Claire watched the French countryside slip past the window. The war's destruction materialized here and there, but her untrained eyes saw nothing worse than the usual decay of old cities. Bored with the sight, Claire pushed back against the seat, clutching a purse on her lap. She felt considerably better to be out of the evening gown she'd worn for nearly two weeks, and to be clean again, but it would have been far better to be free instead. She sighed with resignation, trying to focus on the blessings she had.

"Your friends mentioned you're a war hero," Aunt said, breaking the silence.

Across from Claire, Father pressed as far away from Aunt as possible. He clutched a leather strap affixed to the roof panel, as if to hoist himself away. The loop was strained, unused to such anxious attentions. Father met Claire's gaze with a vague appearance of annoyance and fatigue. Uneased by his depthless gaze, Claire switched to her aunt.

The woman smiled good-naturedly at Carsten, awaiting his response. Her words were meant to brighten the drizzly mood and bring a bit of fun at the expense of their guardian.

"It is nothing," Carsten replied. "I assure you."

Carsten kept his face pressed to the window, refusing to face them.

"Why don't you tell us what you did and we'll be the judge," Aunt pressed.

"Let me guess-your unit made a raid on a little Polish village and tortured the women and children for information. The information saved thousands of German soldiers' lives as you took over a once autonomous country?" Claire said sarcastically.

"Not quite, Fräulein," Carsten replied, pinning her with his eyes that were more amused than irritated. "It happened in Spain well before Poland. My men were trapped on a reconnaissance mission. No reinforcements were coming and I got them out with few casualties." He pinned his eyes on the countryside, provoked. "As you can see, all I did was my job."

"Why would Hitler's police want you because you only did your job?" Aunt asked. "There must be more to it than that, or you wouldn't have been drafted."

"Frau O'Shea," Carsten drawled, rolling his eyes to her.

Claire touched her hand to her mouth to stifle her chuckle. Carsten's vexation at her aunt's questions was terribly amusing.

"Please remember that you are my prisoners until we arrive in Berlin. Once I make my report, they will know you were never to accompany Herr Healey. Then they will determine what kind of threat you and your niece are to the project. I do not think my secrets will help you change that," he said.

Aunt was made speechless. She folded her hands in her lap and buttoned her lip at the reproach. Claire squeezed her purse, aggravated by the tone he took with Aunt. As if the reality of the situation wasn't enough, his words iced their moods. She returned her gaze to the window.

"I warned you they would be tiresome," Claire's father said.

"It is of little matter," Carsten mumbled in a tired voice. "I've faced far worse."

"It's all talk, from what I've seen," Claire mumbled. Through the car window, she saw the ruins of a building loom in the distance.

"What is it that you impossible women want to know? We have at least five hours before we reach Orléans. I can start with my childhood and bring you up to date if you would like."

"You should hold your tongue, Reiniger," Claire's father advised. He measured Claire threateningly. "Let them sit-stew-think about what will be done with them."

"I was born in a village outside of Munich," Carsten began overtop of him, in a sign that he wanted them all to be quiet. Adjusting his jacket peevishly, he sat back and kept his eyes on the road ahead while he continued. "My father was an engineer, my mother a housewife. They raised me with a sense of pride and importance in education. They taught me French and English along with our native tongue."

Carsten's disclosure grasped Claire's attention. She sat up, skeptical. She'd barely mastered a rudimentary understanding of French during her schooling, and yet he knew four languages, if she assumed his Belgian identity came with Flemish. She folded her arms and continued to listen.

"Mother also instructed me in piano. When I went to University, I was to study engineering like my father, but I wanted to join the military from a very early age. He said I might do so, if I did as he asked first. So that was my plan for a time. However, my ability with languages and my aptitude for planning and tactics drew me in other directions. I was noticed and enrolled in the best schools. At the end of my education, I became an officer in the Reich's army-what you heard the officer call the Heer. I was promoted to Leutnant quickly and given command of a platoon in Spain during the civil war. That is where my actions were awarded medals and again gained notice. I was leading a small squad on ground reconnaissance. I had done so before and it was getting to be a regular assignment-quite boring, in fact. Let me know if I am boring you, Frauen O'Shea."

