Toting my satchel, I disembark at Utrecht Centraal, the main railway station of the city. The proximity of several German-military institutions, headquarters, and installations is instantly evident by the number of service members walking about, notably higher than in the village. Posted signboards appear to give instructions and warnings, all in German. Expected though most startling, swastika flags hang on buildings, staking territory in the colors of death and blood.

I stifle a shiver as I enter the station as originally planned, minus a companion. With armed guards posted at each door, I continue directly on a path memorized from a diagram. Silently I review the coded phrases Bram and I were supplied at our final briefing.

Past the ticket lines, I round the last booth and there it is, tucked in a far corner: the designated newsstand. As eager as I am apprehensive, I maintain a natural pace. In an adjacent waiting area, presumed travelers are parked on long benches, among them soldiers and suited gentlemen immersed in periodicals and teenage girls in conversation. An older couple shares a snack while an agitated woman struggles to rein in a pair of youngsters. In shorts and knee-high socks, the kids are attempting to play tag.

Few in the group spare me a glance.

The last newsstand customer leaves as I approach. Behind the counter, a woman shuts her till box and turns to me. She’s around sixty, her cocoa-brown hair streaked with silver, shadows underscoring her eyes.

My greeting stalls. A man is to be my contact.

Or was that my assumption?

“Well?” she says, more an order than a question. Her Dutch speech reminds me to use the same.

“Could you tell me, ma’am, are you the usual vendor here?”

A furrow splits her brow. “Always. Why?”

Wary of surrounding eyes and ears, I rush to assemble a reason. “I was just wondering which paper you recommend most.”

Her shrug of apathy resembles a twitch. “Whatever you choose. It is no difference to me.”

I nod, smiling tightly. Neither had I expected my contact to be this brusque.

Swiftly I scan the display, each headline boasting a Nazi victory. Propaganda parading as facts. I swipe two issues at random, hurrying before another customer can approach. “These will do.” I set them on the counter and fish for coins in my coat pocket. “I’m curious, by the way”—casual though annunciating, I segue to Bram’s coded phrase—“is Park Lepelenburg a short walk from here?”

Yes, it’s a nice spot to watch the ducks, the vendor is cued to say, to which I’m to add, I am sure it’s even lovelier in the summer.

“Not far,” she states.

Then…nothing.