Bucky heard jackboots on the floor outside their cell room’s door and was the first to jump out of his sleeping bag. “Is it finally happening?” Chris asked, getting quickly out of his. Ever since they’d been locked in Friday afternoon, they’d asked themselves what in the hell was going on. They’d expected to be strapped to a chair and the screws put to them by now. Instead, their blindfolds had been removed and hands unshackled, and they’d been able to move about the room freely. Throughout the rest of Friday and Saturday, under the level of Abwehr rifles, they’d been allowed to visit an outside latrine one at a time, given water, blankets, hot meals, and at night even a wineskin of burgundy. Sleeping bags had been brought in for the nights and removed the next morning.

Meanwhile, they’d been conscious of the barred window with its full view of the killing courtyard gazing upon them like a leering evil eye, even at night when the stars winked mockingly at them from their distant spheres. The men had tried to question the guards, but were ordered, “Sprich nicht!” (Don’t talk!) The building remained quiet. No audible evidence of torture could be heard through the walls. What in God’s name was going on? Where was Liverwort? What had happened to her? Had Labrador been warned about the blind beggar and escaped to her safe house?

“Yes, I believe they’ve finally come for us,” Bucky answered Chris, striving to remain calm. “These last days were just to soften us up for the business to come. Good luck, guys.”

“To you, too,” Brad said, swallowing at the hard knot of fear that had formed in his throat. Chris nodded, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. In the tense silence, they waited for the door to burst open. Minutes passed. They smelled coffee and heard sounds of increasing male activity—German—and then in the guttural din, one woman’s voice, plaintive, frightened, familiar, speaking in French. The three captives gasped. “Liverwort!” they said together.

They rushed to the door and Chris raised his fist to pound on it, but Bucky forced back his hand and whispered sadly, “We can’t help her, Lapwing. She wouldn’t want us to.”

“He’s right,” Brad agreed softly. “They’d pound us to a pulp right before her eyes. Let’s spare her that.”

Chris nodded and Bucky let go his arm. They listened in stricken silence for further words from her, but heard nothing more from Liverwort. Brad put an ear to the door. “They’re leaving, going outside.”