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“East entrance is that way.” He points. “Around the building, past the motor pool. You’ll need to check in at the guard post.”

“Thank you. Carry on.” Cat nods dismissively and walks in the direction indicated, heart pounding but face impassive. Behind him, he hears the soldiers resume their patrol, grumbling about French technicians and late-night inspections.

He walks until he’s out of sight, then melts back into the shadows. That was too close. Far too close. But he has what he needs now, confirmation that this is a major communications hub, a rough count of equipment, and the layout of the grounds.

He’s about to retreat back to the trees when he sees it: a truck, parked behind the motor pool. The back doors are open, revealing piles of crates. And on those crates, stenciled markings. He moves closer, squinting in the darkness. Radio equipment. New models. And documents—he can see folders, files, papers stacked in boxes.

This is too good to pass up. If he can get just one of those files, one set of documents.

He scans the area. He’s alone for the moment. They’re lazy here, he muses, relying on the perimeter security. He climbs into the truck, reaches for the nearest box.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The voice is French. Cat spins around. A young man stands there, perhaps twenty, wearing the new dark blue Militia uniform. What was the name the old man mentioned? Bertrand? Maybe this is him.

“I asked you a question. What are you doing in that vehicle?”

Cat’s mind races. The German story won’t work on a Frenchman. He needs something else, something fast. He steps down from the truck, hands visible, nonthreatening.

“Checking inventory. I’m with the supply coordination office from Paris. These shipments keep arriving with missing items, and I’m here to verify . . .”

“Bullshit.” The young man’s hand goes to his pistol. “I know everyone who works here. I’ve never seen you. And no one checks inventory at midnight.”

“Look, I just arrived this evening. Check with the Oberst . . .”

“Oh, I will. Right after I arrest you for trespassing and attempted theft. The Germans will be very interested in you, I think.” He pulls his pistol, aims it at Cat’s chest. “On your knees. Hands behind your head.”

Cat calculates the distance between them. The young man is clearly inexperienced; he’s holding the weapon all wrong, too tight, his finger already on the trigger. One wrong move and it could discharge. But if Cat doesn’t move, he’ll be arrested, interrogated, tortured. Probably shot.

“I said, on your knees!”

Cat starts to kneel, lowering himself slowly. Then, in one fluid motion, he pivots, sweeps his leg wide, connects with the young man’s knee. Bertrand goes down hard, the pistol fires, deafening in the night, the bullet goes wide, ricochets off the truck.

Cat is on him in a second, wrenching the pistol away and using it to strike the young man across the temple. Not hard enough to kill, but enough to knock him unconscious.

The shouting starts up immediately. The gunshot has alerted the guards. Cat hears boots thumping toward him, voices growing ever closer. He grabs the nearest two files from the truck, no time to look at them, and runs.

Through the motor pool, past various outbuildings, toward the perimeter fence. Behind him, searchlights flare to life, sweeping the grounds. Sirens begin to wail. The entire château is waking up, angry and alert.

Cat reaches the fence, scrambles over, barbed wire ripping into his jacket. He snags his hand, draws blood, but he doesn’t stop. He drops to the other side and keeps on running.

Now under cover of the trees, he can hear dogs. He can’t stop.

He runs for twenty minutes, maybe more, until his lungs burn and his legs shake. Somehow he manages to hang on to the heavy files he’s taken. At last he comes to a stream, where he wades into the freezing water. He follows it downstream, hoping to break his scent trail. He prays the dogs will lose him now.

When he finally stops, chest burning, hands bleeding, he flicks on his flashlight and inspects the documents he grabbed. Two files. One marked “Funkverkehr Atlantik”—Atlantic Radio Traffic. The other, “U-Boot Kommunikation”—U-boat Communication.

Colonel Pallas is going to be very, very interested in these.

He makes it back to town as dawn breaks, retrieves his car, drives away before anyone can connect him to the intruder at the château. The checkpoints on the way back are more thorough. News of the break-in has spread, but his papers hold. His aristocratic demeanor holds. And crucially, no one searches the car, where the files are hidden in a compartment under the driver’s seat.

Arriving back in Paris, he slides the files under a floorboard before collapsing on his bed and sleeping a full twelve hours.

Two days later, Cat limps into the Thursday meeting. His hand is bandaged; he told a doctor in a town fifty kilometers away that he cut it on farming equipment. His face is scratched and bruised. Andrée, Tina, Félix, and Agent watch as Louis leads him into the kitchen.

Andrée sees him and her hand goes to her mouth, but she stays seated, keeps her face neutral. Around the table, the others are less restrained.

“Where’s Dancer?” Cat asks.