Claire and her aunt sat close together in the dim café eating their dinner. The dark barman, Marcel, brought them some lovely loaves of bread and cheese with a fat roasted chicken. A superb white wine breathed in the middle of the table. It wasn't much, but it was better fare than they had in the U-boat, if not at the base. Carsten sat opposite them, where he had a survey of the whole room as well as a view of the street. Father had requested his meal be brought to his room, so they ate without his comments and enjoyed a relative peace.

Aunt ate quietly, lifting her eyes now and then to Marcel. The large man's attention seemed to always be on her, and she seemed uncomfortable with the glint in his eyes. Claire was thankful for the smile it brought to her own face. Too many days had passed and she was suffocated by the fear that filled them. This amorous play was a welcome distraction.

"Why does he keep looking over here?" Aunt murmured.

"I think he likes you," Claire answered.

By the time they'd reappeared for dinner, the innkeeper had not only made the food, but presented himself in a much cleaner aspect. Claire thought him relatively handsome for an older man and his ogling gave away his adoration. Claire thought it wonderfully sweet. If only they'd met under different circumstances. She smiled to herself. Aunt had never married. It would be nice for her to find someone, a greater amusement than playing mother hen.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Aunt asked, panicked by the very idea.

"I think it's sweet," Claire declared.

"What about you?" Aunt asked Carsten. He lifted his head from his plate and looked at her, coming back from his thoughts. "Do you think it's sweet that some hairy beast is ogling me?"

"There is a someone for everyone," Carsten said, disinterested. He sat back with his notebook again. "But I do not suggest you find a someone in Marcel."

"Regardless," Aunt said, pulling a piece of bread off the loaf. "It's not sweet." She popped the bread in her mouth.

"Herr Reiniger wouldn't know what sweet was if it bit him on the nose," Claire said, chewing a cut of chicken.

Earlier, Claire had nearly struck Carsten, and she worried the move had prompted the beginning of her end. He'd become far too quiet since then. Despite her desire to lash out, she needed to be nicer to determine if he would truly help them or not. Carsten lifted his icy blue eyes to hers, setting his notebook aside. Without a word, he went back to eating his dinner. After he swallowed, Claire thought surely some callous sentence would follow. He wiped his hands and disappointed her by keeping silent yet again. Claire eyed the notebook, trying to read the marks, but it was in German and some form of shorthand she had never seen, or so she surmised by the hieroglyphics.

"When you have finished your dinner, we will be on our way," Carsten said.

Claire lifted her eyes from the pad of paper, aghast. That was worse than anything she'd expected.

"You can't take her out there with you," Aunt said.

"What would you have me do?" Carsten asked. "Leave her here so you can make your escape? It would probably please your father to no end to see you do so and be hunted down like animals and shot. I am not in the mood to go hunting." Carsten wagged his finger. "Nein. She comes with me."

"Some imagination you have." Aunt said, bewildered.

"You seem to think this is my first time out of the stable." Carsten smiled scornfully. "I can assure you it is not. Now-I am in charge of our little expedition. What I say goes."

"Reiniger," Marcel interrupted with a deep rasp.

Carsten shifted his attention to the innkeeper. Claire followed suit. Marcel held his dark eyes on the open door. Claire and then Carsten turned their heads to see out the portal as well. A man strolled by, smoking a cigarette in the gloomy evening. He paused and Claire observed Carsten's nonchalant reaction. Then he gestured discretely and received the appropriate response. As if nothing had happened, he put all his attention back on the meal and the man walked on. It played out just like in the movies, Claire thought.

"Who was that?" Aunt asked.

"One of my contacts," Carsten said. "Finish your dinner." His eyes went to Claire, who sat with her arms crossed before an empty plate. He sat back, finishing the morsel in his mouth. He took a long drink from his wine glass and then set it down, eyeing the last bit of gold liquid left behind. "Time for us to go, Fräulein."

