Description:
With danger closing in, Morel brings Sophie to an old Resistance safe house in Paris — now maintained by a woman who never stopped fighting in the shadows. But even behind locked doors, safety is an illusion.
Chapter 9: The Safe House
They arrived just before dawn.
The boat had drifted under bridges like a phantom, slipping past barges and sleeping patrols, until they reached a forgotten dock near Passy. From there, Morel led Sophie through side streets and courtyards, weaving through the city’s early silence like a pair of ghosts.
By the time they reached the safe house, the sun was only a pale suggestion behind grey clouds.
The building stood on Rue des Archives, hidden behind a shuttered bookstore. To anyone passing by, it looked abandoned — dusty windows, faded lettering. But Morel knew better.
He knocked three times. Then once. Then twice.
The door creaked open. A woman in her sixties appeared — white hair tied in a tight bun, sleeves rolled up, a pistol tucked casually into her apron.
Clémence Durand.
She squinted at Morel, then at Sophie, then at the river-wet bundle under his arm.
“Well,” she said. “Looks like trouble finally found you again.”
“It never really stopped,” Morel replied. “May we come in?”
She stepped aside. “As long as you didn’t bring anyone else with you.”
Inside, the air smelled of old paper and black coffee. The walls were lined with shelves — books, dossiers, radios, boxes with false bottoms. This was no ordinary home. It was a memory carved in stone.
Clémence poured coffee without asking. “You want to tell me who she is?”
“Sophie Lemoine,” Morel said. “Not dead. Not safe. And she has something they want.”
Sophie placed the coded ledger on the table. Clémence didn’t touch it.
“They’re watching the embassies,” Sophie said. “They think I’ll run to someone official. But I won’t.”
Morel nodded. “They also know about her son.”
Clémence froze mid-sip.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“With people I trust. But not for long.”
The room fell silent.
Then Clémence reached under the table and slid out a metal box. Inside: maps, names, identities.
“You’ll need papers. New ones. For both of you. And the boy.”
She handed Morel a set of keys. “There’s a basement under the Conservatoire in the 13th. Still wired. Still safe. Use the tunnel there if this place gets burned.”
Sophie looked up. “You kept all this… since the war?”
Clémence gave a dry smile. “The war never ended. It just changed uniforms.”
A knock at the rear entrance.
Morel’s hand went to his revolver. Clémence reached behind a book and flipped a switch — cutting the lights.
A second knock. Slower this time.
Then a voice, muffled: “Courier for Madame Blanche.”
Morel exhaled. It was the phrase. An old code.
He opened the door.
A boy stood there. Ten years old. Dark hair. Sharp eyes.
Julien.
He held a letter in his hand — sealed with wax. Black this time.
Morel took the envelope, heart sinking.
He broke the seal.
Inside:
“We found your pianist. You have 24 hours. After that, the child disappears. – M.”
Sophie’s hand trembled as she touched her son’s shoulder.
The shadows had caught up.