"Damn him... I’ll find a way to be rid of that man if it’s the last thing I do!"
The thought looped like a broken record in Adelaide de Molay’s mind. She sat on the edge of her bed, her knuckles white as she gripped the silk sheets. Her eyes were bloodshot, the result of a night spent in a state of high-alert paralysis. She had been determined to slip out, to reach the hidden radio transmitter in the Rue de Seine and alert London that the "Canary" transfer was a Gestapo-baited trap.
But Julian—the man she had dismissed for years as a shallow "leech" who cared only for his books and his comfort—had played the part of a sentinel with maddening perfection. Every time she reached for the window or the door, there he was: lighting a cigarette in the garden, whistling a low tune in the hall, o
