Carsten escorted Claire and her aunt away from the landing point. He quickly led them along the wide corridors between the bunker and the outlying buildings. Stacks of crates and other industrial debris pressed against the divergent walls. Otherwise, the area appeared empty. Only the occasional soldier milled about halfheartedly. It was hard to tell what exactly had made Carsten so riled up.

Behind the small group, the other spy, Kappel, chatted excitedly with Claire's father. Claire concentrated on every word the dark-haired man said even though Carsten's hand gripped tightly around her elbow. She could barely believe where she was or how she continued in the face of death. She guessed that Carsten's determined energy fueled her own.

"Tell me, Herr Healey," Kappel said. "What is it like in one of those tin coffins?"

"Exactly as you just described them," Healey replied. "A coffin full of dead men, all on their way to the grave. Stinking and rotting the whole way."

Claire thought the appraisal fitting. They were dead too, the walking dead carrying themselves to a grave in order to save their killers the trouble. Her eyes slipped to the ground, unable to hold her head up anymore under the strain. Though her life dangled over a precipice, she only craved sleep, too tired to fight the threat. Her head throbbed and her muscles felt torn. She lifted her chin with some effort, deciding she need think only of the moment. Her father's conversation with his new friend provided the hand to brush her pain and worry aside.

Carsten's fingers loosened their grip on the flesh of her arm. His thumb gently caressed the space just above her elbow. The feather-like caress startled Claire, eliciting a shiver that paused her heart. She sucked in a breath of air, noting how strange such a show of affection felt, considering all he'd done to her thus far. Her eyes searched his profile, but he focused intently on the walk ahead. She would find no answers there. She kept her gaze away, not wishing to engage him and thus raise his ire.

"I am glad I did not get this assignment," Kappel laughed. "Hauptmann Reiniger has a much stronger stomach for such things. I am afraid I would have been useless to him and a burden to all of you."

"You need to grow a backbone, Leutnant." Carsten smiled at him. "Or you will never leave the continent."

"That is the difference between you and me, Hauptmann." Kappel smiled back. "I am content right here. I have all the danger and all the glory, just as you have reaped. What with the air raids."

Claire's head pounded again. She focused on a long black sedan at the end of the corridor, willing her muscles to relax despite their misuse. The vehicle sat alone with only the driver in attendance. He waved to them, standing behind his open door. Claire thought of a mob film she'd seen as a kid and wondered if this was her ride.

"You mean you have all of the wine and French women you need," Carsten grinned back at him.

"You must admit," Kappel replied, "That is an adventure in itself."

"Yes, but there are no medals for being wounded in such a manner," Carsten told him. "And you are fond of medals."

"Pigs," Claire said under her breath.

Carsten watched her instead of focusing ahead. The magnetism of his stare pulled her reluctant eyes to his. She frowned in disgust as well as in discomfort.

"Best behavior," he rasped with an evil glare, squeezing her arm for good measure.

Claire bore a defiant air. The tears sprung in her eyes, but she wouldn't allow her face to show it. She'd had plenty of practice since meeting him.

"That's your ride, Reiniger," Kappel said.

Claire stopped abruptly, making them stop as well, and regarded the vehicle with great fear. Her legs lost all feeling as Kappel's words settled on her mind and mixed with her thoughts about the car. Carsten half turned, glancing briefly with a warning in his eyes. Claire met that gaze with an unspoken plea. Carsten responded to the plea with bleak sternness.

"The driver will take you to the command post where you can freshen up and eat. I will be by to see you off from there, but I must radio Orléans you've arrived safely with your cargo."

Carsten wheeled around, still holding onto Aunt and Claire.

"I would prefer to be on our way," Carsten told his cohort, seeming a bit panicked himself.

Claire was grateful not to have to see the car any longer.

Kappel stepped closer, with Claire's father close behind. He switched back to German. "Kuhnke will insist. Besides, it'll give our contact time to be in place. The Gestapo saw what they wanted. I'm sure they won't bother you until you reach Berlin."

Aunt's features contorted with worry. Gestapo. The term stood out from the others. Claire's heart pounded at the idea of Hitler's secret police taking an interest in any one of them.

