Rousseau’s strangled cry escaped Schiffer’s notice. Schiffer stared, mesmerized, at Braun.

“Open my briefcase.”

Schiffer pulled over the briefcase, opened it. He looked at Braun.

“Take out the folder.”

He peered into the briefcase, tilted it to the light, and pulled out a thick folder.

“Open it.”

Schiffer opened the folder. He picked up a map, glanced at it, set it aside. He took the cover page and read the heading. “Project Zippy,” he murmured.

“You have quite possibly blown the biggest undercover operation since Sea Lion.” Braun flicked his fingers at the folder. “Please, continue.”

For the first time, Schiffer looked as if someone were walking on his grave. He wet his lips and lowered his gaze to the folder. He set the cover page aside.

“You could not take my clues when I told you Rousseau was no trouble?”

Schiffer glanced over the page on which Braun had sketched his ventilation system. He set it aside, then found sketches from General Richter’s subterranean command post right here in Caen. Richter commanded the 716th Infantry Division. He was a friend and had given Braun the original sketches as a keepsake. Braun had used the design for inspiration.

“Ask yourself this: Why has the name Greenland swept only the northern coast, when the name of Max, Jean Moulin, fell upon all of France—even in the Unoccupied Zone?”

Schiffer turned over the page, took another. This was the plan for the installment at Fontaine-la-Mallet, but Schiffer wouldn’t know that, and it was not labeled. He appeared to study the drawing.

“Are you saying—” Schiffer cleared his throat, tried again. “Are you saying—”

“Moulin was Resistance. I am not. I am an engineer, Sturmbannführer, the engineer, the man you will tell your children about if Rommel doesn’t execute you. I am in cover so deep, the name Greenland was connected to the French Resistance alone—as intended.” He nodded at the pages. “Go ahead. One more, and you will see what you have exposed.”

Schiffer paled. “Metzger arrives in the morning. He can sort all this—”

“Look at it!”

He blinked, convulsively swallowed, and took the next page. He studied the depth chart sketched in the margin and a list of computations for air pressure, sea pressure. He narrowed his eyes. He saw the sketch of the coastlines, the sketch of the connecting tunnel, the grid with a cross section of the tunnel. He snatched the map and compared the tracings on it to the sketch. He looked again at the plans for the ventilation system. And finally, he put a trembling finger on the map at Calais.

“Mein Gott,” he breathed. “A tunnel to England.”

“I must leave immediately with my agents, when there are fewer people to witness.”

“Your agents . . .” Schiffer’s eyes flickered to Rousseau, then, with undisguised horror to the pilot.

“Rousseau has served me faithfully since they raised the Todt sign over his door. His reputation as a noncollaborationist is a front. And the boy would have died to keep me secret. Lucky for you he did not.” Braun tilted his head. “You have no idea who he is.”

Schiffer’s face said he’d rather keep it that way. And praying with all his heart the pilot did not rouse, Braun threw down the final card.

“He is the beloved nephew of Marshal Erwin Rommel.”

The blow drained the last of Schiffer’s bravado. He slumped in his seat.

“He requested the honor to serve under me. Yet the honor has been mine. Despite his youth, he is as fine an agent as any with whom I have worked. The zeal for the Fatherland is in his blood.” He had to follow through while Schiffer still reeled. He rose, gripped the edge of the table, and leaned toward Schiffer.

“You will call in my driver,” Braun said, voice dangerously soft. “You will announce to all in the reception area a great victory for the Fatherland. You will then instruct my driver to conduct myself, the boy, and Michel Rousseau to Fort de Romainville for immediate processing, and you will assign an escort of your elite guards. It is imperative that all who see believe what they see, that the man Rousseau is Greenland. I want pomp, I want circumstance, I want them to think they escort Churchill himself to the gallows.”

He had no idea how they’d lose the guards. Perhaps not until Paris. What he would do then, he could not tell.

“You have cost me two fine agents, Herr Schiffer,” he continued, and he strolled around the table to Schiffer. “They were irreplaceable.” He looked down at him for a moment, then gave a nod at the designs. Schiffer hastily gathered them, stuffed them in the folder, and put the folder in the briefcase. “They will be transferred to Berlin, and there they will languish in deprocessing, talents wasted, and all the while those who ask questions will wonder about the one who brought the operation to a standstill.”

“I thought I was doing my duty!” A fine sheen of sweat had broken over Schiffer’s face. “How could I know? How could I?”

“Metzger would have known!” Braun shouted. “Everything I told you in my report on Rousseau, Metzger would have picked up! You fool! Who trained you?”

“But Metzger read the reports!”

“And you don’t see him here, do you?”

He smoothed his coat, adjusted his hat, giving the impression that he was trying to calm himself.

He glanced at Krista’s notes. “Burn those. Call your guards, get a stretcher. Perhaps your . . . misapprehension of events can be forgiven. But pray to God Rommel’s nephew does not die. Have you seen Rommel in a rage?”

