At the first reunion, the major had filled them in about Victoria Grayson and how she’d come to make the acquaintance of the man who’d ordered her execution, SS Colonel Derrick Albrecht. Yet he had been the man to sign the SS passes to get out of France that they’d held on to, his signature clear. Chris remembered the haughty SS major’s about-face when he returned to the train after verifying the name on his pass. It didn’t make sense that the SS officer who’d given the order to execute Victoria would sign off on their means to escape from the torture and death he’d dealt her. It was another mystery that supported the ruse theory. “Remember it was Liverwort—Victoria—who suggested the time, date, and place,” Chris reminded them.

“She was adamant about it,” Bucky said. “Of all of us, she was the one who most wanted to stay in touch.”

“Maybe it’s just strong wishful thinking on my part because her execution damn well looked real enough, but I have a strong sense that there’s some truth behind Peterson’s story,” Brad said. “He got too many facts right.”

“If that SS colonel arranged her escape, wouldn’t it make sense that she would be in on the ruse, too?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Bucky said. “Let’s go ask her.”

That decided, the men packed rods and reels and headed home to make their flight plans. Dragonfly had a long-standing meeting in Paris they must attend.

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

Two days before her departure to Paris, Bridgette put in a telephone call to her best friend. He lived in California, across the country from her home in New York City. She was surprised to reach him so quickly, since he was a senior homicide detective in the Los Angeles Police Department and was often out on assignment. Even at his desk, though, if he was busy, he’d ask the dispatcher to take the party’s name and number, and he’d get back to them, but he always answered if the caller was Bridgette.

He snatched up the phone immediately. “Hey, Slugger, great to hear from you. What’s up?”

Years ago, Bridgette had ceased to be annoyed by her ex-husband’s nickname for her. She understood that then, now, and always, Bridgette Loring was the love of his life. Their marriage had been a mistake, entered into because the sight of Steve Hammett, solid, stable, and steady, a reminder of her unadulterated childhood, walking into her office at Paramount Pictures wearing a chest full of medals and ribbons, a master sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, and the Forty-fifth Infantry Division’s gold Thunderbird patch on the left sleeve of his uniform, made her fall in love with him.

“Hey, Slugger, remember me?” he’d said.