Sara
is reliving a nightmare.
Within hours of
finding a Nazi WWII codebook in her father's attic, librarian, Sara
Fischer, becomes a target. Afraid for her life, and chilled by
'memories' that have nothing to do with her quiet, staid life, Sara
calls in a debt. FBI agent Marc Bayard moves in the shadowy world that
Sara has fallen into and may be the only one who can guide her out.
In a race to
reveal the secrets of a Nazi code, Sara and Bayard are catapulted into
the cutthroat world of international intrigue and oil politics. Sara
wants to believe she is more than a means to an end for Bayard. And,
with history nightmarishly repeating itself, she is aware that, this
time, their survival depends on whether or not they are able to see
through the mistakes of their past.
France, 1943.
The drone of a
Liberator B-24 bomber broke the silence that hung over the forested
hills and valleys that flowed like a dark blanket to the Langres
Plateau. The plane dipped below ragged cloud that partially obscured
the light of a full moon. Below bonfires pinpointed the drop zone and a
light flashed from the edge of the thick pine forest.
Morse code for ‘zero’
the agreed signal.
The engine note
deepened as the American aircraft banked and turned to make its drop. A
pale shape bloomed against the night sky, growing larger as it floated
to earth.
Icy air burned Marc
Cavanaugh’s lungs as he stripped a leather glove from his right hand.
Unfastening a flap pocket, he extracted a magazine for the Sten
submachine gun that was slung across his chest and slotted it into
place.
Fingers already numbed
by the cold, he jerked on the parachute cords, steering himself toward
the flashing pinpoint of light. He studied the thick swathe of forest
from which the signal had originated, the stretch of open country
below—a ploughed field bare of crops. As he lost altitude, detail
rushed at him; a tree, wind-blasted and skeletal, a rock wall snaking
across ground ploughed into neat furrows; the glitter of frost.
Shadows flowed across
the field. Jacques Vallois’s men—he hoped.
Marc jerked on the
cords, slowing and controlling his descent then braced for landing.
Seconds later, he unlatched the harness and shrugged out of the straps.
Stepping away from the distracting glow of the ‘chute, he dropped into a
crouch, the Sten pointed in the direction of a flickering shadow to his
right.
“Benis soit les doux.”
Blessed are the meek.
Cavanaugh let the
muzzle of the gun drop, but only fractionally. “Parce que elles
heriteront de la terre.”
For they shall inherit the earth.
“De Vallois.”
White teeth flashed,
the gleam of metal, as de Vallois lowered a Schmeisser MP40. “At your
service.”
A brief handshake
later and de Vallois barked orders at his men. A former attaché of de
Gaulle, de Vallois was formidably skilled in clandestine operations.
One of the architects of the French Resistance, he had worked tirelessly
refining their systems and training recruits. He no longer wore a
uniform, and it was unlikely that his efforts would ever be fully
recognized, except posthumously, but de Vallois’s determination was
unshaken. He lived for la
France,
and he would die for her.
De Vallois said
something in rapid French. With economical movements, two of his men
gathered up the ‘chute, which glowed with a ghostly incandescence.
Within minutes the field was clear, the bonfires doused.
De Vallois jerked his
head. “Nous allons!” We go.
Seconds later they
were beneath the cover of the pines.
The parachute was
buried in a hole that had been previously dug, the disturbed ground was
covered over with a thick scattering of pine needles. As high a price
as the silk would command in Lyon or Dijon, the risk of being searched
while transporting it was too high and de Vallois’s men too valuable to
risk. With the recent incarceration and execution of key Resistance
figures, Himmler’s SS, and the Geheime Staats Polizei, the Gestapo, were
actively hunting insurgents and traitors against the Nazi Regime. Over
the past weeks the activities of the SS and the Gestapo had escalated to
a fever pitch.
Half an hour later
they walked free of the trees and stepped onto a stony track. De
Vallois checked his watch then signaled them off the road.
Seconds later, lights
swept across the bare fields. An armored truck rumbled past.
Long minutes passed.
De Vallois grunted. “Come. That is the last patrol of the night. Even
the SS have to sleep.”
Marc stepped up onto
the road. The cloud cover had broken up, leaving the night even colder
and very clear. Moonlight illuminated the barren fields and a stark
avenue of pines.
Jacques grinned at the
exposure. “Don’t worry, my information is exact. My people understand
that many lives are at stake.”
A truck, its
headlights doused, cruised out of a side road and halted beside them.
Jacques opened the passenger door and gestured for Marc to climb in.
“The only thing I can’t guard against is a traitor.”
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