a new post,” Lili said, but Eve shook her head.

  “Is there another place like Le Lethe? Where I could g-get good information twice a week? Where I learn the k-k-k”—striking her own knee with her fist until the word came free—“k-kaiser is coming, and on what t-train? No.” Eve dragged a swallow of smoke all the way down into her lungs this time, coughing so hard tears came to her eyes. “You n-n-n-need someone in Le Lethe.”

  “Yes,” Lili acknowledged. “Would he fire you for refusing him?”

  “I have to assume he would.”

  “Then there is one option.” Lili looked up at the ceiling, blowing a smoke ring. “Will you sleep with René Bordelon?”

  Eve stared at the glowing end of her cigarette. “If I have to.”

  It was almost a relief to get the words out. She’d been circling them since last night, inspecting them from every angle. The idea made her sick and scared, but so what? Why did it matter if something scared you, when it simply had to be done anyway?

  “A man of his age who chooses a girl he thinks is seventeen will assume he is getting a virgin.” Lili sounded matter-of-fact. “Are you?”

  Eve couldn’t be quite so nonchalant no matter how much she wanted to be, so she just nodded, keeping her eyes on the floor.

  “Putain de merde,” Lili swore, stubbing out her cigarette. “If you are really going to do this thing, you must please him in bed so you can continue to get more out of him. Otherwise you are buying a temporary reprieve from dismissal for a very high price.”

  Eve had no idea what it meant to please a man in bed—frankly, her imagination stopped the moment she imagined René Bordelon unbuttoning his perfectly tailored shirt. She felt herself blanch, and Lili noticed.

  “Are you really going to do this?”

  Eve nodded again. “I’ll m-m-m—” The word wouldn’t come out at all, even when she pounded the floor. She let it go in a hiss, and then said, “Shit,” loudly. The first time Eve had ever sworn in her life, and it released the tight knots in her throat.

  Lili’s turn to nod. “Have another cigarette, and let’s talk practicalities. A man who takes a virgin for a mistress will either wish to train her to his standards, or wish her to remain passive and innocent as he does the work. You will have to pay close attention and follow his lead. But there are things one can do that will please any man . . .” She detailed a few of them, gentle but specific, and Eve took in as much as she could, cheeks burning. Will I have to do that? And that?

  To keep her job at Le Lethe, yes. She would do all of it.

  Seeing Eve’s queasiness, Lili patted her hand. “Just notice what pleases him, and keep doing it. That’s really what it’s all about. Now, do you have any idea how to prevent yourself from becoming enceinte?”

  “Yes.” Eve had a sharp memory, at twelve years old, of coming on her mother in the washroom late at night rinsing herself out between the legs. There had been a tube, a rubber bag. I don’t want any more of that bastard’s babies, she’d snarled, jerking her chin toward the bedroom where Eve’s father snored. Eve remained an only child; her mother’s washing must have worked.

  “Nothing works perfectly,” Lili said as though reading Eve’s mind. “So be careful. No one wants a pre
gnant spy. That will land you home in England, and quickly, given that no one in Lille will treat you well for becoming pregnant by a collaborator.”

  So many grim thoughts. Eve pushed them away for a practical question of her own. “Have you ever had to—do this?”

  “There’s been a German sentry or two who wanted to see me on my knees before I got a pass through the checkpoint.”

  Eve wouldn’t have been sure what that meant ten minutes ago. Now, thanks to Lili’s blunt tutorial, she had a much better idea. She looked at Lili, unable to imagine her kneeling down, reaching for a man’s buttons, and . . . “How—was it?”

  “Salty,” Lili said, and smiled at Eve’s blank look. “Never mind, chérie.” Her smile faded, and they regarded each other with grim faces.

  Eve tipped her head back toward the ceiling, drawing another deep lungful of smoke. She decided she liked smoking. If she ended up with another tight-mouthed landlady with boardinghouse rules about cigarettes, well, she could go to hell. “Lili, why don’t they tell us it could b-be like this? All that training in Folkestone; there’s n-n-n-not a hint we’d face anything like this.”

