

EVE'S WAR

OPERATION  
ZIGZAG
EVE'S WAR

OPERATION  
ZIGZAG

Hannah Howe

Goylake Publishing
Copyright © 2020 Hannah Howe

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Goylake Publishing, Iscoed, 16A Meadow Street, North Cornelly, Bridgend, Glamorgan. CF33 4LL

Print ISBN: 978-1-8380118-0-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9993709-9-2

Printed and bound in Britain by Imprint Digital, Exeter, EX5 5HY
Author's Note

The characters in Eve's War are fictional. However, all the stories and the incidents within those stories, from the personal to the public, are based on real events.

This book opens with an extended prologue. The prologue covers the first thirty years of Eve's life and explains her background, her abilities, her beliefs and her vulnerabilities.

The series is structured into twelve books, each of approximately 20,000 words, set roughly two months apart. Within the back matter of each book, you will find potted biographies of the real heroes and heroines of the SOE, the people whom Eve Beringar, Guy Samson and Mimi Duchamp are based on (you will meet Guy and Mimi in book two). It's been an honour to read about these incredibly brave and principled people. I hope you will enjoy their stories and the exploits of my characters in Eve's War.
Hannah's books are available in print, as eBooks and audio books with translations in progress

Eve's War

Operation Zigzag

Operation Locksmith

Operation Broadsword

Operation Treasure

Operation Sherlock

Operation Cameo

Operation Rose

Operation Watchmaker

Operation Overlord

Operation Jedburgh

Operation Butterfly

Operation Liberty

Ann's War

Betrayal

Invasion

Blackmail

Escape

Victory

Stand-alone Novel

Saving Grace
The Sam Smith Mystery Series

Sam's Song

Love and Bullets

The Big Chill

Ripper

The Hermit of Hisarya

Secrets and Lies

Family Honour

Sins of the Father

Smoke and Mirrors

Stardust

Mind Games

Digging in the Dirt

A Parcel of Rogues

Boston

The Devil and Ms Devlin

Snow in August

Looking for Rosanna Mee

The Olive Tree: A Spanish Civil War Saga

Roots

Branches

Leaves

Fruit

Flowers
To my family, with love

# Prologue

To start at the very beginning. I was born on 10th October 1912 in a rural village in Wales. Our cottage was small, but homely. I shared the cottage with my mother and five siblings who were all considerably older than me. Indeed, I sensed that I was an afterthought, not unwanted exactly, but by the time I arrived, my mother had had enough of children.

What of my father? I never really knew him. He went off to war in 1914 and died on 11th November 1918, just as the ink was drying on the Armistice. A sniper shot him. In effect, he shot my mother too because she never really recovered from the shock. Already obsessed with the Bible and the Methodist Chapel, she moved closer to God and left me to fend for myself.

At school, the lessons didn't challenge me. They were simple, too straightforward. Easily bored, I became disruptive. I was a difficult child. I made life difficult for my teachers, and my mother. I can see that now. However, at the time I only witnessed families enjoying themselves while I wandered around alone.

I was a fearless child. I accepted every challenge offered to me. "Climb that tree," my brothers said, and I climbed it. "Jump off the shed roof." And I jumped. It never occurred to me to say "No." It never occurred to me to back down. My motto was, 'Look out, world, here I come!'

I loved reading. Anne of Green Gables was my favourite book. I read it constantly. Whenever I felt lonely, I turned to Anne. She was my Bible. I identified with her and her plight.

Our community was based on sweat and toil, on labouring in the fields, on blasting limestone from the quarries, on hewing coal from black as hell coalmines. Accidents were frequent. Men lost their lives. You learned to live for the day.

It was an intimate community. All our neighbours were called Jones, or Williams, or Davies, or Evans, or Morgan. I was a Morgan. The adults distinguished each other through their occupations: Morgan the Shop, Morgan the Milk, Morgan the Pub. I was Morgan the Truant.

Aged twelve I decided to run away from home, not straightaway, of course. First, I would plan and save enough money. The catalyst for this scheme arrived via the chapel. My mother had dragged me along to a lecture. The speaker had been to America, had hitchhiked from coast to coast. I was hooked, enthralled by his stories. Yes, I could do that, I could travel across America. I had no idea how, of course, but now I had a dream, and the determination to fulfil it.

I devoured magazines. I was friendly with Morgan the Shop, a gentle old man, possibly a distant relative – if you probed deep enough I think you would discover that everyone in the village was related, one way or another. Morgan the Shop used to save bundles of magazines for me, mostly second-hand copies.

California intrigued me. Later, Hollywood and the actress Tallulah Bankhead became a fascination. Maybe I could act in the movies, like Tallulah. For the time being, I dressed like her, wearing jackets and ties. I styled my hair in her fashion, short and dyed blonde.

Although intrinsically shy, I learned how to flirt, how to show off. Indeed, my flirting covered my shyness. My flirtatious ways opened many doors. On one occasion, a limestone quarryman allowed me to press the plunger and blast the limestone from the quarry. That was fun. It was exciting. It gave me a unique thrill, which tingled through my bones.

At sixteen, I left home. For some reason, my mother dragged up an incident from my childhood. Dared by my friend, Nancy, I stole apples from an orchard. My mother found the apples and demanded the full story. Then she dragged me along to school where she made me confess to my teacher and classmates.

My mother demanded that I receive the birch. The teacher, a sadist, agreed. I didn't fear the birch; like I said, nothing frightened me. However, I did feel aggrieved. So I grassed on Nancy. I blamed her. She received the birch too. I can still see the pain on her face, the tears in her eyes. At that moment, I vowed that no matter what the provocation, no matter what my predicament, I would never grass on a friend again.

Dredging up that story was the last straw for my relationship with my mother. I packed a bag, waited until everyone had drifted off to sleep, then made my escape. I knew where I was going – the coast. There was a rest home on the coast, for coalminers. Many of the coalminers went there for the sea air because they had dust on their lungs. I would become a nurse. I would waltz in and nurse the coalminers. Life is simple when you have simple thoughts.

For some reason, probably desperation, the doctors at the home hired me and I learned the ropes. I made a new friend, Pearl, another runaway. At the end of our shifts, we would sneak into pubs and drink alcohol. We were underage, of course, but I'd filled out completely by then and could pass for much older. The men bought me drinks. They wanted to get me drunk. I was aware of their machinations. However, from a young age, I'd become immune to the effects of alcohol. I had my eccentric aunt, Alice, to thank for that.

Aunt Alice liked me. Maybe she saw a kindred spirit, or maybe she wanted an excuse to drink. Whatever the reason, on my weekly visits to her house, she plied me with alcohol. It wasn't pleasant, it wasn't unpleasant. Over time, I developed a high tolerance. The men in the pub didn't know that, of course. They wanted to get me pissed – I learned all the naughty words in the pub. However, by the end of the evening the men were the ones under the table while I carried Pearl to our lodgings, near the rest home.

After six months of working at the rest home, Aunt Alice found me. By that stage, I think my mother had given up hope and abandoned me as a lost cause. I didn't blame her. As a daughter, I was a bitter disappointment.

Then, out of the blue, I received a gift from my Aunt Alice – £200. She'd inherited a small nest egg from her father and invested the money. Eccentric and a spinster, everyone in the village was wary of my Aunt Alice, yet she was kind and generous. And, when it came to money, she was careful and clever. Her gift fuelled my dream. I was on my way to America.

I landed in Boston. The ship I boarded in Britain was going there, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. I loved Boston. The people were friendly and I received lots of invitations to parties.

At one party, I was invited to New York, so I went. These were crazy days, unreal days. What was I, a girl from a small Welsh village doing in a big city like New York? Having a great time, I can tell you!

Even in the midst of Prohibition, the booze flowed. Apparently, people no longer bathed in their baths; instead, they brewed alcohol, gut-rotting moonshine. I sipped in moderation, aware that the moonshine had affected some people, had made them blind.

In New York, I met a guy, at a party. He said if I hooked up with him, he would land me starring roles in Hollywood movies. He sounded too good to be true. He was too good to be true, so I refused his advances. He became stroppy, physically and sexually abusive, so I thumped him, on the jaw. I landed a neat right hook. He went sprawling along the bar, then fell on to the floor, spark-out.

I made a new friend in New York, Dorothy. She was very kind to me. She even allowed me to stay at her apartment. I was grateful at the time because by then my money was running out.

Dorothy and I went everywhere together – stores, parks, nightclubs; we had a great time. Then, one evening Dorothy confessed that she loved me. Maybe my Tallulah Bankhead impersonation had confused her. Nevertheless, I had to explain that I wasn't into that kind of love. Dorothy became tearful. She broke down. I felt bad about that, bad about upsetting her. For the first time, I realised that cities could resemble villages – despite the millions of people, you could still feel alone.

With my money running out, I returned home, not to my mother, but to a place where I could find suitable employment and maybe establish a career.

Journalism appealed to me, partly because I enjoyed reading and writing, also because it offered the prospect of travel, on my employer's expense account.

I rationalised that America was a big place, Hollywood a long way away. I'd matured during my teenage years. Now, I realised that I had to balance dreams with reality. Hollywood was a dream. Carving out a career as a journalist was my reality. Subsequently, I knuckled down to study, passing the grade; a year later, I secured a job as a journalist.

From junior reporter on a local newspaper, covering the vicar's tea party and local weddings, I progressed to meatier assignments, which included mining disasters, political events and a murder.

Through an agency, I secured a job in Paris, as a European correspondent. I bluffed my way into the job, assuring my employers that I knew the Continent like the back of my hand – all those hours, spent reading, had served me well.

At that stage, 1936, I couldn't speak French. However, my mother had brought me up bilingual – Welsh and English – and soon I discovered that I had an aptitude for languages. Working with colleagues, drinking with friends, in no time at all I found myself speaking French with a Parisian accent.

In April 1937, I travelled to the market town of Guernica in Spain. I arrived in the country to report on the civil war, which had raged for a year. Initially, my editor said, "I'm not sending a woman." Then some wag in the office joked, "In that case, why don't you send Eve?" At that point, I decided that Tallulah definitely wasn't the right role model for me. Ditching her influence, I forged my own identity, my own look, a more feminine look, a look that suited my generous curves, my natural sensuality.

In Spain, I witnessed the destruction of Guernica. The fascists bombed the town, murdering hundreds of men, women and children. I walked amongst their dead bodies, innocents buried in rubble, strewn in the streets. I shook my head and said to myself, "What evil is this?"

I concluded that fascism was a plague, a disease of the mind, and that I should do everything within my power to stamp it out. For the first time in my life, I discovered a sense of purpose, a cause.

I sent my editor enraged reports, describing the destruction of Guernica, but he spiked them all, claiming that they 'lacked balance'. I sent him a telegram stating that: 'You can only balance evil with the truth, and I filed the truth.' He didn't want to know. No one was listening. 'Ignore the fascists' was the order of the day. 'Maybe they'd go away.' Before I could file another report, my editor recalled me to Paris.

A year later, I was in Austria and Germany where I witnessed the Nazis first hand. I witnessed the beatings, the persecution of minorities, the destruction of businesses. "Right, you bastards," I told myself, "this is not how it should be. I may be a feeble woman pushing a pen for a living, but you have made an enemy out of me."

Throughout this time, I was still a regular at parties and whenever I had the opportunity, I travelled to the south of France. I loved the Riviera parties: the music, the dancing, the sense of fun.

Then I met him, Michel Beringar, at a party on the Riviera. I was sitting at a table with three men buzzing around me while he was standing at the bar with two women on his arm. We glanced at each other, smiled and realised that we'd have more fun if we ditched the crowd.

I dated Michel again the following week and our affair developed. He was a handsome man, wealthy beyond reason, a millionaire, and passionate about everything, especially me.

Michel was a playboy, I recognised that. However, twelve years my senior, he acknowledged that life was passing him by and that he wanted to settle down. He wanted to marry me.

I wrestled with his offer. I'd received proposals during my time in Paris, mostly from journalist friends. Indeed, for two years, I'd walked out with Harry, a journalist with Hearst newspapers. Distance through our jobs kept us apart. Nevertheless, he was keen on marriage. However, I reminded myself that like my Aunt Alice, I was not the marrying kind. Eventually, Harry and I drifted apart.

Unlike Harry, Michel was insistent, obsessive. With war looming, he hastened our engagement. Without the threat of war, maybe our relationship would have taken a leisurely, natural course. In the event, I succumbed to his charm, his obsession. We married, enjoyed a blissful honeymoon in the Alps, then returned to Marseille, Michel's home city.

On 3rd September 1939, when Britain declared war on the Nazis, my thoughts went to my home village. What would my friends and family make of Madame Beringar, woman of luxury? More to the point, what of all the Joneses, Williamses, Davieses, Evanses and Morgans marching off to war? How many would return? Would my brothers be amongst them? Would I see them again?

