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“I have been trying to convince this woman to marry me for three years. Three years, gentlemen.” He shakes his head slowly. “Tonight she finally said perhaps. Perhaps! Can you imagine? I have been more warmly received by the Germans than by this woman.”

The taller officer blinks. His colleague suppresses something that might, in another life, have been a smile.

Cat presses on, shaking his head. “I ask you—is perhaps a word a man wants to hear after three years? You are men of the world. You understand my position.”

The officer looks at Andrée, who arranges her expression into something she hopes resembles dignity. He looks back at Cat. He hands their papers back.

“Move along.”

“Good night, gentlemen,” Cat says pleasantly. “I hope your evenings are more fruitful than mine.”

They walk. Steadily, unhurriedly, for one block. Then Andrée’s composure collapses entirely. She claps both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking, tears of laughter running freely down her face.

“Three years!” she whispers.

“I was being conservative,” Cat says, straightening his jacket. “I didn’t want to seem desperate.”

The next morning, in Saint-Nazaire, Sister Bernadette, Louis, and René walk through the city. The sister chatters cheerfully about church matters, pointing out buildings, discussing reconstruction. To any observer, she’s giving visitors a tour.

But Louis is counting. Guard posts every hundred meters. Machine-gun emplacements. Antiaircraft batteries. The garrison to the east, massive, still under construction. Barracks for at least two thousand men, maybe more.

They approach the port. German guards stop them.

“This area is restricted.”

“Of course,” Sister Bernadette says pleasantly. “These gentlemen are assessing the damage to civilian structures. The church, the hospital, the school. We need to understand what can be repaired. Surely you don’t object to us looking at damaged buildings?”

The guard hesitates. An elderly nun. Two old men. Not exactly threatening.

“You have five minutes. Do not approach the submarine pens. Do not photograph anything. Do not speak to workers.”

“As you can see, we have nothing with us. No camera, just here to observe.”

“Five minutes.”

“Thank you, young man. Five minutes will be quite sufficient.”

They walk along the perimeter. Louis takes in everything. The dry dock is being reconstructed, just as the dockworker told them. The submarine pens are expanding and being reinforced. The defensive positions are extensive.

Sister Bernadette keeps up her damage report at a volume for all to hear, should they be interested, providing a perfect cover for Louis and René to observe military installations.

“Five minutes are up,” the guard calls.

“Thank you so much. You’ve been most helpful,” Sister Bernadette says, and they retreat.

Back at the church, in their room, Louis begins sketching from memory. The port layout. The defensive positions. The garrison size. René adds notes, troop numbers, supply routes, weaknesses in the perimeter of the complex.

“This is excellent intelligence,” René says. “London will be impressed.”

“If we can get it to them. We still must get out of Saint-Nazaire. Through the checkpoints. Home to Paris.”

“Sister Bernadette will help. She’s helped others escape. She’ll help us.”

There’s a knock on the door. Sister Bernadette enters, carrying a tray with bread, local cheese and a small carafe of wine: a feast. “Sustenance for our intrepid spies. I thought you might be hungry after your walk.”

“Sister, you’re amazing,” Louis says.

“I’m practical. There’s a difference. Now, show me what you’ve drawn. I want to know what all my risk-taking has accomplished.”