I busy myself to mute the thought. On the lap of my travel pants, I root through my unbuckled satchel, triple-checking items in both the main and hidden compartments. Among them are a nightgown and a few interchangeable outfits, a select handful of well-disguised gadgets, two forms of relevant maps, and added just tonight: Dutch wartime guilders for food and accommodations, a worn ration card, and all my round-trip paperwork and passes needed for a holiday getaway with my cousin. That reason being fictional, of course. Same for the cousin.

How strange to at last venture to my parents’ homeland, where any actual familial ties were severed before my birth. Even Papa’s talk of the old country was so rare and removed the place seemed barely to exist. I can only pray that my ancestral journey isn’t meant to end there.

“I daresay the hour is upon us,” the suited man declares, entering the room. I know him strictly by his cover name of Bram.

He’s the one.

My escort.

Fair-skinned, his hair the color of mud, he gestures toward the entry. “Shall we?”

Already my performance has begun. Smiling, I rise with my bag and coat. “Gladly.”

When we first met tonight, I took fast note of his solid frame and the scar at his temple yet his lack of otherwise sinister bearing. An encouraging surprise. My mind pounced on the possibility that Lenora was mistaken, or maybe the higher-ups had reversed course since she’d heard. However, as Bram informed me of the last details for my role, his eyes revealed a truth, an internal callousness I’d encountered many times since childhood, from the mines and orphanage to the tenements and tough Chicago streets.

He’s a survivor willing to do whatever is needed to reach his goal.

I follow him to a lamplit barn to complete our being “kitted out,” as they say. Already tonight in a nearby Romney hut, military staff gave each of our garments a final inspection, even turning out our pockets. A British train stub or receipt could prove deadly. All my clothing, on my body and packed for the trip, are well worn and authentically Dutch. Pristine hems and fabric might raise suspicion; a foreign collar and buttons could prompt my arrest.

We now meet up with the two male agents joining our trip. Like Bram, they appear to be in their twenties. Both have light hair, their features pleasant but nondescript. A factor, I would guess, in why they were chosen.