“It involves someone I care about, deeply. A person caught up in this mess of a war, and I’m…desperately fretful and anxious to help.” I’m tiptoeing through a minefield of oaths and secrets, wishing I could say more.

Appearing to comprehend this, she goes to speak. But then she hesitates and peeks into the lavatory as if to confirm we’re alone. That’s when I notice that, really, she’s been as quiet as I have since we departed Beaconsfield on the bus.

“What is it, Lenora?”

She angles back to me but doesn’t meet my eyes. “At times, as a driver, I am privy to fairly sensitive conversations. In the colonel’s office the other day, you talked of a certain lieutenant’s quandary.”

She’d caught the tail end of my argument, I recall. For her to bring this up would seem an intrusion of privacy for most Englishwomen. Paired with her caution and mood, I realize: “You’ve overheard something else. About my friend Arie.”

Her silence only confirms this.

“Lenora, what did you hear?”

One of her hands begins kneading the other. “I was in the truck this morning, awaiting the colonel. He was approaching when a suited gentleman engaged him in a rather tense discussion. Now, I’ve no inkling of details,” she inserts, either a defense or disclaimer. “I only know, however you’re involved, your purpose…isn’t as you think.”

I shake my head, trying to decipher. “What does that mean?”

Her continued hedging is plain and justifiable, but so is the reason she’s inclined to relay anything. It’s less likely for our friendship—frankly, in the early stages—than out of a compulsion to repay a perceived debt.

In usual circumstances, I’d insist again that we’re square over the air raid. Instead, I strain to withhold my frustration. “I beg of you, Lenora. It’s critical that I know, for Arie’s safety—and mine. What did they say?”

Her hands go still, fingers clasped together as she ekes out her answer. “Reports indicate that your friend’s actions are more problematic than you may know. When you make contact, if you do, your assigned agent is not tasked with guiding him in.”

My bafflement over the implication is brief, overridden by a revelation so horrifying that my stomach lurches even before she finishes.

“The order,” she says, “is to take him out.”

Chapter 47

Panic surrounds the outskirts of my mind, walled off by a single fact: I have time. I’ve got several hours yet before my night drop. To think, to plead, to negotiate.

Although, what trust would I have in any assurances I might garner?

At a briefing just this morning, Bogart—not his real name, but that’s who he is to me—reiterated that all would go as arranged.