"Of course he will," Carsten said, masking his concern. He insisted on using English. "The Healeys will be thankful for the lunch I am sure. Meals were scarce on the U-boat."

Carsten fell quiet, tilting his face away in thought.

"It will give you a chance to get cleaned up, Hauptmann. I've never seen you look so terrible." Kappel grinned.

Carsten turned a narrow gaze on him. Something passed unspoken between the spies.

Behind Kappel, Claire's father took the opportunity to study the bunker and its surroundings, perhaps marveling at German industry, but more likely bored. He wasn't at all bothered by any of the proceedings, because he existed in a world all his own where he reigned as an unstoppable god of manufacturing. Claire lowered her eyes, quieting the rising anguish inside her. They had no one to rely on but Carsten.

"Shall we, then?" Carsten said, sounding strangely cheerful.

Carsten continued toward the transport, pulling the women with him. He behaved far more gently with Aunt, and Claire wondered if he meant to revenge her name-calling moments before. It shouldn't have surprised her that he'd dispose of his manners and have a tantrum like a boy. She did nothing to deserve such reprisal but refuse to not have an opinion regarding her fate. Prior to that moment, he had things that implied he understood their sentiments. Her confusion settled on his compatriot and Claire realized the meeting at the dock and Kappel's attendance since were more to blame.

The worn out travelers reached the car and were met by a smile from the driver, a tall broad man who evoked images of boxers from the turn of the century. From the other side of the long sedan, he gave the usual greeting to their leader. The driver's stiff body was clad in a crisp, clean German army uniform. He wore a side cap bearing the eagle symbol of his nation on his graying head. He was an older soldier, most likely cast down to driving service to free a post for a younger man at the front. His moody and dark eyes shifted to Claire and then back to Carsten. Those black orbs expressed a long story best left untold. He smoothed his thick mustache with a thick finger. He looked like just the sort of man they would put in place to fulfill a hit.

"Hauptmann Reiniger?" The driver asked, unsure of who approached him.

"Ja," Carsten replied, glowering.

"Kraftfahrer Hoch," the man introduced himself.

The driver sat back behind the wheel and waited. Carsten opened the door to the gray interior. The vehicle's engine started. They performed their duty rather efficiently when transporting their cargoes, even if they didn't observe etiquette in doing so. Claire had surmised as much since the night on the yacht.

"This is where we part for now," Kappel said. He patted Carsten's shoulder.

Carsten helped Aunt into the car first, then practically pushed Claire inside. She grasped his arm in response, pushing back with as much strength as she had. Claire immediately regretted the move, as he met her strength easily, nearly toppling her. She reached for her Aunt's hand and pried herself free of her tormentor.

"Are you all right?" Aunt whispered. The two of them acted like siblings in an absurd rivalry.

Claire nodded, adjusting herself on the seat. Her father climbed in next, taking his seat opposite them. The sedan was arranged like a small limo, with two rows in the back that faced each other. Father glowered at both her and Aunt, appearing fiendish in his disarray. Claire sat back, silenced, and looked over the interior. She wished the seats had all been facing forward, like other cars. She didn't want to have to look at the men for hours while forced to sit in their company on top of everything else.

Carsten and his cohort parted ways, shaking hands and saluting. Then her golden-haired antagonist jumped into the car and took the empty seat beside her father. He snapped his eyes between her and Aunt and adjusted his jacket. His shoulder holster flashed beneath his coat and reminded her that he still possessed the blasted gun. Claire clutched at the seat wondering if he would draw it and put a giant hole in her chest. Aunt took hold of her hand and patted her arm consolingly. Carsten raised his eyebrow.

The car took a wide turn and coasted out of the bunker area.

"When we reach flotilla headquarters, Mr. Healey will be taken to his rooms to bathe and change. I will escort the ladies to their room, where two guards will be placed outside for their protection, while you also take care of your comforts. I will be watching that you behave yourselves for our hosts. If not, I will be forced to reveal your true sentiments. I would wager doing so would not turn out well for you. I hope you will remember that."

Claire's expression changed from sullen to fiery defiance.

"It may be just as well," Claire's father said. "The O'Shea women have always been strong-willed. That was my first mistake-marrying one."

"We can't all be perfect, Carroll," Aunt challenged. "You of all people should understand that."

