The Tower's Alchemist (The Gray Tower Trilogy, #1) Page 5

  ***

  When night fell, I rode in a transport plane that could’ve been shot out of the sky at any second. I poised myself to leap toward the dark terrain of the northern region of France. From there, I’d have to find my way to Paris. Most SOE agents came here by plane or submarine, sneaking their way toward the Maquis resistance fighters or a Nazi target.

  We started off doing “small jobs” like operating anti-Nazi radio programs, bringing in food and arms to friends and stranded Ally soldiers, and relaying messages and news back to SOE headquarters. Most of us were women, from all walks of life, from both Europe and America, who wanted to do more for our countries than to stay at home and worry.

  The male-dominated intelligence community treated us with disdain, but soon even they couldn’t refute our important contributions. “The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” Winston Churchill once jokingly called us, although the epithet was perfectly apt. We did anything and everything to frustrate the Third Reich and set Europe ablaze, and we weren’t afraid to fight dirty.

  “Looks like you’re the last one in for the week.” Richard frowned as he closed the cockpit entrance, made his way over and knelt next to me. I was already sitting in the area where the drop hole would open and I’d have to jump out with my parachute.

  “You say it as if it’s a bad thing.” I glanced at my hands and clasped them together, unsure of what to say next. He knew my officemate Stella, and even took a fancy to her. Though he never admitted this, and would vehemently deny it if I ever brought it up, a girl could just tell about these sorts of things.

  “How is it faring on your side?” His strong gaze demanded me to face him and answer. He wanted to know if there was any news about Stella, but I had none to offer. I really didn’t want to talk about this with him, and I didn’t want to plant any nasty seeds of doubt. I wished his co-pilot had come back here to see me off.

  I half smiled. “If I’m alive, then I’m faring well. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, you know...”

  The signal light flashed and the metal panel beneath us slowly opened. A gust of wind encircled us, and I gave a quick nod toward him. Though his facial expression revealed nothing, I felt like I needed to say something to him as a word of encouragement.

  “Go, Emelie!” Richard cut me off before I could speak. He didn’t do it in a crass or dismissive manner, but perhaps in that moment he realized that he didn’t want to dwell on Stella any more than I did.

  I took a deep breath and scooted myself forward. The first time I leapt out of a Royal Air Force transport plane, I had barely kept my wits. I kept imagining the Gestapo or SS strolling along a lonely stretch of road and finding me splattered all over. I may have been an alchemist, but I had yet to figure out a potion or elixir to make me airborne.

  My parachute released as soon as I jumped out of the plane, and I fell silently through the night air, hoping the white umbrella above me didn’t serve as an invitation to enemy gunfire. I thought all was clear as I nearly touched the ground, until I noticed a convertible-top jeep barrel down the road and then slow to a halt.

  I knew the patrol officer driving the trekker spotted me, and I cursed under my breath as I skidded across the field. My adrenaline went surging through me as I grabbed my knife from my jumpsuit’s outer pocket and cut myself loose. I rolled away and scanned the area, trying to decide whether to lay low or just make a run for it. The only thing I saw was the trekker’s headlight beam; blackness enveloped everything else, including me.

  I grew up in the city, where we had streetlights and bright theater marquee signs. The one time I actually went on a trip to the forest where there weren’t convenient lights stationed to guide my path, I found out just how terrified I was of absolute darkness. I still didn’t like the dark, and I dared not move because I wanted to hear where the officer was. All I heard was my heavy breathing, and I was so anxious that the only thing I could do was press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle the sound.

  A shot rang out. I quickly dropped to my knees. I didn’t know what direction the bullet came from, and I tried encouraging myself with the morbid thought that there had been plenty of people who survived gunshot wounds. I finally steadied my breathing and gripped my knife, waiting for him to make another move. However, I immediately bucked and dropped my weapon when a pair of arms enclosed me in a fierce grip.

