Sophie slipped the rope from her other wrist and wrapped the end around her palm so that the rope was caught between them, effectively creating a crude garrote. She turned her hands and gripped the outside spindles of the chairback with her fingers. “I have nothing to tell you, Monsieur. I am who I say I am. I have no reason to lie to you.”

The man considered his pliers, turning them over so that they glinted dully in the meagre light. “You’re still lying.”

He lifted his eyes to Sophie, and this time she met his gaze.

“I am telling the truth.” Fear rose, and she didn’t fight it, only examined it the way one might examine an unwelcome insect that had crawled into the light.

It wasn’t the threat of physical pain she feared, she discovered. No, what made her afraid was the possibility that the rage and hate triggered by the grey uniform and the arrogance of the bastard who wore it would distract her from what she needed to do. It was the possibility of failure that made her afraid.

She lifted her chin and ruthlessly quashed her emotions. There could be no distractions. Not here. Not now.

The Gestapo officer took a menacing step toward her, and then another. “This doesn’t have to happen,” he said. “You can avoid so much pain.” He put his palm on her forehead and wrenched her head back, his other hand still gripping the pliers.

That was all Sophie needed. She lunged to her feet and swung around, the chair she still gripped behind her back colliding mercilessly with the ill-prepared major. The chair broke into a dozen pieces, the wood clattering loudly on the stone floor. The officer released her with a grunt of surprised pain and staggered back, but Sophie was already moving, cutting behind him. As he tried to straighten, she brought her hands down, slipping the rope over his head and across his throat.

The major gurgled, his hard-soled boots slipping on the wet floor, his fingers scrabbling at the rope that was choking him. He wasn’t a tall man, and Sophie had the advantage of height and leverage. She tightened the garrote, the rope cutting into the edges of her palms.

“Jesus Christ, stop afore you kill him!” The room was suddenly flooded with light.

A man was standing behind a long table against one of the walls, three of Sophie’s instructors sitting beside him.

Sophie relaxed her grip, and the man in the German uniform stumbled away, coughing and gagging.

“What the hell was that?” The man on his feet behind the table leaned toward Sophie, his face red.

Sophie unwrapped the rope from her hands and let it fall to the floor. “You would have preferred I use the chair?”

“I beg your pardon?”