He pulled out a small bottle and doused the cloth with the liquid, then cleaned the gash. The alcohol burned like the devil, but next to the pain in his shoulder, Miles barely felt it. When Antoine was finished, he put away his bottle and handed Miles the cloth.

  “You can use that to staunch the bleeding until it stops,” he said. “I’ll help you back on with your jackets, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  Antoine held the uniform jacket and Miles gingerly angled his bad arm into the sleeve before sliding his other arm in and settling it over his shoulders. His shoulder still hurt like hell, but at least his arm was moving now. The flight jacket was heavier and more awkward, but it went on much easier than he had been expecting.

  “Thank you again. I appreciate all your help.”

  “You’re welcome. Now you go to Dunkirk.” Antoine held out his hand. “God speed, my friend. I pray you get back in the air soon.”

  Miles shook his hand and nodded. “And you? Where are you going?”

  “We are going to surrender,” Antoine said, smiling sadly. “We have our orders.”

  Miles swallowed and looked from one to the other. Both men seemed resigned. He knew there was nothing he could say. It was no use asking them to come to Dunkirk with him. Orders were orders, and they would be offended if he suggested anything otherwise.

  “I wish you the best of luck,” he said, holding out his hand to Raf.

  He took it with a nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you. God speed to you.”

  Miles nodded and picked up his Mae West, turning to start walking. A moment later, he glanced over his shoulder to see the two men crossing into the trees on the other side of the road. They were going to rejoin their unit, and then to surrender to the German army. They would spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp. He turned his eyes forward along the road, a heavy sense of sadness rolling over him. While he had a chance at escaping back to England, they were out of chances.

  Miles lifted the cloth to his forehead when he felt wetness start to roll alongside his eye again. He had about seven kilometers until he reached France. He was going to have to walk faster than this if he was to have any chance at making it off that beach.

  He lifted the Mae West and settled it over his shoulders again, wincing at the pain. Realizing that he had used his arm without thinking, Miles moved his right arm again, testing it gingerly. It hurt like hell, but he had the use of his arm back.

  If only he still had his airplane!

  London

  Bill finished pouring himself a fresh cup of tea and picked two biscuits off the plate, setting them in the saucer. He picked up the cup and saucer, turning to carry it over to his desk with a stifled yawn. It was mid-morning and he’d already been to two meetings, one of which was with Jasper. He was waiting for Wesley to bring him the second batch of messages from the radio room, hoping that today would be the day that brought word that Evelyn had finally reached Bordeaux. He was beginning to get worried about the amount of time it had been since he last heard from her.

  He carefully set his tea down and then sank into the chair behind his desk. He’d heard reports of Luftwaffe pilots strafing the lines of refugees on the roads in France. He couldn’t imagine a world where military pilots were permitted to fire on innocent civilians, yet by all accounts, that was exactly what was happening in France. He prayed Evelyn hadn’t been caught in such an attack. It was one thing to contemplate losing her in the execution of her duty, but quite another to consider that she might be shot with other civilians simply moving from one place to another.

  He was just lifting his cup of tea to his lips when the telephone on his desk rang shrilly. With a sigh, he set the cup down and reached for the handset. It never failed. Just as he was about to enjoy a nice cuppa, the phone always rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir William?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Martin from the radio room, sir. I’ve just sent Wesley up with a few messages that came through. You asked to be notified as soon as one came in from Bordeaux.”

  “Yes. Has it?”

  “Yes, sir. Wesley has it now.”

  “Thank you, Martin. Please stand by. I’ll be sending one back.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll notify them to expect a transmission.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bill hung up and rubbed his hands together. Good! She’d arrived safely. Now he just had to figure out how to get her home. He reached for his tea again. Every available boat, ship, sloop, trawler, launch, and bloody pontoon had been commandeered for the evacuation effort. Everything short of kayaks had been sent over to France, leaving nothing for him to send to pick up Jian and Oscar. Unless something became available, which was highly unlikely, they were going to have to stay in Bordeaux, at least until Operation Dynamo was complete.

