Fifteen

Ava

Ava arrived at the JDC center the next afternoon to return the letter to Otto.

"It was an honor to be entrusted with something this precious and powerful," she said as she handed it back.

He nodded and tucked the envelope into his tweed jacket pocket, pausing to give it a tender pat with his fingertips. "Petra's correspondence took several months to find me. I do not even know how it managed to be sent." Otto looked up at the sky, squinting as he did so. The way one did when trying to conceal the depth of their emotions. "Thank you for recording her words."

"I'm grateful for the opportunity to do so and would be glad to do more should anyone else have letters such as yours."

Otto nodded. "I can ask around." He withdrew another envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. "More newspapers from France."

She thanked him, promised to come by next week when she would be helping Ethan, then departed for the embassy.

And so it went for the next two weeks, receiving not only French newspapers, but also letters from refugees' family members and even clandestine publications from other areas of Europe.

Ava was familiar with Combat and Libération, but Biuletyn Informacyjny was a Polish one she hadn't seen before. The underground prints were easy to identify, not only by their smaller size, but by the single page, printed on the front and back. Even still, with a paper ration on and tight regulations in Nazi occupied areas, it was amazing the clandestine groups were able to find something to print on at all.

The creators of such publications would have to possess ingenuity and be utterly fearless. She often thought of all the people involved after her discussion on the matter with Lamant.

Time was of the essence while she settled them on the table in the embassy to photograph, but she couldn't stifle her temptation to skim the French and German content. Most especially Combat, whose forthright text appealed to her. There was no prevaricating or added filler to expand an article. It was concise, to the point, and immaculately edited.

Which was why it was so strange to come across not one typo, but several in a recent issue.

The piece was about a series of bombs in factories throughout Lyon impacting Nazi production, the typos dispersed from start to finish.

Like breadcrumbs.

The thought whispered at the back of Ava's mind, but she brushed it aside as whimsy and aimed the camera to capture the newspaper onto the roll of celluloid.

Mike entered the room with a stack of books. "Get a load of this. I found an entire set of German machinery guides in a stationery shop—that one in Chiado right next to the glove store." Arms full, he danced a few jitterbug steps and flashed her a wide grin.

"That's great." Ava put aside the boxy camera and approached him to examine his find. "May I?"

"I was actually going to ask you to lay your Kraut-reading peepers on this and let me know if it's as killer-diller as I'm hoping." He wiggled his head back and forth in a manner that suggested he already knew his hoard would be "killer-diller."

Ava laughed and held out her hand for the first book. "Let's see."

Mike placed the heavy text in her palm, and she drew open the cover. Drawings of machinery were labeled in intricate detail, the parts identified and explained in the sidelines with classic German precision. It was a tragedy that mechanical expertise as advanced as theirs was used for war and genocide when such knowledge could save the world rather than tear it apart.

She nodded in appreciation and took a second book. "This is incredible."

"Isn't it nuts to think it was there in a stationery shop?" Mike shook his head incredulously and peered at the newspapers lying beside Ava's camera. "Are those more secret prints from France?"

"They are," Ava replied, joining him. "And one from Poland. The engineer whose sister wrote the letter about Vél d'Hiv saved more for me."

"Nice going," Mike said with approval. "That's why you're so great at this job. You make personal connections. I can be kind of a fathead sometimes, I know." He held up a hand as if to stop her from protesting his statement, then pointed in the direction of Sims's office. "And we all know the big cheese isn't exactly a people-person. But you, you got this, kid."

It was genuine praise from someone who was deep down a good guy despite his bluster.

"I appreciate that." Ava's gaze wandered toward the edition of Combat she'd been photographing.

"Doesn't hurt that you're a real dish." Mike waggled his brows.

Ava rolled her eyes heavenward, and Mike gave a wink that told her he knew how obnoxious he was before returning to his stack of German machinery texts. "I need to hop to it. If I want to get out of here on time tonight, I have to shoot these like crazy."