"Oh," Aunt chuckled, pleased by both the story and his irritation. "Please go on, Mr. Reiniger. I do enjoy your story so far."

"My commanders found my calm disposition to their liking," Carsten continued, showing a higher degree of annoyance. "And I usually brought my men back with useful information. They did not wish to waste my talents on training Franco's men. My luck was not always to hold out, however. The enemy learned my squad's plans and moved to end the advantage we gave Franco. One evening, working reconnaissance inside a small farming village, they ambushed my men. We anxiously fought our way out, but I lost three of my men. The rest were wounded, but-we succeeded in crushing the enemy and returning with our fallen friends. It was then that I received an honor for distinguished service and was sent home to be reassigned to the Abwehr. My commanders insisted, recognizing my talent for reconnaissance and its importance to the Reich. They did not want me murdered in the fields of Spain when they saw a use for me in more important matters. Do you want me to go into the details of my training for the Abwehr as well?"

"Aren't you afraid we'll report back to the Americans?" Claire mocked.

"You will probably never see America again," Carsten said.

"We'll see about that," Claire replied, with a cold stare much like her father's.

"Perhaps we will." Carsten held her gaze.

"That man, back there at the base," Aunt interrupted the staring contest. "He called you Hoh-hoht-man?"

"Hauptmann," Carsten corrected, "Is a captain in the American Army." He didn't break eye contact with Claire.

"A captain?" Aunt gasped. She switched her eyes nervously between them, her niece trapped in his stare. "My, but you're just a boy," she said, finally succeeding in removing the cat's attention from the mouse.

"Would you like to know my height and weight as well?"

"You're six foot," Aunt said, taking stock of him. "About 160 soaking wet."

Claire was surprised by her aunt's close study of the man. Carsten laughed, drawing her attention back. She folded her arms and leaned against the corner of the seat where it met the body of the car. She crossed her legs and waited for his next snide comment.

"You women are quite entertaining." Carsten laughed. "I don't understand why Herr Healey cannot stand you."

"They're despicable, Reiniger." Father rolled his eyes and scowled at the scenery. "Don't encourage them. I never should have let you raise my daughter, Noreen-filling her head with all this nonsense noblesse."

Acid rose in Claire's throat. Her face heated with her anger. She sat up, ready to flail her father with a tirade of rebukes, but Aunt suddenly burst forth with laughter. Confused, Claire let her words die on her tongue.

"Oh, Carroll," Aunt nearly cried with mirth. "I can't imagine what she'd have turned out to be in your care." She shook her head. "Probably a serial killer."

"Please remember that you are my guest," Father said. "If you want to remain so, you'll be more careful of what you say."

"I don't think you understand, Carroll." Aunt said, becoming serious. "You need me to take care of her for you because you can't bring yourself to get rid of her."

"I wouldn't be so sure of my feelings. Mind yourself before you end up sharing a room with your sister." Carroll threatened, with a black mien.

"You need me," Aunt insisted.

"We'll see," Carroll snarled. "After all, she's grown now and I have little sentiment for frivolous girls. She should be out stalking a husband to take care of her, shouldn't you dear?" Carroll smiled at his daughter.

"We should have taken separate cars," Claire spoke carefully. She frowned in disappointment. It was going to be a long car ride with all the oversized egos jammed into the vehicle.

Claire shifted to sit back. She suddenly realized Carsten's hand was against her back. Her eyes widened as his fingers slipped away. Carsten crossed his arms and appeared relieved. She guessed the shift in attention from his history to her family's problems was the reason for his relief. Not wishing to give him further satisfaction, Claire tried to relax and focus on the scenery again. The memory of his touch contrasted with her father's words. She told herself it might be the last time she found an opportunity to see trees. This wasn't the time to think about some infuriating conspirator putting his hands all over her or a father she had written off long ago. She told herself, quite frankly, that she had no business caring, no matter what she thought she needed from either of them.

Evening lowered its dusky mantle beneath the flaming sunset as the car coasted into the city limits of Orléans. Claire saw the ravages of war more clearly here. The charred remains gave an unsettling reminder of what had happened, probably every day. It silenced her tongue.