Claire's heart skipped. He stood and waited for her to do the same. He pocketed his notebook and fixed his jacket. Her eyes switched to her plate, bones and crumbs. What if this was merely a ruse to get rid of her? She worried she would end up like the chicken on her plate. Uncrossing her arms, she remained seated.

"Come along," Carsten said. "I promise not to kill you yet."

Aunt stopped chewing her food. Claire slowly rose to her feet. So far, he had only lied about who he was back in Boston. She eyed him warily.

"I will keep watch of Madame Noreen while you are gone, Reiniger," Marcel said in surprisingly good English.

"Come." Carsten flashed a grin and held out his arm.

Marcel stepped toward their table. His gracious smile met Aunt's uneasy one.

"You go with Monsieur Reiniger, Mademoiselle," Marcel told Claire. "He is a favorite of the ladies. Why don't you like him?"

"I bet he is." Claire frowned, finding her fire again.

Carsten shrugged at her disapproval.

"They only think I have money," Carsten explained.

"Is that all?" Claire asked doubtfully, cocking her head to the side for emphasis.

"Why do you mind?" Carsten challenged.

Claire drew up self-consciously. Her eyes shifted over each of their faces. Aunt focused on her food and wouldn't offer any assistance. It was just as well, as she had offered her aunt no aid a moment ago. Claire came back to Carsten, he looked amused by the results of his question.

"I simply want to know what kind of man I will be left alone with in the dark, in another country, with no one to help should I cry out," Claire replied.

"I am sure it is not help you will need if it comes to that," Carsten dared. She simply opened the door and invited the reply. He smirked cunningly.

Aunt stopped eating. Her eyes bulged at Carsten's boldness.

"How dare you," Claire gasped.

"You should be more careful of what you say. I assume your aunt raised you better than that," Carsten said. "Now. Come along. It is getting late and I must make my contact."

Claire didn't move from where she stood by her chair. Her eyes narrowed, daring him to put his hands on her again. He didn't disappoint. His hand clamped down on her wrist and he pulled her behind him, much to the amusement of his friend Marcel.

"I knew he liked her," Marcel said to Aunt, laughing and clapping his hands with approval. He spoke French, hoping to save Carsten the embarrassment of them hearing. "It makes him so angry. How magnificent!"

But Claire did understand. Not every word was clear, but she got the gist and knew what would come next.

Carsten hesitated at the door, pulling Claire back with him.

"Mind your manners, Marcel," Carsten said in French. "I've grown rather fond of that one," he added, nodding to Aunt.

Marcel's jovial grin faded.

Claire listened carefully, trying to pull snippets of her French classes from the back of her mind. Just like with German, she had few moments of clarity washed away by horrified confusion. If her teacher saw her now, she would be mortified with his matter-of-fact I told you so. It wasn't her fault he'd failed to interest her in the subject. If she'd known it would be this important, she would have tried harder.

Marcel sat in Carsten's vacated seat opposite Aunt. His broad handsome smile brightened his mien. Aunt regarded him carefully. She continued to eat her supper, boldly meeting the stranger's regard but oddly at a loss for words.

"I don't think it's this one you have grown fond of, my young man," Marcel replied in French, laughing.

Claire swallowed hard. By the look on Carsten's face, the man was taunting him again.

Carsten glowered and stormed out of the inn with Claire in tow. She pulled back on her wrist and scuffled along the sidewalk, trying to keep up with his hurried pace.

"Let go," she snapped, yanking her arm back with all her might, tired of being treated as a piece of luggage. "You're hurting me," she cried, freeing herself.

Carsten spun around as if ready with a witty retort, but was mute. She rubbed her wrist, near tears.

"I am sorry," he blurted. "Marcel."

"You're sorry-Marcel what?" Claire said.

"What he said." Carsten was surprisingly upset.

"What did he say?" Claire asked, though she mostly thought she knew. She rubbed her arm, keeping her eyes on her wounded flesh, afraid to meet his gaze.

