Victoria continued slowly, thoughtfully, to the door. Beaumont Fournier…She should not feel relieved at his death, but she could not deny breathing easier knowing that he was not a threat to her identity as she had reason to fear from her conversation with the colonel the previous night. Going by the list of names expressing shock at the author’s untimely death, Victoria would guess that his social acquaintances were among the ranks of Derrick Albrecht’s associates, and she knew only too well how the networking of the small world of the wealthy and well-connected operated. It would have been only a matter of time before Mademoiselle Veronique Colbert, aka Victoria Grayson, came face-to-face with Beaumont Fournier. Even if she’d remembered that he lived in Paris, it would have been unlikely that she’d have run into him unless he caught a chance glimpse of her on the street, but last night, over veal marsala, she had willingly submitted to a proposal that would have eventually put her into his path.

Once in the staff car, she had no idea where the colonel was taking her or what he planned to do. He’d met her silence with silence, and she’d been ready to expect anything. The place was a small café, its posted hours stating that it was closed on Sundays. When they arrived, a fire blazed in the great stone fireplace, and a table before it was laid with glassware and cutlery, a basket of fresh bread, and small crocks of cheese and butter. A stand holding a wine bucket and a bottle of burgundy with a napkin-wrapped neck stood beside it. The French proprietor hurried out of the shadows to take Derrick’s gloves and overcoat. “And yours as well, mademoiselle?” he offered.

“No,” Victoria answered, more forcefully than she intended. She never wanted to be but fingers away from the capsule lightly sewn in the lining of her coat.

“Very well. Soup to begin, I think, monsieur?” he said to Derrick as he pulled out Victoria’s chair.

“Something rich and hearty, I hope, Emile?”

“As you requested, Colonel.” The restaurateur unfolded a napkin to lay in Victoria’s lap, and she risked a longing look at the bread smelling fresh from the oven. The colonel passed her the basket, and with feigned indifference, she took a slice of the warm loaf, refusing to give in to her stomach rumblings or to give the colonel cause to pity her hunger.

But he was not deceived. Immediately, he pushed the crocks of cheese and butter within her reach and said in English once the proprietor had left them, “Really, Miss Grayson, let us not stand on ceremony. You are going hungry, a situation that pains me greatly. I cannot bear to think it. You must allow me to alleviate my pain and correct the most unfortunate grievance I hold against Hitler.”