In occupied France, Marie Duval worked as a courier for the Resistance. She was twenty-four, a schoolteacher before the war, with dark hair pinned neatly beneath a beret and eyes that missed nothing. Her bicycle—black, battered, with a wicker basket strapped to the front—was her weapon and her shield. Inside the basket, beneath loaves of ersatz bread or a few wilted vegetables, she carried coded messages written in invisible ink, microfilm hidden in false bottoms, or small packages of sabotage materials
