Michel sat motionless at his desk, hands folded over papers.

He should have never listened to François. He had to pull Tom from the Bénouville mission. The lad was too thinking, too feeling.

He did not know how the young pilot would react. He did not know what Rafael would think. It did not matter, he would leave them to it. He should never have listened to François.

With the decision came clarity. He’d contact London and arrange for a pickup in a small Lysander plane. Downed airmen didn’t usually rate a Lysander; they reserved those dangerous midnight flights for British SOE agents and other spies, for either insertion or extraction. But it was too risky to get him out through the usual channels for downed pilots. He attracted too much attention.

He opened the lower drawer and took out the almanac. Lysander flights needed to be scheduled around moonlight for navigation.

Wilkie would transmit the message tonight: Agent needs extraction. Michel felt no apology. Tom had become an agent the moment he put on that uniform. They’d have an answer in the next few days through the coded “personal messages” at the end of every BBC broadcast.

It had been some time since G had received a message. His contacts in London knew he was lying low after the infiltration of their group, through Jasmine’s death. They’d likely think the agent would be himself.

He paused and made a mental note to also have Wilkie relay the rumor of Rommel’s Twenty-First Panzer Division. Was it true? Was it en route to Caen?

He was paging through the almanac with the eraser of his pencil when the door opened.

“Hauptmann Braun,” he said, surprised. He laid aside the book and rose. Behind the man she’d just let in, Charlotte’s face showed a quick glimpse of alarm before she closed the door.

Michel had not seen him since the day Tom hid in the cabinet. He had been called away to Berlin because his wife had health problems. Something about her kidney. He tried to recall the details. It always pleased Braun when Michel remembered personal things.

“How is your wife? Did the operation go well?”

“Yes, yes, excellent,” he boomed in French. “She had the best physicians, the most excellent care. She is convalescing at a wonderful château on Lake Geneva. It was hard to leave. Did you enjoy the olives I sent?”

“We certainly did. Charlotte cried every time she ate one. I wept in private.”

Normally, Braun would have laughed. Instead he declared, “Good, good. A pleasure. I am glad you enjoyed them.” He strode to Father’s end of the room. This part of the room always seemed to interest him. He liked to look at the book titles on the shelves. He liked the jumble of maps and magazines on the desk. He liked the whimsical display of suitcases and safari hats. Michel saw him glance at the carpet, where the chair’s claw feet rested, and he clicked his tongue. “The Jew is no longer there, eh? What a pity,” he murmured. He put his hands behind his back and looked at the stack of books on the mantel. Surprised, he glanced at Michel.

“Where is your book?”

“My secretary borrowed it.”

“How goes the reading?” He had switched to German, unconsciously or not, Michel was not sure.

“That’s a difficult question for a Frenchman to answer.” Michel smiled, as if making it light. “I’m sure you understand. Were I Jewish, it would be very difficult.”

“Do not be too free with me, my friend,” Braun said, briskness fading. He picked up a book and looked it over. “Already, this is difficult.”

Michel’s stomach lurched. “What is difficult?”

He did not answer for a long moment. Michel became aware of the tick of the mantel clock, the soft staccato of Charlotte’s typewriter.

“I like my job. That job is cement, the way I make it stay in the air, the way I make it conform to the picture in my mind. I like to make Rommel happy. He is a hero to us Germans, Rousseau. A brave man, a good leader. I wish you could see him not as a German, but as a man. Then you would know my admiration for him is just.”

This wasn’t Braun at all. Rather, it was exactly what he expected out of Braun’s first self.

Braun replaced the book and started for the business side of the room, hands behind his back, face deeply thoughtful.

Michel lowered himself into his chair. “What is this about, Braun?”

“They made me part of their investigation because I know you best.”

Michel drew a concealed breath and let it out slowly, just as concealed. “This is news to me,” he said affably. “I had no idea I was being investigated.”

