It was another hour before Nancy had the chance to talk to Philippe and Antoine about what she had seen during the destruction of the Old Quarter.
Antoine, dark-haired and thin but with a wiry strength in his narrow shoulders, was one of the most successful people smugglers in the south. He’d worked with Nancy, a Scotsman named Garrow she had never met and a Belgian Resistance man called O’Leary, all of them guiding escapees to isolated safe houses and arranging guides to take them over the Pyrenees into the relative safety of Spain a dozen times. Philippe, shorter in stature with a square, tanned face, who always looked like he’d just come in from the field even when he was dressed in a dinner jacket, was an excellent forger. Near faultless passes, residence cards and travel permits emerged from his basement workshop day after day and carried those lucky enough to find friends in the Resistance along the winding train tracks and on rural busses into anonymous obscurity, or from safe house to safe house across France until they found their way onto a ship for England.
“They just shot him dead,” Nancy said. “Right in the middle of the fucking street. There’s not even a pretense of legality anymore.” The image of the fatal shot, the spurt of brain matter and blood flickered behind her eyes and she downed the rest of her glass. Close behind them a champagne cork popped noisily and Antoine stiffened, then shrugged.
They are too worn out even to be angry any more, Nancy thought, and held out her glass. I must hang on to my rage.
A passing waiter saw her and she heard the champagne fizz into the glass. It sounded like the hiss of her own blood in her ears when she thought of that dead boy. Gray. Red. Yellow. The blue of the sky. She would feel every second of it.
“I’m worried,” Antoine said. “Three times last month my guides had to turn back because of increased patrols, just when we had people to move. Perhaps we should go dark. Suspend operations, slow down for a while. Someone is talking. Or someone is being careless.”
Nancy felt his gaze. “Don’t look at me! I don’t even tell you where those steaks you eat at my table come from. I am the soul of discretion.” She winked at him over the rim of her glass.
“Antoine has a point though,” Philippe said gruffly, his large hands holding his champagne flute as if he thought it might explode between his fingers any moment. “Nancy, there is a new Gestapo spy hunter in Marseille. A man named Böhm. He destroyed the best network we had in Paris in a matter of weeks. Hardly anyone made it out. He did time in the east too and now he is here. He is coming for the White Mouse. For you. We must be careful.”
Careful. Everyone wanted Nancy to be careful, polite, sit on the edge of her chair with her knees together and her hands in her lap and never look anyone in the eye. Fuck that.
“Oh, relax, boys. He’s not going to find me. Everyone knows I’m just a girl with expensive habits and a rich husband. Who is going to see the White Mouse when they see Madame Fiocca out shopping?”
“Nancy, take this seriously,” Antoine said. “We are not playing a game. And even if the Gestapo don’t suspect you, what about the men in your life? You think that Henri can keep funneling half his fortune into our cause without attracting notice?”
That stung. But Henri was a grown man and could make his own decisions, she told herself. Yes, he kept warning her to be careful too and she kept pushing and pushing but…
“The only way to beat a bully is to punch him in the nose,” she said. “Anyone who’s ever been in a schoolyard knows that,” she added, a sullen and dangerous flicker in her eye. She felt a touch on her shoulder and turned. Her husband. How did he manage to look so cool, so calm after the fountains of champagne they had drunk? Every other man in the room looked flushed and awkward next to him. Her anger was forced out of her by a sudden surge of pride.
“Nancy! You promised me! No talk of your work today.” He looked at Philippe and Antoine. They shuffled like schoolboys.
“We have been urging Nancy to be cautious, Monsieur Fiocca,” Antoine said.
Henri smiled at them. “Good luck, I hope you have more success than I. Darling, shall we dance?”
Nancy took his hand, then waved at Antoine and Philippe over her shoulder. Caution be damned. Henri was a hero and could look after himself, and she was never going to slow down if she had the chance to bloody the Nazis’ noses just one more time.
Their guests moved aside to give the newly-weds room to dance a waltz. Henri was a divine dancer. Nancy could just let go, allowing herself to be guided by him over the polished wood floors. She leaned back against his encircling arm; it was like flying. When she opened her eyes, he was gazing at her steadily, but in a way that put her on her guard.
“Are you going to scold me?”
His hand tightened slightly round her waist. “I think I must. Spending your wedding reception with members of the Resistance. Risking your life for a bottle of Krug.”
She widened her eyes. They were still on the edge of playing, of finding it all terribly amusing: the war, the danger, him as sage and wise husband shaking his head over the excesses of his young wife. “They are my friends, and I got the Krug for you, my darling.”
“I don’t need champagne, Nancy.” He wasn’t playing any more. “I need you.”
He brought her closer to him. A hiss outside, like the first hint of the summer mistral wind, and then a dull cramping explosion. The chandeliers shook and a thin shiver of plaster dust whispered from the ceiling.
Henri released her waist, held her hand and lifted it high. “Bernard, mes amies, more champagne and Vive la France!”
The crowd re-gathered its bravery and cheered. The band launched into a fast, frivolous dance tune and the dancers kicked away the dust as they spun around the floor. Nancy laughed out loud, her head thrown back, and let herself be carried away by the lights, the drink, the feel of Henri’s hands.
Even after four hours of dancing, Henri would have no argument. He would carry his wife over at least one threshold this evening. He picked up Nancy in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, then set her gently down on the thick carpet.
“Henri,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. “I have something very important to ask you. I need your help.”
He frowned. This was Nancy’s way, to find her moment and then ask for something outrageous and dangerous. More money. Using their home in the Alps as a refuge for prisoners. Using his business to smuggle arms and men. A bond to buy one more Jewish family safety in England. She watched him prepare for the onslaught and grinned before turning round.
“I can’t reach the zipper…”
He laughed softly and very slowly reached for the delicate catch and unhooked it, then eased down the zip, tracing her exposed skin with his knuckle. He came close, kissed the back of her neck.
“Henri, I’m not going to apologize for who I am. You knew who you were marrying,” she said, leaning back against him.
“I wouldn’t ask you to, Nancy.” His words were muffled, his voice low with desire. He ran his hands around her waist, pressing his palms against her stomach.
Nancy felt the need for him, an ache under his fingers.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be like those other wives. The thought of hurting you is awful, but so is the thought of letting those bastards win. They cannot win. So I’m not going to lie to you and promise to quit. I can’t.”
He sighed and turned her round to face him. “Promise me only that you will try to be careful. Can you do that?” His voice was warm, indulgent again.
She nodded.
He led her over to the little sofa and table in the corner of the room by the windows and sat her down beside him.
Nancy twisted in her seat and hitched up her skirt so she could sit astride him. She lifted her hands to let her hair free of its diamond clasp and let the silk slip down her body to pool at her waist.
“Henri Fiocca, I fucking love you.”
He put his hands in her hair, pulled her toward him and kissed her. Hard.