Another knock. Not urgent, not aggressive. But patient, as if the person outside was certain someone was home.
Marielle crossed to the window alongside the door and peered out. A woman stood on the steps. She was in seventies, deeply tanned, wearing work clothes and heavy boots. Her black hair was pulled back in a perfect bun with twin streaks of pure silver pulled loose to frame her weathered face. Relief washed Marielle.
She unlocked the door. “Bonjour, Madame Laugier.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Moreau.”
Violette Laugier, a farmer who made honey and cheese and had known Céline for decades, owned the nearest property.
“I saw smoke from your chimney last night. So I brought you some honey.” She held up a jar. “And cheese.” Another package, wrapped in cloth.
“That’s so kind. Merci.”
Olivia appeared at Marielle’s shoulder. “Madame Laugier! You gave me a ride yesterday.”
The old woman’s eyes sharpened with recognition. “Ah, yes. The long-legged one. If you hadn’t been so secretive about your destination, I could have saved you a run.”
Olivia laughed, and Marielle gestured for the woman to come inside.
She shrugged off the offer to take her coat but accepted a mug of coffee.
She took a sip and her expression turned serious. “I need to tell you something. This morning I went to Lourmarin to drop off goods for the market. There were Americans at the café. Soldiers, I think. Drinking coffee.”
Marielle’s stomach dropped. “Americans?”
“They weren’t British. My English is ... rusty. But I heard them mention this cottage. And an assault.” She frowned. “I thought you should know.”
Behind Marielle, Hanna made a small sound.
Olivia was already moving. “How long ago?”
“An hour? Maybe less.”
“Elle,” Olivia said quietly. “We need to go. Now.”
They moved with controlled efficiency. Marielle grabbed the recorder, the rucksack and the tissue-wrapped box. Finally, her gun. Olivia tossed things into a duffle she’d found in the coat closet. Dry bags, weapons, food, anything they might need went flying into the bag.
But Hanna stood frozen in the middle kitchen.
Marielle gave her a light shake. “Hanna. Get your things. We’re leaving.”
“Where?”
“Lyon. Interpol. You’ll be safe there.”
“How?”
Madame Laugier drained her coffee and rested the mug on the counter beside the sink. “I’ll take you.”
Details and a plan snapped Hanna out of her trance. She nodded and moved.
Three minutes later, they were packed and outside. Marielle locked the door and returned the key to its place under the planter.
Madame Laugier waited beside her small pickup truck, the bed half-full of crates.
They climbed into the truck bed and lay down among the crates that smelled of earth and honey, and, goats. Madame Laugier threw a large rough wool blanket over the truck bed and secured it with two tie-down cords.
She patted the side of the truck. The cab door opened, then closed. The engine rumbled to a start, and the truck lurched forward.