I march toward Hutton’s office in my low-heeled pumps, as plain and practical as my daily dresses. From his half-open door, the room ever resembles a den hit by hefty gusts of wind. Files, documents, maps, and books—several splayed open—form a haphazard maze. Adjacent to a window with a courtyard view, Hutton is seated at his desk. Considering how often he’s on the go, it’s remarkable to find him planted in one spot. Not to say he’s lazing about. Rather, he’s hunched over a mess of paperwork, showcasing the thinning of his dark hair. Being “temperamentally opposed to orthodox methods”—as he puts it—he wears not a uniform but a disheveled suit while puffing intently on a cigarette, likely his twentieth of the day.

I knock. At his lack of response, I try again louder, jolting him. He appears disoriented, face drawn and eyes perpetually tired behind his glasses, until homing in on my face.

“Miss Vos. Yes, yes. Come in.” He flitters his hand, seeming impatient, but it’s merely the pace of his work style. The longer the war stretches, the more ramped his vibration.

I’ve barely passed his oversized “toy” table, where an array of combs, toothbrushes, and fountain pens lay dismantled for rigging, when his gaze latches onto my top box. At roughly one square foot and half that in height, it’s the smaller of my two deliveries and the sole one wrapped. On cream paper, set off with black twine, it’s addressed to Carl Howard, a code name used for shipping with initials deliberately matching Hutton’s.

“I see it’s arrived. Brilliant.” He discards his cigarette in an ashtray next to his half-filled teacup. Rising, he accepts the package that clinks when tilted. But instead of tearing it open, he looks quizzically at the larger box, which I rest on the corner of his desk. “Are those the new samples from Gillette?”

“Not yet. They’ll be ready tomorrow.” The magnetized razors, implanted in military shaving kits to work as compasses, ought to dodge detection from enemy guards. For a time. “These here,” I correct proudly, “are a little something I stumbled upon at King’s Cross.”

He watches as I unfurl the flaps, revealing a medley of strangers’ personal belongings: wrist and pocket watches, an empty billfold, solitary gloves, cosmetic mirrors and lipstick tubes, a ladies’ scarf and such. I’d spied the boxful while picking up his parcel at the lost-items department at the London railway terminal, the destination we use for confidential shipments. Nowadays Hutton has nearly every package routed there, if not retrieved personally.

“They’re from ‘Left Luggage,’” I explain. “They’d been there for more than a month, so considered abandoned. I figured the next time Wing Commander Moretti needs tricked-out accessories, they’ll already look worn.”

Hutton looks pleased, nodding briskly. “A clever idea, Miss Vos.”