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pocket. ‘If you’re sure?’
    ‘I am.’
    Shapiro glanced at his guide, then lowered his voice so the woman and children couldn’t hear.
    ‘But as a businessman, sir, I hope you don’t mind me asking what’s in it for you?’
    ‘Merely to be of assistance,’ Baillard said quietly.
    ‘Though you’re taking a chance too?’
    Baillard fixed him with his steady, quiet gaze. ‘These are difficult times.’
    Shapiro’s face clouded over. Baillard knew that this man’s family, French Jews, had been among the first to be rounded up in Paris. He had come over from America, thinking his money might save them, but in twelve months he had succeeded only in finding his brother’s wife and two of her four children. The others had disappeared.
    ‘You cannot blame yourself,’ Baillard said softly. ‘Because of you, Madame Shapiro and your nieces have a chance. We each do what we can.’
    Shapiro fixed him with a look, then he nodded. Something in Baillard’s voice persuading him of his sincerity.
    ‘If you’re sure,’ he said again. He glanced once more at the passeur . ‘What about this guy, does he speak English?’
    ‘No. Very little French either.’
    Shapiro raised his eyebrows. ‘So what am I looking out for? The landmarks, in case we get split up.’
    Baillard smiled. ‘I am sure you will not, but in any case, the route is simple. Keeping the sun ahead of you, you follow the draille , these wide tracks the shepherds and goatherds use. You’ll cross several brooks, passing through open meadows as well as sections of woodland. The first lake you come to will be the Étang de Baxouillade. Keep the water on your left. You’ll travel through a pine forest and on further, until you reach the banks of the Étang du Laurenti. There, all being well, a second passeur will be waiting. He will be accompanied by three others who are making the crossing today. He will take you over the summit of Roc Blanc, ready for the descent to the border with Andorra.’
    ‘This guy’s not sticking with me?’
    ‘There are different guides for different sections of the mountain. I cannot say for certain, but I think it likely your second aide will be a Spaniard.’
    ‘That’s grand. I have a little Spanish.’
    Baillard smiled. ‘At the risk of now offending you, monsieur, I would recommend you keep conversation to a minimum. Your accent will give you away.’
    ‘You could be right,’ he said amiably, acknowledging the comment with good grace. ‘How long do you figure the journey will take, sir? Give or take?’
    ‘With the children, perhaps four hours to the Étang du Laurenti, then another two hours to the summit of Roc Blanc. The descent will be easier.’
    The passeur cleared his throat. ‘ Sénher, es ora .’
    Shapiro turned round, then back to Baillard. ‘What’s that he’s saying?’
    ‘That it is time to leave.’ Baillard held out his hand. ‘The passeurs know these paths, this mountain. They know where the risk of being spotted by a patrol is at its highest. Do as they tell you.’
    ‘Here’s hoping,’ said Shapiro, clasping Baillard’s hand and shaking it. ‘And if you’re ever in New York, you look me up. I mean it.’
    Baillard smiled at the American’s confidence, hoping it was not misplaced. In the two years he had been helping smuggle people over the Pyrenees – exiles, fugitives, Jews, communists, those without an exit visa – many had ended up imprisoned in gaols in Spain or repatriated to France. Americans in particular did not understand that, in this war, money did not talk.
    ‘ Pas a pas ,’ he murmured to himself.
    He watched the small party set off along the path. Like so many of the wealthy refugees Baillard had guided to the escape routes, they had brought too much with them. The American was not dressed for the mountains, the children would struggle with their cases and the woman looked defeated, someone who had seen too much to think she could ever be safe again.
    Baillard