Liverwort had demanded that after their missions were complete he pass on their real names and addresses so that they could make contact back in the States. “Sorry,” he’d said. He wasn’t allowed to do that. Her lovely face had darkened. Why not? she’d wanted to know. “National security,” he’d answered. They knew the rules of the Official Secrets Service Act. Why not set up a place and time to meet when the war was over? They could exchange names and addresses then.

“We already have,” Lodestar said and related the plan.

“Good for you,” he’d said as if they were children come up with blueprints for a spacecraft to fly to the moon. Did that hint of patronage mean he expected they would forget about the meeting once the war was over or that they would not make it home?

“You are invited,” Liverwort announced.

“I am? Well, then I’m honored.”

“That’s why we’ll need your address,” she said.

“Sorry. No can do. When is this proposed date and where?”

“The first September twenty-third after peace is officially declared. Rose Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library, two o’clock,” Limpet answered.

“We won’t start without you,” Lodestar said.

“In that case, I’ll try to make it.”

As they’d started for their rooms, Liverwort had whispered, “He doesn’t think the meeting will come off.”

“O he of little faith.”

“We’ll show him though, won’t we?” Liverwort said, and they had bumped elbows on it.

The mural…from now on her only lifeline to them. What if it did not work as a means to communicate? For the first time, in the glaring light of the plane’s chilly and utter darkness as it began its descent to the drop-off point, its drone now a deafening taunt of the danger into which she was headed, Bridgette could clearly see how all sorts of problems could render the painting useless as a communication pad. Why hadn’t she thought of them before? Why hadn’t the team? And why had the major gone along with her insane idea?

“Get ready!” she heard the pilot yell, and Bridgette, flesh tingling, heart galumphing, took hold of the suitcase radio. She would have one minute in the three-minute operation to climb out and clear the aircraft before the pilot took to the air again in a blast of slipstream. Peering out the canopy, she saw a small fiery light appear on the ground, then more flamed in a line that defined the landing area. God help her, she hoped the hands that held those torches were friendly. Before she could catch a full breath, the Lysander had landed with a jolting bump, made a hard U-turn, and returned to the first light, quickly snuffed.