On his morning sortie, Bucky had located Aunt Claire’s house, an impressive eighteenth-century villa set back in an enclave shaded by ancient trees and enclosed by a vine-covered courtyard wall. From a park bench across the road, he looked for a sign of life in the one Palladian window visible and wrestled with a decision. Should he contact his aunt to learn information about his father? He wouldn’t for the world put her in danger. His parents did not know that he was in Paris. As ordered, he’d informed them by telephone from Washington that he would be secluded for a while working on a special assignment for the government, and he tried not to imagine Horace Barton worrying that he was skipping out on his military duty. They were not to be concerned, Bucky had told them. He would contact them when he could. Now he had to consider the risk that Aunt Claire might somehow get word to his parents that their son was in Nazi-occupied Paris on an undercover mission.

He’d seen several German staff vehicles parked on various leafy lanes as he’d passed on his walk from the metro, but none occupied the cobblestoned entry to his aunt’s house. If he was to move, now was the perfect time. He could simply walk across the road and ring the bell to her house. He had his story and his papers ready if he were intercepted. The men on his team had been given covers that would explain why they were not among the young and single Parisian males rounded up to work in Germany’s factories. Stephane Beaulieu worked for a French firm of consulting engineers in a position essential to the German war effort. He had simply come to call on a friend of his mother’s.

Bucky made up his mind. Aunt Claire was his only hope of finding Nicholas Cravois. There was no reason for anybody to question his identity. She would recognize him from his mother’s yearly pictures. Bucky could only hope he had time to intercept her surprise to see her American nephew in France before her reaction betrayed him to the staff or a possible visitor.

His decision made, Bucky struck off across the street. All was quiet on this chilly Saturday morning. Smoke rising from the chimney told him someone was at home. He swallowed, prepared to deliver to the maid who answered the bell the little speech he’d rehearsed to explain his connection to the mistress of the house. The door opened. A woman stood there, still beautiful, slim, and elegant these eight years later. Her clear hazel eyes widened. Bucky snatched off his fedora.

“My God! Is that you, Bucky?” Claire Bellerose said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE