Micheline
It was nightfall when she reached Amsterdam.
Micheline stepped off her motorbike. Her pants were tucked in her boots, and dust covered her cloak. She had slipped across the Dutch–Belgian border by cover of darkness through a wooded route known only to her, stealthy as a cat. She made her way as she always did to one of the rail stations in Osdorp, a suburb of the Dutch capital. Boarding there and taking a local train would attract less attention than entering the city directly. When she reached the small station, she hid her motorbike in a cluster of trees and walked to the platform.
Micheline boarded the arriving train and moved swiftly toward the center railcar as was her habit. The middle was the least likely part of the train to get hit during a bombing raid. Plus, it provided the most time to react should the Germans board and start inspecting papers. She found a compartment that was empty except for a sleeping businessman. She would have preferred to stand in the corridor, or at least find a carriage to herself, but she didn’t want to attract attention as a woman traveling alone.
Micheline was going to Amsterdam to meet with Pascal’s contact, the Frenchman who might be able to help with resources for the line. Though she had resisted the meeting for some time, she had finally acquiesced. The Sapphire Line simply did not have the resources, volunteers, safe houses or money to keep up with the growing number of airmen in need of evacuation. A new contact, who had donors willing to help their efforts, might be just what the line needed.
As the train clacked through the Amsterdam suburbs toward the city, Micheline’s mind reeled back to a few nights earlier, Tomas lying wounded in the medical clinic. She had received word before leaving today that he should survive. Should survive. There were so many uncertainties in this line of work.
The train neared the capital. The houses on either side became more congested, replaced by sloping buildings that seemed to lean upon one another. Micheline did not ride the train all the way to Amsterdam Centraal but got off a few stops early and made her way to the city center by foot, navigating through the throngs of pedestrians taking advantage of the warm summer evening.
She passed a park that had a public toilet, and checking to make sure no one noticed, she slipped inside to change. Micheline was like a chameleon, Matteo had joked more than once. Normally she wore schoolgirlish clothes in order to pass on the street without suspicion. But today her look was designed to blend in with the other women in the café, a sophisticated but understated dress, high heels and stockings with a seam up the back.
She walked to the entrance of the Café Grand, a modest establishment along one of the canals in the tightly packed Jordaan district. From the doorway, live music blared. The café harkened back to happier times, with a small band playing in the corner and a case of mouthwatering cakes in the front. Of course, it was all for show. Here, as in Brussels, the markets were largely empty, and the ordinary people suffered daily hardships of hunger and other deprivation. The Germans kept a few nice spots open in the crown jewel cities like Paris and Amsterdam so they could take dates there and show off as if nothing had changed at all.
Micheline spied a woman with too much makeup sitting close to a German officer. Collaborator, she spat inwardly, scarcely able to mask her disdain. Who were these people? she wondered, not for the first time. Locals who drank and dined elbow to elbow with the enemy as though there was not a war raging outside. Was it actual complicity, or a desire to stick one’s head in the sand and pretend that the war did not exist?
She did not see any Gestapo, although this was not entirely reassuring: they could be wearing civilian clothing. She crossed the café, her head high. Her reflection flashed across the mirrored walls. Her normally wild red hair was swept up into a sophisticated knot, and her dress was the latest style. It was as if she was someone else entirely.
Across the café, she spied a familiar figure at a table. Pascal. The former seminarian seemed out of place in the chic space, and she suspected that the choice of location was not his but his contact’s. Men often wanted to meet in restaurants and bars, amid the wine and food. Micheline found it too visible, the bill of their meal easy to trace. But she had learned that giving people a little bit of control made it easier for her to take charge of the overall situation, and so she acquiesced.
She started toward Pascal’s table, then stopped short. There was a man sitting next to him, older and too formally dressed in a silk cravat and scarf. Micheline was generally wary of new people, especially those that she herself had not vetted. Something about this man, though, made her particularly uncomfortable.
Leave, her instincts wailed. But it was too late now. Pascal had spied her and was gesturing her over. The other man had clearly seen her as well. He was slight and sinewy with a mustache and pale blond hair. He stood as she approached and gave a slight bow. Pascal remained seated. “Micheline, may I introduce Monsieur Anton Labeau from Paris.” The name was not familiar to Micheline. The stranger held out his hand, and she took it reluctantly. His fingers were cool and limp to the touch. He raised her hand to his mouth, but she pulled back before he could kiss it. She noticed that his front teeth were capped in gold.
Micheline tried not to recoil further as the man pulled out her chair and put his hand on the small of her back with a too-familiar gesture, urging her to sit. This was the business, though: smile and get them to do what you needed them to do, to tell you what you needed to know. She sat down and looked at Monsieur Labeau squarely.
“There is a group of airmen in need of rescue,” he announced without pleasantries.
Micheline was caught off guard. Matteo had said that Pascal’s contact might be able to help them. Instead, he was asking for her to take on a mission. “Why did I not receive the request directly?” she demanded. Usually news of downed airmen came from the British government through the radio or other established channels.
“The request came from Bellweather.”
Micheline’s eyes narrowed. Bellweather was a separate network in France. Why were they asking Sapphire to take this on? “I don’t like it.” Accepting airmen from insecure sources was one of their greatest vulnerabilities. “Who’s the contact?”
“Marceau Benoit.” Micheline had never heard the name, but that was not unusual. At least a half-dozen or so separate networks running escape routes out of Europe had sprung up since the start of the war, and outside of her own there were many people that even she did not know.
