The Appointment

Odette shook another Gitane from the pack and lit it, more to give herself something to do than  anything else. Her cheap handbag was on the seat beside her; the parcel was inside, wrapped up as if it were an innocent birthday gift.

By now, it should all have been over with; her contact should have been and  gone,  taking  the  package, and whatever it contained with them. How much longer, she thought, could she remain here unnoticed?

Nervously she picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. At least her clothes, scuffed shoes, grey suit and matching hat, were as tired and worn as everyone else’s after three years of conflict.

 Through  a  haze  of  blue  smoke, Odette looked around the small cafe once again.  It  was still  quiet;  a  couple of men at the bar, and several  people dotted about at the small round tables. Nothing  seemed out of  the ordinary; no-one was showing any interest in her at all. In fact she could  have  been  forgiven for thinking that there was no war;  that  this was  just another peaceful afternoon in a quiet  part  of Paris.

Even so, Odette was afraid. Fear had been a constant companion, ever since the mission began. Fear had been with her throughout the night time flight a few days before, and had been there during her parachute drop. But at least then she had been active; just sitting here waiting was worse, much worse.

Her mind wandered back to when she had been in London; had it really only been days earlier? She recalled the time she spent in the Kensington flat, where she had waited with the other agents; they had passed the hours smoking and listening to the radio. She wondered where they were now; the Indian girl who she knew as Asmita; and the very young one who called herself Molly. Not real names, of course; but then, neither was Odette.

Sometimes, when the nerves had started to become unbearable, they had been allowed to spend an hour or two in the shooting gallery, hidden above a row of shops in Baker Street. Firing off rounds at a metal, man-shaped target, and feeling the huge Webley revolver bucking in her small hands with each shot, had helped to ease the tension, if only  temporarily. It had briefly occurred to her that she might one day have to fire a bullet into a living person, a thought that she quickly pushed to one side.

And of course there had been thoughts, many thoughts, about Francois. The man she would have married, who had taught her to speak fluent French, and who had ended up lying on a beach at Dunkirk, mown down by the machine guns of an enemy fighter plane.

She  beckoned  to  the  waiter  to  bring  another  coffee;  as  she  did  so  the  door  of  the  cafe  swung  open. Her heart jumped as  a  handsome young  man, with a small waxed moustache and a beret  entered and looked around. He glanced at Odette for a second; then went to the  bar,  to be  welcomed enthusiastically by the other men there. 

False alarm. By now her cigarette had burnt down to her fingers, and she stubbed it out, lighting  another immediately afterwards.

“Your coffee, madame.” The waiter placed the cup in front of her and she nodded her thanks. Once  again, she glanced down at her handbag.

“Madamemoiselle?”  A young man had appeared from nowhere, wearing a smart, field grey uniform.  A Wehrmacht uniform. Odette cursed inwardly; she had not been watching the door.

 Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Er...what?”

 “I am sorry, I said may I join you?” The soldier spoke in faltering French. He was, she could now see, no more than a boy; and obviously taken with her. Although her heart was pounding, she was still  able to feel some sympathy for him, nervously approaching a pretty girl. 

He indicated her handbag. For a second she misunderstood, and a cold sweat engulfed her; before she realised he wanted her to move it so he could sit down.

“Oh, yes, of course” she said, trying to keep her voice calm as her training kicked in. However young the soldier might be, he was the enemy. At any moment Odette felt sure she would be exposed; be branded a terrorist and begin the  long  journey through arrest and torture, and finally a firing  squad.

She had been trained in interrogation methods, of course.  Men in uniforms had barked questions at her for hours at a time, leaving her without sleep, and shining painfully bright lights into her eyes. But she had heard stories. She was well aware that nothing she had experienced in her training could prepare her for the real thing.  She just hoped if she fell into the clutches of the Gestapo, that she could be strong; it was the least she could do for Francois’ sake.

She did not wish to offend the soldier, not with the parcel there in her bag. But she did not wish to be seen as a collaborator either. Already, all eyes in the cafe were on her...

Suddenly there was a commotion in the doorway.  A very large, breathless woman in dark blue was navigating the entrance, encumbered by several shopping bags. She waddled over to Odette’s table, brushing the young soldier to one side. He hesitated for a moment; then, shrugging his shoulders in mock defeat, he wandered off, to try his luck elsewhere.

The woman sat next to her, red faced and puffing. She rummaged around in her bag, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Odette

“Do you have a spare match?” she asked

“I...I prefer a lighter” Odette replied slowly.

The woman shrugged. “Yes” she said.

“Until they go wrong.”

The large woman took in a lungful of smoke, exhaled luxuriously, and patted Odette on the hand. 

“I believe” she said “that you have a parcel for me?”