Arie gauges the street, the gun tight to his chest. But then instead of leading me off, he clutches my elbow and pulls me farther into the doorway. A pair of brick columns creates a shallow screen.

“Listen to me,” he orders, his tone hushed. “I don’t know how you ended up here, but you need to get out.”

I jerk my arm free. “I’m not leaving until you share what’s going on. Because let me tell you, there are plenty of people doubting which side of the war you’re actually on.” Including me, I nearly add.

A sound from his throat signals irritation. “Cripes almighty, Fen. This isn’t a stage show or some kind of spy game.”

“Really? Because you seem to be busy playing one.”

His mouth opens, a wordless stammer. From our various jousts through the years, I recognize the fleeting gap in his armor of stubbornness. To pin him down, I can’t let up.

“Of course, if you’d prefer, I could just have a chat with that Nazi pal of yours. Maybe he’d care to fill me in.”

His stare hardens. Contrary to his claim, a game has indeed ensued: one of chicken. But I’m not about to yield.

He shakes his head and curses under his breath. Then he rechecks our surroundings and shoves his gun into the back of his waistband. “Stick close, and don’t make a sound.”

Chapter 59

We retrace Arie’s winding path down the streets and on through the square, stopping twice to avoid patrollers. He scopes around corners using a small special mirror—made for spies, it seems—and scans behind us intermittently. The combined tactics are presumably how he confirmed I was on his trail.

After but a few more streets, he slows at a narrow break in a series of row houses. A cautious survey of our surroundings and he leads me through a brick archway into a small courtyard with a smattering of trees. On the back side of the building to our right, he scuttles down concrete steps to unlock the door. Our relative proximity to my boardinghouse would astound me if not for my hailstorm of far more crucial thoughts.

When he waves for me to enter, I wince, ever averse to basement-like settings. But since dawdling as an open target appeals even less, my reluctant steps deliver me to the doorway.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll light a candle in a sec.” After shutting us in, he does just that by striking a match and illuminating a pair of candles in tin cans. Both are set on a small wooden table beside a lone chair.