“For some time now, since the death of one of your workers. Claire Devault.”

“What about her?”

“You were with her when she died.”

“Yes. In Bénouville. I was summoned because I was her employer.”

“Were you her lover?”

“No.” No, not soon enough. I was too obtuse. Too busy. Too late.

“She was a known Resistance operative. If you were not her lover . . . what were you to her?”

“Her employer.”

“Is it usual for an employer—? I am told she was in your arms when she died.” Braun stopped in front of the desk. Penetrating gray eyes looked down into Michel’s.

Anger rustled, and he rose. “I wanted her last moments on earth to be safe.” He wasn’t as tall as the German, but he felt his ire equalize the difference. “What is wrong with that? It was human decency. Something she was grossly denied.”

“What did she say to you? She said something to you.”

Michel studied him. “I thought it odd there were no Germans about.”

“What did she say?”

“Do you know what they did to her?”

Braun’s steady gaze faltered. “She was Resistance.”

“She was a woman! A small, delicate woman. Did they tell you what they did?”

“I don’t want to know,” Braun said quickly, his face settling into unhappiness. He sat in the chair in front of the desk. After a moment, Michel sat too.

Braun traced his fingertips on the wooden armrest. “What will we do when the war is over, Rousseau?” he finally said. “Will we be friends? In Germany, I think you and I would have been friends. Two years ago, I was certain Germany would win the war. Now it feels fifty-fifty. A fifty-fifty chance the world will speak German a hundred years from now.”

Michel let him talk while he considered his answer. He would ask again; it was why they had sent him.

Truth was best whenever possible. But how could he tell Jasmine’s last words? I didn’t talk. Why should she say that to her employer, Michel Rousseau?

Make it close to the truth, and beat him to it.

“She said, ‘I did nothing wrong.’” That was truth, too, in the broad scope, and in the time it took for Braun’s faraway gaze to come to Michel, he devoted himself to the trueness of those words. It wasn’t hard to feel the indignation of them. She had done nothing wrong; on the contrary, she had done what was right. Many of his countrymen simply put their heads down to wait out the war, to stiffly ignore anything and everything unpleasant, to determinedly live in an ever-shrinking sphere of unreality. Not her. She looked full on and would not look away.

“Between us? Man-to-man? What they did to her could turn me into a resistant.” Michel let some teeth show. “What they did was unholy. You have made a terrible name for yourselves.”

“I am not of the Nazi movement,” Braun said, and something strong flickered in the gray eyes. “You know I am not. Not every German is. There are different parties, you know. I am not of that party.”

“I know.”

“You cannot know how it is. You cannot understand. You do not know what it’s like to—” He broke off. “We are two men from very different nations. Yet I feel kinship with you. I felt it the moment I walked into this room, and not because I wanted to feel it, not because I—”

Braun looked down at his hands for a moment, then looked up. “I have found you to be honest. Someone with whom I can be a little of myself. I’ve told my wife about you. We could be friends when this war is over.”

“Yes? Well, Hitler is doing his best to turn me into a racist. I don’t want to assign you with the Nazis, I don’t want to hate you because you are German, and I don’t think I do. But . . . he makes it hard.” His throat tightened. “She was a lovely girl, Braun. She did nothing wrong.”

Surprisingly, a tired smile broke over Braun’s face. Michel couldn’t read it. “These things I will remember years from now, Rousseau. Whatever the language, and whether or not we are friends.”

They rested in a less tense silence.

Braun rose, put on his hat, adjusted it. Some briskness returned. “I will tell them the truth. You know nothing. And the girl said nothing of consequence.”

He played it to the end, because Braun would expect him to: “Nothing of consequence to a Nazi, perhaps. But if she said, ‘I did nothing wrong’ and suffered the death she did . . . it means a great deal to a Frenchman.”

Braun inclined his head. Then, not looking into Michel’s eyes, he said quietly, “Leave revenge alone. Nothing good comes of it. God will take care of it, in the end.”

