Marc thought about fate. Perhaps god had left the bicycle and money as a temptation, to see if he would steal them. Or, maybe god wanted him to take the decision to leave? He decided to reach into the tin and pull out a single coin without looking. If it came up heads when he opened his palm he would leave. If it came up tails he would stay.

It seemed stupid, but it was the only plan Marc had. He dashed back to the door of the cottage for a final look to make sure nobody was coming. Then he unscrewed the tin and grabbed a coin blindly. He could hardly bear to open his fist.

Marc trembled as he released his fingers and saw the buckled two-cent piece with the face of Liberty staring at him. He reached into the tin and grabbed the rest of the director’s savings.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr Clarke drove quickly with Rosie in the front and Paul in the back with the luggage piled around him. Concerned that the police were coming, or that another German agent might be waiting outside, they hadn’t wasted time packing the boot.

‘I owe the pair of you an apology,’ Clarke said, once they’d caught their breath and put a couple of kilometres between themselves and the apartment. ‘You never should have had to see that. If it was up to me you’d be safe and sound in England right now. Imperial Wireless offered to help pay your school fees after your mother died, but because she was French she never liked the idea of you two going to an English boarding school.’

Paul was in shock, and struggling to reconcile his father’s warm persona with his calculating behaviour back at the apartment. ‘So who was that German?’ he asked.

‘Abwehr – German secret service.’

‘But Mujard said the French police came too,’ Rosie noted.

‘No,’ Clarke said, shaking his head as the Citroën turned right into a cobbled alleyway. It was a poor neighbourhood and strands of washing hung from the apartment blocks on either side of them. ‘German agents have been operating in Paris for years, but since the invasion they’ve become quite brazen. They’ve taken to disguising themselves as police officers and their enemies have been disappearing, either shot or kidnapped and smuggled out for interrogation. Henderson reckons the French police are turning a blind eye.’

‘Why?’ Paul asked.

‘A lot of police officers have gone south. Those who’ve stayed behind hope to be working for the Germans in a few weeks’ time and have no intention of antagonising their future bosses.’

‘Who is this Henderson?’ Rosie asked. ‘A spy?’

Mr Clarke nodded. ‘He works for a branch of naval intelligence called the Espionage Research Unit. It’s a small department that specialises in unearthing enemy technology.’

‘And you work as a spy too?’