While it shouldn’t, her injection of sympathy stirs my seething. Pity changes nothing. I reply evenly, “Thank you,” because if I say more, I just might erupt. Diverting, I angle away and call out, “Evelien, put your coat on. It’s time to go.”

And with that, we all head for the truck.

Chapter 82

Adjacent to Marylebone Station, the Great Central Hotel serves as a transit camp, with an entire floor dedicated to the escape subsection of MI9. As such, save for its marble columns, the lobby resembles a moving quilt of uniforms. Soldiers and airmen mingle about: mostly British, Americans, Canadians. For my final debriefing, an impassive female secretary escorts me through the bustle and up the grand staircase.

I glance back and locate Evelien holding Lenora’s hand as they exit the main doors. Enticed by a peek at the famed city of London and by my vow to reunite straight after, the girl had agreed to the stroll. A far better option than waiting with Lenora in a smoky lobby or a crowded hallway. Now that I’m aware she understands English, in light of the topic, I would never subject her to the coming meeting.

Still, as I proceed down a long corridor, I’m acutely aware of the vacancy at my side. They’re unlikely to venture more than a few blocks, but already I can’t help but worry.

The secretary stops at a door, gives a cursory knock, and directs me to enter.

I rope in my thoughts, needing to remember why I’m here.

The moment I step inside, the door shuts behind me.

The hotel’s large double room has been converted into an interrogation space. Parked behind a lineup of document-strewn trestle tables, an unfamiliar fellow in a suit has beady eyes and a walrus mustache. Alongside him are two men with whom I’m all too well acquainted.

“Welcome, Miss Vos.” Bogart motions to the chair at the center. His wavy black hair is still fittingly slicked, the cleft in his chin as pronounced as I recall. “We appreciate your joining us.”

Crockatt, dressed in his hallmark Royal Scots uniform with his bonnet set aside, offers a smile that reaches his green eyes. “Why, it’s certainly splendid to have you back safe and sound.”

Were you hoping the same for Arie? The demand forms on my tongue but I let it dissolve, due to the woman seated in the corner. With horn-rimmed glasses low on her nose, she holds a pencil to her steno pad, ready to transcribe my every word in shorthand.

I square my temper and assume my place in the chair. Patiently I comply, biding my time.

Through my summary of events—my detachment increasing with every telling—the group’s agreeable nods and references to previous reports indicate my accounts align. Finally, after Bogart’s requests for clarification and his reminder of my work being classified indefinitely, he reclines in his chair, satisfied.