"Claire is your daughter," Carsten reminded her father before he dared to retort. "I need not remind you of that. The Reich does not warm well to men with so little honor that they would sacrifice their children for money."

"Yet they sacrifice them for society," Claire's father said.

"A far nobler sacrifice." Carsten glared at him. "Please remember where you are, Mr. Healey. I do not want to have to remind you again. Things are not yet final, if you catch my meaning."

Claire listened to the conversation, astonished at what transpired. She'd never heard anyone speak so boldly to her father. In the days since she'd met Carsten, he'd not once dared to speak so boldly to him. Something had changed since their arrival, the younger of the pair was far more inclined to exercise his supremacy. Sliding closer to her aunt, she grasped the woman's arm and rested her head on her shoulder. Carsten easily kept her father in his place, using himself like a wedge between them, but nothing would prevent her father from eventually dealing with her as he pleased. Carsten's protection wasn't always going to be there. Yet somehow, seeing how deftly the agent ordered him about helped to ease her headache and fears. There was a way to gain the upper hand with Father. She had to sit tight and bide her time while she found hers.

Claire's eyes shifted to Carsten. He held a contemptuous and exhausted look on his face. Circles had settled under his eyes. She wondered how much he'd slept on the journey across the Atlantic, for she had only seen his eyes closed once. He took out a pack of gum and put a stick in his mouth. Rolling the foil between his fingers, he surveyed the scene outside of the window, oblivious to her inspection.

Claire thought of the first time she'd seen him. Sarry was right. Claire had been taken with him from the start. Now she wished she'd never met him despite those vivid good looks, right then so disheveled but no less powerful. The fact that he was handsome was undeniable, but his splendor died on the surface, burned by his molten evil core. Though she thought him too handsome to be anything but cruel, something defied such an idea. A molten evil core? Hints of a different character had seeped through the cracks, making Claire hope he simply wore a mask, bullying them because he knew no other way to help. Something in his bold stares absorbed her. His touch moments before and his attentiveness in the sub were strange in comparison to everything else. It all begged deeper scrutiny. Some hidden thing whispered behind every action. A thoughtfulness that couldn't exist if evil existed within him, completely contradicting the thoughtlessness he also displayed. His attentions and kindnesses were never forced by duty, but his cruelty and disregard came with his attention to duty. He was so strange and endlessly frustrating. Claire hoped it was a mask. She was not willing to have another ruthless man in her life, even for a few days.

Carsten sat back against the seat. His eyes locked with hers. She held his gaze, searching for something that would reveal the kind of man he really was. If he was their only hope, she needed to know for her own survival. He'd never made it easy to befriend him and this time was no different. Claire hit an emotional wall. His icy demeanor proved impenetrable. He swung his head back to survey the scenery they passed. He chewed his gum and ignored her.

Nearly two weeks of boredom and restless sleep had left her wasted. Claire's lids grew heavy. She switched her gaze to the windshield through which she saw the road. As they cleared the bunker area, desolate trees formed a line on each shoulder. Houses cropped up, sparsely at first, then more tightly as they neared the town center.

"Well, I wanted to take you on a trip after you graduated. Not exactly what I'd in mind, but after all, it's France!"

From the corner of her eye, Claire saw Aunt's outburst had gained Carsten's attention. He eyed them both, chewing his gum vigorously. Before Claire could once more try to discern the hidden man, the car came to a gentle stop. They parked on a residential street. German soldiers walked idly up and down both sidewalks, smoking and chatting. The French people, as she assumed from their civilian dress, cropped up here and there, continuing their lives despite the occupation. Their faces revealed how tired and worn they had become. Claire felt terrible for moaning about herself and after only a few days in the same custody. The French had already suffered two years of it.

"Ah, good," Carsten suddenly said. He was quite pleased as he and the driver exited the vehicle. He blocked the opening with his body while he spied their surroundings. Ducking inside, he smiled at the Healeys. "Come along."

Carsten straightened, casting his eyes to the driver. The men traded a brief exchange. Claire understand none of it. Sometimes a word or two sounded like English, but each time she came away frustrated. After years of studying French at school, she still had very little understanding. How could she expect to comprehend a completely different language in a few weeks?

