Stranded with a Spy Read Free Page A

against him would slide off his Teflon-coated back.
    How right Dillon had been!
    Only now, after two hours of ambling west along the two-lane road that led from Paris to Evreux, were Mallory’s jagged nerves beginning to smooth out. The brisk sea breeze as she neared the coast of Normandy blew through the open windows of her pint-sized rental like the breath of life.
    This wasn’t the route she’d laid out when she’d planned this long-dreamed-of vacation in such meticulous detail. A history major in college, she’d intended to spend at least three days exploring Paris before heading south to visit the medieval walled city of Carcassonne and the Roman ruins at Nîmes.
    With the miasma of the hearing hanging over her, however, Mallory had decided to reverse her itinerary. She needed calm and space and solitude, which she certainly wouldn’t get in the bustle of Paris. She’d hit the city on her way back. Maybe. For now she’d just follow the coast and let the winds blow away the stink of the past weeks.
    Her first stop was Caen, William the Conqueror’s stronghold and the site of vicious battles during the Second World War invasion of Normandy. Mallory squeezed out of her rental car and treated herself to a flaky quiche and a sinfully rich napoleon eaten at an outdoor café in the shadow of the castle walls. After lunch she visited the museum housing the Bayeux Tapestry embroidered by William’s wife, Matilda, after her husband had conquered England.
    Musing at the vagaries of fate that had one nation invading another, only to be invaded itself centuries later by the nation it had once conquered, Mallory drank in the history that went into the hundred-and-sixty-eight-foot tapestry. The segment that dealt with William’s visit to a nearby holy place spawned another spur-of-the-moment decision.
    “Mont St. Michel,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the embroidered panel depicting mounted warriors pulling pilgrims from the treacherous waters surrounding the shrine. Mesmerized by the scene, she consulted her plastic-coated, foldaway tourist map.
    The shrine was only a little over an hour from Caen. Not on her original route, but so what? She wasn’t too jet-lagged yet. She could do another hour of driving easy. After she’d explored the ancient abbey, she’d find a nice little seaside pension and crash.
     
    Bad decision, Mallory thought two and a half hours later.
    Very bad.
    The countryside of Lower Normandy was pretty enough. She’d left the sea behind at Caen to cut across a broad peninsula dotted with magnificent forests and tranquil streams flowing through rich farmlands. Apple orchards lined the road and hand-painted signs pointed to tasting stands for Camembert, Livarot and Pont l’Evêque cheese. Without intending to, Mallory had stumbled onto France’s Wine and Cheese Road.
    Which would have been fine except that the fall harvest was in full swing. Tractors hauling trailers mounded with apples competed for road space with busloads of tourists come to sample fresh-squeezed cider and pungent cheese. As Mallory inched through a picturesque village behind yet another tractor, she looked in vain for an inn or a pension. She was ready to call it a day and a night.
    The tractor finally turned off at a crossroads. A tilted signpost pointed to villages with names Mallory couldn’t pronounce. Below the signpost was a blue historical sign indicating that Mont St. Michel was five kilometers away.
    “Finally!”
    Surely there would be plenty of hotels at such a touristy spot. Aiming her tiny rental car in the direction of the sea once more, she soon left the forests and orchards behind. The topography flattened to marshy fields topped by feathery grass. The tangy scent of the ocean again flavored the air.
    Then Mallory turned a bend in the road and there it was, rising out of the salt marsh. Stunned, she pulled to the side of the road and sat there, arms looped over the wheel.
    Mont St. Michel was a small island,