  Sipping his tea, he shook head. There was nothing else he could do. Sam was the only pilot crazy enough to fly into France right now, but he was unable to fly until his airplane was serviced. It had developed mechanical issues on his way to Spain, resulting in a forced landing just over the border. The repairs were expected to take at least a week, maybe longer. No. Jian and Oscar would have to remain in Bordeaux until he could send a boat.

  A light knock fell on his door and then Wesley entered, carrying a handful of messages from the radio room.

  “There’s a message, sir, from—”

  “Bordeaux,” Bill finished with a smile, setting his cup down and holding out his hand. “Yes. Martin rang up to tell me.”

  Wesley grinned and fished the message in question out from the stack, handing it to him. He laid the rest on the desk next to the teacup.

  “Shall I wait, sir?”

  “Yes. I’ll be sending a reply.”

  Bill opened the message and scanned it. His smile turned to a frown, then he sighed.

  “It’s not what I was hoping for,” he said, laying the paper down.

  “It’s not from Leon?”

  “It is, but Jian hasn’t arrived yet. This is to tell me that Romeo is out of action.”

  Wesley frowned. “Romeo, sir?”

  “Our agent in Rouen.”

  “Ah. And what does that mean, out of action?”

  Bill glanced up at him. “It means he’s either dead or captured. We’re losing them at an alarming rate, and we didn’t have many to begin with.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, exhaling. “Since we have Leon waiting, I will send a message. Just give me a moment to write it out.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Wesley moved to stand a little further away, his hands clasped behind his back. Bill glanced at him as he pulled a sheet of paper towards himself.

  “By the way, I found out some news about your brother,” he said, picking up a pencil. “His unit was ordered to pull back to the port cities when General Gort gave the order. By all accounts, they should be part of the lot at Dunkirk. So, keep your chin up, boy. He may just make it back yet.”

  The beaming look of relief on Wesley’s face made Bill smile.

  “Thank you, sir. That’s a relief!”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Bill turned his attention to the blank piece of paper before him. After thinking for a moment, he wrote out a message to send back to Bordeaux. It was longer than he liked, but it couldn’t be helped. There was a lot of information to include, and none of it was familiar to Leon. When he was finished, he folded the paper and tucked it into an envelope, sealing it.

  “Have Martin encode and send it immediately, and then tell him to continue to monitor the messages for any from Bordeaux,” he said, holding the envelope out to his assistant. “She still may arrive today. I want to know as soon as she does. The rest of these can wait until you return.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wesley took the message and left the office, closing the door softly. Bill reached for his tea again. His meeting with Jasper that morning had been to receive approval to recruit two new agents in France. At first, Montclair had thought he was insane. The Germans were advancing, they were losing people all over France, leading them to believe that the Germans had discovered the new agents’ identities, and he wanted to add two more? Bill chuckled, remembering the acid comment that had been thrown his way at his proposal.

  That was before Jasper found out their identities.

  Bill sat back in his chair, cradling his teacup in his hands thoughtfully as he stared across the office. When he and Marguerite went to dinner last night with Madeleine Ainsworth, he had been expecting a light evening filled with the kind of trivial niceties that allowed him to forget his work, forget the agents disappearing and dying on the continent, forget the whole bloody war, if only for an hour or so. Instead, Madeleine had unknowingly handed him the perfect pair of spies.

  He’d met Gisele and Nicolas in Paris many times. He’d watched them grow from mischievous and reckless teenagers into lively and fun-loving young adults. He’d laughed at Nicolas’ caricatures of political figures, and watched as Gisele had cut a swath through Paris society with her cousin Evelyn at her side. They were popular, loved by everyone, invited to all the best houses and parties, and undisputed leaders of society. They were the perfect spies.

