The American had stopped like a cornered hare at the top of the stairs in front of the basilica, looking wildly about. Even a child would have been able to identify him as someone other than a Parisian visiting the basilica, and the two remaining officers were starting back up the stairs, heading directly toward him. Estelle had no idea what she could do to stop whatever was about to happen. She did know that Celine could not be here. Estelle turned to tell her just that but the agent was gone. She couldn’t see Celine anywhere. Just as well.

With shaking limbs, Estelle pushed herself away from the safety of the shadowed balustrade. She did not know what she was going to do but she had to do something. She hadn’t gone more than three steps before she stopped abruptly, horror mingling with disbelief. Celine was bearing down on the airman like a woman greeting a long-lost relative. Or lover. It was difficult to tell which.

Celine reached the airman, put a hand on his arm, and yanked the cigarette from his mouth, tossing it to the side. “Do you speak French?” she demanded.

The man looked at her without comprehension.

Estelle cursed inwardly. Of course he didn’t.

“Don’t speak no matter what,” Celine said in a low voice, switching to English. “And for fuck’s sake, look stupid.”

The American gaped at her, which, Estelle suspected, was exactly what she had intended with her language. She angled him casually away from the top of the wide stairway, where the Gestapo officers were almost upon them now, their boots thudding with an ominous rhythm. Estelle turned away slightly, still far enough away to avoid notice but still close enough to hear the conversation.

“Where have you been?” Celine’s sudden exclamation was loud enough to startle Estelle and make the people nearest her turn and stare. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You know what I’ve told you about wandering away from me.” The agent was checking the airman over with her hands the way a distraught mother might examine a toddler after he had a tumble on a playground.

No, not checking him over. Subtly searching his pockets. With her back to the approaching officers and the nimble fingers of an accomplished pickpocket, Celine lifted his papers from his coat pocket, glanced at them, and tucked them into her handbag. With the same easy movements, the agent adjusted her cuff and palmed a long, thin knife. The narrow blade flashed briefly before it vanished once again beneath the sleeve of her dress.

Estelle swallowed with difficulty. A small voice in the back of her mind wondered if this woman London had sent was not so much an agent as an assassin. And if she would spill blood on the pavement here long before she had a chance to reach her real target.

“You there!” thundered a voice. “Stop.”