As Madame Beringar, my decadent life continued. For months, the war hovered in the background while day after day, I rose late in the mornings, breakfasted on champagne and caviar, bathed in lavender baths until lunchtime then met friends in beauty salons and boutiques. In the evenings, we'd dine on rich food while on the weekends we'd throw lavish parties. My lifestyle, indeed my life, seemed surreal.

When the harsh weather relented, we holidayed in our mountain retreat, in the Pyrenees, near the Spanish border. Occasionally, while wandering along ancient trackways, thinking that I should be doing something productive, something to help the war effort, I found myself observing; I noticed secret trails, tracks used by smugglers over the centuries. I filed this information away, for future reference.

When the Nazis invaded France in May 1940, Michel donned his officer's uniform and prepared to fight. While he was away, on the Maginot Line, I requisitioned a van from his shipping business and converted it into an ambulance. Recalling my days at the miners' home, I tended the wounded on the frontline until the Nazi advance overpowered us, forced us into retreat.

Into June 1940 and our retreat continued apace, until France collapsed. The only consolation was personal, my reunion with Michel who, thankfully, had escaped the fighting unhurt.

The Nazis occupied the north and west coasts of France, and their hinterlands, while the Vichy government under the puppet Marshal Pétain retained the unoccupied territories in the south. However, by November 1942 the south too had succumbed to the full weight of Nazi oppression. Some Frenchmen and women accepted their fate while others formed the Resistance.

A lawyer by trade, Vincent Lefebvre was a good man, the best man at our wedding. Loyal, trustworthy, he was also a leading member of the Marseille Resistance.

Initially, Vincent asked me to help, simply by delivering messages and wireless components to colleagues in Marseille, Toulon and Cannes. However, soon his network spread to other regions in the south of France.

Michel was against my involvement and we had a furious row. Sensing my determination and passion, he acquiesced. With his mind made up, he vowed to fund the local Resistance and support me as their chief courier. My love for him at that moment knew no bounds.

My role within Vincent's network developed. I found myself travelling throughout France, often encountering checkpoints with my forged identity papers – travelling on my own documents was too risky for myself, Michel and our Resistance network.

Every day, I played a new role from secretary to businesswoman, from teacher to widow, from housewife to nightclub hostess. Hollywood was a fading dream, but on the roads and railways of France, I acted my socks off.

Because of Nazi persecution, some people decided to leave France. Their numbers swelled with British airmen shot down during bombing raids, and stragglers who had lingered in France after Dunkirk. Vincent knew about our mountain home and my familiarity with the mountain trails into Spain. He asked me to escort the airmen, soldiers and refugees to safety. Of course, I agreed.

Amongst the refugees, the adults often possessed hollow, haunted eyes, while their children's eyes shone bright with adventure. The contrast was astounding; it touched me, tugged at my heart.

Undoubtedly, I was taking great risks. I placed my life on the line every day. However, I reminded myself that freedom was the only thing worth living for; it didn't matter if I died, because without freedom there was no sunshine in the day.

And so with those experiences and that attitude in mind, I met Michel and Vincent on a fateful winter's day.

# Chapter One

I was sitting in our bedroom in our penthouse apartment atop the Canebière, just below the zoological gardens. From our windows and balcony, we could see over the red rooftops to the old city and beyond that to the ships sailing on the azure blue waters of the Mediterranean.

Michel was squatting beside the wireless, tuning the dial to the BBC. In the lounge, Wagner crackled on the gramophone, smothering all sound. We played Wagner at full volume to hide the plummy accents of the BBC newscasters because the Nazis had decreed that listening to such broadcasts amounted to treason, punishable by firing squad. Furthermore, a neighbour was a member of the nascent Milice, an informal home-grown army of cutthroats, psychopaths, criminals, collaborators and fascists.

Michel adjusted the dial while I sat back in my wicker chair, sipped my whisky and reached for a Gitane. He glanced over to me and smiled. Then he stood, produced a monogrammed lighter and lit my cigarette. He was chivalrous with such gestures. Indeed, he considered them the mark of a man; if I pleased him, he would do anything for me.

The BBC newscaster announced that the Nazis had suffered a setback in Stalingrad. A battle was raging, the Nazis in retreat. Indeed, the Red Army had encircled the Nazis' Sixth Army and their Fourth Panzer Division.

"Russia brought Napoleon to his knees," Michel said, "and she will do the same to Hitler. If the Red Army doesn't destroy the Nazi forces then the severe winter weather will kill them." He tilted his head back and, in celebration, gulped his whisky. "The tide is turning in our favour."

With a smile on his handsome face, Michel walked over and kissed me on the forehead. He caressed my thigh through my stockings and the silk of my dress. I glanced up and noticed desire within his eyes. His kisses travelled south, over my cheeks to my lips. His passion burned my lips. Then he glanced towards the bed.

The wireless forgotten, we fell on to the bed. Through Michel's caresses, my heart matched Wagner's stirring strains.

"Yes?" Michel whispered into my ear.

"Yes," I said.

Then, a knock on the front door. We tensed and stared at each other. From the corner of my eye, I noticed lipstick on my whisky glass and a spiral of smoke from my abandoned cigarette.

The knock became more insistent. I reflected – these days that simple sound echoed Morse code, signalling fear.

"Are you expecting anyone?" I asked.

"No," Michel said. "Are you?"

I stood, drained my whisky and ground out my cigarette. Glancing at Michel, I shook my head. In the lounge, Wagner still blared. Surely, no one had overheard the BBC broadcast?

Our staff had retired for the evening – we employed five people – so while I adjusted the dial on the wireless, locating a poetry reading, Michel straightened his waistcoat, ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair and answered the door.

Meanwhile, I stood in front of the hall mirror, listening intently. I strained to hear, while my eyes remained temporarily blind. I didn't see the woman in the mirror, the brunette with wavy, collar-length hair, bedroom eyes and sensuous curves. Sometimes, I cursed my appearance because men took me at face value; they assumed that I represented nothing but glamour, that I possessed no thoughts or opinions of any value. That said, my sultry looks had eased me through many checkpoints because guards considered beautiful women as empty-headed and therefore not a threat.

To my relief, I heard friendly voices in the doorway, followed by laughter. I exhaled. At that moment, I realised that I'd been holding my breath. I straightened my hair, adjusted my clothing then joined Michel and Vincent Lefebvre as they strolled into the lounge.

In his early fifties, Vincent possessed a bald head encircled with a dark corona. Indeed, his hair remained black despite his age. His distinguishing features included a large, bushy moustache, deep lines on his forehead and a mole under his right eye. A married man with a son and daughter, he remained in good physical shape, thanks to his penchant for swimming.

"Vincent," I smiled. We kissed each other on the cheeks. "Good to see you."

"You too, Eve." Vincent took a step back to admire my shapely form. "I must say," he sighed, "you look more radiant by the day."

"Whisky adds colour to her cheeks," Michel grinned.

I exchanged a secret smile with my husband while he reached for a decanter and three whisky glasses. The glasses were exquisitely cut, displaying a diamond pattern. Despite the war and creeping austerity, our bar remained well stocked, thanks to contacts on the black market.

As Michel poured the drinks, I eased the stylus away from the record and brought Wagner to a merciful halt.

"Gitane?" Michel offered Vincent a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case.

Vincent nodded. "Thank you. They're getting harder to find."

Indeed, now it was common to witness people scouring the gutters, searching for butts.

"Is this a social visit?" Michel asked. He joined me on a luxurious chaise longue where he crossed his legs. Michel had long legs. In fact, they were rather thin and when in a mischievous mood, I would tease him about his 'pins'.

"Sort of," Vincent said. He remained standing, pacing the carpet in front of the fireplace. He looked tense, on edge.

"You need help," Michel said.

Vincent sipped his whisky. He nodded. "How did you guess?"

"It's the only reason you call these days." Michel tossed his words aside with a casual air, just as one might flick ash into an ashtray.

"We're in a fix," Vincent frowned. His frown was a constant feature, hence the deep lines on his forehead. "The Gestapo have captured a British agent, codename Zigzag. They picked him up through his false identity papers, only the thing is they haven't discovered his true identity, yet. But they will. And he'll talk. They all do in the end. And when he talks he'll reveal secrets that'll destroy the local resistance networks, including our own. But there's a way out, through a guard. He's open to bribes. We'd like you, Eve, to meet the guard, bribe him, spring Zigzag from his Gestapo prison then escort him over the mountain pass into Spain."

"Why me?" I asked.

"Because you helped to establish the escape network. And you know the mountain trails like the back of your hand. Furthermore, as the wife of respected industrialist Michel Beringar you are above suspicion."

I glanced at Michel. From the stern look on his face, I could tell that he wasn't happy. Along with my duties as a courier, I'd been escorting refugees, British airmen and soldiers over the Spanish border for eighteen months. Was this one risk too many? And as for me being above suspicion...the Gestapo were following me and they were tapping my phone.

"It's too risky," Michel said. In irritation, he drummed his fingers on the satin of the chaise longue. Michel possessed long, pianist's fingers, although he didn't play.

"The risk is no greater than before," Vincent said, his tone uneven, his gaze furtive as he stared into his whisky, into its rich amber depths.

"The Gestapo are in the city now," Michel said. "They weren't here before. Eve has done everything, fulfilled every request, but this is asking too much."

"I would like to do it," I said.

Michel stood. He glared at me. "Are you mad?" he asked.

"I'm committed," I said. "I want to kick these bastards out of France."

Michel nodded. "That's all well and good, but you can't do it single-handed."

"I can do my bit," I said. While replenishing Vincent's glass, I added, "Tell me more."

"Arthur is desperate," Vincent said. Arthur was the codename for our contact in Britain. "He insists that we must get Zigzag out, no matter what the cost."

"Why is Zigzag so important to the British?" I asked.

"He's a double agent," Vincent said. "He knows our secrets; furthermore, he knows many of Berlin's secrets. When the Gestapo realise who he is and pressure him to talk he could ruin our network. And he could throw the invasion plans into jeopardy."

"All this talk of invasion," Michel said, his earlier optimism and enthusiasm melting like snow in the spring, "but nothing ever happens."

"These things take time," Vincent shrugged, offering a doleful, apologetic expression.

"Who's pulling the strings?" Michel asked. "Churchill, Roosevelt, Stalin? Are these delays merely to appease the Red Army? Merely to make France suffer?"

"It's complex," Vincent said. "I don't know the details, but I do know that the British are planning to drop agents, hundreds of them, into France."

"You mentioned that Zigzag spent time in Berlin," I said. "If we ferry him to Britain, could he offer Arthur some of Hitler's secrets?"

"That is the hope," Vincent said, "yes."

"Then we must do this," I said to Michel. "We must help."

Michel glared at me. Now, I saw anger, not passion, in his dark, sensuous eyes. He strode over to the balcony, opened the windows and gazed out. His fists clenched and unclenched as he wrestled with my demand. The breeze caught the lace curtains and they billowed out. A chill permeated the room. Meanwhile, at the fireplace, Vincent glanced at the mantelpiece clock, aware of the impending curfew.

"Very well," Michel said, closing the balcony windows, "but after Zigzag, we stop."

"Why?" I asked.

He sighed, shook his head and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Because I love you too much and I don't want you to come to any harm."

"I can look after myself," I said.

"One more run then," Vincent said, eager to conclude our conversation and return to the safety of his home. "After that, the weather will close in; it will become too dangerous to cross the mountains in the depths of winter."

"Zigzag is a double agent," Michel said, seeking the whisky decanter, pouring a generous measure into his glass. "Can we trust him?"

Vincent nodded. "Arthur believes that we can."

"We need more than belief," Michel said. "For such risks, we need certainty."

"Arthur has never let us down." Vincent offered a rare smile. "I think we should trust him."

"And the guard," Michel asked, swilling his whisky, his nostrils flaring as he sampled its aroma, "what do we know about him?"

"He's a local," Vincent said, "in that he lives here now. He was born in Mauritius, still has family there, by all accounts. His name is Bruno Bastian. He's a big man, powerful, but not over-burdened with intelligence. He's taking a chance, risking his life, so I don't think he'll betray us; we shouldn't have any doubts."

"It might be a trap," Michel said.

"If it is," I said, "I'll sense it and get out."

"You're always so sure of yourself," Michel said. His tone suggested anger, not praise. He craved control, total submission. However, with the Resistance, I stood up for myself, hence his frustration.

"I know how to think on my feet," I said.

"You'll be the death of me," Michel said. "Sometimes, I wish I didn't care about you, I wish I didn't love you so much."

I offered my husband a warm smile. However, gripped by anger, he turned away from me.