  “Because they don’t know. And if you’re clever, you won’t tell them.” Lili looked very serious. “Do what you must, but don’t tell Captain Cameron or Major Allenton or any of the others we report to.”

  The thought of telling Captain Cameron she went to a collaborator’s bed to get information made Eve cringe. “I wouldn’t tell any of them!”

  “Good. Because they won’t trust you if they find out.”

  Of all the things discussed tonight, that was the one to leave Eve astonished. “W-why not?”

  “Men are strange creatures.” The twist on Lili’s smile wasn’t amusement. “If a woman surrenders her virtue to an enemy, they are confident her patriotism can’t be far behind. They have very little faith in any woman’s ability to resist falling in love with a man who beds her. Besides, a horizontale isn’t respectable, and a spy’s business is already disreputable enough. We can’t bring shame on our country by staining our reputations—if we’re to engage in espionage, we must do it as ladies.”

  “Rubbish,” Eve said flatly, and Lili smiled.

  “Oh, it is, little daisy. It is. But do you want to be yanked out of Lille because they believe your soft little head has been all muddled by a handsome collaborator?”

  Eve tapped ash off her cigarette, stomach rolling all over again. “Would Captain Cameron really think that of me?”

  “Maybe not. He’s a decent chap, as you English like to say. But I’ve heard other English officers say such things before about women like us.”

  “Shit,” Eve said again. The swearing, like the smoking, was getting easier. She looked up at Lili, who gazed down with a smile Eve couldn’t interpret. Practicality, sorrow, pride?

  “C’est ainsi,” she said rather sadly. “What a bitch this business is, no?”

  Yes, Eve acknowledged. But she also loved this business; it made her feel alive like nothing else, so she cloaked fear in a defiant shrug. “Someone has to do it. We’re good at it. Why s-shouldn’t it be us?”

  Lili leaned down and kissed Eve’s forehead. Eve leaned her head against Lili’s knee, and the head of the Alice Network passed a hand over her hair. “Don’t go rushing off to climb into that profiteer’s bed,” she said softly. “I know you—you’re thinking to grit your teeth and get it over with. But put him off for a bit if you can. Because if we can bomb the kaiser into dust in a fortnight’s time, then it’s a whole new world. You might make it home without having to see Bordelon naked, after all.”

  Eve prayed for both those things as Lili continued to stroke her hair the way Eve’s mother never had. She prayed harder than she’d ever prayed in her life—because right now she could be brave, but if she closed her eyes and remembered René’s mouth tasting her flesh, all she felt was sick.

  CHAPTER 15

  CHARLIE

  May 1947

  My mother was being careful, as if I was a cat with fur raised all along its back, ready to flee if startled. She kept reaching out to touch my hand or my shoulder, as if to check that I was still within arm’s reach. She kept up a light flow of chatter in the morning as we nibbled on the dry toast and coffee she’d ordered to the room, and proceeded packing up my clothes. “We’ll get some new things for you in Paris, after the Appointment. This pink suit is never going to be the same . . .”

  I munched my toast, irritable. I didn’t like being chatty first thing in the morning, especially on next to no sleep, and I’d gotten out of the habit of having to make breakfast small talk. Eve was always too hungover to do anything more than glare until the clock hit noon, and Finn was a clam at any hour of the day. Except, apparently, at three in the morning. Charlie lass . . .

  “Don’t slouch, ma chère,” my mother said.

  I straightened. She smiled distractedly, reapplying her lipstick. Yesterday with her tear-filled eyes and her impulsive hugs she’d seemed softer than the mother I was used to. This morning, anchored by relief, she seemed to be armoring back up with every layer of lipstick into her usual glossy-shelled self. I reached out, touching her hand as she tucked her compact away. “Can we stay longer? Order more breakfast?” The Little Problem was for once making me ravenous instead of nauseated. Forget dry toast, I wanted Finn’s one-pan breakfast: bacon and bread and eggs all runny. Bacon . . .