"It is no matter." Carsten dismissed it with a measure of quiet anger.

"Well, it must matter if it makes you this crazy," Claire said, showing him her bruised wrist. She only hoped it did matter.

"Come. We must go now," Carsten said, changing the subject.

He lit a cigarette in avoidance of her.

"I don't know why you think we would run," Claire said, following without prompting. "There is nowhere for us to turn without one of you breathing down our necks."

"You would have tried," Carsten said. He warily concentrated on the darkening streets.

A brief silence fell between them.

"I would have tried," Claire said. "But do you blame me?" Claire continued to nurse her arm.

"Let me see." Carsten stopped. He took her hand and pushed the sleeve back. Red fingerprints marked her ivory skin. He gently rotated her arm and felt the wrist, then carefully rubbed the muscles of her forearm. "This should relax the tension," he said.

Claire watched him work on her arm, slowly losing her reason with each touch. The smoke of his cigarette kept her face turned away from his. He did the hand thing again before gently massaging her arm. Although his warmth soothed her injured flesh, it did not touch her worries. In fact, his touch as well as his proximity was raising other concerns. His breath feathered on her shoulder as they stood close. She lifted her chin and cast her eyes past him along the dim street. Sucking her lip behind her teeth, she bit down, trying to ignore the tumult of emotions consuming her. His hand slipped up her arm, as he continued massaging. Then he stopped and she was left cold and confused. For the briefest of moments, Claire was lead to believe that he was more concerned for her welfare than her. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Better?" Carsten asked, puffing smoke. A strange suggestion glinted in his eyes.

Claire looked away, trying to recover her wits. She nodded and he stepped to her other side, placing her unbruised arm in his and they walked up the lane. Claire's heart quickened with the ideas that flooded her mind. If he cared, he would protect them. That was only logical. But Carsten wasn't always logical. Perhaps he only sniffed at her skirt to see what he could get. It would be just like a man to take advantage at such a time. She grimaced, knowing that lust was just as dangerous as indifference or hate. She might win herself a few more weeks keeping his bed warm, but in the end she would have compromised everything for nothing, and died a traitor.

"I have been a nightmare," Carsten said. "For that, I apologize. I did not expect things to turn out this way and I had no plan to deal with it. I am afraid my commanders will be quite upset with how things have turned out. After all, you are not sympathetic to the Reich as your father is. And I brought you here. My anger-I do not want to live with your deaths on my conscience."

"What conscience?" Claire asked. Pride was a dangerous emotion too.

"This is not my grand plan," Carsten said, as they rounded a bend. "I have my orders and will follow them. Nothing more."

"Disillusioned soldier," Claire murmured.

"Not quite," Carsten said.

"Then what?" Claire asked. A few more words and she would have a better idea of what was driving him.

Carsten opened his mouth to speak as they came to another corner. Claire's brows knitted together as she took in the scene. The alley was dark between the buildings and absent of occupation soldiers. Rubble was everywhere. Material that had once constructed a building wall blocked the road. Claire's vision cleared and she realized the alley was actually a gutted shell of a house.

"Then what?" she repeated, distracted by the silhouette of the crumbling posterior wall against the cobalt sky.

"Monsieur Reiniger." A voice came from the dark. It was a Frenchman.

Carsten stepped in front of Claire. He was more on edge than ever. The man emerged from the alley. By the shape of his silhouette, it was the same one who'd darkened the door of the inn. Stepping toward them, he fully revealed himself.

The Frenchman had a squat build and plain brown hair. Cigarette smoke got into one of his eyes, making him squint. His face was like leather-sunbaked and bronzed. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. He lowered it into his hands and Claire noticed his gray-green eyes peering at her.

"Who is this?" the man asked.

"Healey's daughter," Carsten replied stiffly.

Claire recognized a few words for once, but was little comforted.

The man puffed on his cigarette, eyed her and then nodded.

