According to suspicions, Arie knows he’s being sought after, hence even if he and I wound up in cahoots, we’d surely be taken down by one side or the other. And the limited scope of my wartime work would hardly make me a jackpot find for the Germans. Nor a major loss for the Allies.

As for my inclusion, if Arie indeed believes his contacts are compromised, who better to guide him out? And before that, to sight him in a crowd or assess where he’s most apt to go? What other Dutch speaker with my skill sets could be spared in such short order?

My main arguments boil down to these, and I hold to them staunchly. While it takes a tide of persuasion to get Hutton onboard, Crockatt requires a tsunami, and even then he agrees solely to give his consideration. But it’s a vital step. I couldn’t, after all, just march over to N Section’s office—wherever that is, assuming one even exists, given their covert nature.

Only after the colonel confers with varied authorities, apart from the major and on both sides of the pond, does he summon me back to his office first thing the next morning—thank heavens, to relate his approval.

Mind you, with explicit conditions:

“Straightaway, you will attend condensed training sessions and debriefings in preparation for your departure.” The tempo of his speech matches his steps as he paces between his desk and the chair in which I’m seated. “In addition, you shall adhere strictly to instructions and divulge no details of your mission, under threat of imprisonment for treason.”

I nod unfazed, having already taken similar oaths. “And my departure is when, sir?”

“On a night coming shortly, via a flight already scheduled.”

“By that, do you mean—”

“When appropriate, you will be notified of the essentials,” he states with only a slight pause in his stride.

The deliberate ambiguity swells my impatience. Specifics and careful planning have long been the crux of my careers, my life, and now, above all, Arie’s well-being. Still, to prevent the colonel from changing his mind, I refrain from badgering.

“As you can very well fathom,” he adds, “particularly in a heavily occupied area, the risks and stakes shall be great. The same must be said of the consequences, should the mission go awry.” He stops sharply with a pointed look. “Do you find these circumstances entirely acceptable, Miss Vos?”

Translation: If nabbed by the Gestapo, the German secret state police, am I prepared to be cut loose? The notion brings a lump to my throat. Forcing a swallow, I jut out my chin.

“Fully, sir.”

Disappointment seems to darken his eyes, as if part of him hoped I’d reconsider. As if he’s acquiescing against his better judgment, perhaps under orders from above.