Over the echo of a phone ringing across the hall, I ask, “Is there a problem, sir?”

His mustache, suavely groomed with a split down the middle, twitches. He gestures toward the twin visitors’ chairs across from him. “Please.”

His intensity leads me to the only probability I can surmise.

He knows about Hutton. Our charade. All it would have taken was a single supplier, or a nurse more likely, to wise up and sound an alert.

There’s a chance it’s something else entirely. But treading now toward my seat, I’m daunted by the end of a career that feels just beginning—ironically after having to be coerced into staying. In all honesty, given the colonel’s distaste for regulations, his recent comments in passing have resembled verbal winks: I do wonder how old Clutty is doing. Convey my regards should you happen to see the chap.

Perhaps I misjudged.

I set my briefcase aside and lower onto a chair, prepared to accept sole responsibility. Not only for the sake of Hutton’s recovery but because the decision to go forward was ultimately mine.

A noise from behind turns me. A blocky man in a smart black suit has shut the door, muffling the usual goings-on at headquarters. Was he in the room when I entered, observing?

“Good of you to come, Miss Vos.” A low timbre threads his English accent. My gaze follows as he crosses the room. From his slicked wavy hair to his thick eyebrows and cleft chin, he could pass as Humphrey Bogart’s brother. He settles before me, against a corner of the colonel’s desk, and folds his arms with authority. “I should like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

Curious over the man’s identity and position, I glance at the colonel, who only nudges me on with a stolid nod.

I reply to Bogart. “Of course, sir.”

“Your association with MI9 began in September. Is that correct?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“I will kindly remind you that, at such time, you signed the Official Secrets Act, with full understanding of the consequences of any violation.” He waits, despite not posing a question.

Is it possible the office gals have flagged me as another loose-lipped Mrs. Bote?

I answer with growing confidence. “I remember that well. And since joining MI9, I assure you I haven’t related a whit of information to anyone who wasn’t specifically approved by the department—being vendors and the like. Even then, I divulge the bare minimum.”

Then it hits me: Hutton might no longer be considered within the realm of my oath. Could I actually face imprisonment for our continued collaboration?

My nerves stir as Bogart states, “Let’s turn the clock back for a moment. Shall we?” He taps his chin twice with a stubby finger. He’s well versed in sustaining a placid face.

But so am I, thankfully.