Whistling merrily to himself as he was wont to do, he opened one of the books and flexed the binding back, so the spine crackled as its glue splintered apart. Ava's mouth fell open at such abuse.

It wasn't his first offense. He was also guilty of tucking the corner of a page he needed as well as laying the book flat, page-side down when she'd complained about dog-earing.

"You need to be careful with those." Even as she spoke, she knew her note of caution was in vain.

He glanced emotionlessly at the book with the broken spine. "They're just books."

Ava didn't bother to suppress her grimace as she returned to her own work. After she'd finished photographing the clandestine newspapers, she helped Mike with his stack as he'd done with her before countless times. The sharing of labor had never really been discussed, and neither of them had ever asked the other for help. It was just something that came naturally to both of them and part of what made them such a good team.

It was also a good opportunity to handle books the way they should be.

But even as she went through the motions of repeated photography, the article in Combat with the typos clung irritably to the back of her mind like a burr.

Ava brought the edition of Combat home with her that night. First, she read through it again, searching the other articles to determine if they also contained typos she had initially missed.

They did not.

Then she set it aside and chastised herself for being ridiculous. But even as she brushed her teeth that night, she still couldn't shake it from her thoughts.

She stalked out to the dining area where the publication sat on her table, took out a fresh pad of paper, and wrote down every wrong letter. There were fifty-eight staring back at her.

Fifty-eight in a print that never had even one typo was hardly a mistake. No, it was undeniably intentional.

She rearranged the letters, marking them off as she tried to create words in French, but nothing seemed to work. There were too many variations creating too many possibilities.

When the hands of her watch slipped past two in the morning, she resigned herself to give up for the night. The list of letters followed her into sleep, swirling in her brain and teasing at her subconscious. Not that it helped. In the morning she was just as stumped as before.

She woke to a foggy mind and an unresolved mystery. It would be best to put it aside, she knew, and yet could not stop herself from reconsidering those fifty-eight letters over and over in the background of her thoughts.

It was a crisp November day with a full sun overhead, and a breeze brisk enough to rouse the grogginess from her. Alfonso waved as she approached his kiosk.

They chatted briefly in Portuguese as they always did, though now he corrected her translation less and less. However, as they talked, there was a slight tension to him, an uneasiness that made him slide his gaze from hers several times.

"I have your papers for you." He bent to retrieve the stack. "There is one I think you should see. Just under the latest copy of Das Reich."

Ava thanked him, but he continued to stare at her. His smile was tight, and he gave her a ready nod, clearly wanting her to look at that moment.

Das Reichsat on top of the pile. She peeled it back to find a note. "The German has been asking about your schedule."

Ava folded the paper back into place as casually as she could and tried to ignore the unease prickling through her. "That does look interesting." She smiled and thanked him.

The German.

Lukas.

He gave her a worried wave and shifted his focus to another customer, a mother with a fidgeting toddler.

She glanced about but did not see the Nazi in the vicinity. Perhaps later, she could ask Alfonso for more information, if there was any more to be had. Regardless, the sensation of being watched suddenly crawled over her skin like something living.

A shudder ran down her back.

"Did someone walk over your grave?"

Ava spun around to find James standing behind her, a newspaper tucked under his arm, the word Standard from the Evening Standard just visible at the fold. It was the first time she'd seen him since the kiss, when the PVDE had followed them.

"I certainly hope not," Ava responded tersely.

He frowned. "Has something happened?"

As much as she hated to admit it, he might know what to do. She waved him to follow her. "Walk with me."

He joined her without question as she led him toward a café and slipped into a table at the far back. She laid the stack of papers on the rough white tablecloth and lifted it so he could read the note, aware that his Portuguese was strong enough to do so.

"The Austrian?" He arched a brow.

Ava nodded.

"I can join you in the mornings if you like." He set his newspaper down. "After all, I have my own publications to obtain."

