"Doctors?" Gaby asked, frowning. "What doctors?"

"The doctors at the nuthouse," Mouse went on. He pushed his hair out of his eyes with dirty fingers and then dipped those same fingers into the pot. He took a taste of onion soup. "Oh, yes," he said. "This could use some paprika. Possibly a touch of garlic, too."

"What nuthouse?" Camille's voice was shrill, and it quavered like an out-of-tune flute.

"The one I escaped from six months ago," Mouse said. He picked up a ladle and scooped out some soup, then slurped noisily. The others were silent, still watching him; Camille's mouth was open, as if she were about to let loose a dish-rattling scream. "It was a place over on the west side of the city," Mouse said. "For crack-ups and people who'd shot themselves in the foot. I told them when they signed me up that I had weak nerves. Did they listen?" Another noisy slurp of soup, and the liquid ran down his chin to his shirt. "No, they didn't listen. They said I'd be in a field kitchen, and that I wouldn't see any action. But did the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds say anything about the air raids? No! Not a word!" He took a mouthful of soup and sloshed it around between his cheeks. "You know Hitler paints that mustache on, don't you?" he asked. "It's the truth! That c.o.c.kless b.a.s.t.a.r.d can't grow a mustache. He wears women's clothes at night, too. Ask anybody."

"Oh, G.o.d save us! A n.a.z.i lunatic!" Camille moaned softly, her face now matching the color of her hair. She staggered back, and Gaby caught her before she fell.

"This could stand a whole clove of garlic," Mouse said, and smacked his lips. "It would be a masterpiece!"

"Now what are you going to do?" Gaby asked Michael. "You'll have to get rid of him." She glanced quickly at the revolver he held.

For one of the few times in his life Michael Gallatin felt like a fool. He'd grasped at a straw, he realized, and he'd come up with a bent twig. Mouse was happily drinking soup from the ladle and looking around the kitchen-obviously familiar territory to him. A bomb-shocked German escapee from a mental hospital was a fragile lever on which to move closer to Adam; but what else did he have? d.a.m.n it! Michael thought. Why didn't I let this madman go? There was no telling what might happen if- "You said something about a financial arrangement, I believe," Mouse said, and put the ladle down into the pot. "What might you have in mind?"

"Coins on your eyes when we float your body down the Seine!" Camille shouted, but Gaby shushed her.

Michael hesitated. Was the man useless, or not? Maybe no one but a lunatic would dare try what he was about to propose. But they'd only get one chance, and if Mouse made a mistake they might all pay with their lives. "I work for the British Secret Service," he said quietly. Mouse kept poking around the kitchen, but Camille gasped and almost swooned again. "The Gestapo is watching an agent of ours. I have to get a message to him."

"The Gestapo," Mouse repeated. "Mean b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They're everywhere, you know."

"Yes, I do know. That's why I need your help."

Mouse looked at him, and blinked. "I'm German."

"I know that, too. But you're not a n.a.z.i, and you don't want to go back to the hospital, do you?"

"No. Of course not." He inspected a pan and tapped its bottom. "The food there is atrocious."

"And I don't think you want to continue your life as a thief, either," Michael went on. "What I'd like for you to do will take maybe two seconds-if you're any good as a pickpocket. If not, the Gestapo will pick you up right on the street. And if that happens, I'll have to kill you."

Mouse stared at Michael, his eyes startlingly blue against his grimy, seamed face. He put the pan aside.

"I'll give you a piece of folded paper," Michael said. "That paper should be placed in the coat pocket of a man I'll describe to you and point out to you on the street. It'll have to be done fast and appear as if you simply b.u.mped against him. Two seconds; no longer. There'll be a team of Gestapo men following our agent, possibly watching him along the route he walks. Anything that looks slightly suspicious is going to draw them down on you. My friend"-he nodded at Gaby-"and I will be close by. If things go wrong, we'll try to help you. But my first loyalty is to our agent. If that means I have to shoot you along with the Gestapo, I won't hesitate."

"Of that I'm certain," Mouse said, and plucked an apple from a clay bowl. He examined it for worms, then bit into it. "You're from Britain, uh?" he asked between crunches. "My congratulations. Your German is very good." He glanced around the tidy kitchen. "This isn't what I expected the underground to be. I thought it was a bunch of Frenchmen hiding in sewers."

"We leave the sewers for your kind!" Camille shot back, still feisty.