“What do you know of revenge?”

“Are we not living it?” he said sadly.

Michel tilted his head a little, unready for such words. He waited, hoping, daring to believe for more.

“Such times might not have been,” Braun said, “if the nations had not cast upon defeated Germany reparations too humiliating, too impossible for her to bear. We were not shown mercy in our defeat, and such a thing from once-noble adversaries was unbecoming. One man’s pride could not bear it. One man’s rage came to represent my nation. I couldn’t finish the book, Rousseau. There is too much truth in it. Too much ugliness. No decent German wanted to see these horrifying unconcealed places of the heart. Once the man laid bare these places, we did not need someone to lead us into the revelations; we needed someone to save us from them. I couldn’t finish the book. Not every German can.”

“Charlotte didn’t borrow it,” Michel impulsively replied. “She took it from me. She said it wasn’t good for my soul.” And he saw enough in the gray eyes to know that if they survived, they would be friends when the war was over.

Braun started for the door. When he got there, he paused.

“It may interest you to know they arrested the woman’s grandmother. It turns out she has been housing Allied airmen. Perhaps it was the grandmother they were after all along. They believe she’s a ringleader. They’re still trying to sort it out. Who knows—perhaps she is the great G.” He touched the brim of his hat, then turned to go.

Under the wash of suddenly rushing blood, Michel drew another concealed breath.

“Yes, I met her once,” he said quickly. “She was at the Rousseau Cimenterie picnic last summer, with Claire. Hard to believe, an old woman a Resistance leader.” Then he made the next words sound newly thought, and spoke them with the fresh concern he made to appear on his face. “Hauptmann. I hope for the sake of decency she is treated well. You can understand my concern.”

“I wish I hadn’t told you,” Braun muttered.

“Why is that?”

“You did not need to know. Now it will upset you.”

“Only if she is mistreated. If she is Resistance—” and Michel gave a careless shrug—“she knew she could get arrested. That was her choice. But she is an old woman. Innocent or guilty, if she is treated in any way like her granddaughter . . .” Michel rose from the desk, fingertips resting on it. He mastered the trembling. “Like I said, Braun; it could make a resistant out of me.”

“That has an unwelcome sound to it . . .”

“It is a plea. I ask you to see to it personally this woman is not mistreated. I ask on behalf of the kinship you feel. You are right; you shouldn’t have told me. But now I know, and now I must follow my conscience.”

“I wonder that about you. I wonder how often you really do follow your conscience.”

Michel didn’t answer. The moment became long.

Finally Braun said, “I’ll inquire.”

“That is not good enough. You know it isn’t.”

“I’ll visit where she’s being held,” he said with deliberate patience. “I’ll make sure I see her myself.” When Michel did not respond, he added, “Today.”

Michel released a breath and nodded gratefully, as if he fully trusted Braun would not only visit but also prevent any mistreatment. “I will wait here until I hear from you.”

Mild surprise came to Braun’s face. “I may not know anything for some time.”

“I’ll be here when you do. Please call.”

After a moment Braun nodded and then left, leaving the door ajar. The clack of Charlotte’s typewriter filtered in.

Michel had no idea what sort of weight Braun carried with the SS. Braun was a civil engineer. It was like a high school principal presuming to use his authority to interfere in a military court case. But for now, Braun was all Flame had.

They believe she’s a ringleader. They’re still trying to sort it out.

Michel had seen how they sorted things out. He sank into his chair, put his head in his hands.

Had she been careless? Not Clemmie. Did a neighbor denounce her? What about the three Jews? Were any Allies arrested? Any couriers?

What about Rafael?

He had to slow down and think. He had to make arrangements; he had to act. Tom’s life was now in danger—if she knew, Clemmie could tell where he was. Other lives: couriers and airmen could be en route to Clemmie’s, they could be walking into a trap. He had to get a message out. He had to find Rafael. He reached for the telephone and froze.

