Heart racing, I spin to face him. He’s a mere few yards away, but his cobalt-blue eyes are raised toward the street. Thrown off, I trace his focus. A man in the gray uniform of an officer stands above us, turned away from the canal.

I brace for my stalker to holler up to him. Instead, his voice drops to an urgent hush as he moves in. “If you want to live, play along now.” His sudden English with a Dutch accent stuns me. All at once, his hand is on my hip, his other cradling my cheek, and he bends to nuzzle the side of my neck.

“Go along,” he whispers, “if you wish to hear of Frans.”

I’m jolted as much by Arie’s field name as by intimacy with this stranger. But with the officer rotating in our direction, I close my lids halfway and let my satchel slide to the ground. Applying a breathless smile, I run my fingers along the back of the man’s neck, over the soft blond stubble above his collar. We carry on this way for a full half minute, the seconds ticking in my head, and I glimpse the officer observing us. His toothbrush mustache, mirroring Hitler’s, sets my stomach to curl. I throw him an intentional peek, and he looks away discomfited, a markedly relatable feeling.

“Is he there still?” The question is warm on my neck. I go to whisper yes, but then a stylish woman appears at the officer’s side. Arm in arm, they saunter off together and out of sight.

“He’s gone.”

My forged companion—evidently, my actual contact—glances up and sighs. “Goed.”

I let go and step back, feeling flushed.

After straightening his cap, he says quietly, “Come, then, for us to speak.” He offers his elbow to continue our charade as a couple.

I hesitate, my mind and senses whirling.

“You wish to stay alone?” Not a true question, a dare. His smugness pulls me back to myself. Sure, his quick thinking helped, but I’m entirely capable of making my own way, learning and adjusting regardless of the dangers.

Except that isn’t why I’m here.

With a deadline looming, I clutch my bag and accept the crook of his arm.

Chapter 54

Through the city’s hustle and bustle, we wind down one street after another until arriving at an alley. A quarter of the way in, my mystery guide stops at a cockeyed, weather-beaten door. By the handle, he hefts it open and peeks inside what appears to be an empty storage building. A sweep of his hand invites my entry.

At my deliberating, his lips slant at a wry angle.

“If I were a mof, you would not be here.”