  “Don’t we want to watch our figures?” Maman patted her own waist, making a wry smile. “One must suffer to be beautiful, after all.”

  “I’m not going to be beautiful any way you slice it,” I said. “So I want a goddamn croissant.”

  She looked genuinely shocked. “Where did you learn that kind of language?”

  From a crazy English hag who tried to shoot me. Oddly, I missed Eve.

  “We’ll get croissants on the train,” Maman said, closing her suitcase. “We don’t want to be late.”

  She already had a bellhop at the door. I ate the last bite of my toast, rising, and my mother flicked a crumb from the corner of my mouth and straightened my collar. Why did I feel like such a child in her presence?

  You are a child, the nasty voice in my head whispered. That’s why you’re not fit to have a child. You don’t know anything.

  Says who? the Little Problem answered.

  Stop talking to me, I told my stomach. Stop making me feel guilty. I can’t do anything for you. I’m not fit to have you. Everyone says so.

  What do you think? the L.P. answered. I didn’t have an answer, just a massive lump in my throat.

  “Charlotte?”

  “Coming.” I followed her out into the hall, toward the elevators. “Should we telephone Dad before we catch the train?” I managed to say.

  My mother shrugged.

  “Isn’t he worried?” I wondered if he would even talk to me when I came back. What if I had my Appointment and he still hated me? Still thought I was a whore? The lump in my throat doubled in size.

  “If you must know, I didn’t tell him you’d taken off into London like a wild thing.” She caught my look. “Why would I? I didn’t want to worry him.”

  “Well, you told him now, didn’t you?” We stepped into the elevator. “We’re days behind schedule. We won’t be home when he’s expecting us.”

  My mother waited for the bellhop to join us with our bags, and pressed the button. “We’ll simply spend a week less than I planned in Paris afterward. We’ll be home on time, and your father doesn’t have to worry about anything.”

  “Go home early? You promised me that after Vevey, we’d talk about Rose. About going to Limoges—”

  “We’ll talk about that when we get home.” She smiled as the elevator began to move downward. “When the time is right.”

  I stared at her. “When the time is right? It’s right now. We’re already here.”

  “Ma chère—” A glance toward the bellhop, listening to our English babble with uncomprehending curiosity.


  I ignored him. “We can’t just go home, not after everything I’ve found out.”

  “It’s not for us to do, Charlotte. It’s a job for your father.”

  “Why? I’ve been doing a pretty good job on my own, better than—”

  “It’s not suitable,” my mother snapped. “You need to go home, not go off on another wild goose chase. Your father will take things up. I will ask him, later. When we get home.”

  Later. Always later. Rage pooled in my stomach. “You promised.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Maman, this is important to me.” I touched her arm, trying to make her see. “Not to give up until—”

  “I’m not giving up, chérie.”

  “That’s what it looks like. How urgent is this going to be to you when we’re on the other side of the Atlantic again?” My voice rose. “When it’s not an easy promise you can make and then break, just to get me moving?”

  The elevator chimed, doors sliding open. Maman glared at the curious bellhop, and he picked up our luggage and scuttled toward the hotel desk.

  “Well?” I challenged.

  “This is not a suitable place for such a discussion. Come along, and no more fuss, please.” Gliding out into the busy hotel court.

  “Fuss? Is that what this is about?” I stamped after her.

  She turned, giving me a tight smile. “Please, Charlotte? You’re already in so much trouble with your father. I will be too, if there are any more delays about this, so please just stop misbehaving and come along.”

  I stared at her. I just stared. My beautiful self-assured mother, gnawing at her perfectly painted lips, worried she might get in trouble with my father. She hadn’t dared tell him I’d bolted off to France. She hadn’t dared tell him we’d be so much as a week late. She’d say anything to get me on that train to Vevey, like a little girl lying her way out of a spanking. If she didn’t deliver me home on time and with a flat belly, she was going to be in trouble.

  Maman had always made me feel like a child. I looked at her now, and I felt like the adult.