Else’s cheeks tingled as the blood drained away.
It wasn’t safe.
The receptionist poised her pencil over the appointment book. “Shall we schedule an appointment next week?”
“Yes.” Else’s voice choked out. She gave a false name, but the name and date didn’t matter because she would never return, and the receptionist knew it too.
Else’s mind fumbled over the protocol she’d learned for this situation. Take the papers home. Hide them. Tell Laila. Laila would tell the leaders. They’d arrange a new drop site. And no matter what—don’t get caught.
The receptionist twitched her head to one side, like a tic. She gave Else a hard gaze and one more tic. To her left.
The left? Did she mean to indicate the gentleman on the left?
Else took the appointment card, turned for the door, and swept her gaze over the waiting room with a nonchalant air.
To the right sat an elderly man. To the left, a pudgy, middle-aged man in a gray coat.
Else opened the door and trotted down the stairs. Was the man Gestapo? Or a Danishstikker—an informer?
She yanked up her hood, shoved her bike outside, and mounted it. No time to strap her briefcase to the rack, so she slung it across her back and pedaled away.
In half a block, she slanted her path across the street to justify looking behind her.
The man in gray swung his leg over a bike, his gaze on Else. He glanced away.
“Oh no.” Else gripped the handlebars hard. He was following her. Why else would he leave without keeping his appointment?
Pretending not to notice him, she pedaled away. Her breath came in frenetic little bursts.
What to do?
At the intersection, her bike longed to turn right toward the safety of home—but she couldn’t lead a stikker to her house. To her identity, to Laila, to Hemming.
Somehow she had to shake him without looking as if she were trying to shake him.
Else turned left, and her gaze strained around the edge of her hood. The stikker turned left too.
She forced her breath steady. Appearing unconcerned was the best defense.
At least she had youth on her side, and she pedaled faster. But not guilty-fast.
A map of Copenhagen flew through her mind. Where might she be able to lose him?
Her briefcase swung off her back and around to her side, throwing off her balance. Else gasped, fought her wobbling tires on the damp pavement, and elbowed her briefcase back in place.
What was she thinking, trying to be sneaky and clandestine? As a child, she’d never been able to fool her brothers or lie to her parents.
Moisture tickled her eyes.Lord, help me think straight. Help me escape.
Crowded streets would be good. Busy intersections. Traffic lights.
The Trianglen! Only a few blocks away, the triangle-shaped roundabout had half a dozen streets poking out.
Else turned onto Østerbrogade and glanced over her shoulder. Herre Gray lagged a block behind.
In the heavier traffic, Else weaved among the bicycles, a bit faster than the others.
Up ahead, the traffic light before the Trianglen turned red. Else pedaled hard and zipped through the intersection. Her bike wheels kicked up water and dampened her stockings. Now was her chance.