  And they had chosen to remain in France rather than come to England with their parents.

  As soon as Madeleine had told them, he had lost interest in the rest of the conversation and been distracted for the rest of the evening. His wife had laughingly teased him for not paying attention, then explained to Madeleine and Agatha that he was constantly working now. Thankfully, Madeleine was such an old friend that no offense was taken, and he had been allowed to retreat into his thoughts for the rest of their dinner.

  That morning, he had gone into Jasper’s office with a daring proposition, and one that Montclair had reluctantly approved. If Zell and Nicki were staying in France anyway, it would be foolish of him not to approach them. With their money and connections, they would be welcomed as part of the elite when the Germans came. They were everything the German High Command aspired to be: rich, well-bred, well-educated, and they came from a long and impeccable lineage. They would be invited to every dinner, welcomed into association with the German officers, and befriended by their wives. They would be in a position unlike anyone MI6 currently had in France.

  And Leon was the only agent in the south of France. He was the only one who might be able to reach them.

  If they agreed, there was a risk involved, but not just for them. There would be a large risk involved for Jian. Gisele and Nicolas could never know Evelyn was working in France, or for MI6. While Bill had every confidence in their ability to rub shoulders with the German High Command and not give themselves away, he was not as sure that they would not reveal Evelyn’s identity under pressure. And the Germans were very good at applying pressure.

  No. The two could never know that their cousin was also an agent.

  Just as Evelyn could never know that her beloved cousins were working for him as well.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Miles looked up at the deep drone of engines, holding a hand over his eyes as he peered up into the morning sky. The sun was getting brighter with each passing minute, and he squinted, scanning the horizon for the source of the noise. He finally spotted it: a formation of airplanes moving southeast, towards the northern coast of France.

  Frustration rolled through him as he dropped his hand and lowered his gaze. Bombers on their way to Dunkirk, and here he was, walking along the side of a deserted road in Belgium. He should be up there helping the rest of Fighter Command to fend them off. He kicked a rock at the side of the road, the first act of frustration since he’d felt the bullets rip into the side of his Spitfire. As soon as he’d done it, Miles felt like a fool. Throwing a tantrum and kicking things wasn’t going to get him back with his squadron. All it would do is expend energy that he needed to conserve.

  He’d been walking for almost an hour, and the Mae West around his neck was getting hot and uncomfortable. He debated removing it, then shook his head. Knowing his luck, he’d need it if he did. He may be on land now, but if he succeeded in reaching Dunkirk, he had a chance to make it onto a boat. He’d be glad of his flotation device then.

  If he made it to Dunkirk.

  Miles wiped moisture off his forehead. The bleeding from the gash had stopped some time ago, but now sweat was taking its place, rolling down his forehead. The sun was warming up the earth, and dressed as he was in his uniform, flight jacket and Mae West, it was getting bloody uncomfortable. How far was it now? He had no way of knowing. Seven kilometers is what Raf had said. That was about four miles, but he had no idea how far he’d come. He did know one thing: this hike was taking far too long. His mouth was dry, his feet were getting tired, and the dull ache in his shoulder was making him feel more and more weary with every step he took. He supposed he should be happy to be alive, and he was, but he was getting knackered.

  Miles looked at his watch. It was just past eight and he hadn’t even reached the border yet. Once he did, he knew Dunkirk wasn’t far, but how long it would take him to get there was anyone’s guess. He lifted his eyes and sighed. That was if he could even get there at all. The Germans were knocking on Dunkirk’s door. For all he knew, it may be surrounded already, and he might be walking into German troops. The thought was a sobering one and he tightened his lips. All he could do was keep going, and pray that he made it to the beach. He would worry about getting off it once he was there. One thing at a time. Right now, he had to make it to France. He couldn’t risk getting trapped in Belgium, not after their surrender. He had absolutely no desire to spend the rest of this bloody war as a prisoner. He wasn’t built that way.