Carsten paced the sidewalk in front of a large brick chateau. Sentries stood on post beside the front door, brandishing rifles. He seemed wary, studying them. Claire reluctantly leaned out of the door. Carsten immediately attended to her, holding out his hand. Knowing it wasn't a suggestion, she grudgingly accepted. His touch stayed surprisingly gentle this time.

While the others took their time getting out of the car, Claire took the opportunity to study her surroundings. Her eyes swept up and down the street. All that she saw overwhelmed her. These young men looked like those who walked the streets of New York or Boston. Some held guns, some only wilted cigarettes. Some smiled. Some frowned. They assessed the presence of the newcomers with interest. She listened to the strange murmur of their speech. Yet the most awful aesthetic was their uniforms. The soft gray-green reminded her of just where she stood and the insignia each brandished made it undeniable. These soldiers didn't just represent the enemy she was taught to fear, they were the enemy. All the films and posters she had seen flooded her mind. There was no more curtain to pull across the room and hide from the specters. She feared they sensed she was American, as if it was stamped on her forehead. They might attack at any moment.

Hoch bid farewell to their keeper in gestures simple to understand. Father and Aunt joined them on the sidewalk as Claire put her attention elsewhere. Her eyes found the brick house. In an effort to distract her mind from the reality surrounding her, she studied the lawn and trees laid out before the ornate chateau. The greenery showed surprisingly few signs of life despite the time of year. It lent the impression that winter still hung on. She shivered and drew Carsten's jacket tighter around her as reality once more ravaged her mind. Kappel had said something about bombings.

"Follow me," Carsten said.

Aunt took hold of Claire's arm and guided her along, hoping to avoid another altercation. They heard a whistle from the street and pulled up short to see from where it had come. A handful of the soldiers tracked their every move, grinning like idiots. Claire lifted her chin and glared at them defiantly.

"Just like New York," Aunt frowned. "Some things never change."

Carsten appeared at Claire's side and took hold of her arm once more in his vice-like grip. He snapped at the young men, pointing a finger. They hung their heads sheepishly. Carsten hurried Claire away from the street and from view with a wry smile twisting up his lips. Claire tore her arm free, quite sure he blamed her for the soldier's behavior, as if he commiserated with them. It was hardly her fault she stood there in hose full of runs and a dress that barely resembled the garment she had purchased.

"I can walk without your crutch," she snapped, hurrying ahead.

"Of course you can," he replied. "I just did not think you wanted to be advertised to the enlisted men. Who knows what they think-probably that you are some French family bartering their safety with their daughter in her used-up Sunday best. Perhaps you are a moll. Whatever it is, they are not likely to observe barriers others have. They might take what they wish."

Claire halted. A slow pivot followed and she faced him. She clutched the front of his jacket tight, glaring down her nose at him. She opened her mouth wide, forming a retort. Then she bit her lip to keep herself from speaking it, struggling with the fear of reprisal and the loss of a possible ally. He stood in the walk, expectantly eyeing her back. Aunt stepped between them, breaking his gaze. She planted herself at Claire's side and looked at her firmly. Before the woman spoke a single word, Claire already heard her etiquette teacher demanding silence.

"Come along, honey," Aunt urged. "Not here."

"Yes, here."

Claire stepped up to Carsten with determination.

"I hope you are amusing yourself, Mr. Reiniger. When this is over, I will amuse myself at your expense. Keep that in mind. I can make life difficult for you too, just try me. You forget why you brought my father here. You forget your place."

"I look forward to it," he replied. His eyes danced deviously. "It has been some time since I had a worthy tête-à-tête. I hope you will not disappoint me like so many others who wished to remind me of my place."

"I should slap your face," Claire rasped.

"I might enjoy that too, but not now," he replied. The corners of his mouth curled.

Aunt gasped at the audacity of Carsten's statement.

Carsten swiftly took hold of Claire's arms and pushed her through the gate of the brick house and away from her family. She stumbled along, trying to keep her feet beneath her. Then his hand grasped hers. The force of his forward motion pulled her soundly up the rest of the walk.

"Hurry up. Lunch will be served soon." Carsten dismissed her temper.

Claire followed. Her cheeks burned with the frustration of failing to express her outrage effectively. No matter how she tried to connect or fight, he remained an impasse every time.