"Isn't the PVDE following you?" she asked in a low whisper.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Not anymore. It was a matter that was cleared up. But I never did thank you for your assistance that night."

Ava's cheeks went hot as a flame at the memory. "That isn't necessary, and it won't be repeated."

The corners of his lips rose in a hint of a smile. "I would not presume."

"Good," she said, feeling suddenly awkward. "Because it won't."

He nodded, that grin notching higher. "Coffee?"

"Please," she said stiffly.

This time he didn't bother to conceal his chuckle as he pushed to his feet and ordered their beverages.

While he was gone, she opened her messenger bag to deposit the papers when she caught sight of Combat still resting within. She considered it for a moment and turned her attention back on James as he waited for their drinks.

The Allies all worked together, and though she hated to admit it, James was knowledgeable on many various topics. More so than Mike, she had discovered. And James was by far more approachable than Sims.

She pulled the single page of Combat from her bag and replaced it with the stack she'd obtained from Alfonso's kiosk. The top flap of her messenger bag hung crooked despite her best efforts to cram everything in properly.

James peered at the French newspaper as he returned with their small cups of bica and dumped a generous helping of sugar into the dark liquid. "What's this?"

"The latest edition." She turned it toward him, then hesitated. "Do you read French?"

James inclined his head. "Mais oui."

"Good." She leaned forward in her chair. "Do you notice anything unusual about this piece?" She indicated the article on factory bombings.

He winced. "It could use a strong edit."

She nodded. "Except that this particular newspaper is generally the most meticulous. I don't think it's an accident."

"Then it probably isn't." James pinched the small handle of his mug and sipped the drink.

Ava let her shoulders sag forward. "That's it, Watson?"

"You mean Sherlock, I presume." He gave a haughty tilt of his head. "I dare say, I think I'd make a proper Sherlock. I've the accent and everything."

"Watson was British too."

James nodded toward her. "True, but may I mention that you aren't British at all."

"Fair point." Ava poured a bit of sugar into her own cup and stirred. "So, what's your theory?"

"It's a coded message," he said quietly. "Presumably from the Resistance."

"There are fifty-eight displaced letters." Ava glanced around the small café to ensure no one was within earshot. "I've tried to rearrange them every way I could think possible."

James shook his head and lowered his voice to a whisper despite no one being nearby. "The Resistance uses a new poem every week. But I think you're looking at this wrong, as it's based on numbers." He pulled the newspaper toward him once more. "The typo is in place of another letter. Take the letter that should be there and use the number from its location in the alphabet. Once you have the numbers listed and the poem code they used, you'll have a way to deduce the message. See? The letters have their own system of decoding."

Ava didn't precisely see, but he did and that was what mattered. After all, she'd always understood literature and words far more than numbers and math. But none of his efforts would be effective without the correct poem.

"I can help, if you like," James offered. "Especially if I'm with you in the mornings." He gave her a grin that should have rankled her. But there was something hopelessly charming about the way his eyetooth was slightly crooked and the stalwart determination of his persistence.

She gave a dramatic sigh. "If you insist."

"I do," he replied without hesitation.

"Although I have no idea where to obtain the necessary poem from." She lifted a brow. "Any suggestions, Sherlock?"

He smirked. "I'd presume the very source you collected this newspaper from will have what you need."

Otto did not know which to use, but in the span it took Ava to help serve a meal—much to Ethan's appreciation—he was able to find someone who knew the precise poem used for coding the week the paper was drafted.

"Mignonne allons voir si la rose" by Pierre de Ronsard.

The following morning, Ava waved James into her building and brought him up to her small apartment where they could talk without the risk of being overheard. It wasn't until he was walking through her front door that she realized the intimacy of having him join her where she lived.

Peggy was far better at accessorizing her home than Ava. The small space appeared nearly the same now as it had when Ava first moved in, with the exception of a neat row of books on the shelf and a green sweater slung over the back of a dining room chair.

