Although drugging the Zieglers isn’t an option, what about the night nurse assigned to Nel? To delay her from sounding an alert, an effective means might be well within my reach—almost literally. In the pharmacy below me, there must be a supply of sleeping pills. By crushing them up and slipping them into the nurse’s food or drink, Nel’s room could be left unattended for hours.

My hunt for any such pills will have to wait, mind you, until my household is asleep. Hence for the moment, I circle back through Arie’s scheme for other issues to solve.

Like his qualms over hiding out till war’s end.

Suffice it to say, the ideal would be to eliminate the need altogether. To do so, I realize, might actually be possible…

True, the solution would require someone with special skills and resources, and with little time for turnaround. All of which could amount to a long shot. And that’s to say nothing of entrusting a person I barely know, a man I’ve met only by his code name. In short, the chances of success seem low.

Given the dangers of the alternative, however, I’m willing to try.

***

The abandoned workshop is surely as cool and musty as before, though I scarcely feel it. I’m too consumed with the seconds, minutes, and now two full hours that have passed. I check my watch for the twentieth time and picture the trio of small stones. As directed, I’d placed them on a windowsill of the shuttered café, a signal for Willem’s help.

Indeed, I recall his disclaimer: If I can, I meet you back here. If two hours pass, I am not coming. But I promised to call on him strictly if necessary. Could he really ignore the plea, or might he be unaware?

I suppose, despite my careful placement of the rocks as I pretended to steal a glance into the café, at least one could have rolled off. Or a well-meaning tidier could have brushed them away. Far worse, an informed collaborator might have alerted the Gestapo, who could burst through the door at any moment.

Arms folded tight, I resist the scenarios.

Five minutes—no, ten. I’ll wait another ten.

Both come and go, further leaching my hopes, before a silhouette fills the frame of a dust-covered window. Wearing a hat—or is it a helmet?—the fellow passes the next set of panes, closing in.

If I could hide as a precaution, I would. But the room’s shabby boxes are too sparse for cover and the hulk of machinery sits too close to the wall. Should I have muscled the door to bolt it? Too late for that.

The cockeyed door wobbles, an attempt to heft it open.

My knife. I reach for it in my pocket, just as the door opens to expose the man’s fair and angled features.