My attention flies to the window, then back to Willem, who sits upright with hand raised, a signal to halt and listen. The shrill alert repeats, louder and closer with a man’s hollers, suited to an officer of some kind.

Willem waves me toward a front corner of the room. I rush over and press my back to a plastered wall as he hurries to stand beside a window. Cigarette parked between his lips, he reaches under the breast pocket of his coat—for a weapon, I imagine.

I’m reminded of my own. Nerves again heightening, I grab my folding knife within the concealment of my pocket. I think of my single lesson with a dummy torso, stabbing its neck, heart, stomach. Each just enough to get away.

Willem leans to peer through a glass pane, a semi-clear spot.

Soon come more shouts, gradually waning in volume.

When the quiet returns, Willem’s broad shoulders drop and his hand slides free. Yet the implication of his weapon remains.

The vast room suddenly feels smaller.

“You said you know of Frans,” I prod, my patience now low.

Willem rotates toward me.

“Have you been in communication?” I ask.

He removes his cigarette, gives it a tap. “From a distance. For the passing of a note.”

“And since then?”

“He has been very difficult to contact, this man.”

Seeking any hints of deceit, I venture closer. “Do you know where I can find him? At least where you saw him last?”

Willem takes a drag. “I see him on Domplein, the cathedral square, several times. Always through crowds. Once, I follow him north. Every time like a mouse, he gets away.”

I shouldn’t feel pride under the circumstances, but it’s hard not to, given how Arie learned to slip in and out of spaces under the scrutiny of an audience in broad daylight.

“When was the last time he was spotted?”

“It was…two days ago.”

“Do you know”—I hesitate but need to ask—“if he’s in any sort of danger?”

Smoke puffs from Willem’s mouth, a short cough from a laugh. “Aren’t we all?”

“From anyone in particular, I mean?”

He shakes his head. “I have heard nothing.”

“Then why ever is he steering clear of you?”

“Again, I do not hear of it.”

“Well, why do you think he is?”

Willem stubs out his cigarette on the wall. He too is losing patience. “As I say, I am only a messenger. He was to make contact with his people; that was my assignment. But you are here. All business with Frans is no longer mine. Now”—he sighs—“I must go.” He peeks through the window before hefting the door, this time to unbolt it.

My mind scrabbles for what more I ought to ask.

“Goodbye to you, Miss Hofman.”

As he opens the door, I urge, “How do I find you? If I need anything else?”