  I swung my head back and gave him a good head-butt, making him cry out in pain and release me. I quickly turned around, delivered a left hook, and dodged his fist when he tried to reciprocate. Although we couldn’t see each other, we could hear and feel each other’s body movements in this deadly dance. I heard him swing at me again. I blocked his strike, but not before losing my balance and landing on my back. Fighting in a jumpsuit could be cumbersome sometimes.

  “Who are you?” he asked in German, grabbing hold of me and dragging me by the scruff of my neck. He brought me toward the beaming headlights where he shoved me against the front of the car, and I slowly faced him with arms raised in surrender. I had to plan my next move carefully.

  “I’m from the Russian Liberation Group,” I answered in perfect Russian. “Praskovya sent me.” I thought I’d add that part since he cocked his revolver. The Russian Liberation Group had been sending in spies and other reinforcements for their Nazi allies for about a month now. Some of these operatives entered France the same way I had.

  “She sent you?” He switched over to speaking Russian. Though his tone sounded doubtful, he lowered his gun slightly.

  “You know us...we do everything backward, comrade.” I prayed the codeword we had intercepted last week still held.

  The back of my neck began to burn, and I thought of what I could say next. He saved me the trouble when he slid his gun into his holster and offered me his hand. “Leave it to the Russians to send women to do a man’s job. What does Praskovya want?”

  I quickly grasped his hand, one of the easiest access points, and honed my magical senses, tracking the rhythm of his heart and the electrical currents in his brain. As his heartbeat slowed and his mind hazed, I spoke to him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Karl Manfried.”

  “How many other officers are in the Paris office?”

  “Twenty six.”

  That was a little more than I cared to handle alone. “Why don’t you go back to your headquarters and greet your comrades with a Molotov cocktail?”

  He slowly nodded and let his hand slip from mine. He headed straight for his trekker and jumped inside. The jeep rumbled and slowly reversed, then made a turn in the direction of the city. By this time my hands shook from exhaustion, and my head ached from the amount of concentration I mustered to use body magic on him. It also didn’t help that I was hungry and irritated. In any case, I needed to make it to my safe house even though it was apparently past curfew. However, I needed as many SS officers off the streets as possible. Hopefully Karl would be the distraction I needed once I reached the city.

  I pulled out my foldable bike from the pack attached to the parachute. After spending twenty minutes longer than I usually would setting it up, I unzipped and shed the jumpsuit to reveal a rather tight-fitting milkmaid uniform. I promised myself that I’d make it back to London just to shoot Ian for making me wear this.

  I stuffed the jumpsuit into the pack and placed it in the little straw basket attached to the bike’s handlebars. I pedaled down the road without looking back. I took note of the Seine River which ran to my right. It looked like I was south of Mantes, just outside of Paris. I kept my eyes open for more trekkers, hoping that I could make it through without any trouble.

  When I made it to the city proper, I took some backstreets to avoid a few SS officers on patrol. I pulled my bike up to an alley and slowly walked through. I scowled when I saw an officer in the middle of the alley, against the wall with his woman, blissfully lost in a quick and dirty cuzzy. They either didn’t notice or didn’t care when I walked by and wrinkled
my nose at the scent of garbage and piss.

  I wondered if the woman was just another collaborator selling her body for food or gas, or an agent of the Resistance engaged in an act of seduction. Sometimes I wondered what went through women’s heads when they did this. I’ve used my red garnet lipstick twice to kiss men and enthrall them so they would do what I wanted, and those were the least arousing experiences I’ve ever had. If I were that woman, I’d probably be thinking about how much longer it would be before the deed was done, or why he didn’t get a hotel room.

  I grew more confident as I turned a corner and headed down another lonely street, but unfortunately fate would not have it be that easy for me. Before I was halfway down the street, two SS officers headed toward me from the opposite end and hailed me. Though I put on a stoic face, my fingers trembled and my heart raced. Our confrontation would be inevitable since they would be complete idiots not to question a milkmaid out riding her bike after curfew.

  “Halt right there, mademoiselle.” The first officer spoke in a syrupy voice.

