***
The guys went out scouting the city. They even looked for any Maquisards who could help with the lab raid. I declined to join them and took advantage of the rare opportunity to lounge at a café. I even went to a small dress shop, where I bought a powder blue dress that caught my eye. However, when I made it back to my room at Le Fleur, I sadly realized that I probably would have no reason to wear it unless I used it as part of a cover.
With the exception of cash, a few weapons, and special items, I didn’t carry much on me. I didn’t even have much of a wardrobe at home since I hardly resided in my flat in London. Sometimes, when I did return there, I’d go straight to Baker Street and then back to the air hangar.
I felt regret as I thought about Ken, and if I had convinced him to leave with me, we’d already be in each other’s arms somewhere far away. The only thing that helped me keep my resolve was the thought of Stella, Otto...and Renée. If for nothing else, I needed to finish this for them.
I ate dinner in my room, since the men hadn’t yet returned, and I tried to drive away my doubts and sour thoughts through reading. I went to the rickety bookshelf in my guestroom and browsed the books inside. I immediately grabbed the Emily Dickinson poetry collection and lounged on my bed. After an hour, I heard a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
It was Brande. He had a newspaper rolled up beneath his arm. He acknowledged me with a nod, went straight for the large cushiony chair in the corner, and sat down. He unfurled his newspaper and began reading. “We decided that someone should keep watch here, since Simon Vester turned out to be a man of ill-repute.”
Well, with his tall muscular build, he could take on anyone of ill repute. “So, after seven hours, the only thing you geniuses found out was that Simon Vester is a bad man?”
“One night under watch won’t hurt. If your plan works tomorrow, we’ll find the lab and raid it. Then we’ll be done with all this.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
“Well, why does it have to be you?” I had the feeling this was all his idea.
“Ernest and Lucien need to maintain their separate cover. They’re only here for backup. And, I don’t want you badgering Father Gabriel about whether or not he’s a Vatican spy. I’m the only logical choice.”
He was such a liar. “Oh, spare me your logic.”
I grabbed a pillow and flung it at him—without looking up from his newspaper, he caught it with his right hand and placed it behind his head.
“Thank you.”
And he wondered why I sometimes kicked him out of my Baker Street office. With a sigh, I rolled over and re-opened the book, scanning the pages until I reached the poem on which my father’s message was based. I replayed the words in my mind:
Safe in their alabaster chambers,
untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
sleep the meek members of the resurrection,
rafter of satin, and roof of stone.
I drifted into a quiet sleep, devoid of any dreams of watching my father appear and disappear in a blaze of unnatural fire.