The lock on the file cabinet in his office would be easy enough to pick. If caught perusing classified documents, however, I could wind up accused of spying. How would that be for irony?

I could always voice my concerns to Colonel Crockatt. But in addition to having to admit to stalking my supervisor, I’ve yet to witness anything that can’t be denied or explained away. My strongest argument is a hunch that something is off. If I’m wrong, there would assuredly be repercussions.

I don’t need to serve in the military to know that falsely accusing a high-ranked officer—of what? espionage, treason?—would bring my role here to an end. In a blink, I could find myself back on a ship, dodging German wolf packs while headed for the States, where nothing awaits my return. No show or partner, no home, no purpose.

Before daring to raise any issues, I’ll watch and listen. I need to be sure.

***

Urgent matter. Report to HQ.

Early Wednesday morning, I both welcome and dread Hutton’s phone message passed under my door at the inn, for it occurs to me: he might be aware of my following him, on either or both occasions.

I stow the possibility, hurry to dress, and venture to headquarters.

The building is relatively subdued at this hour, unless compared to Hutton’s office, which I find silent and vacant. Framed by the window, sun seeps through the March clouds, casting light through the room. On the desk sits his briefcase. Protruding from the top are a host of folders and notepads.

Within arm’s reach.

Offering if not begging to be viewed.

I glance at the door, half-shut, behind me. My pulse thrums as I weigh my choices. My fingers can’t resist grazing the bag’s unfastened buckle. A peek at the contents could solidify reasons to speak to the colonel—or better yet, provide a rational explanation.

Still, would the invasion of privacy be justified?

“Cecil,” a man calls. I whip toward Hutton’s voice, echoing from the corridor, and my fingers snag on the briefcase, its handle. The bag tips, spilling half the contents onto the floor.

Blast it! I clamp my jaw, just as a second voice arises.

Hutton is chatting with Crockatt’s chief of staff, intensifying my predicament but giving me a chance to recover if I rush.

I scramble to stuff the notepads into the bag, then move on to collecting the scattered papers. I’m attempting to straighten them in their folders when snippets of typed words leap out:

Dutch girl…troublesome…urgent solution needed…

It’s a letter signed by Hutton, stamped TOP SECRET. My insides coil, tight as a bound wire, as I go to read the full page through. But the men are bidding goodbye.

I shove the papers and folders back into the briefcase I’ve reset on his desk and step back.

“Ah, jolly good. You’ve arrived.”