The entrance was right where Cyte had said it would be, in an alley behind a row of cafés. Most of them had metal trapdoors leading down to their basements, where new stock could be moved in, and the tunnel entrance looked identical to all the others, secured by a battered padlock. Sothe opened this with a pair of slim wires and a few moments’ work, and Winter was relieved to see that they had the right place. Instead of a café basement, a ladder led down into the dark.

Andy had brought a pair of lanterns, and she handed one to Sothe and hooked the other onto her back. She’d also brought a brown linen satchel stuffed with something that looked unwieldy, though she hadn’t mentioned it aloud. Sothe went first, managing the ladder one-handed, and Andy brought up the rear with the lantern dangling from her straps.

The shaft went down farther than Winter had expected, a good thirty feet, before ending on a slimy stone floor. The light of the lanterns revealed a tiny passage, with a large iron pipe fitted to its ceiling. Cyte hadn’t exaggerated the close quarters—there was room for one person to walk, bent nearly double at the waist, and that was all. By the time Winter reached the bottom of the ladder, Sothe was already well along, and there was nothing to do but follow.

This was the first potential hurdle. If somehow the Patriots did know about the tunnel, it would have been child’s play to block it, or arrange an ambush at the other end. They were nearly helpless in such tight quarters, and Winter had her heart in her throat all the way through. She counted steps, to reassure herself that the tunnel had to end somewhere. At one point the light showed an open space above her, and she guessed they were under the statue at the center of the square. Halfway through. Above them, guns boomed and grumbled, barely audible through the intervening earth.

“I’ve found the ladder,” Sothe said sometime later. “I’m going up.” As Winter reached the bottom and started to climb, there was a sharp, metallic noise from above. “Had to break the lock,” Sothe reported. “The top’s clear.”

One by one, they emerged from another trapdoor disguised as a basement access, this time behind the imposing brickwork bulk of the Hotel Ancerre. Joanna, Winter noted, climbed out of the tunnel on distinctly shaky legs, and Barely, right behind her, took her hand and squeezed it tight.

“Are you all right?” Winter said.

The big woman nodded, mutely, breathing deep.

“She’s not good with tight spaces,” Barley said. “There was this time back when we were kids—”

Joanna slashed her hand in a clear gesture of negation. Barley shrugged.

“She’ll be okay,” she said. “Just give her a minute.”