Brad knew he should obey orders and destroy the letter from his mother to which the whole family, including his new stepfather, had contributed news. Rationing had begun. Meeker, Colorado, was virtually devoid of all its young men because of the draft, and the lumber company was short of manpower. The new house was under construction, Beata and Margie were taking tap-dancing lessons, and Bobby had an afternoon job as a stock boy at Shreve’s grocery store. They were all praying for Brad’s safety wherever he was, and they loved him very much.
Bobby had included his own note, which was especially touching and probably had been inserted unread by his mother. Brad could hear the boy’s voice striving to be manly: “I’ve listed here the order of importance of those items I think you should know. Your mom and sister are fine. That’s number 1. Number 2 is that Jared is an okay guy, too. You can tell he loves your mom like my dad loved my mom. I remember that part from the old days. Number 3, he treats Margie and me as good as Beata which is saying a lot. You don’t have to worry about that. I think that is about all. I miss you. It is empty here without you.”
Brad had read the letter over and over, milking each line for every detail to make sure he had missed nothing. Apparently all was well in his family’s household back in Meeker, Colorado. But while he’d almost committed the letter to heart, he couldn’t bear to set fire to it, and there were no secure hiding places in his apartment. Finally he settled on simply tucking it into a book in plain sight, the best hiding place when nothing else was available. By now the general would have had his apartment searched as a matter of course, and no one else had reason to.
* * *
The day after Hans’s revelations, the book was one of the first places the general looked after Brad left for work. He could not read the concealed letter, but he recognized its language as English. He now had evidence that his young friend was an American spy.
* * *
“It would seem, Herr Bauer,” Jules Garnier said to Chris, “that you are now the new sports director of the Academy. I received my orders this morning.”
Chris stared at the man in surprise. “How did that happen? I’m the most junior instructor here!”
Jules smiled. “My dear fellow, such considerations as rank and tenure—fairness—are rarely taken into account by the Nazis when extending promotions. Accomplishments are. You have done your job without intimidation and bullying while adhering to the party curriculum. The parents of the students in your pod praise you—and to the right ears, apparently. I received orders this morning to instate you in Herr Mueller’s position.” Jules’s eyes twinkled, sharpening to a conspiratorial glint when he said, “You can expect more invitations to the boys’ homes for dinner.”
Chris took the news with mixed emotions. This “promotion” could mean that Major General March might reenroll his son in the school as an opportunity for Wilhelm to associate with boys his son’s age. He would trust Chris not to ram the party line down Wilhelm’s throat, but reenrollment would cut off Chris’s access to his house and its vital source of information as well as the only occasions to pal around with Limpet. He would sorely miss them both. He’d come to look on the general’s house as a sanctuary from his drab quarters and Limpet as a close friend. They were in sync about everything. Chris liked the fisherman’s wise and tolerant ways. His Christmas letter from his parents had included no news of Dirk’s return to New Braunfels, and Chris was now sure that his old friend would never be seen in their hometown again. He’d been sacrificed to protect Lodestar’s cover. Chris had mourned for him, and Limpet had understood, despite that Dirk had been a traitor. “How can you not grieve for friends who make bad choices?” he’d said.
That afternoon when Chris announced his new position to the general, Konrad said, “I hope your new assignment will not mean that you will no longer be available to tutor Wilhelm.”
“I had supposed that you might wish to reenroll your son back in school now that the sports director has gone, General.”
The general smiled. “You supposed wrong, Claus. My son is happy as things are, and, selfishly, the household would miss your company. Can we count on you to continue with us?”
“Absolutely, Herr General.”
* * *
Colonel Derrick Albrecht accepted the latest report on the activities of Rue des Soeurs de Charité. He thanked the man he’d assigned to watch the street and called off further surveillance. He had no need for additional information.
Derrick read quickly, thoughtfully, then filed the report in a drawer with others accumulated over the past three months. Only one question remained unanswered: Was Victoria acquainted with the other conspirators, all male, or did they work separately? She’d not been reported communicating or even being seen with the men at the same time. There were three of them: a seaman and two other men of undetermined professions. Photographs showed them young, early twenties, strong, fit, and attractive. Routinely, but separately, they were observed slipping messages into the mail chute of the house near the convent, now the canvas for a beautiful mural. Karl had driven him to see the house despite the risk that his staff car’s presence on the street might warn the conspirators that the drop had been compromised. The mural was indeed something lovely to behold. Did this depiction of a peaceful scene of aquatic sea life have anything to do with the clandestine activity going on next door?
His wolfhound had nosed out information on the petite, blond artist as well. Mademoiselle Bernadette Dufor was a clothes designer working for the renowned fashion house La Maison de Boucher. Celeste was a patron of the place. Derrick would have to ask her if she knew her. Two details bothered him. According to his man’s investigation, she had been hired about the time Victoria was employed at L’Ecole d’Escrime Français, seemingly out of nowhere, a graduate of a middling school of design in Lyons now defunct because of the war. No reputation of extraordinary ability preceded her that would justify a position at an esteemed fashion house, but the couturier who owned the place had been desperate to replace designers who’d refused to work in a house that catered to the wives of the Nazi invaders.
Coincidence? Derrick did not believe in coincidences. The other item was her place of residence. She lived within the thick walls of the convent, an ideal location to set up a transmission radio that might go undetected. Derrick would like to know how she came to reside in a house of nuns reserved only for their order, but his wolfhound had stopped short of presenting the question to the woman in charge of the place. “I am Catholic,” he explained, “and I do not run afoul of a mother superior.” He did, however, offer an opinion that ran contrary to Derrick’s suspicions. “My observation of Mademoiselle Dufor has revealed nothing to indicate that she is aware of the purpose of the mail slot next door. It is my view, Colonel, that the artist is not a member of the cell.”
That remained to be proved, but Derrick had no interest in flushing the chicken from its coop. He would not search the house with the mail drop or have the three men picked up for questioning. That would not suit his plans. If an OSS operation was being carried out on the Rue des Soeurs de Charité, he would allow it to be. He would not interfere with the game Victoria and her fellow conspirators were engaged in as long as they continued playing into his hands. His major concern was that they would get caught. He would have to take measures to assure that they were not. He would call in a specialized team for the task at hand.