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A spy?

“I’m fine, Jon,” she says, relenting a little. “It was bad. What I saw in Oradour, that was very bad.”

He plays the professional interrogator and remains silent.

“Look,” she says, leaning forward. “Do you want me to say it bothered me? Of course it bothered me. I spent some time with that little boy Bernard and . . .” And suddenly her voice betrays her, and for a moment she cannot go on. Her next words come out in a lower register. “A terrible, terrible place. There, are you happy? You got me to admit that I’m a woman and I have emotions.”

“A human being, not a woman,” Herkemeier corrects gently. “Do you think because I’m a man I read your report without feeling anything? Do you think I didn’t feel some of the horror behind your very cool, detached, professional report?”

“I didn’t mean to imply . . .” She lets it trail off, embarrassed.

“Listen to me, Rainy, you’re one of the best field agents I’ve ever seen. You failed to get us information on the Das Reich, but you took out a fuel dump that slowed them down and saved American GIs. You also . . . eliminated . . . a maquis traitor. And you killed the Nazi bastard responsible.”

“Not yet,” Rainy says, and an almost dreamy look calms her features. “The bastard responsible is about five hundred miles east of here in Berlin.”

“Rio.”

The voice is familiar, and Rio suspects that if she’d refused that last drink she’d recognize it immediately. But as it is her brain is foggy and her step is unsteady. Cat is sleeping it off on the bench in the Tuileries Garden where Rio plopped her after Cat went facedown.

Jenou has accepted an invitation to go dancing with a rather dashing young Polish officer. Personal friendships between enlisted and officer are extremely out-of-bounds, but that only applies to officers wearing the US uniform. Poles are—at least to Jenou’s mind—fair game.

Rio turns toward the voice and blinks. Blinks again.

“Strand?”

He comes to her, places hands on her upper arms, and draws her close for a kiss. A rather sloppy kiss, Rio thinks, possibly because her lips are numb. Also because his face won’t quite stay still.

“What are you doing here? Have they moved you guys up?”

Strand glances furtively over his shoulder. And only now does Rio realize he’s not in uniform. He’s dressed in slacks and a white shirt with an Ike jacket, his only concession to military appearance.

“I need to talk to you, Rio,” he says, and even drunk she feels the urgency.

“Sure. What’s . . . I mean, what . . .”

He is looking around for a place to go and spots a café. One thing liberated Paris is not short of is cafés. He leads them to a table in the far back corner, to a booth hidden from sight each time the kitchen door swings open.

“Coffee,” Rio says. Strand orders a beer. She’s about to warn him that beer leads to staggering through the streets of Paris, but his expression is too serious for jokes. And not just serious, but heightened, alert. Nervous.

Afraid.

Their drinks come, and Rio downs the bitter espresso in a single gulp. Then she drinks half a bottle of mineral water.

“Okay, what is going on, Strand?”

“I guess there’s no good way to . . .” He stops, reaches across to take her hands, and says, “You love me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she blurts, then frowns, not quite sure . . .

“And I love you. I want to marry you.”

Rio laughs. “Are you proposing?”

“Oh, I know it’s not right, I should be on one knee, and there should be a ring . . . but all that matters is we’re going to still be together, no matter what.”

Rio may be drunk, but not so drunk her brain doesn’t raise the hairs on the back of her neck at the phrase no matter what.

“Strand. What’s happened?”