“I believe that will do for now. We shall contact you should we require anything further.”

“Once more,” Crockatt inserts, “we are very grateful for your service, Miss Vos.” Then solemnly: “And may we add our condolences on the loss of your friend, Lieutenant Jansen.”

There it is. While yet again I’m vexed by the offering, particularly from anyone who might have sought this very outcome, it at least serves as a segue. I open my mouth with the question I’m most intent on voicing, only to have it stall midroute. Amid the awkward pause, I nudge my other concerns to the forefront.

“Regarding Evelien, the lieutenant’s niece… I’m greatly in need of assistance in relocating her to America.”

Crockatt maintains his caring look. “Major Hutton has brought the issue to my attention. I placed a few calls. Alas, the backlog of cases is quite extensive. If there is any progress, I shall promptly make you aware.”

I nod at the update, which Hutton in fact already relayed, and move on to one I’ve yet to uncover. “What of Gerda? Do you know if she’s okay?”

“Forgive me,” Crockatt says. “She is…?”

“The housekeeper. The woman who assisted at Ziegler’s home.” I attempt to conceal my frustration over how easily the names of such brave, vital people could be forgotten. “At each of my debriefings, I was told someone could look into what became of her. I’m confident that someday Evelien would like to know.” As would I.

The stranger at the table, silent until now, projects past the hedge of his mustache, revealing a Dutch accent. “Your inquiry was indeed passed along. I believe she was held and interrogated for several days.” I tense from what that could entail before he adds, “Our sources related that she was then freed and remains in good health.”

I sigh. “I’m terribly relieved to hear that.”

The stenographer’s pencil has gone quiet. That her notepad rests on her lap tells me I’m on the verge of being excused. Yet my pressing question fails to budge.

And so my mind seizes on another figure integral to my escape, though not free of suspicion.

“If I may ask,” I slip in quickly, “about communications that were compromised, do you know if it was…” In this moment, I find I can’t bring myself to accuse Willem; without him, I likely would have let the Nazis come for me and Evelien. “Was it the work of the Abwehr?” I say instead, German intelligence being a common and general culprit.

The British stranger’s reply is measured. “I cannot say that we have reason to believe otherwise. As you well know, we have since adjusted to protect those in our employment.”

In essence, it’s a faux answer: a mix of doublespeak and information I gave to him.