"We will have dinner and I will get you settled into your rooms," Carsten said. The car had been silent for some time; just the hum of the engine filled the space. The sound of his voice startled her from her survey. She turned from the windows to see him nervously spying on the streets beyond the windshield. They passed a knot of German soldiers on the street who bore rifles and grime along with their uniforms. "Then I must go out to make my contact. Claire will accompany me-that way you will all be sure to behave yourselves," he added dryly.

No one spoke. Carsten's sternness did not yield either. She had never known anyone to be so stalwart, except her father.

"Do not worry, Fräulein. You are in occupied territory. There should be no danger, unless the British have decided to pay us a visit." He flashed his grin.

"You can't be serious." Claire said, between clenched teeth.

Carsten pretended to pay attention to the streets, indifferent to them. Claire swallowed hard, trying to think of an excuse not to go along. She looked to her aunt who already looked at Carsten keenly. He paid neither of them any mind. Claire wrapped her arms around her waist and sat back. She tried to focus on the street. They passed a tank parked in a side street surrounded by a bank of sand bags. Soldiers stood on guard nearby. A soldier leaned out of the turret lazily, smiling and laughing. The sight made her head throb.

***

The car rounded several corners and routed through the city until it came to a stop along a street of relatively intact buildings. They sat in front of an inn with a small café. Hoch climbed out and made his way to the passenger side where he opened their door. Carsten climbed out first to view the area. They had passed into a well-known pocket of the Resistance. He needed to be sure they weren't being tailed.

Carsten adjusted his suit jacket and took the opportunity to survey their new surroundings. The area appeared clear enough. Just the normal activity hummed in the street. A dog barked in the distance and an automobile engine hummed from the next lane over. He faced the open car door and waved them out. Healey advanced first, brushing Noreen aside. The woman grumbled to herself and exchanged glances with Claire.

"Of all the nerve-come on, honey." Noreen held her hand out to Claire. "There certainly are no gentleman here."

Claire slid across the seat and put her legs out of the door. When she hoisted herself out, her legs wobbled a little, having sat for far too long. In two weeks, they had been afforded virtually no exercise and enough stress for a lifetime. When she stepped onto the stone sidewalk, Carsten saw her eye linger on the quaint café before them. A few tables were scattered in front of a long, low window. A flower box hung beneath the old panes, a green awning hung above, and the setting sun cast a bright gold glow on the white-washed walls. Long, purple shadows on the street warned of the coming darkness.

Carsten closed his hand on Claire's upper arm as Noreen emerged from the car. He gave Hoch orders to hide the car as best as possible and to return before dawn to take them to their next stop. He didn't notice Claire scowling at him until he'd finished. His eyes swept in her direction, ready to instruct them on their next move. She leaned away from him in defiance.

"Must you put your paws on me all the time?" Claire asked.

"I would not want you to run away," Carsten replied.

Hoch laughed, then spoke to him in German. "A handful, that young frau. Sure you don't need help with her, Herr? It would be my pleasure."

Carsten laughed, eliciting a loud burst of laughter from Hoch.

"I see," Hoch smiled. "You want her all to yourself."

"I'm afraid she's too much for either of us, even together."

Claire scowled at both of them.

"Where am I going to run?" Claire snapped, when his attention was hers again.

"It may be occupied France, Fräulein," Carsten told her. "But the Resistance is everywhere. But perhaps you would be lucky enough to find one of them and escape us."

"One could only hope." Claire pulled her arm free, and raised it to slap him.

Carsten anticipated her next move. She was a tempting, pretty little thing and he would welcome a tussle if people weren't watching his every move. His teeth clenched in anger, much like the night he'd exposed his cover at the theater. Claire lowered her hand, wearing an injured look for his heavy handed treatment. He'd frightened her again and it only served to make him angrier.

"Inside," Carsten insisted.

Noreen quickly took hold of Claire. She too often tried to challenge forces beyond her strength. It was either her arrogance or some noble idealism and Carsten wished it didn't bother him so. Each mile they drew closer to the goal, it became more difficult to control his temper. He wanted to blame his foul mood on nearing the end of the job and needing a good rest, but he suspected something else had crawled into his head.