  I saw the glint of a nametag on his uniform and frowned. Supposedly the SS Hitler sent into Paris were the “polite” ones, and I supposed many of them believed themselves an actual legitimate enforcement organization—nevermind the fact that they were occupying someone else’s country. The first officer, whose nametag read Adelbert, approached and grabbed hold of my bike.

  The second, whose name was Gerhardt, grabbed my arm and spoke to me in French. “A little late to be delivering milk, isn’t it?”

  “I...I was with my Pierre. I didn’t mean to take off so late.”

  Adelbert leaned my bike against the brick wall of the closed shop we stood in front of. The menacing look in his dark eyes worried me more than the gun in his holster. “Lucky for you that your sweetheart didn’t accompany you.”

  Gerhardt forced me against the wall with my back to him. “Is it the same Pierre who lives by Le Petit bakery?” He asked the question in English.

  “I’m sorry,” I said back to him in French, “I don’t understand much English.”

  He ran his hands along my body, pretending to frisk me. Hey...one more grope and you’ll get a kick to your face!

  “Check her bag, Adelbert.”

  My body tensed and I quickly assessed my options. I could stun Gerhardt with a blow and fight Adelbert, or even beat him to the bag so I could grab my weapons. However, a bullet in the back of my head would end it all. If he opened the pack sitting in the basket, I would be the next one in front of a firing squad. Suddenly an explosion went off a few blocks down. The sky lit up. I prayed the mind-hazed Karl Manfried had carried out my order.

  “Scheisse! It’s the office!” Gerhardt, with a bewildered look on his face as if he couldn’t believe someone would dare attack his office, began running in the direction of the fire. Adelbert drew his revolver and followed.

  I slid away from the wall, and opened and shut my mouth. Thank goodness Gerhardt didn’t break my jaw. After rotating my aching shoulders, I hopped on my bike and continued down the street, pedaling as hard as I could until I reached a winding road that led to the dark and quiet neighborhood near Vincennes. I slowed and parked my bike at a small prayer chapel, taking my pack with me and quietly entering.

  No one sat or prayed inside, but a beautiful statue of the Madonna oversaw a corner full of flickering candles. I went to the back room, where the caretaker stored his cleaning supplies and extra candles, and I crawled beneath the small table, where a trapdoor lay hidden beneath a rug. I lifted it and pulled on the iron handle as I carefully slipped inside. It was tricky getting the rug back over and then closing the door, but I managed to do it, and began trekking through a dark underground passageway.

  Though the path led me down a straight line, I wished I had at least swiped a candle. I felt like I was going to be swallowed by the darkness. I didn’t feel like going back, so I just went at a steady pace and held my hands out in front of me in case I stumbled. After walking through the underground passage for five minutes, I finally felt the false dirt wall that signaled the end of my journey.

  I recalled Ian’s instructions for getting to the safe house. I felt for the hidden lever and pulled, and the false wall cracked open. I pried it open further and opened a reinforced wooden door behind it. I quickly slipped through, covering the door the way I found it. I crawled up a ladder and pushed open a trapdoor like the one in the chapel, except this one opened into a tool shed.

  I supposed they really wanted to make me work to get here. I was so irritated, that I almost broke the trapdoor when I slammed it shut. I paused and listened for any noises—a voice, footsteps, or trekkers. When I was sure no one was nearby, I covered the trapdoor with a rug and crept from the tool shed before I went toward the back of the safe house. I approached and saw an angel ornament hanging in the middle of the back door. I held my pack and stepped forward, giving a slightly urgent knock. I heard slow and hesitant footsteps, and after a few seconds elapsed, someone finally answered from the other side of the door.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s muffled voice queried in French.

  “Emelie.” I gave a grateful but tired grin when she opened the door.

  “It’s late, Emelie.”

  “Yes, but I have gifts.”

  “From whom?”

  All I wanted at this hour was a hot meal and a soft bed. “From 64 Baker Street.”

  The woman nodded and smiled. “Then come in, Emelie, and make yourself at home.”