Gerrit palmed the wedge of cheese in his greatcoat pocket and extended his hand to the Ukrainian. “Thank you for helping those men.”
Marchenko accepted the handshake and slid the cheese into his tunic pocket. “I can’t help them all.”
“Neither can I. But I’m concerned about you.”
Marchenko raised his unscarred eyebrow. “I know which guards listen to reason and which don’t. I fight only the battles I can win. This battle was worth fighting. Like Stalingrad.” His eyes gleamed.
“Soon to be liberated,” Gerrit said in a low voice. The Soviets had surrounded the German-occupied city, each day tightening their stranglehold.
“Someday we shall all be liberated.” Marchenko turned to the lorry.
Back at the bunker, Bernardus saluted Schmeling. “Thank you, Herr Oberbauführer. Van der Zee and I are due soon at Rozel.”
“Yes.” Gerrit saluted Schmeling as well. “I need to finish my periodic progress sheet.”
“Very good.” Schmeling rolled up the tunnel plans. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gerrit and Bernardus mounted their bicycles. Petrol was in short supply, even for the occupying forces, and Gerrit preferred to cycle anyway, especially on a brisk winter day.
The road wound along wooded slopes surrounding the bay. Gerrit did indeed need to finish his progress sheet at Rozel, but first they had a more cryptic appointment.
After church the day before, Charlie Picot had mentioned his favorite ramble through St. Catherine’s Wood and suggested Gerrit and Bernardus might enjoy it. Then he’d leaned closer and whispered, “Tomorrow. Three o’clock.”
With a little creativity, Gerrit and Bernardus had fit it into their workday.
Following Charlie’s directions, they turned right at a crossroads, heading inland. What did Charlie want to discuss? After Gerrit’s lemony maps had been delivered, a few weeks of silence had followed. Then Marie, the young girl who had greeted Charlie at the docks, told Charlie they should not use lemon juice because it wasn’t secure.
Yet plain ink was even less secure. Once again, their plans had come to naught.
The road turned to a muddy path, and the men dismounted and pushed their bicycles deeper into woods of moss-covered oak and ash trees, their bare branches dripping from the recent rains.
About half a kilometer into the woods, Charlie Picot leaned back against a tree. He grinned at the men. “We’re in business.”
“Pardon?” Bernardus said.
Charlie beckoned them closer. “On Friday, Marie introduced me to a British agent.”
Gerrit’s bicycle slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground. “A British—”
“He liked your map, Gerrit. He wants more, and he provided a way.” Charlie pulled a pen from his pocket. “The end screws off and forms a measuring cap. Inside are crystals to make secret ink. Dilute one capful in one ounce of water. You must use this particular pen nib, he said, with a light touch, and hold it at the smallest angle you can.”
“My goodness,” Bernardus murmured. “The tool of an actual spy.”
An ordinary-looking pen lay in Gerrit’s hand, with a turned-up brass nib. His fingers pulsed, not claiming the pen. Not rejecting it.
“We mustn’t use paper anymore.” Charlie squatted beside a duffel bag and unbuckled it. “We’re to use silk.”
“Silk?” The shops were stripped bare of wool and cotton, much less silk.
“This should last a while.” From the duffel bag, Charlie pulled a large bundle of white.
“Is that a parachute?” Bernardus said.
Charlie tipped up a grin. “I believe it’s how our British friend arrived in France.”
“Charlie!” Gerrit’s fingers clenched around the pen. “Do you know what would happen if the Germans found you with an English parachute?”
Bernardus grabbed the parachute and stuffed it back in the bag. “They’ll think you found a downed RAF pilot and didn’t report it. The penalty—”
