Ollie placed his cup on the table. The blanket fell from his shoulders. “Where is she?”

Boar picked at a cigarette stub in an ashtray. “I sent it back with a message informing the RAF of our escape.”

A cramp formed in Ollie’s abdomen. “Was she carrying a message?”

Madeleine drew in a choppy breath. She retrieved a piece of paper from the kitchen counter and handed it to Ollie.

On first glance, Ollie noticed that the message was written on Source Columba stationery. But it wasn’t coded. And it wasn’t Susan’s handwriting. As he read the words, a shock jolted his core. He looked at Boar. His bad eye appeared as if its socket was filled with smoke. “You did this.”

Boar scowled “Go to hell, Yank.”

Anger flared. Ollie dropped the message, then stood and grabbed the lieutenant’s collar.

Boar leapt to his feet, toppling his chair.

“No!” Madeleine screamed.

Ollie cocked back his arm and heard a click, then felt something hard against his torso. He looked down to see the lieutenant’s pistol.

“The bird wouldn’t let me get close.” Boar pressed his weapon into Ollie’s chest. “Madeleine caught it.”

Ollie lowered his arm and slid his hand behind his back to grip the Nazi’s pistol tucked against his belt.

“Enough!” Madeleine wedged herself between them, like a boxing referee breaking up a fight.

Boar lowered his pistol.

Madeleine, with watery eyes, looked at Ollie. “I returned from the village to find the flight lieutenant trying to catch Duchess. She wouldn’t go near him.” Gently, she placed her hands on Ollie’s shoulders. “She came to me.”

Ollie’s body went numb. He picked up the message. Unable to read it again, he slid the paper into his pocket. In a fog of disbelief, he left the cottage and walked into the freezing rain.

CHAPTER 45 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 45

EPPING, ENGLAND

The earth quaked, knocking one of Bertie’s smoking pipes off the mantel. Susan, desensitized from the nightly bombings, picked up the pipe, dusted it against her skirt, and returned it to its proper place. Then she kneeled beside Bertie, slumped in his chair. She picked up a washcloth from a small ceramic water basin and wiped his face.

Bertie opened his languid eyes.

“You must drink something,” she said.

“Later,” Bertie said.

As she moistened the cloth in the basin, a concussive detonation shook the cottage. Bits of plaster dropped from the ceiling.

Bertie coughed phlegm from his lungs. “I want you to sleep in the bomb shelter.”