"When do I meet Bruno?" I asked Vincent.

"Tomorrow evening," he said, "at the church, the Église Saint Laurent, nine o'clock."

"That only leaves an hour before the curfew," Michel scowled.

"Don't worry," Vincent said, "Eve will be home, safe and sound, by ten o'clock."

"What does Bruno look like?" I asked.

"Like I said," Vincent shrugged, "he's a big man, powerfully built. He's in his thirties. He's quite distinctive because of his curly hair, a deep scar on his chin and one long bushy eyebrow."

Without further ado, Vincent left our apartment, to beat the curfew, which the Nazis had imposed on residential areas. Meanwhile, I retired to my boudoir, to powder my nose.

When I returned to our bedroom, I found Michel in bed. Still angry with me, he pretended to be asleep. I peeled back the satin sheets and snuggled into my side of the bed, near the edge. I could have reached out and made peace with my husband. Instead, I allowed my head to sink into the pillow and my thoughts to wander to Bruno and Zigzag.

# Chapter Two

The following day, as usual, I awoke late. With Michel at work, I would play my regular role, that of the frivolous Madame Beringar.

After a breakfast of caviar and champagne – I could take or leave the caviar; however, champagne definitely delighted my taste buds – I bathed in a lavender bath. Then I wandered into Marseille where I visited my hairdresser, a beauty parlour and my friends for afternoon tea. All the while, the Gestapo tailed me.

My tail reminded me of Boris Karloff in Frankenstein, a movie I'd seen during my footloose days in New York. He was ugly, moronic, with a square head and a triangular jaw.

I had a plan. Before my rendezvous with Bruno, I would walk the length and breadth of the city; from childhood, I was used to walking; I would wear the bastard out.

Heading east, I strolled along our tree-lined boulevard until I reached Église Saint-Vincent de Paul. A stunning Roman Catholic church, the building dated from the 1880s. It was a gothic structure with ogival curves in the ceiling and two arrow-shaped towers some seventy metres tall. Stained-glass windows along with statues of Jesus and Joan of Arc also caught the eye. Although it was a bitterly cold day, the heavens had blessed us with a clear blue sky. Therefore, I decided to sketch the statue of Joan of Arc.

Sketching came naturally to me. My paintings were insipid. However, with a pencil I could capture fine details and realistic forms.

As I sketched, I recalled that Michel was a Catholic, although not fervent in his beliefs. I suppose, I was still a Methodist, severely lapsed. Michel's parents had opposed our marriage, on religious grounds. However, he'd dismissed their complaints; come hell or high water, he was determined to marry me.

While I sketched, Boris from the Gestapo looked on. Of course, he pretended not to look, but his over-casual glances gave him away. Besides, I could smell the Gestapo, smell them through their leather belts and the polish on their boots. Furthermore, they all walked with an air of unsightly arrogance.

My fingers were cold. Therefore, I looped west and strolled towards the boutiques. I would buy a pair of leather gloves and a woollen oversized cardigan. The cardigan would offer my curves a frumpy appearance. However, on top of my dress and under my coat it would keep me warm. Meanwhile, outside on the pavement, Boris blew on his hands and stamped his feet.

Madame was so indecisive today...the brown gloves or the black, the turquoise cardigan or the cerise...she stood there, smiling, shaking her head, enjoying the warmth while that poor man shivered in the cold.

Dressed in my cerise cardigan, adjusting my black gloves, I strolled towards the harbour. Once again, I was heading west, towards the Vieux Port.

The oldest part of Marseille, the Vieux Port was an intoxicating combination of sights, sounds and smells. In the twisting narrow streets and fetid back alleys, I walked past tabacs, bistros and restaurants, stepped over dog excrement, smiled at the prostitutes and savoured the rich aroma of bouillabaisse, the local speciality.

As ever, the ships in the harbour represented an impressive spectacle. They bobbed on the blue water, shimmered in the sunlight, Michel's ships amongst them. I'd pestered him to include the ships in our Resistance activities. However, he'd refused point-blank. He would fund the Resistance, but he would not draw our activities into his shipping and scrap metal business.

I sketched the ships, enjoyed a light meal at a fashionable restaurant, meeting a friend there for cover, then decamped to the local cinema, Cinéma Les Variétés, which stood a mere stone's throw from our apartment.

This evening, the management were rerunning Hedy Lamarr's Ecstasy, an evergreen favourite. The saucy scene would hook Boris – it hooked everyone. And while he sat there, his eyes agog, I would make my escape.

Indeed, while Hedy simulated her orgasm, Boris leaned forward in his seat. In the darkness, I slipped out of the cinema, scurried through a maze of pathways and alleyways until I arrived at the Église Saint Laurent.

At the old church, I paused and glanced over my shoulder. There was no sign of Boris. Three cheers for Hedy. She was certainly doing her bit for the war effort.

Inside the Église Saint Laurent, I sat on a pew. Facing me, the stone arches offered an impressive spectacle, and I was tempted to sketch them. However, the lighting was poor, just a line of flickering candles. In better days, the light had cast an orange glow, which harmonised with the auburn of the pews.

The sound of footsteps drew my attention away from the arches and chandeliers to a man who resembled Bruno's description. He paused, nodded towards a prayer book then walked out without uttering a single word.

As silence descended, I slid along the pew to examine the prayer book. Inside the prayer book, I found a note, presumably scribbled before my arrival. The note simply said, 'Gestapo. Meet me on the Plage des Catalans, in the bathing hut, at midnight.' I burned the message on a candle and stamped the ashes under my feet.

My face was a picture of innocence as I walked out of the Église Saint Laurent, passing a man dressed in a black leather trench coat en route. Gestapo. He walked into the church, doubtless in search of Bruno.

Outside, it was clear that I'd lost Boris, my tail. He'd think of an excuse. He wouldn't admit to his superiors that he'd lost me, lusting after Hedy.

The walk from the Église Saint Laurent to the Plage des Catalans would take me forty-five minutes, on a good day, looping around the Vieux Port on to the Rue des Catalans. I had over two hours to kill. Therefore, at the Vieux Port I took refuge amongst the rats in a decaying warehouse.

While I stared at the rats, I contemplated the fact that I'd broken the curfew. Michel would not be pleased.

At the Plage des Catalans, I stood in the shadows, observing the bathing hut. Certainly, I did not intend to walk into the hut, into a potential trap.

Clouds had gathered and they obscured the moon. The night air was cold. I was grateful for my new cardigan and gloves.

When Bruno arrived, five minutes late, he did so with an air of caution, forever glancing over his shoulder, staring into the darkness. He disappeared into the hut only to emerge looking perplexed, scratching his mass of curly hair. Vincent had offered a good description; without any doubt, this was my contact.

I glanced along the Rue des Catalans, but spied no vehicles, no backup. Therefore, I approached Bruno and followed him into the bathing hut.

Within the enclosed space, his clothes and breath stank of cigarettes and stale beer. It wasn't pleasant, but I'd known worse.

"You weren't followed?" Bruno asked. He spoke slowly, his body arched forward as he towered over me.

"I lost him," I said. "And you?"

"I lost him too."

"You have a proposition for me?"

Bruno nodded. "But first, do you have a cover story, in case the Gestapo should appear?"

"I'm hiding," I said. "My lover's wife returned home early, so I had to run from his house."

Bruno grinned at that image, revealing blackened teeth and an abscess on his lower gum.

"You can release Zigzag?" I asked.

"No problem," he shrugged. "I have everything planned. I'm a good planner. I'm a bit slow, but I'm a good planner. In return, I need false identity papers and a million francs."

"The money and papers might take a while," I said.

"How long?" Bruno frowned.

"Three days."

"Make it two," he said. "The Gestapo are sending someone down from Agen, a woman. She's a bitch. She gets everyone to talk."

"Two days," I agreed. "You have my word."

If Zigzag was that important to Vincent and Arthur, the money and false identity cards would not be a problem; a million francs sounded like a lot of money. However, with inflation and the occupation, coins were losing their value. I enjoyed our money, but I hated the new coins because the Nazis had replaced the motif, the triad of liberty, equality and fraternity with work, family and fatherland.

"And I'm coming with you," Bruno said.

"Why?" I asked.

"I have family in Mauritius. I want to see them. I plan to open a hotel," he grinned. "Besides, once Zigzag escapes, I won't be safe here."

"And the prison escape?" I asked. "What are the details?"

"Be at the Fort Saint-Jean gates," Bruno said, "the back entrance, ten o'clock, two nights from now. That's when I'll dump the rubbish beyond the perimeter wall. Zigzag will be in the rubbish."

A sudden cry, a shriek outside, startled us and I caught my breath. Then I realised that it was only a cat and I exhaled.

"We should leave," Bruno said.

I nodded.

"We'll meet here again in two days, at midnight." He offered me a grin and a blast of his halitosis. "Then you'll escort me into Spain."

# Chapter Three

After two mornings, spent lazing in the bath, during the afternoons I played the role of frivolous Madame Beringar, the dilettante, gallivanting about town.

On the second evening, dinner with Michel was a quiet affair. Aside from his issues with me and the Resistance, a business deal had collapsed, losing his company millions of francs.

While Michel took solace in his whisky, I dressed for the evening in nondescript, dark clothes and sensible, flat shoes. I was standing in front of a tall mirror, buttoning my blouse, when he entered my boudoir.

"You are going out again?" Michel said, his tone casual.

"Tonight's the night." I smiled at him through my reflection in the mirror.

"There was trouble in town," Michel said. He paused then swilled his whisky around in its glass. "Someone stabbed a Nazi. They're looking for reprisals. They intend to round up curfew breakers tonight – men, women and children – and shoot them."

"I'll be back before the curfew," I said.

"Don't lie to me, Eve." Michel spoke through clenched teeth. He set his whisky glass down, on my dressing table. Then, he grabbed my shoulders, his firm grip drawing bruises. "Don't lie to me," he repeated, "you will break the curfew."

"I'll stay safe," I said.

Michel stared into my eyes. He tilted my head up. Then he kissed me on the lips, with passion. His fingers undid my blouse while his kisses morphed into bites as he nibbled my neck. He wanted sex. In truth, the adrenaline had been coursing through my veins for days, ever since my clandestine rendezvous with Bruno. I was in the mood for passion too. However, now was not the moment.

"Later," I said.

"You promise?" Michel whispered into my neck.

"I promise," I said.

Michel kissed me again. With a heavy hand, he slapped my behind. Then he allowed me to leave the house.

I walked the short distance from our apartment to the Cinéma Les Variétés. Hedy was playing again, in Ecstasy. Boris from the Gestapo followed me into the cinema. However, he wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.

While Hedy ran naked through the countryside, I retired to the ladies' room to powder my nose. As usual, a number of ladies occupied the powder room and this evening they discussed the movie, their laughs, shrieks and cries interspersed with lurid details.

Boris followed me into the powder room, which provoked a barrage of complaints from the ladies. While they argued, I slipped out and ran into the street.

Before Boris could emerge, I made my way into the alleys. In truth, the Gestapo feared the alleys. For all their machismo, alone they rarely entered the streets around the Vieux Port. Heavy objects had a habit of falling from the sky. Switchblades sank into Gestapo flesh. Indeed, this afternoon had witnessed another stabbing; once again, the church bells would ring as another Gestapo officer made his way into hell.

At the appointed time, ten o'clock, I arrived at the gaol perimeter. With its central tower and sand-coloured walls, Fort Saint-Jean reminded me of a sandcastle. A tall wall encircled the compound and main building while a chain-link fence offered an additional barrier.

I waited, in the shadows, and watched. The moon was bright tonight, which aided clandestine activities; although a full moon increased visibility, it also cast deep shadows.

Guards marched in and out of Fort Saint-Jean, usually in pairs. To my left, the waters of the Mediterranean lapped against jagged rocks while to my right a merchant vessel loomed large, heavy chains tethering the ship to the dock.

Within the hour, Bruno appeared, at the wheel of a dilapidated truck. Fumes billowed from the truck, filling the night air. He reversed through the open gate, tilted the tailboard then deposited a ton of rubbish into a cesspit situated between the wall and the chain-link fence. According to our plan, Zigzag was in that rubbish, no doubt stinking to high heaven.

Something else also stank – the timing of this operation plus the extended wait for Bruno, until midnight. I rationalised my doubts. Obviously, a daylight escape would present great risks. And if Bruno wandered off during the day that too would cause suspicion. Maybe the midnight plan made sense after all. Nevertheless, I crouched in the shadows, my senses on high alert.

The rubbish cart returned to the compound. Within the cesspit, I sensed movement, a lumbering human form. A shadowy figure crawled along the ground to the fence. There, he snipped the wire, straightened and ran towards the promenade.

