“Let me tell you, then,” Estelle said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The man who was supposed to guide you through this city was taken by the Gestapo and is either dead or wishing he was.” She stopped, her voice catching. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to think about what was happening to Jerome at this very second.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Estelle opened her eyes. “You will say nothing and see nothing and hear nothing until I figure out a way to get you to the people who can take you where you need to go.”

“How long will that take?”

Celine glanced sharply at the airman but remained silent.

“As long as it takes,” Estelle replied, trying to answer him patiently. He would be anxious, no doubt. She tried not to blame him.

“I need my papers back.” He was talking to Celine now.

The agent shrugged and retrieved them from her pocket, handing them to him wordlessly.

“And I would like to know what you—”

A harsh banging and muffled shouting interrupted whatever he had been going to say, freezing Estelle where she stood and sending her heart into her throat. An avalanche of memories blindsided her, recollections of another time when she had heard such banging. But, as last time, it was not her door that was being pounded upon. It sounded as though it was the apartment doors on the floors beneath her. Harsh, guttural demands to open up echoed up the stairway.

“What the hell is that?” the American croaked. “Is that them? The Nazis? Are they looking for me?”

“You were followed to the building.” Estelle could barely get the words out around the renewed fear.

“No,” Celine whispered. “I watched. I was careful.”

“Not careful enough. We weren’t careful enough.” Not wary enough of the bitter sergeant whose eyes still burned with malice and ambition.

“What about the man who was arrested? Does he know about this apartment?”

Yes, Estelle thought but she was shaking her head. She would not accept what the agent was implying.

The unmistakable sounds of heavy boots on marble stairs added to the din. Someone pounded on the door opposite hers. A shout followed, another demand to open up.

“It doesn’t matter. Your door is next.” Celine had gone pale but when she spoke her voice was steady. “You should hide. They never saw you. Whoever is at that door will leave if I go with them. I’ll say I lost him again.” She gestured at the American.

“No.” Estelle was shaking her head. An old, familiar anger reignited, reducing the fear to a brittle, blackened afterthought.

“Then tell them I broke in. Took you hostage, forced you to let me inside.” The wicked-looking knife appeared in the agent’s hand again as if by magic. “I’ll make it believable.”