A week passed, and the weather, at long last, began to turn. Noor was at Viennot’s apartment.
‘I’m worried,’ Noor said. ‘I arranged for Gieules to meet that British officer at the end of September and I haven’t heard a word from him since. He usually contacts me every day.’ She paced up and down his kitchen. ‘Do you think he’s been arrested?’
‘Madeleine, will you sit down. You’re wearing yourself out with all this anxiety.’
Viennot tapped his cigarette on the edge of the saucer and dug through some scraps of paper from his pocket. ‘Here’s his number. Why don’t you just telephone him?’
Noor put the call through. It rang seven times, and she was about to ring off when Gieules picked it up.
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Noor said. ‘You’re there.’
Gieules cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m here.’ He paused a moment. ‘Listen, Madeleine, we need to – to meet. I have something to give to you.’
‘OK. Tell me where and when.’ Why did he sound so distracted?
‘Er…say, 10 am tomorrow… yes, ten, at the Etoile… at the corner of Avenue MacMahon and Rue Tilsitt.’
‘Of course. See you there.’ Noor put down the phone, frowning. ‘Something’s wrong. He sounded distant.’
Viennot collected Noor the next morning. She was glad he was coming with her: two pairs of eyes were better than one. She had a nagging sense that something was amiss, and she could see that Viennot was worried too.
‘Wait here,’ he said when they reached the Arc de Triomphe, not far from the meeting place. Noor hung back, stepping into the doorway of a boarded-up shop. She watched Viennot make his way down the Avenue.
Within minutes, he came trotting back, breathing heavily, his face red.
‘Stay!’ he hissed as she moved towards him. ‘It’s a trap. Gieules is there. Six guards, too. Waiting for you.’
Noor’s heart hammered against her ribs. Gieules had betrayed her. A tremor of anger rippled through her fear. How could he have done such a thing?
But then she thought back to their telephone conversation. Perhaps there’d been a German pistol at his head. What would she do if she found herself at the end of a gun barrel?
Noor leaned out to watch as Gieules was pushed into a car. The doors slammed and the long black car sped off through the traffic. Her hands were trembling as she put them to her face.
‘I can’t believe how close that was. They nearly got me,’ she said to Viennot. ‘I think the Germans must know what I look like.’ She touched her hair. ‘Look at this. I’ve already dyed my hair so many times, it’s turned into straw, and I’m beginning to resemble a scarecrow. I need a better disguise. Different clothes.’
She shifted from one foot to the other as Viennot looked at her from the top of her head to her shoes.
He sighed. ‘OK, vite, quick. We can do something. Come with me.’
The hairdressing salon was a gold and pink place tucked away in a side street. It was quiet inside: thick rugs and velvet cushions absorbed all sounds. Noor’s hair was poked at by a snooty lady, who then set about massaging, dyeing, smoothing, cutting, shaping and drying Noor’s hair. She felt like a pampered poodle, but the hairdresser did a wonderful job. When at last she was allowed to look in the mirror, Noor saw how her hair was now as shiny, brown and sleek as a conker.
‘Magnifique,’ Viennot said when she emerged from the salon. ‘And now what your new brunette hair needs is some new outfits. Follow me.’ He tossed his silk scarf over one shoulder.
In an expensive boutique nearby, Viennot chose a tailored, crisp blue dress with a white trim for her, as well as a sweater, and a chic matching hat. She stepped out of the changing room to show him.
‘Fantastique,’ he said. ‘Keep these clothes on, and pass me your old ones.’
He took Noor’s raincoat and dress and stuffed them in a bin, then stood back to look at her properly.
‘Oh la la, you look even more beautiful.’ Noor blushed. ‘Still worn out, but not so – dowdy. In fact, my dear, you look like a Parisienne. The Germans won’t recognise you. Lift your chin, Madeleine, and walk through the streets with confidence.’