They had to land in the backseat of a philosopher.

While Brigitte hung on the German’s every word, translating the drivel over her shoulder, Rafael rolled his eyes and exchanged looks with Wilkie. Rafael sat directly behind the driver, staring darkly at his head. For a little glass of Calvados, he’d slip his fingers around the man’s neck and choke him to death.

“Alric says, ‘That which is felt within is known, overall, without,’” Brigitte translated in awe. “He says that which is called occupation is really oppression. It holds all in . . .” She shook her head, unsure of the German word, flapping her hand with excitement. “Oh, I don’t know what he means, I think he means ‘thrall.’ Holds everyone in its thrall, the oppressed and oppressors alike. Basically, he is saying that we are all under a Great Evil, French and German alike, victims everyone, and that—”

“I don’t give a merry rat’s—” Rafael began.

“Little Alric will be my victim if he keeps this up!” Wilkie erupted.

“Brigitte, is he for us or against us?” Rafael demanded.

“He is for Braun,” she hissed, scowling at them for barbarians. She looked at the driver. “I think that means he is for us.”

The driver turned a bewildered face to the men in the back. He likely thought he’d held them in thrall.

Rafael banged his fist on the seat. “That’s it! You two deal with this moron. There’s no more time.” He glared at the building. “By now Rousseau may have confessed that he is Greenland. I’ll request to see Braun, and if they kick up a fuss, I’ll show them the transreceiver—”

Wilkie squeaked.

“—to prove that my request is legitimate.” He looked past the driver to the automobile parked ahead of them. He looked over his shoulder at the automobile behind. “Be ready for anything. I wish he wasn’t so packed in.”

He started to grab the suitcase, but Brigitte reached over and seized his hand. She held it to her cheek, then kissed it. “Be careful.”

He smiled, grabbed the suitcase, and was gone.

They watched him trot up the courthouse stairs.

“Greenland?” the driver said.

Wilkie and Brigitte froze.

“Ja, Greenland.” He nodded. He pointed at the building. Then he jabbered to Brigitte in German, waited expectantly for her to translate.

Brigitte stared at the driver. “Braun is for us,” she said faintly. “Braun is for us.” She turned to the window. “Oh, Rafael. Don’t mess anything up.”

He stood at the top of the courthouse steps, under the rifles of two guards, hands in the air. One of them searched the suitcase, looked up at Rafael, and then motioned with his rifle. Rafael picked it up and walked into the building.

“Shouldn’t he stay in the infirmary?” Schiffer said doubtfully, now quite anxious over the pilot’s health. The ladder rattled as a soldier dragged it aside. The soldier helped another to lift the man by the stained drop cloth to the stretcher.

“He recognized me before he passed out,” Braun said. “He knows I’ve been exposed. Let me put it this way: you don’t want him around when he comes to.”

Braun, Schiffer, and Rousseau watched them take the stretcher from the room. Braun grabbed his briefcase, then took Krista’s notes and gave them to Schiffer. Schiffer looked at them blankly, then hastily stuffed them inside his coat. He started after the stretcher bearers, but Braun held him back.

“Listen very carefully. This is not over. If you cannot convince the forward group that this man is Greenland, then your life will be in Rommel’s hands.”

“What do I do?” Schiffer said anxiously.

Braun put a hand on Rousseau’s shoulder. Deep impressions lined Michel’s cheeks from the recently removed gag; he’d only removed it when he could be sure Michel was with him. “Rousseau, you have conducted yourself admirably. I must ask a little more.”

Rousseau inclined his head. “All for the Cause.”

Braun looked at Schiffer, who dashed at a line of sweat on his upper lip. “When we enter the reception area, treat this man as you would have Jean Moulin.”

Jean Moulin. Jean Moulin.

They walked behind the stretcher bearers. Schiffer felt the sweat in his scalp as he walked abreast of Hauptmann Braun, behind the hateful little Frenchman. Such a parade they would make, emptying into the foyer.

Metzger returned in the morning.

Sweat gathered and rolled down the side of his face.

The disgrace he would bear once Metzger learned of his failure. Had Metzger seen the boy before he was beaten, he surely would have said, “How did you not see the resemblance? He could be Rommel’s son!”

He did see the resemblance, too late. The man was German to the core. Somehow Schiffer had known it all along. He looked far less like Rommel’s nephew than he did Rommel’s son.

Rommel’s son, Rommel’s son.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Sweat gathered and rolled.

Schiffer’s steps slowed. He did not have to be here when Metzger returned. He did not have to be here! He would leave early—he would leave tonight! He would say he’d received orders for a transfer, and then—

“Are you ready to convince them?” Braun said in a low tone.

“Of course!” Schiffer exulted. Braun gave him a glance. Schiffer wanted to laugh out loud. He’d not see the look on Metzger’s face! “I can do anything!”

Rafael gripped the handle of the transreceiver suitcase and followed the guard into the building. He had useful talents, he had wit, he was quick on the uptake, but most of all he had the ability to beguile. His mother said he could sell fish to a fisherman. Today he’d sell himself as . . .