Bad timing. At that moment, a German soldier, clearly drunk, staggered along the promenade. Zigzag was exposed, soon to be spotted. Therefore, I stepped into the moonlight, to distract the soldier. Sure enough, he stared at me, his eyes wide, his face pale, his look suggesting that he'd seen a ghost.

Light-footed, with a dancer's grace, Zigzag tiptoed towards the soldier. Before the German could challenge me, or look around, Zigzag thrust a blade into his back, killing him instantly. Another German dead. The reprisals would be bloody.

I stared at the soldier and mourned briefly for a life lost. Zigzag noted my look of pity and said, "It was him or us."

I nodded. Then Zigzag grabbed my hand and we ran.

# Chapter Four

We ran towards the Vieux Port and took shelter within its alleys. Then, we made our way to a secluded bay.

While we ran, I considered my companion. In his thirties, he possessed fair hair, almost blond, and a weedy blond moustache. Slim, he moved with ease, adjusting his pace to suit me. His features were even, attractive, although his lips often twitched into a cocky smile.

I thought about his knife and wire cutters. Presumably, Bruno had supplied the instruments. He knew me without a password or introduction, which meant that he'd been well briefed. By Bruno? By Vincent? In the Resistance, we took so much on trust, yet there were few we could truly trust.

I knew my companion as Zigzag and resigned myself to the anonymity of his real name. Sometimes, questions were dangerous, a burden; often, the less you knew, the better.

At the bay, in darkness, we flopped on to the sand. By now, the guards would have raised the alarm. Marseille would be crawling with Nazis. Thankfully, the city was a large place; that was in our favour. However, Toulouse beckoned and I was eager to board the train.

Zigzag reclined on the sand, apparently without a care in the world. He placed his hands behind his head, as though sunbathing.

"I've been told that you'll get me into Spain," he said, winking at me, revealing his cocky smile.

"I will," I said. "But first we must travel by train. Your dirty appearance will attract suspicion. You must clean yourself up."

"Do you have my new papers?" he asked.

I nodded and tapped my travel bag. "In here. The best forgeries money can buy."

"And a change of clothing?"

"Also in my bag."

"You think of everything," he grinned.

"I'm a woman," I said, standing, scanning the shoreline.

"You certainly are," he said, admiring my curves, silhouetted in the moonlight.

The shoreline was clear, the bay deserted. In their search for Zigzag, the Nazis would pour men and resources into the city, particularly the central railway stations. That's why we'd walk ten kilometres north to L'Estaque to board our train.

"We'll travel during the early hours," I said.

Zigzag nodded. "Good idea. Less chance of deep scrutiny."

"You know more about this than I do," I said.

Once again, he offered me his cocky grin. "I know more about this than anyone."

I removed a bundle of clothing from my travel bag, items discarded by Michel, and tossed them towards Zigzag. "Undress," I said. "Wash in the sea. The trousers might be too long, but put them on anyway."

Zigzag stripped in front of me. Indeed, he took great pleasure in displaying his naked form. "What do you reckon?" he asked, splashing seawater over his groin.

"You've missed a bit," I said.

"You'd pay good money to see this at the male strip clubs in Paris," he grinned.

"If I'd paid good money to see that," I said, "I'd demand a refund."

Zigzag laughed. He walked out of the sea and reached for his fresh clothing. "You're all right," he said, drying himself on a towel. "When they said a woman was going to help me, I was worried, but you're all right."

With Zigzag freshly attired, we walked along the coast, to Plage des Catalans. There, we slipped into the shadows and watched the bathing hut.

"No sign of Bruno yet," I said.

"Maybe we should leave without him," Zigzag suggested.

"We made a promise," I said. "If we hang him out to dry, the Gestapo will pick him up."

"Sometimes you have to make sacrifices," Zigzag shrugged.

"Not this time," I said.

Zigzag did not reply. However, he did offer me an intense stare, which revealed the steel under his playful exterior.

My work with the Resistance involved hours of waiting amidst moments of tension. Of the two, the waiting played on my nerves.

Thankfully, Bruno appeared after a short delay. His manner suggested solitude; this was not a set-up.

"He's on his own," I said to Zigzag.

"Let's make contact and get moving," Zigzag said. "No more delays."

At the bathing hut, I asked Bruno, "Any problems?"

"None," he said. "You have my papers? My money?"

I nodded. "They're in my bag."

In the city, I pictured chaos as the Nazis searched for Zigzag. Meanwhile, above us an aeroplane scoured the coast. We would require tree cover and all the natural contours as we made our way to L'Estaque. We would require cunning, and a fair amount of luck.

"Come on," I urged, "we have a two hour walk ahead of us and a train to catch. I'll feel happier once we've navigated Toulouse."

# Chapter Five

In the event, our walk passed without incident.

The station at L'Estaque was quiet with just two people waiting for the train. They were dressed in well-worn business suits and in all probability were heading for their offices in Toulouse. One of the men carried a Swiss newspaper, which suggested that he was keen on the news, keen on the truth and that he sympathised with the Resistance. However, I didn't make eye contact with him or engage in conversation.

We boarded our train, separately, at 3 a.m. in anticipation of a five-hour journey. The train was crowded, even at this early hour, standing room only. Despite the Nazis, the rail network still functioned. And with petrol rationed or withheld from the ordinary citizen, more people than ever were travelling by train.

We offered our false identity papers to a lacklustre guard. He viewed the papers through sleepy eyes, nodded and moved on.

In my experience, the guards at night weren't looking for trouble. Weary after a long day, they hid their suspicions, kept them under their railway hats.

The danger arrived when the Gestapo boarded a train. Mindful of that possibility, I'd taken a position adjacent to the exit and familiarised myself with the door.

Through a combination of tiredness and our long walk, my calves ached. I longed for my bath, for a leisurely, perfumed soak.

We arrived at Toulouse at five minutes to eight. In contrast to L'Estaque, the platform was crowded.

At Toulouse, there was only one way for passengers to leave the station and that entailed walking between two lines of policemen, customs officials and Gestapo who checked our identity cards. They selected people at random, then scrutinised their cards and luggage. I wondered what innocent Frenchmen and women thought of this imposition; it must have fuelled their anger to be regarded as suspects within their own land.

The trick when confronted with a line of officials was to select a respectable-looking gentleman and engage in earnest conversation. Even if the conversation was one way, officials were loathed to interfere, in case they upset the gentleman. I latched on to a member of the Armistice Army, a puppet of the Vichy government, and moaned to him about the weather. He moaned in turn and we strolled past the officials without a second glance.

Prearranged through Vincent, outside the railway station, we climbed aboard a truck laden with timber. The truck belonged to Madame Fournier, a good friend and a vital link in our Resistance chain.

Gaspard, one of Madame Fournier's labourers, drove the truck. A taciturn man, he sported a full beard, a bald head and a beret worn at a rakish angle.

On behalf of the International Brigades, Gaspard had fought the fascists in Spain during the civil war. Furthermore, he knew the country trails, had created many of them himself; he knew how to avoid trouble, how to evade the Nazi checkpoints.

The four of us squeezed into the cab, a cab built for two. I sat between Bruno and Zigzag. Sure enough, not ten minutes into our journey, Zigzag's hand wandered on to my thigh.

"This is cosy," he grinned.

With a frown, I removed his hand and placed it in his lap. "I'm married," I said.

Zigzag turned and offered me a strange smile. He nodded. "So I've heard."

Madame Fournier's truck trundled along the dirt road. As a woman of trade, she was entitled to petrol. Indeed, she traded with the Nazis to keep them sweet, although she cursed them under her breath, using all the profanities known to woman.

Madame Fournier ruled the district like a queen, a modern-day Eleanor of Aquitaine. Her retinue would do anything for her, which included dealing in the black market, hiding escaped airmen and ferrying refugees over the border into Spain. We were travelling to her house, the safe house, at Saint-Girons in Ariège.

After a journey of three hours, Gaspard parked the truck a kilometre from Madame Fournier's whitewashed farmhouse. He did this as a safety precaution. Once again, we walked, this time across an open field.

At the front gate, I instructed Zigzag and Bruno to silence. Through the chickens, I stared at the doormat, which served as a code, our secret cipher. On this occasion the doormat was square, which indicated that it was safe to enter.

I knocked on the door. Madame Fournier opened the door, a fraction, mindful of its heavy metal chain. Our eyes met and she grinned. She released the chain, I stepped into her kitchen and she offered me a warm embrace.

Madame Fournier embraced me with a grenade in her right hand. This was her custom. She always opened her front door while holding a grenade. Naturally, I found this disconcerting, although I knew that I could trust her with my life.

Of indeterminate age, Madame Fournier possessed a wrinkled face, round shoulders and broken teeth. I pictured her as a witch in Macbeth, although in all truth she was an angel. She wore her hair in plaits, German-style. Her clothes never seemed to change and she never appeared to sleep. Through a bamboo holder, she smoked one cigarette after another. Indeed, she'd mastered the art of drinking her tar-like coffee while smoking her cigarettes.

"It's good to see you, Eve," Madame Fournier grinned. While stroking her cat, she glanced at Zigzag and Bruno. "What have you brought for me this time?"

"They need to escape," I said, "urgent; over the mountains into Spain."

"I'm waiting for a weather report," Madame Fournier said. "There's lots of snow on the mountains. Gaspard reckons the main pass is blocked, but we won't have a good idea until this evening."

"Can we rest until then?" I asked. "We've been on our feet for twenty-four hours."

"Of course," Madame Fournier said. "You all need a nap. Eve, you can rest in my room." She turned and frowned at Zigzag and Bruno. "You two will have no problem sleeping together?"

"Well," Zigzag sighed, his right hand caressing the stubble on his chin, his lascivious eyes removing my clothing, "I was thinking..."

Madame Fournier's frown intensified. She offered Zigzag a withering look. That look was enough; words were superfluous.

"In that case," Zigzag grinned. "I'll sleep with Bruno, sure, no problem."

Madame Fournier accompanied Zigzag and Bruno to her guest room. Then she returned to her kitchen. "He's fresh," she said, "the blond one."

"He strikes me as immature," I said. "I'm not sure why the British have such a high regard for him."

"Sometimes," Madame Fournier shrugged, "it's best not to ask questions, or think too deeply."

Madame Fournier lit another cigarette, using her soldering iron. She was in the habit of preserving food. She'd solder the tins then send them off to her grandson who was a prisoner of war in a German camp.

While Madame Fournier made a fresh pot of coffee, I stroked her cat and asked, "How are things with you?"

"I am well," she said.

"Any problems with the Gestapo?"

"They sniff around here from time to time." She grinned at her cat. "But Chat always sees them off, don't you, Chat."

The cat purred and arched his back against my hand. Meanwhile, outside the kitchen window, a number of men milled around, tending to their farmyard duties, addressing their daily tasks. The men belonged to Madame Fournier's retinue, her personal Maquis.

I stroked the cat again, then asked, "Any word from your grandson?"

"Last I heard," Madame Fournier said, "he was still a prisoner in Gorlitz. If they do anything to hurt him, I'll string them up by the balls."

"You would too," I said.

Her grin merely confirmed that fact.

I accepted a cup of tar-like coffee, out of politeness. Then I slept in Madame Fournier's bed, for five hours.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found Madame Fournier preparing our evening meal, a rich stew, which smelled delightful.

"Any news on the weather?" I asked.

"Not good," Madame Fournier frowned. "Fresh snow has blocked the pass. It'll take two days to clear, maybe three, maybe a week."

"In that case," I said, "I can't stay here. If I'm away from Marseille for too long it will raise suspicions."

"You return to Marseille," Madame Fournier said. "I will contact Gaspard. He will drive you to the station. Your friends can stay with me."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"No problem," Madame Fournier shrugged. "If your friends become unruly, my boys will knock them into shape. And if things really get out of hand," she grinned, "I have my grenade."

# Chapter Six

That evening, I commenced my return journey to Marseille. At our apartment, I spent the morning hours soaking in the bath. Then I set about my normal, daily activities.

In the evening, Michel arranged a dinner party with Vincent, Vincent's wife, Louise, and two friends, Marie-Anne and her husband, Antoine. Despite my absence and my Resistance activities, Michel was more cheerful today. He'd salvaged a deal and rescued his company, yet again.

Over dinner, we sipped wine and made small talk. Vincent said, "I hear the Nazis are clamping down. They intend to take over everything, including the running of the city and local businesses."

"How will you fair, Michel?" Antoine asked, after swallowing a mouthful of chicken.

Michel shrugged. He sipped his wine. "I'm sure I'll find a way to get by."

"The Gestapo have sent a woman to take charge," Antoine said. "She's blonde, a bit of a cracker, apparently."

The men around the table grinned while the women carved their food with renewed vigour.

