“Well . . .” Sharon drags out the word. She’s supposed to unknow what she can’t get out of her mind. And Evelyne Niquet is not yet aware that Danny is actually in France; explaining why he is unavailable would be a breach of security. “His birth mother may be alive,” Sharon blurts out.

“That would be incredible. The best Christmas gift!” Evelyne says. “Can you imagine how she would feel if she found him?”

Groggy and still plagued by the dilemma, Sharon describes her visit to Valençay.

“Someone in the markets must know where she and that blind friend live,” Evelyne says.

Sharon winces. Right now, all she wants to do is sleep. Her guard is down. Hadn’t she decided to stop this investigation? “Let’s talk after Noël.”

They hang up, and Sharon drops into deep slumber.

She swims up from the bottom of an ocean to a soft touch on her shoulder and Rachelle’s voice telling her that the Norwegians are in town.

Her ersatz Norwegians from a year ago? How would Rachelle know about them? Their visit was never with the Israeli mission. Their official business was with the French government and Félix Amiot. Sharon sits up, unsure if she heard the words or dreamed them. “What are you saying?” She rubs her eyes.

“We got the scoop at the newspaper.”

“Weren’t you at your parents’?”

“I was called in.” Rachelle takes a deep breath. “The five boats have been sold to a Norwegian company called Starboat. Contracts are being signed right now.”

Starboat. Sharon swallows. “Who’s signing?”

“The French acquisition minister has approved the buyers, an oil-exploration outfit. He’s been pressuring Moka Limon for weeks to relinquish Israel’s rights to the boats, but Limon wouldn’t relent—until now. He finally agreed.” Rachelle’s face falls. “I’m so sorry. I know how much they meant for Israel. Also for my own future there, where I will raise my family.”

“It’s happening now?” Sharon can hardly breathe at the realization that the complex ruse is playing out. People believe it. The fictional sale, which started when she outfitted the “Norwegians” in Paris, is reaching a climax.

“They’re in Hotel Sofitel,” Rachelle says, “signing the contract before Amiot leaves for Christmas in the South of France.”

“I need a moment.” Sharon goes into the lavatory, where she can think. The next step of Operation Noa is about to launch.

Thirty minutes later, she’s in Kadmon’s office. “I know you can’t tell me anything, but I’m part of the team, not merely an outside civilian.”

“Let’s just say that the Israeli government has made a magnanimous gesture toward the French to relieve them of the embarrassment they’ve created for themselves.” Kadmon’s handlebar mustache twitches, and his tone turns sarcastic. “What’s most interesting is that, rather than sailing the boats away themselves, the Norwegian buyers insist that trained Israeli crews deliver them in a month or so.”

“Our guys can’t remain trapped in the boats for another month,” she says.

Kadmon lays his hand on a pile of documents. “First thing, since it’s only a matter of clearing customs, let’s make sure that every single paper is in order.” He pushes a typed list toward her. “Second, we must plan for three thousand meals.”

“Three thousand?” She raises both palms in a gesture of astonishment while her brain calculates what he means: They must feed one hundred and ten men three meals a day for nine days. Not a month from now, but in a couple of days. The schedule of nine days at sea barely allows for delays caused by refueling, an incapacitated boat, or having to ride out a storm in a safe harbor.

“Meat too,” he says. “The men are screaming about their imposed kosher.”

“You’ll need more than one cow.” She runs through all the butchers she knows. Even a hundred steaks will make only one nonkosher feast.

“Salami would be great,” Kadmon goes on. “Christmas is in four days. I’ve rented two more vans and have French-speaking reservists to drive them. You’ll instruct the guys on where to shop. Since it’s holiday time, an overflowing cart in a supermarket won’t be that unusual.”

Sharon digests all she knows. More than one hundred men are here at the ready. The majority must have arrived while she was driving around the countryside. “How come I didn’t pick up new recruits?”

“Each group was led by one of the guys you guided here.” He smiles. “And we made sure they had cover stories—and no identical jackets.”

Outside the window, night has fallen. The rain has stopped. Since it’s Sunday, there are no cars in the parking lot. The night watchman starts his first round.

“Has Golda given her approval for a breakout?” Sharon asks.

