I paste on a smile for my audience and begin by recycling my previous trick, except with Costello choosing the card. He remarks only in German but seems to understand enough Dutch to follow my instructions. I use accompanying hand gestures to be safe. This time, confirmation of my success comes from the man’s satisfied nod.

“Go again,” Orpo says. “Something different now.”

“Yes, sir.” As I shuffle, I resist checking my watch. Added pressure will do me no good. I leaf through my mental files, my fate again hinging on my alleged skills, and an early trick returns to me. Its difficulty level rates quite low but will have to do, spiced with charm.

“In this case, gentlemen, there is no need for you to choose a card, since the next one will choose you.” With deck in hand, I display what appears to be the top card. “The king of spades,” I announce, concealing the card behind it, a classic move called the double lift. Briefly I rest the pair on the deck while adapting my patter.

“Unfortunately, as in real life, it can be difficult to control a king.” I grandly slide the true top card into the middle, saying, “No matter where I place him, or how vigorously I move him about…” I riffle shuffle the deck thrice through, keeping the king subtly in place, then hold the deck toward Costello. “Even after a few firm taps to keep him down”—which the man does, indulgingly—“the crowned fellow always rises to the top.” With that, I reveal the top card. Presto: the king of spades!

The officers murmur in moderate amusement, save for Abbott. When Orpo notes his friend’s unimpressed yawn, I register the need to step up my act—while not coming off as professional. Thankfully, more tricks are flowing back. Thus, I dive right in, trying not to ponder the time or envision Arie waiting.

After a quick fanning of the deck, I invite a card selection from my uneager spectator, far from the first I’ve battled to win over. When he places his memorized pick on the deck, I secretly palm his card and request he do the honor of shuffling. “To make certain I’m not cheating,” I explain, overly light, my hands deliberately in view. Once he stolidly obliges, I ask him to locate his card in the stack, which naturally he fails to do.

“That’s rather odd.” I motion toward his uniform. “Would you care to check your pockets, sir?”

His eyes betray his ascending interest, mirroring that of the other men, as he searches the pockets of his tunic and pants.

“Not there?” I mull. “Well then. Perhaps somehow—”

Abruptly, sounds from the next room—laughter and talking and Parisian music—crescendo from the opening of the door, turning us all.

Orpo encourages the guest, another officer, to come and join, then flaps his hand at me. “Continue!”

The door shuts.