What were they doing to her? Would they subject her to the same interrogation as Jasmine?

“Monsieur Rousseau?” came Charlotte’s soft voice, cutting through the void. “Clemmie has been arrested?”

Michel gazed up at his secretary.

“Did he say where they are holding her?”

He shook his head, the motion jerky.

“We will have to move quickly. They’ve been transporting all resistants straight to Fort de Romainville in Paris. It will be too late then. I will have my people inquire and inform you when I can.”

“Your people?” Michel said weakly.

“My dear Monsieur Rousseau,” was all she said with a fond smile. She turned on her heel and left.

Michel came home late that evening, around ten. Tom called a greeting from the study. Michel slowly unbuttoned his coat, hung it on the coat tree.

No word from Braun. Until Michel returned, Lily Dechambre, Wilkie’s sister-in-law, would sit at Charlotte’s desk in case Braun called. Whatever happened, he could not tell Tom about Clemmie.

Part of the day’s ordeal had an unexpected benefit; he did not have to tell Tom they were taking him off the job for any other reason than this investigation of the Rousseau Cimenterie. It would spare the man some pride.

The transmitter-receiver, an instrument Wilkie fondly called Heloise, was hidden in Michel’s office, in the innocent guise of a decorative cloth-covered suitcase. The suitcase was part of the display near the bookshelves, with the other objects artfully arranged to look like a travel adventure. François had come up with it. Until Tom, it was his greatest triumph.

With Lily keeping watch in Charlotte’s office, Wilkie had gone to work as quickly as he could. He sat on the carpet to avoid being seen through the windows and set it up. The suitcase was an OSS affair, outfitted with a set of headphones, a telegraph key, and an antenna coil. Within an hour of Braun’s departure, they had passed the word to the cells in Caen of Clemmie’s arrest. Wilkie consulted a new cipher table that had been tightly scrolled into a hollowed-out fountain pen and passed word to London, both of the arrest and of the need for a Lysander pickup. At the last moment, Michel remembered to pass on what they had picked up about the panzer division. They waited and soon received acknowledgment of the transmission.

If all went well, in a few days they would receive a personal message over the BBC for Greenland with the coded pickup time. The almanac said the next full moon was April 8, ten days away. A half-moon was best; the pickup could be scheduled for any time a few days before or a few days after. Even in half moonlight, the Lysander could land safely enough without the need to track down enough resistants or maquisards to light the airfield with flashlights.

With Clemmie’s arrest, every safe house Flame had used was in jeopardy. They had forty-eight hours, the golden time for action after any arrest. A pact existed between every resistant; for forty-eight hours they pledged to hold out under torture as best as they could to allow others to escape. They had to get Tom out of Michel’s apartment.

No news of Rafael. No word on the three Jews. And Charlotte had disappeared. She had left the office moments after she spoke to him and hadn’t returned.

Tom looked up from the desk, closing a book. “You’re late. Have you been using Occupation petrol—” He broke off. “What happened?”

“We have been compromised. We must get you out immediately. Braun came to my office to tell me I am under investigation.”

Tom’s face went white. “Is it because I—?”

“It has nothing to do with you. I’ve been under suspicion as Claire Devault’s employer. I could be arrested for interrogation anytime, and their favorite time is evening.” This was all true, although Braun had defused it. The least of his worries was himself. “You must leave immediately for Bénouville. Go straight to the brothel.”

“I was already there today. Won’t that get attention? Wouldn’t it be better to send me to Clemmie’s?”

Michel had an answer ready. “Cabourg is twice as far. The brothel will be safe. We are making arrangements to get you out of the country, and our current airfield is much closer to the brothel.”

“But—what about the bridges? What about the intel?” Tom shook his head, as if clearing it. He firmed his jaw. “No. Wait. I can do this.”