“You said a group of airmen. How many?”
“Six.”
Micheline tried to conceal her surprise. She had rescued two or three before, and it had been much harder than transporting a single airman because it was so hard to blend in. Six was more than they had ever attempted at once. “How is that possible?”
“A single downed aircraft near Leiden. They’ve been brought across the border at Maastricht and are hiding in a deserted barn in the woods near Lafelt. You know it?”
Micheline nodded. “So we have to get them over the Pyrenees?”
“Five of them, yes. But one is wounded, too sick to go that far. He would never make it.” She nodded. The Pyrenees crossing was treacherous under normal conditions, and it would be impossible for one who was ill or wounded. “I will arrange for those who are able to be brought to Brussels and escorted to Gare du Midi.”
“Not Gare Centrale?” She was puzzled by the change from their usual point of embarkation.
“Not this time.”
“Why the switch?”
Monsieur Labeau shrugged. “Why anything? I don’t set the plans. I just relay them.” She wanted to press further but could tell from his brusque tone that he would offer nothing more. The changed location was odd, but not so odd that she would balk and compromise the extraction. “I will personally escort the five from there to Paris. I need you to get the other one who is recuperating close to the German border.” Micheline understood then why he needed her to help. The border region between Belgium and Germany had gone back and forth between the two countries throughout the centuries. Though it was part of Belgium since after the Great War, it was home to a great many ethnic Germans, some of whom were sympathetic to the Reich. This made it one of the most dangerous areas from which to extract airmen. The Sapphire Line was the best established in the region and most capable of taking on the dangerous plan.
“What do you want me to do with him once I have him?”
“Hide him until he is well enough for us to evacuate from Europe.”
“Depending upon the extent of his injuries, that could take months.”
“You could take him to the encampment,” Pascal offered. Micheline hated that he spoke of the camp, the heart of their covert operations, in front of this stranger. At least he had not mentioned its location.
“These airmen, have they been screened?” she demanded. The network required downed airmen to be vetted for authenticity before being evacuated. Each one had to go through a thorough background check. It was a cumbersome but necessary step to ensure that they were not spies pretending to be downed airmen in order to infiltrate the network and find its safe houses and helpers.
“Of course,” Monsieur Labeau said. She did not believe him but had no way of proving otherwise. “You will be well-compensated, by the way. My contacts can pay fifteen thousand francs. So you’ll do it?”
“Yes.” Micheline rescued airmen out of a sense of duty. But she was not too proud to accept the money much needed to run the line. “Am I to go now?”
“No,” Pascal replied. “The wounded airman isn’t strong enough to walk. He needs a few days to recover where he is. I will send word when it is time to go.”
“I have a new guide who can join you at the station and help take the others south,” Micheline said, a plan forming as she spoke it aloud. She was going to try again to make good on her promise to find a way to get Hannah out of the country. Micheline had tried several times to arrange for Hannah’s departure, without success. It was harder than she had imagined to move a Jewish civilian, much less a wanted woman, out of occupied Belgium. All of her most promising leads had fallen through. But she was hopeful that Pascal’s contact, in addition to offering resources, might have a way to help Hannah leave. Micheline hated to lose Hannah now that she knew how good she was, but she would keep her word.
Of course, she would not ask Monsieur Labeau for help getting Hannah out directly. Instead, Micheline would make her part of the solution.
“And then?”
She swallowed. “And then she will continue on to America.” The answer had been there all along, so simple she had almost missed it. Hannah would escort the group of airmen to the border, only she wouldn’t come back. She would keep going. “This particular woman needs get to America.” She met his eyes squarely.
“You want me to extract a civilian, a woman?”
Micheline’s anger flared. It was typical for a man like Labeau to look down on a woman. He would never see Hannah, or any woman, for the strong, intelligent fighter that she was. “It’s important that she escape safely.” Micheline wanted to tell him that she was not just a fugitive, but a woman wanted by the Reich for her political satire, but she did not dare say that in front of the newcomer.
“Now, now,” Pascal intervened. “This woman can serve as cover for the airmen. A group of men traveling together will raise suspicion. But if she escorts one of them to the train, less so.” Micheline appreciated his support but resented needing a man to reinforce her position. Why should the opinion of a junior aide carry more weight, simply because he was a man?
“You need my help. This is the price,” she insisted. “This—and the fifteen thousand francs.”
Monsieur Labeau hesitated, and she was certain he would refuse. Finally, he let out a long breath, almost a whistle. “Have her meet us at Gare du Midi, and we will get her out as well.”
“If you’d like, I can help arrange papers onward for her in Spain,” Monsieur Labeau offered. For a moment, Micheline felt a flash of gratitude toward the newcomer. This was quickly replaced by doubt: no one helped without a reason.
“I will be well-paid by the British for the extraction,” Labeau said, seeming to read her thoughts and making the scope of his interest clear. She hated mercenary people like this man almost as much as those who stood aside and did nothing. But he could deliver what she needed, and she did not have the time to quibble over his values. They would work with him on this one mission, and if he was not worthy, they need not trifle with him again. Except, there was no room for missteps or second chances in this work. She appraised him and decided he was just one of those bottom-feeders who profited off the war and went to the highest bidder. He was theirs—at least for now.
“I will rescue the injured airman,” Micheline said. “And I will send the woman to the station to go with the others.”
“Very well, then.” Monsieur Labeau waved his hand dismissively. “Just make sure it all works.”
“It will work,” Micheline said icily. “It always does with me.”