Beneath the portrait of Hitler came a stretcher. Upon the stretcher was a brutalized man, whose blood soaked through the canvas.

Behind the stretcher came Monsieur Rousseau, disheveled, bound.

Behind Monsieur Rousseau was Sturmbannführer Schiffer, the man responsible for Jasmine’s torture and death.

The brutalized man was Tom.

The transreceiver slipped from his hand.

The world became a place of dampened sound, as if an explosion had gone off at his ear.

He saw the joyful maniac face of Schiffer as he shouted something, displaying Rousseau to the world. Then insanity leaped to Schiffer’s face. He raised his fist and pounded Rousseau’s shoulder. Rousseau crumpled.

Rafael grabbed the nearest guard’s rifle, hauled it to his eye, and fired.

Into dampened sound came a voice.

“Rafael,” someone whispered. “Rafael.”

He opened his eyes. He could do no more than that.

Welts lined Rousseau’s face, like a horse’s reins. Rafael wanted to touch those welts, but he could not move. He wanted to speak, but only a gurgle came out.

So he looked into the eyes that were loving him into the next world, then mouthed what he wanted Rousseau to know.

You have shown me France.

Hauptmann Braun looked at Schiffer’s body and said to the man under the desk, “He was going to give me an escort, but I hate to leave you shorthanded when the Resistance is on the move. Call off the escort. My driver and I can handle Greenland.”

The wide-eyed man nodded. He made no move to come out.

“See to it Metzger knows of the great victory of Greenland’s capture. I’ll file my report at Fort de Romainville, then forward a copy. Metzger should know of Schiffer’s accomplishments.” Braun shrugged. “He wasn’t the one to capture Greenland—but at least he got a notorious accomplice.”

The man nodded.

Pockets of two or three all over the reception room talked in whispers, staring at the bodies of Schiffer and André Besson. A few soldiers talked animatedly over the opened suitcase of the transreceiver. Rousseau had not moved from André’s side. One of the women civilians wept with her fists at her mouth, two companions comforting her. Braun did not know whether she wept for Rousseau or André Besson.

A guard’s bullet had taken André Besson through the throat. And because it would have been expected from him, Braun walked over to the man who had fired the shot, already recounting it to others, and said, “Well done, soldier. I’m sure I would have been next. You saved my life.” Braun saluted him, and the soldier, blushing modestly, saluted back.

Braun strolled over to Rousseau, briefcase in hand.

“Well, Greenland,” Braun boomed, “he was a brave lad. You’ve said your good-bye. Time to go.” He looked at the stretcher bearers and motioned them to take up their burden once more. “Put him in the backseat.” He turned to the nearest guard. “You, there—can you spare your handgun?” He jerked his head at Rousseau. “I don’t expect trouble, but in light of tonight’s action I told your CO to keep the escort Schiffer promised us. Might be wise for me to be armed.” The guard, a little in awe of Braun and his significant charge, hurried to unsnap his leather holster and handed the Walther butt first to Braun. He took it and started to slip it into his briefcase. The soldier very slightly shook his head, with a kind glance at Braun’s civilian rank. Braun put the gun in his coat pocket, and the soldier nodded. Braun winked.

He went to Rousseau and hauled him up by an elbow. He gave him a little push toward the door, told a front guard to escort him to the car, and stood for a moment over the body of André Besson.

He had given them a way out of Caen. He had killed an evil man. And as the transreceiver surely indicated, he had come here to single-handedly negotiate the release of Tom.

Good-bye, you who wished my son well.

He shook his head, as if in awe that he had escaped a similar fate, and without explanation, folded up the transreceiver under the noses of the two guards examining it and walked out the door.

“Where to?” Alric Reinhart spoke into the brittle-glass silence.

He hated to speak at all, but he needed a destination. They were long out of Caen, heading east toward Paris. He was fairly certain that was not where they should go.

Next to him sat the Frenchman in the white suit—the one they called Wilkie—head on the suitcase, sobbing silently. The French girl sat in the back with the brutally beaten man in her arms. The bulk of the man’s body lay upon the little Frenchman. His feet lay upon Braun.

“Le Vey,” Brigitte murmured. Such exquisite emotion on the lovely face, a confluence of two oceans: deep sorrow at the news about the feisty one, deep joy at the one from whom she could not take her gaze. The man had come to some time ago. He did nothing but look at her with his one good eye. A tear occasionally drained from the eye.

“Where is Le Vey?” Alric asked apologetically.

“North,” she murmured. “Then west.”

He turned the car about.

After a few moments, Alric delicately ventured, “When Kant died, he said a word: enough. Did the feisty one say anything?”

The little Frenchman spoke for the first time, his voice thin. “‘You have shown me France.’”

Alric drew a long breath and sighed.

He ventured into the silence one last time. “You may have shown him France. You must have shown him the world.”