Simone didn’t trust him as far as she could spit, never mind with a solid oak door and a whirring projector between them. But the sooner they dragged him off to Wewelsburg for his stupid manuscript, the sooner she could be rid of him.

Running, always running, Evangeline’s voice teased inside her head. Always from and never toward.

As if Evangeline was one to talk. At least Simone had the courage, the stubbornness to do anything at all.

Helene showed them to the catacomb tunnels that stretched beneath the village’s square, a forgotten relic of an era before radiator heat and snowplows. They thanked her for her help, and she grunted, nodded a curt farewell.

“And you’re sure they have everything we’ll need?” Phillip asked Simone for the hundredth time as they followed the tunnel that linked to the furniture maker’s atelier.

“Everything your friends dropped for them last month,” Simone replied. “But the rest is up to you.”

They rapped on the trapdoor overhead, and an old man appeared behind it, staring down at them with bushy brows drawn. He helped Phillip first, then Simone, climb up into the hidden room.

“Nice design,” Phillip said in English, surveying their radio setup. “Did you build this yourself?”

“Some time ago. Thought it might be useful.” The man limped toward the cabinetry that housed a wide array of radio equipment. At one end, a man who looked like a younger copy of him was intently transcribing a Morse code message. “Turns out I was right.”

“Only receiving messages so far, right?” Phillip asked, and the man nodded. “We’ll get you set up here in no time.”

“I’m Karl,” the older man offered. “My son, Guillerme, he’s the operator.”

Guillerme finished notating his transcription and pulled off his headset to greet them properly. He gazed up at Simone with wary, shell-shocked eyes. Her gut twisted at that look. She was always feeling sorry for herself for what she’d been through; sometimes it was easy to forget how many others were relying on her.

“You’re sure it’ll be safe?” Guillerme asked. “I understand they have high-frequency direction finders. The trucks go through our village sometimes, looking for anyone who might be broadcasting.”

Phillip fiddled with the latch on his tool kit. “Once I get these scramblers configured, the broadcast signal will look like it’s just passing through from somewhere further down the line. Their huff-duffs won’t be able to tell you’re the source. And we’ll bounce some extra noise off the ionosphere to keep ’em busy.”