Jacques Dufort opened the door of his Parisian apartment and glanced out at a dark street. No lights could be seen, window shades drawn; no vehicles were on the road. Paris was at war, bracing for an attack that could arrive in minutes.
“Come in,” he said to his visitor. “I had to see you. Sophie got two radio messages, one from a contact in Antwerp, the other from Camille.”
Guy Barbier was dressed in black pants and jacket, a white shirt with no tie. He came in the foyer, glanced in the parlor, and went straight in Jacques’s study. A frequent visitor, but usually during the day when Emilie was at her store, he sat in front of the desk, a dim floor lamp lit, curtains pulled closed.
“Is Emilie home?” Barbier asked.
Jacques nodded. “She’s in the bedroom. She won’t bother us.”
Barbier fr