Carsten closed the door of the vehicle and watched Hoch drive off. His jaw ticked irritably.

"Please keep your temper," he overheard Noreen beg in a harsh whisper, as they went to the inn. "If we're going to see a way out of this, we have to stay calm."

"I know," Claire mumbled. "I...he...he just infuriates me so."

Carsten joined them. Noreen patted Claire's arm as they shuffled inside together. He motioned for Healey to do the same. The women lifted their gazes to Carsten as he entered the door. His stony aspect, as he passed further into the interior, scooted them away from him. He cast his glance back over his shoulder to where Healey stood. The man scrutinized everything, disapproving of it, pursing his lips and trying not to touch a thing. Carsten turned his back before Healey grumbled about the accommodations. He slowly sauntered to the bar in the middle of the long, narrow room.

Several small tables were positioned next to the only window, and a staircase along the wall seemed to disappear into the ceiling beams. A giant of a man stood behind the carved wood bar, eyeing them warily from under a heavy and swarthy brow. He wore a stained apron over threadbare garments, and a neatly cropped black beard came to a point at his chin, giving him a devilish aspect. He seemed to despise their arrival as he dried a glass with a ragged towel.

"Pardonne, Monsieur," Carsten said, approaching the intimidating figure. "I believe you're expecting us," he continued in French. "Hauptman Reiniger with the occupation army and my companions."

"SS?" The man hissed, black eyes glinting.

"Hardly." Carsten cocked his head to the side. "Infantry."

"You don't look like a soldier. You look like a schoolboy," the man said, putting down the glass and smiling.

"And you think those boys out there look like soldiers?" Carsten countered, pointing his thumb at the door.

"I've been expecting you," the man said, scratching his beard. He placed his hands on the bar and glowered at Carsten. Then the room rumbled with his delight. "I have a message for you, Monsieur Reiniger."

"I would prefer to get that later, if you don't mind, Marcel. I don't exactly trust the ladies behind me," Carsten said, nearing the bar.

The man's gaze went past Carsten to Healey and the women. He scowled at Healey, but brightened significantly at the women.

"I thought you'd just be bringing the man," the swarthy innkeeper said, placing his eyes back on Carsten. He wiped his hands on his bar rag and straightened his clothes.

"Difficulties; change in plans," Carsten said. He shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the women. They were astonished by how fluent he was in French. His brow crinkled, hoping they didn't understand any of it.

"Qui est l'ange?" Marcel asked.

"That's Healey's daughter," Carsten said. "But I wouldn't get any ideas."

"Not the little girl, you fool," Marcel barked. "The woman."

"Never mind," Carsten told him. "Do we have rooms or not?"

"I always have space for you, Reiniger." The innkeeper grinned. "So long as you don't turn SS. I've been hearing things in the usual places. I don't like what I hear."

Carsten nodded and drew out his pack of gum. "All right. All right. Enough. Can we get dinner?"

The man shrugged. "I can provide very little these days, but I will come up with something."

"Danke." Carsten smiled and gave the bar a thump with his fist.

Marcel reached for the keys to the rooms upstairs. He handed two to Carsten and reluctantly, a third when prompted.

"Don't leave it the way you did the last time you came through," the man warned him. "Took the carpenter three months to fix it."

"I will see that I don't," Carsten assured him. "So long as your friends don't get wind that I am here."

"You better." Marcel wagged his finger at him.

Carsten stepped away from the bar, wearing the start of a satisfied smile. But when he faced his waiting cargo, it faded. The women eyed him no longer sure of who they dealt with after his proficient display of French. His eyes darted to Healey and the man's admiration for him was more than apparent. Before the cascade of questions started, he thought he had better settle them into their rooms. Otherwise, he was sure to say a few things that would amaze and startle them beyond anything they'd heard yet.

"I will show you your rooms now," Carsten said, herding them like children. "Up the stairs."

"Reiniger," the barkeep called to him. "Do you want me to get them out? I could take care of the woman for you while you go to Berlin with the others. I bet you want to keep the skinny one, you young fool. She won't keep you warm. Won't last long in the camps." He grinned slyly.

Carsten waved him away and followed the Healeys up the steps thankful the man was wise enough to keep to his native tongue.