Vincent and Louise made for a pleasant couple. He was solid, reliable whereas she was quiet, a woman who kept her thoughts and opinions to herself.

Antoine and Marie-Anne were chalk and cheese. An affable man of great wealth, and pinched features, he was twenty-five years older than her. In contrast, she was blonde, Scandinavian in appearance, with legs longer than the Canebière. I suspected that Marie-Anne married Antoine for his money. That said, they always presented an air of togetherness and harmony.

Over the rim of my wine glass, I observed as Michel and Marie-Anne exchanged a secret smile, a smile he normally reserved for me. Were they having an affair? Would Michel cheat with a friend's wife? Would he betray me? Or was my paranoia running riot? Maybe Michel's behaviour was a playful echo of his bachelor days. Moreover, if he was having an affair, could I blame him? Instead of warming his bed, I was often away, assisting the Resistance.

Outside, hailstones tapped on the window. The weather was still poor, which suggested further delays. My mind wandered to Zigzag and Madame Fournier. Zigzag had done nothing outlandish, nothing to raise outright suspicion. However, after eighteen months of mixing with desperados, cutthroats and bandits, I'd developed a sixth sense. I didn't trust him. He didn't fit the pattern of previous airmen, soldiers and refugees.

"I've heard the luxuries will remain plentiful," Marie-Anne said, "but the Germans will clamp down on the basics."

"No one can afford the luxuries," Vincent sighed.

"Oh, I don't know," Antoine said, "we're doing all right, aren't we, dear."

"If you say so," Marie-Anne smiled. Once again, she directed her smile at Michel.

I was on the verge of saying, or doing, something deeply antisocial. Instead, I rose from the dining table, smiled at Vincent and said, "Would you care to help me with the dessert?"

"But of course," he replied, patting his lips with a napkin.

We employed a chef and full credit to him, he'd prepared the soup and main meal. However, I'd concocted the dessert. Through my cooking and baking, I wanted to prove to Michel that I could take care of him. I enjoyed my life as Madame Beringar, the wealthy socialite. However, as a life it resembled an artificial flower and not a flower blossoming from roots.

Profiteroles were on the menu. As I whipped the cream filling with a vigorous wrist action, I said to Vincent, "The pass is still blocked?"

He took a drag on his cigarette and nodded, "That's the last I heard."

"I want Zigzag out of Madame Fournier's house. I don't trust him, I don't understand him; he seems too flamboyant, too cocksure."

"Maybe that's his plan," Vincent shrugged, "to hide in plain sight."

"The Gestapo captured him," I said, "so it's not a great plan."

"Maybe his capture was a moment of bad luck. Until then, Arthur assures me he's been very successful."

"I want Zigzag out of our hair," I said. "I don't trust him. He's different to the others."

"You fear for Madame Fournier," Vincent said through a plume of cigarette smoke.

"I don't want anything bad to happen to her."

"Have no fear," Vincent chuckled. "She's tougher than all of us. She can look after herself."

I sliced the profiteroles in half and added the cream filling. Then I drizzled them with a rich chocolate sauce. A dessert created by Madame Beringar courtesy of the black market. At times, we lived like Roman emperors. However, how could we justify living like Nero while Marseille burned?

Back in the dining room, I served the profiteroles to general approval. Even Michel dragged his gaze away from Marie-Anne to glance at me.

"These look tasty," he said, "as ravishing as you."

His words were warm. However, his features remained cold, lacking affection. I was doing my bit to save France, but would that save my marriage?

# Chapter Seven

After a restless night, I found myself in the bath, up to my chin in soapy bubbles. I couldn't wash my troubles away; therefore, I resolved to speak with Michel on the telephone.

With a soapy hand, I beckoned my maid, Isabelle. "If you'd be so kind, the telephone, please."

"Certainly, Madame," Isabelle said, swapping her feather duster for the pearl-handled telephone.

I dried my hands and as I dialled Michel's office, I heard a whirling noise and several clicks, reminders that the Gestapo were listening. However, I resolved to act naturally.

"Hello, darling," I said.

"Is everything all right?" Michel asked.

"Of course it is."

"Where are you?"

"At home. In the bath."

"You're always in the bath," he complained. "You spend more time in the water than a mermaid."

"I like the water," I said. "It helps me relax."

"You haven't forgotten," Michel said, "that we're meeting Antoine and Marie-Anne this evening; it's Marie-Anne's birthday."

"I hadn't forgotten," I said.

"Maybe you could slip into town and buy her a present."

"Certainly, darling. What do you have in mind?"

"Some stockings," Michel said, "black, to go with her garter."

Suddenly, the bath water felt cold, as cold as ice. "How do you know about her garter?" I asked.

"We were joking about it last night," Michel said, "while you prepared the dessert with Vincent. Marie-Anne flashed her thighs, kicked her legs; you know she used to be a dancer. It was all very innocent."

Michel's explanation sounded reasonable. He sounded sincere. Moreover, would he ask me to buy stockings for Marie-Anne if they were conducting an affair? I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe him. However, I held serious doubts.

"I'll buy the stockings," I said, "if that's what you want."

"Thank you," Michel said. "I love you."

"I'll see you at Jacques'," I frowned, "for dinner."

I went shopping, visiting the main stores and the black market. Of course, a Gestapo officer followed me. As ever, I made the bastard walk.

I bought the stockings off the black market. I also bought two pairs for myself. The Gestapo officer ignored my purchase. Maybe he considered it a matter for the local police. On the other hand, maybe he'd return to buy stockings for his wife or girlfriend. The Nazis were shipping wives and girlfriends into Marseille now, to make their boys feel at home.

What would Antoine think of Michel presenting stockings to his wife? Would he regard the gift as a joke? Strange, but I'd lost my sense of humour.

At Jacques' that evening, Michel offered Marie-Anne the stockings. She accepted them with a smile of thanks. "How beautiful," she said. "How elegant."

"Eve chose them," Michel said.

"Thank you, Eve," Marie-Anne said, kissing me on both cheeks.

"You don't mind, do you?" Michel asked Antoine.

Antoine sipped his wine then shrugged with genuine indifference. "Of course not; many men offer gifts to Marie-Anne."

The men lit cigarettes for themselves. However, women of good character only smoked indoors. Therefore, Marie-Anne and I contented ourselves with the wine.

The weather was still poor with no prospect of escorting Zigzag and Bruno over the mountains. I wondered how they were coping with Madame Fournier. Doubtless, they were restless, keen to move on.

Accordion music and a cabaret singer enlivened the atmosphere at Jacques'. Throughout the evening, the singer had entertained us with a selection of patriotic songs. Suddenly, she stopped. I glanced at my wine glass, which sat on a table, and noted a vibration. I felt the vibration rise through my chair. Then, within seconds, a loud explosion.

"What was that?" Marie-Anne asked, her eyes wide, her colour draining.

Antoine frowned then said, "It sounded like a bomb."

"On the Canebière," Michel said.

My first thought was for our apartment. Then, peering through the window, I noticed smoke billowing from the Cinéma Les Variétés.

"It's the cinema," I said. "People might be hurt. We should go and help."

Before Michel could raise any protest, I was through the restaurant door, into the street and running towards the cinema.

At the cinema, I discovered black smoke, a pile of rubble and shattered glass. Many people were coughing while others bore serious wounds.

The proprietor had replaced Hedy with a film about the Corsican fascist Tino Rossi. That meant an audience of Nazis and their sympathisers.

At a guess, a rogue member of the Resistance had planted the bomb. I shared his frustration and desire for action. However, individual acts of defiance were counterproductive; they achieved little while the Nazis' reprisals were brutal; come the morning, they would shoot many innocent men and women.

The Resistance needed better coordination, better organisation. To succeed, we had to fight as one.

"Anyone hurt?" I asked an usherette.

"About a dozen," she said.

"Anyone killed?"

A strand of fair hair had fallen across her chubby face. With a blackened hand, she removed the hair. "I'm not sure," she shrugged.

With his hands in his trouser pockets, Michel strolled along the boulevard, wandered into view. "The Gestapo, police and soldiers will arrive soon," he said. "We should leave."

My instincts were to stay and help the wounded. However, I nodded and accepted Michel's hand.

Before we could depart, a blonde woman staggered from the cinema. Gestapo. Kriminalrätin Gisela Winter. As blood streamed down her face, she stared at me with revenge in her eyes.

# **Chapter** **Eight**

The following morning, I was sitting at my dressing table, brushing my hair, when Isabelle approached my boudoir.

"There are people at the door, Madame."

"Who?" I asked.

"Gestapo," she said.

"What do they want?"

Isabelle paused. Through trembling lips and tearful eyes, she said, "They want to arrest you."

The Gestapo officers, Boris and another brute, escorted me to their headquarters on Rue Paradis. There, they locked me in a dank cell, where I waited for at least an hour.

After that hour, Kriminalrätin Gisela Winter appeared with her facial wounds neatly dressed. She nodded towards the guard and he escorted me to her office, a bland room with a huge portrait of Hitler hanging on the south wall. I stood under that portrait while Kriminalrätin Winter sat at her desk.

From the rear, Kriminalrätin Winter looked a picture, with her wavy blonde hair, long legs and elegant curves. However, her face displayed ugly, pinched features. Antoine described her as 'a cracker'. Yet, I begged to differ. Even without the dressings, she possessed a face that only a mother could love.

"You were at the Cinéma Les Variétés yesterday," Kriminalrätin Winter said. She spoke with a cold, clipped accent, with ice wrapped around every word.

I nodded. "I heard an explosion and went to investigate."

"You are a regular at the cinema."

"I like movies," I said.

"Yet, you rarely stay until the credits."

"I've seen the films many times," I said. "I visit the cinema to view my favourite scenes."

Kriminalrätin Winter leaned back in her chair. While fingering a paperknife, she offered me a sceptical stare. Meanwhile, the guard gazed through the window. White flakes had gathered on the window frame. The snow had reached Marseille.

"What were you doing before the explosion?" Kriminalrätin Winter asked.

"I was enjoying a birthday meal with my husband and friends, at a restaurant, Jacques'."

"Was it your birthday?"

"No," I said. "It was Marie-Anne's birthday; she's a family friend."

"She will vouch for you?"

I nodded. "I'm sure she will."

Kriminalrätin Winter leaned forward and studied a file on her desk. She turned several pages revealing the cover, which bore the legend, Der Rote Fuchs, The Red Fox.

So, the Nazis regarded me as 'The Red Fox'. Was that a compliment or an insult? I liked foxes. Therefore, I took it as a compliment.

"You travel a lot," Kriminalrätin Winter said.

"Travel is one of my passions. I love to get away, whenever possible."

"You travel to the mountains," she said.

I nodded. "We own a holiday home there."

"Do you intend to travel there in the near future?"

"We intend to spend Christmas there," I said; "it's become a tradition."

"This year," Kriminalrätin Winter said through a thin, painful smile, "you will establish a new tradition."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You will spend Christmas in the Fort Saint-Jean."

Kriminalrätin Winter closed the file. She stood and walked over to me.

"Two of our officers died in the cinema explosion," Kriminalrätin Winter said. "You were seen at the cinema, many times. You planted the bomb at the cinema. You will be tried for murder, then executed. Of course," she smiled, "I could ask for leniency."

"I'm innocent," I said. "I had nothing to do with that explosion."

"You were followed," Kriminalrätin Winter said. "You were seen at the cinema, many times. You planted that bomb."

I sensed that if Kriminalrätin Winter repeated her lie over and over, it would assimilate the truth. Repeated lying was a tactic familiar to the fascists.

"What do you know about the Marseille Resistance?" Kriminalrätin Winter asked.

"Only what I read in your censored newspapers," I said.

"Are you a member of the Marseille Resistance?"

I laughed. "Do I look like a Marta Hari?"

Kriminalrätin Winter scowled. She was not amused. Indeed, she slapped me, a hard blow, across my face. On one occasion, Michel lost his temper and slapped me hard across my face. However, Kriminalrätin Winter's slap carried far more venom.

"Don't play games with me," she said. "I want names, addresses, full details of the Marseille network. And, trust me, I always get what I want."

I resisted the temptation to rub my cheek.

With Kriminalrätin Winter's words and her slap ringing in my ears, the guard escorted me to the dank cell.

# Chapter Nine

In the dank cell, in the dark, the guard chained my wrists to a metal bar, at an uncomfortable angle. There, I remained for the rest of the day and night, without food or toilet breaks. The floor was hard, the furniture non-existent. The aim was discomfort and sleep deprivation in the hope that I'd talk.

At dawn, the guard escorted me to Kriminalrätin Winter's office. He remained, with a colleague, at the door.

To my surprise and delight, I found Michel standing in the office, under the portrait of Hitler. He offered me a stern frown, then turned to look at Kriminalrätin Winter who'd dressed her facial wound with a fresh plaster.