The sentries saluted him stiffly, clapping their heels as they came to attention. The door opened from the inside, pulled by another soldier. Claire's father joined them on the steps, amused by the bickering between his daughter and his assistant.

"Mr. Reiniger," he laughed. "You do so well with my daughter. Perhaps I should let you take her off my hands. We might consider it a little reward for your deeds."

"Father!"

"Carroll!"

The women gasped their indignation at him in unison. Claire's cheeks reddened deeper. The sentries whispered to each other and choked back their laughter, understanding what had transpired.

"Despite the graciousness of your offer, I do not think my commander is in the way of giving women as medals," Carsten replied.

He should call her father a pig for even suggesting such a thing. Claire tried to stick him with her elbow, but Carsten easily blocked her move. He grabbed hold of her fingers and squeezed her hand until she thought the skin would burst.

Moving away from prying eyes, Carsten led the group through the door into the foyer of the house. He released Claire's hand once the door had closed behind them. She drew it back, rubbing the bruised digits. They assessed each other, waiting for the next moves. A telephone rang, which broke her concentration on Carsten. Someone answered in German. She slowly lowered her sore fingers to her side and studied the room.

The house was lovely-something you might see on the Island. The white walls and woodwork gave the room a homey feel and a sense of placidity that belied the terror it housed. A few soldiers wandered the rooms in neat, clean and crisp uniforms. One sat at a desk just inside the door. Boot heels clicked on the hard floor in echoing cadence. It was peaceful and blessedly spotless.

A tall, red-haired man entered the space, hesitating at their appearance. He approached stiffly, eyeing each of them, but spoke only to Carsten, and in German. Claire turned her back, annoyed. She amused herself by eyeing the paneling of the door, the desk of the other soldier and the chairs opposite him. She caught her aunt's gaze and the plea it held. The altercation outside was unseemly and was not winning their case for a safe return home.

Carsten suddenly grabbed Claire's hand again. He pulled her nearer, eyeing her mouth before he spoke. Claire searched his eyes, recognizing that glance, and was stunned to see it there. He pulled her hand behind his back. His fingers stroked her palm carefully, if not purposefully. The sensation of his touch was alarming at first, but the muscles in her arm began to relax, spreading a chill up her neck that raised the hairs.

"Come, Fräulein. I'll show you your room," he said, in a tone that simultaneously mesmerized and allowed her to peer past his mask.

Claire's lids drooped drowsily, caving into the exhaustion as if the motion of his thumb in her palm were casting a spell. No, it must have been the mention of room, for he had no power over her, did he? She was suddenly too tired to take another step. She nodded slightly, knowing that at least she would be left alone with her aunt. Carsten would hopefully occupy himself elsewhere for a time, probably perfecting some string of words to loft at her again. She tried to determine what scathing remark would be next, wishing to be prepared. He said nothing, as if baiting her to start. She searched his face but her mind came up blank. His fingers caressed the inside of her wrist. She thought of Boston and wondered why fate hadn't made him as he first presented himself. What was the point of all this?

"This way," the red-haired man said, disrupting the moment.

Claire suddenly realized she'd stared at Carsten for far too long. She'd only intended to beat him to the punch. However, a slow smile spread on his lips, knowing he had her on a string now. Her eyes shifted to her aunt and she received a silent reproval. Her father caressed his hairy chin and pretended not to notice, though he clearly appeared annoyed. Claire sheepishly swept her gaze toward the red-haired man. He dropped his chin, grinning from ear to ear. The blasted man had won again.

Claire tore her hand free of Carsten's and joined her aunt. She hugged the older woman's arm and stood there waiting expectantly. Her eyes narrowed but Carsten merely raised an eyebrow in response. He held his hand out to indicate the way. He was still too assured about her.

While they climbed the stairs to the second floor, Claire heard two soldiers mumbling below. Then a burst of laughter echoed off the plaster walls.

"What are they saying?"

"They hope when we invade America the women will all be as feisty as you. The Frenchwomen were too easy."

"If they ever see the shores of America, they can be sure our women will cut their hearts out with kitchen knives before they get a chance."

"Funny-you did not when given the chance, Fräulein," Carsten replied.