Kadmon looks at her for a long minute, his face a mask, and says nothing.

She takes a deep breath. During her time in Intelligence, she witnessed schemes planned down to the last detail, some at great cost, despite the possibility that they might be aborted. None was of the scale of Operation Noa. Now, all these months of preparations, thousands of hours of work, a vast outlay of money, and all the men arriving and hiding here might go to waste. She can’t imagine the staggering price tag of what might come to naught.

It’s a relief that the two reservists—a graphic designer and a plastics factory foreman—are both urbane and French-speaking. They divide the shopping areas for the next two days, and Sharon returns to Rachelle’s apartment. In the holiday spirit, to demonstrate normalcy, twenty Israeli seamen will receive passes and will congregate in a café. Sharon would have liked to join the hilarity, but she’d rather not bump into “Jorgen” and his partner while they are in town. A mere flick of the eyes might tip off an alert outsider that they know each other.

She’s marinating chicken breasts for dinner and Rachelle is simmering the lemon-butter sauce when the phone rings. Sharon wipes her hands on her apron and picks up.

The operator announces, “Officer Lucas Niquet for Mademoiselle Bloomenthal.”

“One of my colleagues knows the women,” he says after she accepts the call.

“What?”

“My wife told me about your conversation. They live in La Guerche-sur-l’Aubois, and he’ll visit them in the morning.”

“My God.” Sharon drops into a chair. Her mouth is dry. Claudette Pelletier is alive. Danny’s non-Jewish mother is real. “Would you be able to pass her Daniel’s photos?”

If only she could witness the moment that Claudette Pelletier holds Danny’s photos. Sharon has never felt the emotion of doing a mitzvah, a good deed, as deeply as she does now. She would have done it a hundred times, even against Danny’s objections, just to bring happiness to the heart of a mother who searched for years for her lost baby.

What Claudette Pelletier will not know is that her Israeli naval officer son is right now in France but is as unaware of her and as unreachable as if he were across the sea.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Cherbourg, France

Late December 1969

Christmas lights sparkle in windows, and a giant pine tree is placed in the plaza. Behind their steamy glass, the cafés serve vin chaud, warm red wine spiked with cognac, cinnamon, and orange. At home, Rachelle welcomes Sharon with chocolat chaud à l’ancienne, a mug of rich, dark, and thick hot chocolate.

The holiday cheer does little to quell Sharon’s sense of foreboding. Images of the Dakar’s fate almost two years before return in full force. Ten days after its launch, Saar Twelve is out for testing every day. So many things can go wrong, and with the designated remaining shipyard crew in a festive mood, Sharon doubts that every problem is remedied. If spare parts are needed from Germany or Italy, they’ll take weeks to arrive.

After dropping off her full van for the last time before everything closes for the holiday, Sharon lingers in the plaza to listen to a children’s choir singing Christmas carols. The sweet voices bring her a moment of reprieve from worrying about Operation Noa, except that the nagging question of Claudette Pelletier remains. It’s been two days since Officer Niquet’s colleague checked the women’s home and found it empty. They were still making the rounds among the Noël markets, he surmised. Christmas Eve is tomorrow, and Officer Niquet is certain that they will return by then.

Sharon steps into a perfumery to buy Rachelle her favorite scent, Je Reviens. The shop owner raises her eyebrows. “What’s with you Israelis? You’ve emptied my shelves. If only you’d told me you were leaving, I would have ordered a larger supply.”

Leaving? The word hit Sharon. The seamen living in the open have been instructed not to close their bank accounts. Those who have formed friendships with locals were told to accept invitations for future dates. Most important, they have been warned not to engage in shopping sprees. Apparently, they succumbed to the temptation of buying perfume for the women in their lives and, Sharon guesses, cartons of cigarettes for themselves—while also filling orders for their hidden colleagues. The town has been put on alert.

With deliberate nonchalance, Sharon says to the perfume seller, “The Norwegians won’t be taking possession of the boats for at least another month. Please order for me two bottles of Je Reviens. No rush.” She, at least, will be around to retrieve her order.

As she approaches Rachelle’s apartment building, she sees her friend hurrying toward her.