"Stand there," Kriminalrätin Winter said to me, indicating a position adjacent to the window and her desk. "This man is your husband?"

"He is," I said.

"He insists that you are innocent."

"I am," I said.

"But you were seen at the cinema."

"Hundreds of people were seen at the cinema," I said. "I told you previously, I like the movies."

Kriminalrätin Winter appraised me through ice-blue eyes. Her long nose twitched. She pursed her thin lips.

My position near the window offered me a wider view of her office. I noticed a mink coat on a coat stand and that she wore the latest fashion, wooden-soled shoes.

A picture on her desk revealed Kriminalrätin Winter standing tall and proud, aiming a crossbow. Another picture displayed a silver-haired man in a Gestapo uniform standing beside a woman who looked shy, a bundle of nerves. Presumably, they were Kriminalrätin Winter's father and mother. Yes, it all made sense. In all probability, she'd joined the Hitler Youth then the League of Girls before following her father into the Gestapo.

"You've been seen associating with members of the Marseille Resistance," Kriminalrätin Winter said.

"Who?" I asked.

"You tell me," she said.

Was Kriminalrätin Winter fishing for names, hoping that I would talk? If so, she'd cast her net into a dry pond; I recalled my childhood and the upsetting incident of grassing on my friend, Nancy; no way would I grass on Vincent and Madame Fournier.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

"We will pick up your colleagues and they will talk," Kriminalrätin Winter said, reaching for a paperknife, her fingers examining its blade. "I will spare the first man, or woman, but no one else." She offered me a mendacious smile. "Would you like to save yourself?"

"This is preposterous!" Michel said. Until this outburst, he'd stood, ramrod straight, in silence. Now he gave full vent to his feelings, releasing his anger as he strode towards Kriminalrätin Winter's desk. "My wife is innocent!"

"Silence!" Kriminalrätin Winter said, slamming her paperknife on to the desk. "I am the authority here."

"My wife did not plant the bomb at the Cinéma Les Variétés," Michel said. He'd moderated his tone. However, his anger remained as he stood, body arched forward, his hands on the desk.

"You will vouch for her?" Kriminalrätin Winter asked.

Michel nodded. "I will."

"Naturally," she said through a thin smile, "because you are her husband."

"It is the truth," Michel said. "The people in the restaurant, they will step forward too."

"You have paid them to cooperate," she said.

"If you believe that," I said, "then you have a twisted perception of justice."

"I carry out justice in the name of the Fuehrer," Kriminalrätin Winter said. She stared at Hitler's portrait, her features beaming with pride. "His word is law."

A messenger knocked on the door, then entered. He talked with Kriminalrätin Winter at the door, in a low, mumbled voice. While he talked, I studied Hitler's portrait. The lunacy shone from his eyes while his hair and moustache cried out for a barber. Apparently, the British were producing chamber pots adorned with Hitler's face. One in the eye for Adolph.

The messenger departed and Kriminalrätin Winter returned to her desk. Her new wooden-soled shoes had rubbed her ankles, I noted. I hoped her ankles were sore. I hoped her shoes had produced corns too.

"It seems that someone," Kriminalrätin Winter said, "a local fanatic, has admitted to the cinema bombing. A colleague has extracted a confession."

"Then my wife is free to go," Michel said.

Kriminalrätin Winter pondered for a moment, then she nodded. "For now, your wife may leave my office."

"Thank you," Michel said.

Kriminalrätin Winter stood and walked with us to the door. So courteous, so polite, so civil. "If you and your fellow Frenchmen behave," she said, "there is no reason why all cannot prosper. Besides, any form of resistance is both futile and dangerous. It will not end well for you."

"We will keep that in mind," Michel said.

He offered me his arm, which I accepted.

"And thank you again, Kriminalrätin Winter," Michel smiled.

# **Chapter** **Ten**

Outside, in the cold, I was furious; I tend to become crotchety when denied my sleep. "Did you have to grovel to her?" I asked.

"I was trying to defuse a very dangerous situation," Michel said.

We walked, at pace, along the Rue Paradis towards Michel's Talbot Lago Teardrop Coupé. The car was very stylish, burgundy in colour with a spider's web of silver spokes on its wheels. As we walked, the snow fell in large flakes. The weather was closing in.

"Kriminalrätin Winter had no proof," I said; "she was fishing."

"These people don't require proof," Michel said through clenched teeth.

In normal conditions, Michel drove fast, as fast as the Talbot Lago would allow, which was 185 kph. However, the snow curtailed his speed and it took us twenty-five minutes to travel the three kilometres from Rue Paradis to La Canebière.

At our apartment, I spent some time in the bathroom. When I emerged, I found Michel in my boudoir, throwing suitcases on to the bed.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Packing your bags," he said. "You can take the smaller suitcases with you. I will send the larger suitcases to the Thomas Cook office in Madrid."

I stood with my hands on my hips and looked at him askance. "You want me to leave?"

"You must leave," Michel said, tossing my silk slips into a suitcase; "you have no choice; you cannot stay here. Kriminalrätin Winter offered you a reprieve, no doubt to see whom you would contact. She will return, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning, and next time you will not be so lucky."

"I don't want to leave you," I said.

Michel paused. He placed his hands on my shoulders and kissed my forehead. "You are not leaving me," he said, "you are leaving France."

I hugged him. With tears in my eyes, I placed my head on his shoulder. "Come with me," I said.

"It would be too risky, too obvious. I will leave, but in my own time."

"What of my work here?" I asked.

Michel eased me away, at arm's length. He frowned and said, "For the Resistance?"

"Yes."

With a groan, he turned and resumed his packing, placing my lace-trimmed nightgowns into a valise. "We've already agreed that must stop."

"It's what I believe in," I said. "It can't stop."

"Your work for the Resistance placed you, us, in this mess." Michel paused to puff out his cheeks, to study my clothes, strewn over the bed. He selected woollen skirts and woollen sweaters, folded the garments neatly then slipped them into a suitcase. "The Gestapo are looking for a reason to arrest you, to take control of my business."

"Is that the source of your opposition," I said, "the fear of losing your business?"

"If I have a fear," Michel said, turning to face me, "it's a fear of losing you." He embraced me, held me close, closed his eyes and placed his chin on my head. "Link up with Zigzag. Escape with him into Spain."

"Come with us," I said.

"No," Michel insisted. "I've already told you, it would raise too much suspicion if we left together."

I walked over to my dressing table and selected a range of perfumes. That act alone confirmed to me that I was leaving; Michel was right, I had no choice.

"What if the Gestapo question you about my absence?" I asked.

Michel shrugged. He glanced towards the window, then stared at the falling snow. "I will say that you are staying with friends, to get over the cinema incident."

"The Gestapo won't believe you," I said.

"Maybe not. But my words will buy you a little time."

Michel removed my stockings from my lingerie drawer and placed them in a suitcase. The stockings brought to mind Marie-Anne and a trail of dark thoughts.

"Would you rather be with her?" I asked.

"Who?" Michel frowned.

"Marie-Anne."

"What are you talking about?" His frown intensified. He seemed genuinely perplexed.

"You're having an affair," I said.

Michel laughed. It was a dry laugh without any humour. "You are seeing shadows where none exist, phantom lovers that live only in your head."

"I've seen the way you look at her," I said.

"It's playful nonsense," Michel insisted. "Marie-Anne is not my lover; for god's sake, she's the wife of a friend."

"Would you swear that to a priest?" I asked.

"I will swear it to the Pope," Michel said. He walked over and grabbed my shoulders, held them in a forceful, painful grip. Then he kissed me with intensity, with passion. "I'm crazy about you. Everything about you drives me insane. Can't you see that I love you with all my heart?"

"In that case," I sighed, regaining my breath, "I'm sorry for my suspicions."

"Your apology is accepted," Michel said. He kissed me again, then held me close.

"I don't want to leave you like this," I said.

"It's the only way," Michel shrugged.

"Is it adieu?" I asked.

"It's au revoir," Michel smiled.

He returned to the bed, selected items of clothing and placed them on my wicker chair.

"I will ask Isabelle to dress in your clothes," Michel said. "We will walk out when it gets dark. The Gestapo will follow us. Wait, then make your way to Madame Fournier's house. I will inform Vincent. He will send word to Madame Fournier."

I nodded. Then I looked around my boudoir, for the last time?

"Don't look so sad," Michel said. He placed a finger under my chin and tilted my head up. "You know we'll meet again, some sunny day."

# **Chapter** **Eleven**

That night, Michel and Isabelle walked into the shadows. A Gestapo officer followed them. I waited for him to disappear. Then I walked the other way.

I continued walking, all the way to L'Estaque where I caught the night train to Toulouse.

As usual, the night train was crowded, standing room only. The snow continued to fall. Indeed, its intensity threatened to grind the railway network to a halt.

Initially, I stood in the corridor, outside a carriage. However, a Gestapo officer spied me and offered me his seat. The Gestapo officer was middle-aged, overweight. Despite the cold, he sweated profusely. Not wishing to offend him, I sat down with a word of thanks.

"Where are you going?" he asked in fractured French.

"To Toulouse," I said.

"Why are you travelling so late at night?"

"Like all these people, I find it more convenient. Sometimes the trains are unreliable or can't accommodate us during the day. And with the weather closing in, they might not run tomorrow."

"You have urgent business in Toulouse?" the fat man asked.

"A sick mother," I said.

He nodded slowly then smiled. "Madame, that is a lie." His gaze dropped to my legs and settled on my stockings. "You're a prostitute, aren't you?"

I glanced down, to my stockings. They were badly torn. I'd caught them on wire in my haste to board the train. Stockings were a status symbol in Marseille, worn by all the women. If you couldn't afford stockings, you painted your legs with liquid gravy browning, cold tea or cocoa. Torn stockings indicated a woman of ill repute. For tonight only, because it suited my escape, I decided to play the part.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" I asked, leaning forward, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

"That depends," the fat man said.

"I have some spare time," I said, "before I meet my mother; we could make good use of that time."

With a dirty handkerchief, the fat man rubbed his balding, sweat-soaked head. "Splendid," he said.

At Carcassonne, the train eased to a halt and we had to wait while the engineer cleared ice from a signal box. During this delay most of the passengers snoozed. Even the fat Gestapo officer leaned against the carriage and snored. I thought about jumping off the train and running until dawn. However, soon we were on our way again rolling towards Toulouse.

The scene at Toulouse station resembled a riot. Then I realised it was a riot. A crowd of students had gathered to protest against the Nazi occupation of Vichy France. The riot meant no security checks – the Gestapo and their puppets were too busy quelling the students. However, soon I was caught up in the mêlée, and hauled to one side.

While I argued with an official, the fat man strolled up to him and said, "She's with me."

The official, a young man out to impress, merely nodded. Then he went in search of someone else to arrest.

The scene at the station turned ugly, with fist fights, baton charges and gunshots. Using the fat man as my passport to freedom, I walked with him, along the platform to a washroom.

At the washroom, I said, "I need to powder my nose."

The fat man offered me a lecherous smile and nodded. "I'll wait here," he said.

Without further ado, I entered the washroom and made straight for the window. The window was small and I struggled to squeeze through. Either the railway authorities needed to make larger windows, or I needed to cut down on the profiteroles.

Outside, away from the platform and the railway station, I heard further gunshots. The police and Gestapo were shooting the students. I saw no sign of the fat man. Presumably, he'd been caught up in the fracas.

My heart bled for the students and my instincts urged me to help them. However, what could I do? With great reluctance, I put my head down and ran towards the open road.

# **Chapter** **Twelve**

On the open road, I ran into Gaspard. Michel had sent word to Vincent, who'd informed Madame Fournier. Through this reliable chain, Gaspard was waiting for me, in his truck. I climbed aboard the truck and we sped away.

Deprived of two nights' sleep, I dozed. I felt safe with Gaspard. He knew his business well and I offered him my total trust.

We drove through the snow, to Madame Fournier's farmhouse. Before my eyelids shuttered my eyes, I noticed that the snow was dense, but not heavy enough to halt the traffic. That meant we could get through. It also meant the Gestapo could follow us.

At the farmhouse, Madame Fournier's mat code indicated that the situation was safe. Nevertheless, she opened the door to greet me with her hand grenade.

"You can put that down," I said, "and make a fresh pot of that tar you call coffee."

"A difficult journey?" she asked while chewing on her bamboo cigarette holder, while offering me a wizened grin.

"You can say that again," I said.

Over coffee, I discussed my journey with Madame Fournier, and the incident at the railway station.

"The students are getting restless," Madame Fournier said, "everyone is getting restless. The people need arms. Then they'll form themselves into fighting groups, into Maquis."

