He didn’t sign it; Rosalie would know from whom it came by the envelope.
Then he searched for another sheet of paper, this one without evidence of its origin. He found nothing, only the blank endsheet from a catechism. It would have to do; he tore it from the binding and scribbled a note in German.
“You must take this one to a friend of mine,” he said to Henri, holding up Rosalie’s refolded envelope. “And this one to the Kommandantur, to be forwarded to the Major who once billeted at Isa’s. I’ll give you explicit directions to Rosalie’s—”
But Henri was shaking his head. He pointed to Edward, then started toward the door, motioning Edward to follow.
“I must reach the American ambassador, Henri. And you must get those messages off. Immediately.”
Henri pointed to Edward’s wristwatch; yes, it was early to see Mr. Whitlock at the legation, but Edward would find him somehow.
And yet Edward trusted Henri, and Henri wanted Edward to follow him. Edward didn’t doubt the man’s devotion to Isa.
“All right.”
They left the church. Edward didn’t look back, though he wasn’t at all sure he’d ever return.
Henri led him through the old city. They never varied their pace. Edward’s mind raced to all the things he could be doing, should be doing. Seeing Mr. Whitlock, imploring his own contact with La Libre Belgique for bribe money, trying to find someone sufficiently remote and disconnected to him yet willing to go to the Kommandantur to make inquiries about Isa and his mother. Finding a printer for the next issue was more vital than ever if he was to convince the Germans they hadn’t found the paper’s main source. Beside all that, Edward must establish a new identity. He doubted they would wait long before interrogating everyone who’d ever stepped foot inside Isa’s house, and several Germans knew he had a connection there.
Henri took Edward to another church . . . no, it was an abbey. Well, at least they were walking in the right direction. The American Legation was on the same side of town.
Henri rang the bell at the gate, and after a nearly unendurable wait, a nun opened the lock.
“Henri, you are early today. I don’t know if your mother is awake yet.” She glanced at Edward and smiled. “I see you’ve brought a friend. Welcome, Father.”
Edward barely managed a polite nod. His mind shouted to leave instead of entering this quiet, peaceful place. What was he doing here? He wasn’t about to hide away, if that was Henri’s idea. He had to do something. . . .
And what had she said? Henri’s mother? This made no sense.
The sister led Henri and Edward across a courtyard and through a vast room with a low, beamed ceiling. They navigated corridor after corridor, dimly lit by candles held in sconces.
At last they stopped. The sister tapped lightly on a rounded door. Edward looked from the sister to Henri, who stared so intently ahead he looked as if by his sheer will that door would open.
And so it did.
A woman stood there, dressed in the habit of a novice. Her face and hands were wrinkled with age, but her eyes were still a bright blue.
“Ah, my son! Mon cher, come here.”
Henri, so big and strong, would make anyone seem fragile. And this woman was nearly as tall as Edward himself. She patted Henri’s back with spirit and then, at last, noticed Edward.
“Well, whom have we here, Henri?”
Henri lifted a hand, palm up, directed Edward’s way, as if he were going to introduce him.
Edward spoke. “My name is Edward. And I wonder if your son and I may speak with you alone?”
Henri’s mother gave a little laugh. “Oh, Sister Zehara is as mute as my son when it comes to secrets.”
But Edward shook his head. “I’m not sure why your son has brought me here, but I believe it has to do with helping someone we both care about. She is in the kind of trouble it’s better to have no knowledge of these days.”
The old woman’s smile faded as she looked from Edward to Sister Zehara. The nun nodded, then left the room.
It was a small place, sparsely furnished. No adornments, not a personal item to be seen.
“I can see you’re troubled, young man, so you may as well get right to it. What is the nature of the problem?”
“Do you know for whom your son works?”
“Of course. The Lassone family . . . well, just little Isa now, since