  Something up ahead caught his attention. He’d been walking past abandoned military vehicles for the better part of an hour, most of them burned out shells. There had been other debris left behind by the retreating army as well, but whatever was ahead between the trees was something different. He squinted, peering ahead. As he drew closer, Miles blinked and raised his eyebrows in astonishment. It was a bicycle, leaning against a tree for all the world as if someone had just got off it to go into a shop. Yet he hadn’t seen another soul on this deserted road the entire time he’d been walking.

  The sight of the bicycle was incongruous amidst the discarded rubble and broken, abandoned instruments of war. It was a picture of civilian innocence in the center of the jaded, battle-hardened machinery of soldiers.

  And Miles had never been so happy to see anything in his life.

  He broke into a jog. He didn’t know how it had ended up there, or who had abandoned it, but if it had a chain and the tires were good, he had every intention of taking advantage of it. And even if the tires weren’t good, he knew he’d still take it. It was faster than walking, and right now, time was his worst enemy.

  Reaching the bicycle, he bent to examine it. It was old, and the frame was rusting and had seen much better days, but the chain was solid and the tires were filled with air. The back one was a little soft, but it would do. Grabbing the handles, Miles walked it out of the trees and onto the road. Climbing on, he pedaled a few feet, testing it. It squeaked, a testimony to how long it had been abandoned under the trees, but the brakes worked and, more importantly, it moved. It would do.

  Miles couldn’t believe his luck and, as he pedaled on his way, he felt a wave of exhilaration go through him. This was much, much better. For the first time in over an hour, he felt as if he had a legitimate shot at making the border and getting to Dunkirk. He tried not to consider what would happen if he ran into German soldiers along the way. He would simply handle each challenge as it presented itself. He had his standard issue, RAF sidearm if he ran into any real trouble. While it would be useless against a rifle or machine gun, it was something.

  Enough to take at least one of the bastards with him.

  But he wouldn’t worry about what could happen until it did happen. Right now, it was enough that he was pedaling along the road, past the remnants of a defeated and retreating army, towards the one place that was the reason he was here in Belgium at all.

  Dunkirk.

  Evelyn looked up as Finn approached, a folded newspaper in his hand. She was sitting on a bench, enjoying a very picturesque view of the Garonne River, in the heart of Bordeaux. Her suitcase and Finn’s large knapsack were at her feet. Any self-consciousness that she might have felt at sitting in the middle of a city with a suitcase had been discarded when she had taken a good look around her. The city was flooded with refugees, some carrying suitcases like herself, and others pushing carts piled high with cases and boxes. She was just another refugee, nameless and faceless, joining the hundreds that had converged on the busy port city.

  “I bought today’s paper,” Finn said, sitting beside her and handing it to her. “I also spoke to the shop keeper. He said that Rue Josephine is only about a ten-minute walk from here. He gave me directions.”

  Evelyn took the newspaper and opened it, scanning the front page. There was more about Belgium’s surrender, and the advances being made by the Germans in northern France. Then a small headline in the bottom corner caught her attention.

  ALLIED TROOPS CONVERGE ON DUNKIRK.

  Finn watched as she tilted the newspaper to see the bottom corner better. “Yes, I thought you’d go to that,” he said. “The English are sending ships to try to evacuate them.”

  “They have to do something,” Evelyn murmured, reading the short article. “It says the British are abandoning France. Well, that’s a fine thing to say. They’ve been trapped into a corner because of Gamelin and Weygand’s terrible handling of the front!”

  “Shh,” Finn hissed with a frown. “Do you want to broadcast that you’re English?”

  Evelyn glanced up, then looked around.

  “No one is paying us any attention,” she retorted, lowering her voice nonetheless. “But really, it does make me angry. Those soldiers are the only trained army England has. If they’re captured, we don’t have another one to take their place. We’ll be left with reservists and untrained recruits.”

 

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