I wondered where those arms would come from. Presumably, Britain. Could I help with the transfer of those arms? Could I take on a new role of gun smuggler?

As though reading my mind, Madame Fournier said, "But first, you need to escape."

"The mountain trails?" I asked.

Madame Fournier shrugged. She sucked vigorously on her bamboo holder and shook her head. "They're still blocked."

"Then we'll have to take the Foix road."

"That is more dangerous," she scowled. "You would encounter many checkpoints. It would be suicide."

I sipped my coffee and acknowledged that the Foix road was a desperate idea on my part. Saint-Girons to Esterri d'Áneu was the only route, via the mountain pass.

"We can't stay here," I said. "The Gestapo suspect me. They'll come calling. For your sake, we must get away."

"Maybe the snow will block them," Madame Fournier suggested.

"And when it melts we'll be trapped. We must take our chances on the mountains. We can't delay. There is no other way. Besides, poor weather will hamper them as much as us; it's better to travel in poor weather than in ideal conditions."

Grim-faced, Madame Fournier nodded. "In that case," she said, "I'll prepare a bag."

While Madame Fournier prepared a bag for our journey, I stroked her cat, Chat. I also admired her collection of artificial flowers. In the summer, her garden was a riot of colour, a carpet of beautiful flowers. Yet, she preferred the artificial variety because 'they were easier to maintain'.

When Madame Fournier returned to the kitchen, I asked, "How are Zigzag and Bruno?"

"Sleeping like babies," she said.

I frowned. "At this time of day?"

"They talk and play cards well into the night and tend to sleep during the day."

"Have they behaved?"

"No problems," she shrugged. "Although Bruno does cheat at cards. He's not a very good cheat; he still loses. All the same, I don't trust him."

"What of Zigzag?" I asked.

"He doesn't cheat at cards, and he wins, except when I play."

Recalling Madame Fournier's infamous poker games, I smiled. "You cheat," I said.

"But no one catches me," she laughed.

I stood and stretched my arms above my head, easing the strain on my back. The night spent in the Gestapo cell had damaged my back, left a legacy of a dull ache.

"You don't trust Bruno," I said, "and I don't trust Zigzag."

"They're not ideal companions for a long, dangerous journey," Madame Fournier conceded. "I would pray for you, but I'm not inclined that way."

Madame Fournier offered me a bowl of stew and a loaf of freshly baked bread, which I consumed with relish. I was whetting my lips with wine when Zigzag and Bruno wandered into the kitchen.

"Get your things ready," I said, "we're leaving."

"You're coming with us?" Zigzag frowned. He'd trimmed his blond moustache and shaved. However, his hair appeared unkempt, shaggy.

"All the way," I said. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not at all," he grinned. "In fact, I'm delighted."

While Zigzag and Bruno packed their meagre belongings, Madame Fournier offered me a bag crammed with her tinned food and toilet paper.

"If it goes in one hole, it must come out of another," she laughed.

"You're incorrigible," I said.

She nudged my shoulder and continued to laugh. "We are peas from the same pod."

Outside, Zigzag and Bruno stood at the garden gate while in the kitchen Madame Fournier and I said our goodbyes.

"Look after yourself," I said. "And keep the Gestapo at arm's length."

"I've been doing this a long time," Madame Fournier said, "since the days of the Spanish Civil War; the Gestapo don't frighten me."

She opened a drawer and removed a gun, a self-loading World War One Ruby pistol, then slipped it into my coat pocket.

"Take this," Madame Fournier said, "I don't need it." Along with the gun, she offered me her wicked smile. "I have my grenade."

# Chapter Thirteen

We set off into the night, into the blizzard. We'd be walking for two days and nights, therefore it was pointless waiting until dawn. By then, the snow might have blocked the main route and I preferred that trail to the cliff faces within the mountains.

I didn't know whether I could trust either Zigzag or Bruno, but the fact remained that we had to escape from France.

My plan was to walk to a hut established by our escape network, located northwest of Seix, and shelter there until dawn.

With grit and determination, we walked for fifty minutes and rested for ten. The pattern was set: walk, climb, walk, climb, up to a peak of 12,000 feet through thin air and thick snow. I wore rope espadrilles, which were far better than leather shoes for climbing over the rocky paths that lined our route.

Eventually, we arrived at the hut where Zigzag dropped his kit bag on to the floor. With a grin, he eyed the single bed and said, "This is cosy."

"I reckon the lady should sleep on the bed," Bruno said, "and we should sleep on the floor."

Zigzag offered another grin and a mild shrug of protest. However, we followed Bruno's advice and slept until dawn.

Sunshine and a clear blue sky greeted us, false prophets for I sensed that blizzards and high winds were on their way. Separately, we located a quiet corner to complete our ablutions. Then we gathered in the hut for breakfast, opening Madame Fournier's tins.

"This is good," Bruno said, tucking into meat of dubious quality. Zigzag and I also ate, although with more caution.

"What will you do," Zigzag smiled, "once you reach Britain?"

"I have friends there," I said. "I will seek their advice."

"And you, Bruno?" Zigzag asked, canting his head to the right. "What will you do?"

"I will make for Mauritius and there I will open a hotel." Bruno devoured his meal. He even licked the lid. "And what of you?" he asked Zigzag. "What will you do?"

"I never plan further ahead than the next hour."

I didn't believe Zigzag for a minute. To survive as an agent, he'd planned every detail. Nevertheless, I allowed his comment to pass.

With food in our stomachs, we moved on, trudging through the snow, climbing up the slopes, sliding down the inclines. With the blue sky above us and the white, green and grey of the mountains, you could lose yourself in the beauty of your surroundings.

However, getting lost was not on my agenda. Before nightfall, we had to reach Salau and the second hut. In fair weather, this represented a reasonable challenge, but the darkening sky and gale force winds announced that a blizzard was about to bite.

Sure enough, at noon, we walked into a storm. The snow stung our skin while the wind threatened our eardrums. I had difficulty breathing. Talking, communicating was a challenge. Somehow, we trudged on.

Then walking became impossible. As one, we decided to take refuge in a hollow. Having caught our breath, we constructed a shelter out of snow with a hole in the roof to emit the carbon dioxide. Kit bags, suitcases and backpacks secured the entrance. Inside we shivered. No one deigned to talk.

At dusk, the wind stopped howling. The blizzard eased and we crawled from our makeshift shelter. We were on our way again, to within sight of the Spanish border, to our overnight resting place, hut number two.

On reaching a precipice, we looked down to the valley below. With the eye of faith, we could detect human forms, Nazi border guards with their patrol dogs.

"They're too far away to see us," I said, "and the dogs can't climb up here."

Zigzag and Bruno nodded. We walked on.

Thankfully, we reached hut number two before nightfall. I was unpacking my bag, searching for tinned food, when Bruno said, "I think I need a toilet break."

"Me too," Zigzag frowned.

I felt a griping pain in my stomach, a sense of discomfort, but nothing untoward. For one reason or another, my parents had not showered me with love and affection. However, they had provided me with a strong constitution – I could eat and drink to excess and my body rarely complained. Zigzag and Bruno were not so lucky. They'd gone down with dysentery. I ignored the food tins and reached for the toilet paper.

"Madame Fournier is a great hostess," I said, "but maybe not such a great food preserver." I offered the toilet paper to Zigzag and Bruno. "Use it sparingly; that's your lot until Spain."

I slept, fitfully. However, Zigzag and Bruno were in and out of the hut all night long.

In the morning, Bruno complained, "My guts still hurt."

I offered him a sympathetic shrug then said, "We must move on."

The new day brought a change in the weather with a clear blue sky and a gentle breeze; the blizzard had blown itself out. From our position on a promontory, I gazed down to the snow-covered slopes of Spain.

"Freedom," I said to Bruno.

He smiled, nodded and shook my hand.

Then Zigzag took a step away. He turned and said, "Bruno."

The big man glanced over his shoulder. Before he could speak or react, Zigzag shot him with two bullets from a handgun. Presumably, he'd stolen the weapon from Madame Fournier during my time spent in Marseille.

"Bruno was a double agent," Zigzag said, "a Nazi plant. He would have captured you, in Spain, and revealed details of your network to the Nazis."

"How are you so sure?" I frowned.

"I talked with him, while you were away. His story about Mauritius didn't add up. Plus, my escape from the Gestapo prison was too easy. The Gestapo weren't aware of my true identity, so they allowed me to escape in the hope of trapping you. That's the thing about the Gestapo and the Nazis – they're in it for themselves, as individuals, forever looking over their shoulder, forever searching for a colleague to stab in the back. The Gestapo in Paris, Agen and Marseille, for example, don't communicate with each other. They want all the glory for themselves. If they'd communicated, they'd have revealed my true identity."

Zigzag checked his weapon, ensured that it remained well stocked with bullets. Then he waved the gun at me. "That leaves me with the problem of what to do with you."

"Why am I a problem?" I asked.

Zigzag smiled. He weighed the gun in his right hand, extended his arm and pointed the weapon at my head. "You must have realised by now that I can't return to Britain. I've played both ends against each other for too long. The Nazis, British, Russians, Japanese, Italians and Americans all want me; the only person I can trust is myself."

"You're in this for yourself," I said.

He nodded. "I don't subscribe to any ideals, to any ideologies. I believe only in myself. It's the only way to live."

I stared at his gun, swallowed and tried to ignore the perspiration as it dripped into my eyes.

"I'm heading for South America," Zigzag said. "I have money, plenty of money. I'll establish a ranch, breed horses. Why don't you come with me? I promise you a comfortable lifestyle."

"I'm married," I said.

Zigzag laughed. "Indeed you are, to a traitor."

"You're lying," I scowled.

With a "Tut-Tut", Zigzag shook his head. "Michel Beringar is a double agent too."

"You're lying," I said. "And you're lying about Bruno; he had relatives in Mauritius. You shot him, murdered him, to get him out of your hair."

"The truth hurts," Zigzag said. "Beringar is a double-agent. He's been feeding the Nazis details of your network. That's why they're closing in on you."

"I don't believe you," I said. "Michel is loyal to me, his friends and France."

"Loyal to you?" Zigzag threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Even you don't believe that."

As I glanced over my shoulder, looking to escape, Zigzag walked over to me and placed the barrel of his gun under my chin. The metal was still warm, from the bullet that had claimed Bruno.

"So, what's it to be, beautiful? Paradise with me, or death here?"

"He's still alive," I said.

Zigzag frowned. Then he glanced over his shoulder, at Bruno.

I'd lied. Bruno was definitely dead. However, my lie bought me a few precious seconds. With my handbag clutched to my breast, I dived behind an escarpment. There, I fumbled for Madame Fournier's Ruby pistol and fired the weapon, just to halt Zigzag in his tracks. Sure enough, he took cover and we paused to catch our breath.

A gunfight ensued with Zigzag taking potshots at me. Snow and rock flew into the air. Grit lodged in my eyes. All the same, I returned fire, pinning Zigzag in his position, ensuring that he couldn't advance.

Zigzag fired two bullets to my one, which meant that he was running out of ammunition.

A pause then silence; was his magazine empty? If I emerged, I'd find out. However, I came up with another plan. I threw a rock at a boulder. Automatically, Zigzag fired at the rock. Then a click. His gun was empty. I stepped away from my hiding place.

"My husband," I said. "I want the truth; is he a traitor?"

"He's working for the Gestapo," Zigzag said, "and that's the truth."

Zigzag reached for a rock. However, before he could throw it, I shot him in the chest. My aim surprised me. It surprised Zigzag too to judge from his shocked expression. He fell to his knees, then on to his side, dead.

As a nurse, I'd seen dead people, far too many of them. Keeping company with a corpse did not bother me. However, this was the first time I'd killed a person. In response, I dropped to my knees and vomited.

With my stomach empty, I gathered my senses and assessed the situation. The gunshots would have alerted the border guards; I couldn't remain on the mountain.

I felt cheap, robbing a dead man. Nevertheless, I searched Bruno and claimed his money. The notes would serve as bribes and secure my passage through Spain.

Slithering down the hillside, I made my way to the border. I knew a safe crossing point, one of many chinks in the 600-kilometre chain. With a sigh, and a sense of relief, I stepped into Spain.

# Chapter Fourteen

It took me two months to reach Britain. The Spanish authorities were troublesome, but my money and my British nationality paved the way. In France, I lived as Madame Beringar whereas in Spain I presented myself as Eve Morgan. And in Britain? At home, would I find my true identity?

I collected my suitcases from the Thomas Cook office in Madrid then travelled to Gibraltar where I boarded a ship, Lutstia. In a convoy seventy-strong, assembled to combat the Nazi U-boats, we sailed to Glasgow. From Glasgow, I caught the London train.

