Most recently, his companion had been Capt. Andries Romijn, a Dutchman in a British uniform, who asked friendly questions about Amsterdam schools and shops and restaurants, concerned questions about conditions in the Netherlands, and intrigued questions about Gerrit’s work in the Dutch resistance. All a ruse to determine whether Gerrit actually came from Amsterdam and to confirm his statement with details provided by other Dutch refugees. That part, Gerrit knew he’d passed.
Gerrit’s head flopped back, and he rubbed his sore neck. He’d have to tell his story again this morning. Each time, it sounded more ludicrous. If he hadn’t lived it, he wouldn’t believe it himself.
Was Bernardus undergoing the same tedious questioning?Gerrit hadn’t seen him since their capture, most likely so they couldn’t coordinate their stories. At least the British had been kind enough to inform him that Charlie was responding to treatment and was expected to make a full recovery.
The door opened, and Captain Romijn entered with an army officer Gerrit hadn’t met.
“Good morning, Captain.” Yet another round of questioning would begin, but Gerrit smiled, stood, and extended his hand to the new man. “I’m Gerrit van der Zee.”
“Col. Rupert Hargrave.” He stood tall and trim with a dark pencil-thin mustache. “Please have a seat.”
Gerrit did so. “Shall I start at the beginning?”
Hargrave opened a portfolio and slid a rumpled piece of paper across the table.
Gerrit hadn’t seen the paper for almost two years. A crude map in brown on one side and Bernardus’s familiar handwriting on the other. “That’s the first map we sent. It arrived! Bernardus wrote a pretend love letter to his contact in Saint-Malo. I drew the map with the lemon Charlie brought us from France.”
“Lemon juice.” Hargrave’s nose wrinkled above his mustache.
“The resistance contact told us not to use it again.”
“I’ll say. It’s a most indiscreet method.”
But Gerrit couldn’t help smiling. At least one map made it to England. “That’s why the British agent sent secret ink crystals concealed in a pen.”
Hargrave pulled something white from the portfolio and spread it before Gerrit.
He gasped. “One of my silk maps. So that’s what it looks like developed. The lines aren’t very straight, are they? And look at the gaps. It’s difficult enough to draw on fabric. Even more so when you can’t see the ink.”
“Tell me about this map,” Hargrave said.
“These are the German defenses on St. Aubin’s Bay—anti-tank walls, resistance nests, bunkers.” He guided his finger along thebrownish-black lines and guided his mind over the new information. “It arrived in England. Well done, Charlie.”
“It did indeed arrive.”
Gerrit sighed. “Too bad it was of no use to the Allies.”
“On the contrary.” Hargrave tapped the map with a narrow finger. “We’ve conducted extensive aerial reconnaissance of Jersey, and your maps confirmed—or explained—what we viewed from above. This aided our photographic interpretation techniques. When we studied aerial photographs of the coast of Normandy, intelligence such as this helped us interpret those photographs correctly.”
Gerrit’s jaw hung slack. “I never thought...”
“How about this?” Hargrave whisked the first piece of silk aside and laid out another—a diagram of a bunker in bright red.
Gerrit traced it with one finger. “That must be the secret ink the chemist made when we ran out of the British ink. Red—wouldn’t Ivy like to see?”
Hargrave glanced at Romijn, who nodded.
“Describe this diagram,” Hargrave said.
Gerrit pointed out the features. “This is Strongpoint Verclut on St. Catherine’s Bay. A Type 670 casemate for a 10.5-centimeter gun, a tunnel extending behind, two heavy machine-gun bunkers, a searchlight position.”
“When our lads landed in Normandy, they encountered similar casemates. Intelligence like this helped them capture the positions.” A shade of pink flooded Colonel Hargrave’s face, and he poked out his chin. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. van der Zee.”
“Not so hasty, Colonel.” Captain Romijn’s mouth rumpled, and he stood and opened the door. “Mrs. Mackenzie, would you please bring the tea tray?”
Hargrave’s gaze solidified. “It is indeed an honor. You did this at great personal risk and with great skill.”
Gerrit stared at his diagram, and his breath stilled, his throat cramped. His labor had not been in vain. It hadn’t achieved theresults he’d intended but had achieved perhaps even greater good. God had seen all of this, known all of this.
