sat side by side, soaking their blistered feet in a smelly concoction of water, oil, and herbs. An equally vile-smelling ointment would be applied once their feet were dried. “I don’t know which is worse, the pain or the remedy,” Mickey said flatly.
Yvette grimaced. “What will we do if Philippe refuses to leave with Daniel? You must decide what will be said at that time, my friend.”
Yvette’s words bolstered Mickey momentarily. Her friend was speaking positively about Daniel’s arrival. “We’ll deal with that if and when it happens,” she said quietly.
Yvette watched her friend’s eyes fill with tears. “Do you see how he looks like his father?” Mickey murmured. “We’ve not been here for two years, and in just that amount of time the resemblance has settled onto him as if carved in granite.”
Yvette knew exactly what Mickey was saying. When they had all filed into the great room dominated by the portrait that had hung over the mantel for so many years, the fact was unmistakable. Philippe had stood in front of the painting, presented to his mother by his father and Uncle Daniel on Christmas Day 1918, and the likeness was uncanny.
“Yes, but did you see the way he turned his back on it? He won’t leave you now. He believes you are his mother. That boy will never…Mickey, you will have to tell him the truth. Only then will he go.” Yvette’s voice broke. “Then we will have only each other.”
Mickey swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It will be enough. What more can I ask than a loyal, lifelong friend? Together you and I will see France free again. I believe this, and so must you.
“Have you noticed something, Yvette?” Mickey continued thoughtfully. “Philippe has not been questioning us. I find that strange. He’s always been obedient, but he does have a mind of his own. Do you suppose in some way he knows what is happening?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think it was seeing Henri killed that made him so withdrawn. He’s never seen death—and to witness his godfather slaughtered…” Yvette could barely speak as the tears flowed from her eyes. “Oh, Mickey, I saw his knees begin to give way under him. They…just kept shooting and shooting…for no reason. He was already gone.”
Mickey comforted her friend. “He walked in front of the commandant…he didn’t know…they smashed his glasses and he couldn’t see without them…He’s in heaven, Yvette. He is watching over us with God. I think you’re right about Philippe. I wanted to hide his eyes, to take him to my bosom, but he had to see what these animals are capable of.
“Yvette, I must make a confession. I know I said we would head south and try to cross the border to Spain, but once Philippe is gone…I cannot. I will head north again and join the underground. I’ll go as far as the border with you and then I will go back. Chérie…tell me you understand.”
Yvette’s eyes shone through her tears. “What I understand is that you are not going without me. How could you think, after what happened to Henri…and did you think for one moment that I believed your sorry story! I will fight as you fight. France will rise again and so will we. Vive La France!” she cried passionately, embracing Mickey.
“It’s settled, then,” Mickey said. “As soon as…as soon as Philippe leaves…we’ll go north. I have a map with a number of safe houses marked which contain wireless equipment.”
“How soon do you…when do you expect Daniel?”
“If he can get here, any day now. I had hoped he would be here waiting for us. He won’t go to Paris, he’ll find his way here…I know he will. I feel this in my heart.”
“We will wait for your friend.”
“Yes. It is all we can do.”
Chapter Five
Reuben stepped off the plane at Dulles Airport, his eyes behind dark glasses, searching out a redcap. When he spotted one some twenty feet away, his long-legged stride picked up momentum. Two young men, bent on securing the same porter, came to a grinding halt when they noticed the grim set of Reuben’s jaw as he peeled off two twenty-dollar bills and handed them to the redcap along with his baggage ticket. “See that my bags are taken to the Ambassador. The name is Tarz.” Without a second look at the porter or the hapless young men, he turned on his heel and commandeered a taxi, shouldering a businessman and a middle-aged woman out of the way as he did so. On most occasions Reuben was courteous, but today wasn’t a normal occasion; today was the day he was going to find out where Daniel was and what was going on. He barked out Daniel’s address on K Street to the driver before settling back against the worn seat cushions.
During the long trip from California Reuben had rehearsed what he would say when he opened the door to Daniel’s offices. Each introduction had been rejected as he sought for just the right words to say in front of Daniel’s two friends. When they were over Missouri he’d decided to say whatever he damn well felt like saying; Daniel’s snooty friends could either take it or lump it. If he had to, he would camp in the goddamn office until word came from Daniel. He was angry, angrier than he’d ever been in his life, and most of the anger, he knew, was misdirected. Instead of venting his frustration on Daniel’s friends, he should be taking it out on Daniel.
Reuben felt a wave of self-pity wash over him. Daniel wouldn’t be where he was today if it weren’t for him, and who did his friend turn to when he found himself in trouble? His rich Harvard buddies, that’s who. He’d made sure Daniel got to Harvard, footed the bills, saved his life during the war, made sure he recovered at the château. Daniel had studied at the Sorbonne because of him, regained his health and eyesight because of him, lived off his bounty, and by God, the first time he stepped his foot into something sticky he called on other friends!
It was these “other friends,” the ones keeping Daniel’s affairs a secret, that rankled more than anything. He hadn’t much liked Rocky and Jerry, but he would have cut out his tongue before he admitted it to Daniel. Upper crust, born with a silver spoon in their mouths, money handed to them on gold platters. Rich spoiled brats who had turned into rich arrogant businessmen who traded on their families’ golden social-register names. The only thing the three of them had in common was business, their professions, whereas he and Daniel were brothers, joined at the hip through the experiences of a lifetime. There was a world of difference.
Reuben knew he was jealous; it was a fact he accepted and hated at the same time.
“This is it, mister,” the driver said, sliding his cab to the curb.
Reuben stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the building that housed Daniel’s offices, a building Daniel owned, thanks again to Mickey. The deed had been presented to him the day he’d graduated from Harvard Law School by a pompous attorney from the Morgan Guaranty Bank, Mickey’s American bankers in New York.
Reuben had been here only once, for the guided tour, as Daniel put it. The suite of offices that belonged to Daniel’s firm suited him as no other could. The wainscoted walls; the polished oak floors; the smell of rich leather; soft, comfortable furnishings; assorted academic certificates on the walls—all were indicative of Daniel Bishop. It was a lucrative building that housed other professionals: doctors, accountants, other lawyers, and several consulting firms, all paying rent to Daniel.
Reuben thrashed his way to the second floor and marched into Daniel’s outer office, stormed past Irene, and barreled on through to Daniel’s private offices. Irene gave a startled gasp and was half on and half off her chair about to protest until she got a good look at who was doing the storming.
Rocky