Aboard the Lutstia, I thought about double agents, about Zigzag, Bruno and Michel. Zigzag had betrayed everyone including himself. Bruno had played the role of victim; I considered him genuine simply because of his naivety. And what of Michel? Doubts about him caused me sleepless nights, heartache and much pain.

In London, I secured lodgings, in a basic flat, near Baker Street. With limited resources and so much of the city in ruins, my choices were thin.

I was listening to the wireless, catching up on recent events, when someone knocked on my door. It was a relief to feel innocent while listening to the wireless and to hold no fear as I answered the door.

To my surprise, a woman stood before me, a smart woman in her mid-thirties. She possessed short, wavy hair, which framed a strong face. Her eyebrows were well defined while her eyes contained a look of intelligence and determination. Dressed in a tailored skirt-suit, sensible shoes and stockings, she stood around five foot nine inches tall.

"Hello," she smiled. "My name is Vera Penrose. I'm from the Air Ministry. May I come in?"

I examined her identity card, which seemed in order. Besides, I had no reason to doubt her, so I opened the door.

"Of course," I said. "Please, step into the living room and take a seat."

In my cramped living room, Vera Penrose sat on the sofa. She straightened her skirt and crossed her legs. She possessed strong calves. Like me, she had a penchant for walking.

"You are Madame Beringar," she said.

I frowned then asked, "How do you know my name?"

Vera smiled. Her smile resembled a baby suffering from colic; a trifle pained. "We've been charting your progress," she said. "You arrived alone."

"That is correct."

"And Agent Zigzag?"

"I shot him," I said.

With Vera Penrose, I relived the nightmare, in all its tarnished glory. I revealed all the details. In truth, it felt good to talk, good to unburden my soul.

"Zigzag is dead?" Vera asked.

"Quite dead," I said.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Hmm," she sighed. "That's a shame, a great pity. Through a series of unfortunate events, you've cheated the hangman out of his fee. You see, Zigzag was responsible for many of our agents' deaths. We wished to detain him, question him and place him on trial. But what is done is done. We'll require a formal debriefing. However, from what you've said you had no alternative; you shot him in self-defence."

A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Encased in mahogany, I considered the clock ugly. However, it came with the property.

Vera glanced at the clock. She checked her wristwatch. She wore a silver wristwatch on a leather strap. However, her hands were devoid of all jewellery, although I did notice a light band on her left ring finger, a band synonymous with an engagement ring. She'd removed that ring in recent times, through a broken engagement or the loss of a loved one? I suspected the latter because of her wistful looks and occasional glances, which contained a mournful air.

Vera checked her wristwatch again. Then she asked, "What are your plans for the future?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "But I'll need work to survive."

"Maybe a position at the Air Ministry?" she ventured.

I brightened, leaned forward and smiled. "That sounds good to me. But, why help me?"

As Vera considered my question, she glanced at her handbag, which sat on the sofa, partially open; she'd placed her identity card in the handbag upon entering my living room. I noticed a packet of Senior Service cigarettes in her handbag, and a box of Swan Vesta matches. I smoked Senior Service in London, but the cigarettes seemed mild when compared with the French brands. I'd considered quitting cigarettes anyway and maybe this was my opportunity.

"Like I said," Vera smiled, "we've been charting your progress. You've helped well over a thousand airmen and soldiers to escape. It's only fair that we should return the favour."

Vera stood. She offered me a small card, which contained a four-digit telephone number with a two-digit extension. Then she gathered up and closed her handbag.

At my front door, Vera said, "Rest now. If you need anything while you're settling in, call me. I'll be in touch, about the job with the Air Ministry."

Alone with my thoughts and the ticking clock, I wondered about the job; what did the Air Ministry want from me?

Lapsing deeper into thought, I wondered about Michel; was he dead or alive? Was I a widow or a wife? Furthermore, if Michel was alive, did he stand as a partisan or a traitor?

As the hours ticked by, I realised that despite all my efforts to leave France, I had to return. With the Gestapo breathing down my neck, the risk of capture, torture and execution remained real. However, to live a full life, I required the truth. Somehow, I had to smuggle myself back into France.

# Roll of Honour

Female SOE Agents in France

Francine Agazarian

Juliane Aisner

Lise de Baissac

^Madeleine Barclay

Yvonne Baseden

*Yolande Beekman

*Denise Bloch

*Andrée Borrel

Sonya Butt

*Muriel Byck

Blanche Charlet

Marie-Thérèse Le Chêne

Yvonne Cormeau

*Madeleine Damerment

Elizabeth Devereux-Rochester

Yvonne Fontaine

Giliana Gerson

Virginia Hall

Mary Katherine Herbert
Ginette Jullian

*Noor Inyat Khan

Marguerite Knight

Phyllis Latour

*Madeleine Lavigne

*Cecily Lefort

*Vera Leigh

Eileen Nearne

Jacqueline Nearne

*Sonia Olschanezky

Patricia O'Sullivan

*Eliane Plewman

*Lilian Rolfe

*Diana Rowden

*Yvonne Rudelatt

Odette Sansom

Krystyna Skarbek

*Violette Szabo

Nancy Wake

Anne-Marie Walters

Odette Wilen

Pearl Witherington

^ Died en route to France

* Captured and Murdered by the Fascists

# Heroines of SOE

Giliana Gerson

Giliana Gerson, née Balmaceda, was the first female agent the SOE sent into occupied France. Born in Chile c1910 she worked as an actress in Paris where she met Victor Gerson, a British citizen and a dealer in fine rugs and carpets.

The couple married and on 18 June 1940, at the signing of the armistice, they escaped to Britain where they joined the SOE.

Victor Gerson suggested creating a network of helpers to assist the entrance and exit of SOE agents assigned to France and Giliana volunteered to assess the possibility.

In May 1941 the SOE sent Giliana into occupied France. She returned through Spain in late June 1941. During her time in France Giliana travelled freely in Lyons and Vichy, ostensibly on holiday, her Chilean passport securing her passage.

With a large haul of intelligence, contacts and administrative documents, such as ration cards, Giliana returned to Britain. There, the SOE reproduced the documents and subsequently agents used them on their clandestine missions.
Yvonne Fontaine

Yvonne Fontaine was born on 8 August 1913. From Troyes, Yvonne witnessed Allied bombing raids and her initial contact with the French Resistance came about through helping Allied airmen, shot down over France, to escape to Spain.

For the SOE, Yvonne began work for the Tinker network as a courier with organiser Ben Cowburn. When the Gestapo closed in on the network, the SOE recalled Yvonne to Britain on 15 November 1943. At this stage Yvonne was not officially recognised as an SOE agent. Indeed, some sources still do not recognise her, which is a shame given her level of bravery and commitment.

In Britain, Yvonne underwent SOE training. She returned to France by boat landing on the North Breton coast on 25 March 1944 to continue her work as a courier. As a courier, she travelled throughout France, carrying messages and sabotage materials.

Yvonne's network enjoyed numerous successes, which included destroying railway tracks and engines, sabotaging canals by lowering the water levels and dusting itching powder on to the shirts and singlets of German submarine crews.

When the Nazis arrested the leaders of Yvonne's network, she stepped up and continued their work helping to organise the Resistance in the lead up to D-Day. In the euphoria post D-Day, she collected information and materials, and collated reports before returning to Britain on 16 September 1944, her mission successful.

After the war, Yvonne settled into married life. She died on 9 May 1996.

# Web Links

For details about Hannah Howe and her books, please visit https://hannah-howe.com

To listen to audio book samples from Hannah's books please visit

https://hannah-howe.com/audio-books

To keep up to date with the latest releases, free and special offers, please follow Hannah on Facebook

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# The Sam Smith Mystery Series

The Sam Smith Mystery Series is a character-driven series about private investigator Samantha Smith. The series explores a number of adult themes in a psychological context. These themes include domestic violence, sexual abuse, rape, drug addiction, racism and alcoholism. The books do not contain graphic descriptions of violence. However, they may contain emotional triggers for some people.

The Sam Smith Mystery Series is a detective series centred on emotions, with a touch of humour and romance included to add balance and realism to the various plots. The series has featured in the top twenty book charts in ten countries, including seven separate spells as number one on the Amazon private detective chart. Audio book versions are available and translations are in progress.

# The Ann's War Mystery Series

The Ann's War Mystery Series is a series of five novellas set in 1944-5. Each story contains approximately 15,000 words and a complete mystery. The stories are: Betrayal, Invasion, Blackmail, Escape and Victory. Ann's story arc will evolve over the series and reach its conclusion with book five, Victory.

The Ann's War Mystery Series has graced the top five of the historical mysteries chart in America, Australia, Britain and Canada. The series has reached #1 in Australia and #1 on the Amazon mystery, history and literature charts. Audio book versions are available and translations are in progress.

# Saving Grace

A Victorian Mystery Based on a True Story

Who poisoned wealthy banker, Charles Petrie? Dr James Collymore, a man familiar with poisons, a man harbouring a dark secret that, if exposed, would ruin his career; Florrie, the maid who supplied Charles with his bedtime drink; Bert Kemp, a disgruntled groom who used poisons in his work, who four months previously had predicted Charles' dying day; Mrs Jennet Quinn, a lady's companion with a deep knowledge of poisons, and a deep fear of dismissal; or Grace Petrie, Charles' wife of four months, a woman with a scandalous past, a woman shunned by polite society.

With crowds flocking to the courtroom and the shadow of suspicion falling upon Grace in the shape of the hangman's noose, could dashing young advocate, Daniel Morgan, save her?

Saving Grace is an official Amazon #1 bestseller. Within the first month of publication, the book reached #1 in Australia and achieved top ten rankings in America, Britain and Canada. An audio book version is available and translations are in progress.

# Praise for Hannah Howe

If you have enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a short review. Thank you.

"Sam is an interesting and very believable character."

"Sam is the kind of non-assuming heroine that I couldn't help but love."

"Gripping and believable at the same time, very well written."

"Sam is a great heroine who challenges stereotypes."

"I can't wait to read the next in the series!"

"What makes this book stand well above the rest of detective thrillers is the attention to the little details that makes everything so real."

"Sam is a rounded and very real character."

"Fabulous book by a fabulous author – I highly recommended this series!"

"I loved Hannah Howe's writing style — poignant one moment, terrifying the next, funny the next moment. I would be on the edge of my seat praying Sam wouldn't get hurt, and then she'd say a one-liner or think something funny, and I'd chuckle and catch my breath. Love it!"

"Sam's Song is no lightweight suspense book. Howe deals with drugs, spousal abuse, child abuse, and more. While the topics she writes about are heavy, Howe does a fantastic job of giving the reader the brutal truth while showing us there is still good in life and hope for better days to come."

"What's special about Sam's Song? It's well written: accomplished, witty, at times ironical, and economical. A lot of the impact comes from Hannah Howe's ability to achieve effects in a paragraph that many writers spend a page over."

"Sam's Song is more than a standard private detective novel. It has real characters, not stereotypes and it treats those characters with compassion and wit."

"I so enjoyed getting to know Sam Smith, a private investigator with an abundance of wit and compassion."

"In Dr Alan Storey, the author has created a strong male character that is willing to take a step back and support Sam in her career decisions because that's what she needs to grow stronger. I definitely recommend this series."

"I started the series and can't stop going from one book to the next..."

"Hannah Howe is a wizard with the way she creates suspense and intrigue."

"If you love empowered women sleuths, you must read the Sam Smith Mystery Series now."

# About the Author

Hannah Howe is the author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series, the Ann's War Mystery Series and various standalone novels. Hannah's books are published by Goylake Publishing and distributed through Gardners Books to over 300 outlets worldwide. Her books are available in print, as eBooks and audio books, and are being translated into numerous languages.

Hannah lives in Glamorgan, Wales with her family. Her interests include reading, music, genealogy, chess and classic black and white movies.

# Coming Soon

More Sam Smith mysteries, including Looking For Rosanna Mee and Stormy Weather, plus two new series: The Olive Tree, A Spanish Civil War Saga and Eve's War, Heroines of SOE.

The Olive Tree will be a series of five novellas, approximately 15,000 words each. The series will chronicle the lives and loves of two very different women: Heini Hopkins, a young nurse from an impoverished background and Naomi Parker, a successful author born into a life of luxury. As Heini and Naomi follow their men to Spain they discover that nothing will ever be the same.

Eve's War will be a series of twelve novellas, approximately 20,000 words each. The series will chronicle the life of Eve Beringar, the wife of a successful businessman, who initially is helping the French Resistance in Marseille. As the series progresses, Eve joins the Special Operations Executive. From there, she will face stark choices about love and war.

You can keep up to date with Sam, Heini, Naomi and Eve by following Hannah on social media or by receiving her weekly newsletter via her website

https://hannah-howe.com