“There are other cells in Bénouville. The bridges will be covered. But you are connected to the Rousseau Cimenterie, and a spotlight on me is a spotlight on you. We are arranging for a Lysander to pick you up, within days of the next full moon. Perhaps five to eight days. You must stay hidden until then.”

“What about Benoit?” Tom said. He went to get his jacket on the sofa. “He’s moving in soon. He may have already. He was there today.”

“If things get too hot, go to the Château de Bénouville. Madame Vion will hide you, but only if you give her this word: century.”

“Sensory?”

“Cen-tu-ry,” Michel enunciated.

“You don’t speak English as well as you think you do. If this is the last time I see you, you might as well know it.” He seemed to be waiting for Michel to smile, but he couldn’t. Tom paused in pulling on his jacket, eyeing him. “There’s something else.”

“We cannot find Rafael.”

When Michel had told Wilkie about Clemmie’s arrest, he had shot out of his chair, blindly pacing the room. With tingling foreboding, Michel asked what was wrong.

A B-17 had gone down east of Houlgate, not far from Cabourg. Rafael and his team were sent to do what they could. The only Flame safe house close to Houlgate was Clemmie’s.

“A B-17 went down. Rafael went in for collection. We have not heard from him.” Because maybe he stopped at Clemmie’s to visit.

Tom finished pulling on the jacket. “Don’t worry about him right now; worry about yourself. Rafael’s a cagey little guy. He’ll be fine.”

“Listen, this is very important. We know the brothel has a radio. You need to listen to the personal messages given after every BBC broadcast for the next several days. Listen for a message for Greenland. It will give the date and time for your pickup. I will have as many ears on the broadcasts as I can, but if I cannot get to you, you need to get to the rendezvous on your own.”

“How will I decode it?”

“The date and time will be in a simple Caesar cipher.”

“A what? I fly planes, I don’t break codes.”

“Find someone who can. They will code it to your hometown, Jenison.”

Tom tucked in his shirt. “Caesar cipher, coded to Jenison . . .”

“Listen: the airstrip for the Lysander is in a short clearing near a tiny crossroads town called Le Vey.”

“Le Vey.”

“It’s thirteen kilometers due west of Bénouville.”

“Thirteen kilometers west . . .”

“Once there, take the crossroad north. On the right, where the wood begins, keep looking for a path wide enough for an automobile. Go in. Keep going, the woods will open to an airstrip. Do not leave the brothel if—”

“It’s not a brothel, it’s her home.”

“—you can avoid it. Stay put until you hear from the broadcast or me. And if the broadcast, then do precisely as it says. If you—”

Tom was adjusting his belt, buttoning up his jacket, checking his ID. He glanced over. “If I . . . ?”

What would become of this man, François’s Lohengrin?

Three years ago this towering boy was in high school, wondering what he was going to do with all that height and breadth for the rest of his life. Now he fought with the Allies, was shot down behind enemy lines, and, from ignorance or bravado, took on a dangerous intelligence mission. He brought a prostitute two paper-covered soaps. He spoke of Clemmie as if she’d personally win the war. He defended a bullied Frenchman as if kin and, in that moment, won a foothold in Michel’s heart no Ally had occupied.

He was naïve, he was inarticulate, he could not cook to save his soul, and he had a fair amount of that odious American swagger. But the boy was first-rate. First-rate, indeed. He was in trouble only because Michel—if only Michel had not—

He lifted his chin and put out his hand.

“What is it with you French?” Tom muttered, then shook his hand firmly. “This isn’t good-bye. It’s see you later. I promised Clemmie I’d come back. I’ll look you up when I do. Tell Rafael to lay off the sauce. Good luck, Greenland.”

Michel did not trust himself to speak. He went to the door with Tom. Tom smiled, tipped a little salute off his hat, and trotted down the steps. Michel watched until he disappeared around the corner.

“Good luck, Cabby,” he whispered.

The motorcycle started. He waited until it faded into the distance, then left the apartment to hurry back to his office.