"I'm not much of a decorator." Ava self-consciously grabbed the sweater and pulled it on for lack of a place to stow it before motioning for him to join her at the table.

A notepad and pen were there waiting, perfectly parallel to one another with each number of the alphabet for the fifty-eight letters printed neatly along the top. Below that was the sixteenth-century poem.

"If you prefer to decorate with books rather than scattered jackets and shoes, I assure you, I shan't judge." He gave her an easy smile and slid into one of the chairs at the dining room table.

Ava sat next to James who leaned back to allow room for her to watch as he unraveled the code. He smelled like soap and warm sunshine despite the chilly November day.

Head lowered, he got to work. He used the first five letters, assigning numbers to where they lay in the standard alphabet. From there, he found the corresponding word in the poem that matched that number. Those five words were written out and somehow James deduced a fresh alphabet based off that order.

Ava watched, equal parts perplexed by the complexity and awed by how quickly he worked through it. He wrote a new line beneath the block of squares he'd created for the new alphabet, his writing messy and bold.

As it turned out, James really was the better Sherlock to her Watson, which Ava attributed solely to her disinclination toward math. His strokes were confident and sure with the calculated code he'd broken down and rebuilt into a string of text. It was a long, jumbled line that he separated with a slash of the pen tip, partitioning the text into words that suddenly made sense.

Jewish mother and child need transport to America.

They stared down at the note and then looked at each other.

There were many people who did not believe in fate. Ava's father for one, claiming anyone educated should be sure enough in his footing to navigate his own life. But Ava was never one to let someone think for her and had developed her own interpretation of destiny. She wasn't a fatalist by any means, assuming her life entirely predestined, but she wasn't above appreciating a miracle when it shone upon her either.

Like the one she now experienced.

She had been introduced to this precise newspaper where the code had been placed. She happened to run into James, who knew how to crack it. The mother and child needed to go to America, which was where she was from. And the best way to do that would be to ask for the assistance of the British agents flying into France, of which she had the perfect contact in James.

And this was where fate took a back seat. This was where action came into play.

"We have to do something," Ava said.

James scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "It isn't that easy. Besides, there are plenty of organizations that can get them into a safe house."

"If that was possible, they'd likely have done it by now. They're probably in danger, James." She fidgeted in her chair, agitated at his hesitation. "You've seen the refugees here in Lisbon. You've heard their stories. Don't you dare tell me you are casting what they've said as mere war rumors." She stared at him, daring him to deny her. "You're too smart for that."

He exhaled a frustrated breath.

She pointed to the translated code. "They want to go to America. I can help them get there." Or at least she hoped she could. "Surely, there is someone in England who would know where the printing press is located. The Resistance receives goods from Britain all the time."

He jerked his head back and looked at her. "How do you know that?"

"Because I don't simply photograph the papers, I read them as well. Britain is working closely with the Resistance."

James twisted his lips to the side in thought. "You think you can coordinate access to America for them."

"Yes," Ava answered immediately. Doubt squeezed at her chest. It had not gone well when she'd tried to aid Lamant. But he was a man, not a woman and child. And after watching Peggy work magic through phone calls to DC, Ava was sure she could ask her for some advice.

She was nothing if not determined.

James drummed his fingers on the table. "How do we know they haven't been relocated yet?" Sitting up, he gestured to the paper. "This was published almost a week ago."

"Imagine if they haven't, if we could have done something." Ava stared at him, beseeching with her eyes as much as her words. "What if in this time of vacillation and indecision, they die when they could have lived? Because of us."

James studied her, then shook his head. "If they allow women to become president in America, you should run." James smirked. "You'd win."

"So, you're saying you'll help?" Hope swelled in her chest, but she kept her little cry of delight contained until he confirmed.

"I will see what I can do." He put his hand on the table, so it hit with a soft thud. "That isn't the same as promising to help."

No, it wasn't, but it was still enough. For now, that is.

It was hope.