"This way." He waved them toward the alley.

Carsten reached behind him where Claire hid against his back.

"Stay close," he whispered. "You never know who you're really dealing with," he added with a not-so-reassuring smirk.

Claire smirked at the irony of his words. She reluctantly placed her hand in his and followed him into the alley past the smoking man. She eyed the stranger, expecting him to fire his rifle, but he only winked at her.

"I wish you would have let me stay with Aunt," Claire whispered. "This is just nuts."

Carsten didn't respond. He concentrated on the darkness and the shadows on the walls. A murmur of voices buzzed. Boots scraped stone.

"Far enough," an eerily familiar voice called out to them and they halted.

The dark and the silence pressed in on them. Claire listened to her own uneasy breathing and Carsten squeezed her fingers gently to let her know he still stood at her side.

"Reiniger!" a voice boomed after a short pause.

A light suddenly glared radiantly from a single fiery bulb, and the gutted building took on a devious new aspect. Before them stood a group of men who had gone to the devil, using the war as an excuse. They reminded Claire of the submarine crew, only this time they stood in an alley of blood-red brick. Claire's eyes slipped up the walls, seeing the marks where floors had once been anchored. Wallpaper, partly torn, wavered in the wind. High up by a blasted out window, a picture still hung in its frame, battered but insistent of its place. Claire swallowed.

"Gustave!" Carsten called out, delighted.

A large, dark haired man pushed his way forward through the others. He looked remarkably like Marcel, having only a dark moustache where Marcel kept a full beard. Claire surmised they were brothers, likely twins.

Carsten's hand slipped from hers. He went to Gustave and the men embraced. Claire backed away with the idea of fleeing. The Frenchman acted half drunk when he greeted her escort, and they both smiled too fervently to be mere acquaintances. Claire assumed there was a long story behind the warm greeting. Though it was the perfect opportunity to get away, her legs were like lead and she couldn't will herself to run. A pair of the Frenchmen circled her and made a close study, putting an end to any retreat. One touched her jacket, pulling at it and feeling the fabric between his dirty fingers. The other did so with her hair.

"Mr. Reiniger," she called.

Carsten and Gustave looked in her direction as the pair of heavies closed in on her.

"Claude, Eugène," Gustave called. He pointed his thumb in the other direction. "She belongs to Mr. Reiniger," he said. The men glowered, then resentfully stepped away. "And who is this lovely thing?"

"Herr Healey's daughter, Claire," Carsten explained.

Claire stepped closer to them, keeping an eye on the shadows beyond the light. Their eyes bored through her. She felt exposed and vulnerable. Claire stood as near to Carsten as possible. Assured the men were reined in, she focused on her escort and his new companion. She held her tongue, listening carefully to what they said.

"You made no mention," Gustave said, confused.

"Change of plans," Carsten told him.

"Some change." The man nodded. He put a thick hand on his ample chest and sighed. "Do you want me to see if I can get her out?"

"Nein," Carsten said. "They would have my head. Too many people have seen her already. She's a good girl. She'll be fine if she listens to what I tell her."

"If the Führer doesn't try to steal her from you!" Gustave exclaimed.

Carsten chuckled at the double meaning.

Claire's gaze shifted over the men, confused by the sudden laughter. When she at last pieced together a translation, she hoped it was wrong.

"Focke sent word I'll need assistance getting through to Berlin," Carsten said.

"I got word." Gustave nodded. "We leave in the morning."

Carsten nodded. He put his hand in his pocket and cast his eyes about, not seeming to focus on anything.

"Do we need anything special?"

"Nein," Carsten replied. "I'll be leaving you in Köln. Can you get back from there?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"My drop is Bastogne," Gustave said.

"But that's too early," Carsten said.

"They're inserting another man there," Gustave said. "Supposedly a Belgian agent-man by the name of Jonas Mertens. You'll be taking him to Köln."

