The Dutch slang for a German—deeming them musty, evidently—is no more complimentary than calling them a Hun or a Kraut. And though his point is valid, it doesn’t rule out my being used as a pawn. I’ll have to play along to find out.

With a concessionary look, I step into the cool, stale-aired meeting spot. The series of windows are dust-coated but numerous, inviting decent light while hindering the view from anyone who happens into the alley. Granted, the same in reverse puts us at equal disadvantage.

A metallic scrape from behind causes me to flinch. He’s bolted the door.

“Care to rest?” He nods toward a solitary wooden chair off to the side, its white paint chipped and back uneven.

“I’m fine standing.”

He gives a small shrug and goes to claim the seat for himself. His distance from the door provides minor relief, as does the open expanse of the space. Strewn about are paper scraps, some tattered boxes, and sprinkles of sawdust. Markings on the concrete floor suggest long tables once populated what seems an abandoned workshop. In a back corner, cobwebs mostly veil a four-legged hulk of rusted machinery. A shroud over a forgotten life.

I ask at last, “Would you mind sharing who you are, now that we’re…otherwise acquainted?”

From his coat, he produces a metal cigarette case and lifts it opened toward me. When I shake my head, he slips a hand-rolled smoke into the corner of his mouth. The shortage in Holland suggests it’s cheap homegrown tobacco or a black-market buy. “Willem.”

A traditional Dutch name. Presumably his cover.

“Are you with a network here, or were you sent by London?”

He lights his cigarette and snuffs out the match. “Ja.”

“So…which is it?”

“I am a messenger of information only.”

I’m aware languages are well studied in Dutch schools, at least in the cities; still I might have complimented his English, if not for his hint of arrogance.

“Fine, then. Your message for me is…?”

The leisure with which he finds tobacco on his tongue and flicks the speck away is irksome. “But, you see, my instruction was for delivery to you and one other.”

“Indeed,” I agree, “it was. Only there’s been a change of plans, requiring me to continue on my own.” Honest yet vague, it’s the explanation I prepared when I’d planned to arrive early at the station—which would have been pointless, I now realize, assuming Willem hadn’t been there all morning.

“Oh? And what is this change?”

“I am unable to say more, I’m afraid.” Also the truth. I can’t have him wondering if his orders to help me should be rescinded.

He expels a ribbon of smoke, contemplating. Likely for his own safety. Finally he nods in acceptance. He’s about to speak when a whistle spears the air.