The build was grim, the grip firm, and when Nana Thélème pulled the hammer back, it made two clicks, at half-cock and the full. She knew it was madness to have such a thing. The box had been wrapped in newspaper but tied with a red silk rose and left with the coat-check girl downstairs in the club but now … She pulled the trigger. The click, as the firing pin struck an empty chamber, was louder still. There were six packets of cartridges, one hundred and twenty rounds, the two other revolvers. All had been cleaned of the grease that had protected them from rust over the years in that safe at the Gare Saint-Lazare. They looked brand-new. ‘The 1873 Modèle d’ordonnance,’ she said, a whisper. Why had Janwillem sent them to her? She had loved him. She would have done anything for him. ‘I didn’t betray you in Oslo!’ she swore softly and clenched a fist. ‘Tshaya must have but you … you are still blaming me. She’s a Gestapo informer, Jani. A betrayer of others too!’ Picking up the card that had been inside the box, she hurriedly reread it.