Carsten examined the cobblestones.

"I've not heard of him either," Gustave said, crossing his arms. "Sources say he's SS."

Carsten's chin quickly lifted. Claire started, recognizing the name of the secret police. She drew even closer to Carsten, having on one else to protect her from the looming threat.

"I've no doubt," Carsten said, instinctively placing his hand on Claire's arm and pulling her to him. "There is word they wish to recruit me."

Gustave shrugged with a wave of one hand. Both men were clearly doubtful of the Gestapo's intent. Gustave eyed her.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get her out?" he asked again. "I know some men who know some Americans."

"Claire and her aunt will be safer with me," Carsten insisted, cautiously replacing distance between them, but keeping hold of her wrist.

"I have no doubt," Gustave replied a bit doubtfully.

"I'll see you in the morning then-at Marcel's," Carsten said.

Gustave nodded.

Carsten drew his free hand from his pocket. Claire caught the quick maneuver of his fingers as he clasped something between them. The men shook hands, hugged and patted each other's backs. Gustave pocketed his hands.

"Until then, auf Wiedersehen." Carsten smiled.

"Au revoir," Gustave said.

Carsten turned his back on the men and carefully took Claire's hand. She readily followed him out of the alley, wishing to be there even less than she wished to be alone with him on the street. They approached the mouth of the alley with only their footsteps to keep them company. Claire listened to the sound echoing off the destroyed buildings. The lamplight went out. Claire looked back, startled by the sudden darkness. Carsten urged her forward. She clutched his coat sleeve and let him lead the way. Then she realized he still held her hand.

Claire's eyes searched for Carsten's face. Though he stood beside her, he was barely visible in the dimness. The only light came from the nearly full moon and a dusting of stars. Along the street, the glow from a few candles and lamps snuck through cracks in shuttered windows and closed doors. She carefully released her hold on his jacket, then his hand. He let her go without recourse. Her eyes flicked to him every few steps.

"You did very well," Carsten said, pocketing his hands.

"What did you pass that man?"

"Orders," Carsten replied smoothly. He kept his gaze ahead.

"He said there is a Gestapo man meeting us in Belgium," Claire said.

"Shh," Carsten quieted her. "Not out here. How did you know that?"

"I listened to what he said. Don't worry yourself, I haven't studied French since I was a girl. I don't speak it. Not like you," Claire stammered, nervous that she'd worried him with her attentiveness.

"At school," he mumbled. "I had forgotten about that."

"Was everything in my file?" Claire asked.

"Not everything," Carsten assured her.

They walked on silently. He seemed more worried than her.

"What he said about the man," Claire pressed. She wondered why he wouldn't look at her. "Are you worried?"

"Only for you and your aunt," Carsten replied.

Claire's eyes widened. She'd hoped the threat of death had passed them. Her heart beat hard in her chest.

"Why did you refuse his help for us?"

"I thought you did not speak French," Carsten said.

"I said I had some classes in school." She smiled. "I could pick out a few words."

Carsten grimaced. "A few words-if you play your cards as I instruct. You will not need to be gotten out. They will take you in and you will be able to leave of your own accord when you are ready. But to where? The Americans will be searching for you, none too happy for what your father has done. Having run off with him, you have marked yourself complicit. So you must decide, prison or mind what you say."

"This is too much." Claire shook her head, glancing at the dark buildings.

"In time it will be nothing," Carsten said. "You must think of it this way: you are much closer to your mother. Your father will probably even let you see her in time."

"My mother," Claire whispered. The last day she'd seen her exploded in her memory. "I haven't seen her since the day Dr. O'Reilly came."

"Then it is well overdue." Carsten smiled. "You have something to focus on now."

"Hell of a thing to focus on, Mr. Reiniger," Claire said.

They exchanged glances. Carsten showed surprise at her choice of words, while Claire was left unsettled by his suggestion. Perhaps they really meant to put her and her aunt away too.