Staff members proceed to bandage our ankles and insert rubber cushions in our shoes for a safer landing. They then fit us with camouflage coveralls, baggy enough to accommodate civilian clothing—even a baby grand, a fellow jokes. One of the agents, incredibly, has jammed a whole briefcase into his suit jacket. We’re further layered with matching foam helmets, long leather “gauntlet” gloves, and canvas overboots that cover our shoes. Last of all come the parachute packs. Snug in our harnesses, we’re bundled so comically, I might have laughed if not for the reality of our journey.

Our “dispatcher,” a British jumpmaster, has just completed testing our release mechanisms, several times each, when an airman peeks into the barn. A member of the so-called moon squadron.

“Righto, Joes! This way to your chariots.”

A “Joe” is how they refer to agents—which, of course, I am not. I’m cheese in a trap, a worm on a hook. But no need to clarify.

In a jiff, we’re funneled toward a pair of idling motorcars, their blackout-regulation headlamps aglow. My vision races to adjust to the moonlight. I trail Bram toward the closest vehicle, both of us carrying travel bags soon to be strapped to our legs. I’m nearly at the car door the airman has opened for me when, several yards beyond the hood, a passing figure slows. Blocky in his bomber jacket and peaked cap, he angles toward us and halts. It seems odd for him to stare; departing agents, I’m told, are largely kept isolated here as a security precaution.

Then I see his eyes. Beams from the headlamps glint softly off his gaze, aimed directly at me. It’s Wing Commander Moretti, clearly stupefied by my presence. Let alone my jump gear, I realize. I’d wanted to avoid this run-in, not only since his fatherly manner would almost guarantee he’d worry but because no one else needs to be bothered. Particularly over a mission I can’t divulge.

For Arie’s folks, I scribed a note, to be mailed by Hutton if I don’t return. Suddenly I regret not doing the same for Moretti. All these months of his friendly chats and gadget requests, he’s looked out for me—as a favor to Arie, but still. I should have expressed my thanks and shared, ambiguously, that it was my turn to serve as a guardian.

But it’s too late to explain, and others are present. I sneak a small wave before clambering into one of the motorcars with my bulky pack. The instant I shut the door, we’re swept away like thieves on the lam, and a stunned Moretti dissolves in the distance.

***