At the washing sink in the boiler room, so warm that she could do her laundry divested of coat and jacket, the flotsam of last night’s turbulence continued to lap at the edge of her consciousness. Victoria wondered if the rest of the team was also flirting with regrets about their decisions of yesterday afternoon. Had they also awakened from nightmares of Gestapo interrogations and dreams of food-laden tables and warm beds in the good old USA? In the morning light, being hungry and cold in comfortless surroundings in a destitute and dangerous country with no end yet in sight, the last plane out having departed, made for the kind of harsh realities that invited doubts.

She must not entertain them. She’d made her decision yesterday fully conscious of the danger and discomforts it entailed. She had no regrets. Her place was here, doing her indispensable part. The war would not last forever, and the Allies would win. Underground newspapers reported that a British victory appeared imminent in North Africa. That would crush Hitler’s plan to gain control of the Suez Canal with its access to the Mideast oilfields and raw materials from Asia. Allied air power was taking control of the sky, and the vast supply of American armaments was outstripping Germany’s shrinking armories. She was bound to go through these occasional tunnels of depression, but she would live to keep that date in the Rose Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library.

Her wash was hung, and a finished stack of sanded and oiled blades rested on their pommels against the wall of the staircase when Victoria heard the basement door creak open. The wall blocked the landing and half the stairs, so she was unable to see who had entered, but the door remained open and the visitor paused as if having a moment’s indecision about coming down. A thread of apprehension purled through her. Colonel Albrecht? He was early—unusual for him, as he was always punctual to the minute for their appointment, so German of him. Also, the colonel would announce his presence from the head of the stairs before coming down. Mademoiselle Colbert? Are you there? It is I, Derrick Albrecht. It must be the late-shift janitor, arriving early to get out of the cold. He was a kind, jolly old fellow, and Victoria liked him. She’d appreciate his company and hearing again the tales of his rip-roaring youth—anything to take her mind off her own thoughts.

“Monsieur Dubois?” she called.

“Non!” came the answer. “Oberleutnant Peter Janssen.”