There was no point arguing. Noor could see that she would have to do as he said. Disappointed not to be able to carry on, but also not wanting want to endanger anyone’s life, she had mixed feelings.
Lie low until the 14th of October, London said when she radioed. Then take the Lysander back to England.
Once again, Noor had had to move – this time into a room in an apartment on the Avenue Foch. Now she was living directly opposite the Gestapo headquarters.
Noor looked out of her window. She’d stayed in the flat for five days, but soon she’d be leaving this view of the majestic building, and its menacing occupants. Many agents had been taken to that building to be interrogated. She shuddered. Turning away, she sorted through her things. Rose petals from the Jourdans’ tree fell out of a pocket, still faintly scented. Smiling, she tucked them away in the fold of a dress. She found, too, the envelope with the four special pills Miss Atkins had given her. She rolled them in her hand, remembering the evening when she’d been given them. So much had happened since then. At least she hadn’t had to use them. She dropped them back in their envelope and put it in her suitcase to take back. Another agent might need them.
She spent the next two days making her way across Paris, saying goodbye to her friends. It was hardest of all to leave the Jourdans.
‘Send our love to your family,’ they said. Madame Jourdan had tears in her eyes as she crushed Noor against her.
‘I can’t wait to see them all myself,’ Noor said, and the strength of Madame Jourdan’s embrace brought with it the full force of her longing for Amma. Soon she would be back with her. She couldn’t wait to hug her, and brush her hair, and read soothing poetry to her.
Noor took a deep breath. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back to see you when this is all over!’ And, turning quickly, she left before they saw she was crying too.
The day before she was due to fly back to England, Noor woke early. There was a bakery on the ground floor of her building, and the warm smells weaving their way upwards made her feel hungry for the first time in weeks. A baguette for breakfast – her last taste of Paris. Perhaps she could even bring one back for Amma. On her way downstairs, she passed a man in a well-cut suit, elegant as only a Frenchman could be. She’d seen him a few times in the street nearby. He tipped his hat to her.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said with a smile. ‘Where are you off to this fine morning?’
‘To buy myself my breakfast from the bakery downstairs.’
‘Ah.’ He sniffed deeply. ‘The smell of France. Nothing like it anywhere else in the world. Bon appétit!’
He replaced his hat, and trotted up the stairs.
She joined the snaking queue into the bakery. When she finally made it to the counter, there were only a few rolls left. She bought a couple, and left the shop, thinking she’d walk to a café nearby and buy a cup of pretend coffee.
October already, and russet leaves twirled around her from the trees that lined the avenue. She’d be walking in London soon, cosy in a woolly hat and scarf, and watching the ducks in one of the parks with her sister.
Hurried footsteps behind her made her look over her shoulder. Two men in long coats. She was being followed.
Again.
Gathering all her energy, Noor turned the corner, slipped into a dress shop and out through a side door on to another street.
Then she ran.
Dodging people, trees, bicycles, she flew down the streets and round corners, down dark passageways and through shadowed courtyards. Finally, she reached an abandoned building site and threw herself behind some scaffolding. Crouching, struggling for breath, she waited, watching for her followers. It was so annoying that they were pursuing her now. Her time in Paris was over, for heaven’s sake, and she was about to leave.
Time passed. She must have lost them. Keeping to the back streets, she made her way back towards her flat. She waited at the end of the street for a few moments. No sign of her pursuers. There’d be no more of this after tomorrow. She leapt up the stairs, took her key out of her pocket, and unlocked her door.
Hands grabbed her. Pushed her down to the floor.
‘You?’ Noor screamed. ‘Traitor! Collaborator!’ It was the elegant French man she’d seen earlier on the stairs.
Noor struck at him and punched. He crushed her hands between his fists.
In a fury of biting, scratching and kicking, she hurled herself at him. Again and again, she sank her teeth into his wrists. She spat his blood back at him.
There was a clank of metal. Handcuffs.
‘No!’ she screamed, flailing her arms, pounding her fists into any part of him she could reach. ‘No!’
‘Stop!’ he said. And he pointed a pistol at her.
Terrified, Noor shuffled backwards.
‘Get on the sofa!’ he ordered. ‘One move, and I’ll shoot.’
The gun aimed at her head, he telephoned for help.
Choking with angry sobs and wild fury, Noor screamed at him, and then at the Nazi officers who burst into the flat.
‘Sales Boches! Filthy Germans!’ she swore, hissing and clawing at them as they grabbed her arms and dragged her out of the flat, down the stairs and into the black car idling in the street.