"My kind," Mouse repeated, and shook his head. "Oh, we've lived in the sewers since 1938, madam. We've been force-fed s.h.i.t so long we began to enjoy the taste. I've been in the army for two years, four months, and eleven days. A great patriotic duty, they said! A chance to expand the Reich and create a new world for all right-thinking Germans! Only the pure of heart and the strong of blood... well, you know the rest." He grimaced; he'd bitten into a sour spot. "Not all Germans are n.a.z.is," he said quietly. "But the n.a.z.is have got the loudest voices and the biggest clubs, and they've succeeded in beating the sense out of my country. So yes, I do know the sewers, madam. I know them very well indeed." His eyes looked scorched by inner heat, and he tossed the apple core into a basket. His gaze returned to Michael. "But I'm still a German, sir. Maybe I am insane, but I love my homeland-perhaps I love a memory of my homeland, instead of the reality. So why should I help you do anything that might kill my countrymen?"

"I'm asking you to help me prevent my countrymen from being killed. Possibly by the thousands, if I can't reach the man I'm after."

"Oh, yes." Mouse nodded. "Of course this has to do with the invasion."

"G.o.d strike us all!" Camille moaned. "We're ruined!"

"Every soldier knows the invasion is coming," Mouse said. "It's no secret. Only no one knows-yet-when it will be, or where. But it's inevitable, and even us dumb field kitchen cooks know that. One thing's for sure: once the Brits and the Americans start marching over the coast, no d.a.m.ned Atlantic Wall's going to stop them. They'll keep going all the way to Berlin; I just pray to G.o.d they'll get there before the d.a.m.ned Russians do!"

Michael let that comment pa.s.s. The Russians, of course, had been savagely fighting their way west since 1943.

"My wife and two children are in Berlin." Mouse sighed softly and ran a hand across his face. "My eldest son... was nineteen when he went to war. On the Eastern Front, no less. They couldn't even sc.r.a.pe enough of him up to send back in a box. They sent me his medal. I put it on the wall, where it shines very pretty." His eyes had become moist; now they hardened again. "If the Russians get to Berlin, my wife and children... well, that won't happen. The Russians will be stopped, long before they get to Germany." The way he said that made it clear he didn't believe his own conviction.

"You might help to shorten this war by doing what I ask," Michael told him. "There's a lot of territory between the coast and Berlin."

Mouse said nothing; he just stood staring into s.p.a.ce, his hands hanging at his sides.

"How much money do you want?" Michael prodded.

Mouse was silent. Then he said softly, "I want to go home."

"All right. How much money do you need for that?"

"No. Not money." He looked at Michael. "I want you to get me to Berlin. To my wife and children. I've been trying to find a way out of Paris ever since I escaped from the hospital. I couldn't get two miles out of the city before a security patrol picked me up. You need a pickpocket, and I need an escort. That's what I'll agree to."

"Impossible!" Gaby spoke up. "It's out of the question!"

"Wait." Michael's voice was firm. He had been planning on finding a route to Berlin anyway, to contact agent Echo and find the big-game hunter who'd had the Countess Margritta murdered. The photograph of Harry Sandler, smiling as he stood atop the carca.s.s of a lion, had never been very far from Michael's mind. "How would I get you there?"

"That's your job," Mouse said. "Mine is putting a piece of paper in a man's pocket. I'll do it-and I'll do it with no mistakes-but I want to go to Berlin."

Now it was Michael's turn for silent deliberation. Getting himself to Berlin was one thing; escorting an escapee from a lunatic asylum was quite another. His instincts told him to say no, and they were rarely wrong. But this was a matter of fate, and Michael had little choice. "Agreed," he said.

"You're mad, too!" Camille wailed. "As mad as he is!" But her voice wasn't as stricken as it had been before, because she recognized the method in his madness.

"We go tomorrow morning," Michael said. "Our agent leaves his building at thirty-two minutes after eight. It takes him approximately ten minutes to walk his route. I'll work out on the map where I want the job done; in the meantime, you'll stay here tonight."

Camille started to roar with indignation again, but there was no point in it. "He'll sleep on the floor!" she snapped. "He won't dirty my linens!"

"I'll sleep right here." Mouse motioned to the kitchen floor. "I might get hungry tonight, anyway."

Camille took the revolver back from Michael. "If I hear any noise in here, I'll shoot to kill!"

"In that case, madam," Mouse said, "it's best to tell you that I snore."

It was time to get some sleep. They all had a busy day tomorrow. Michael started for the bedroom, but Mouse said, "Hey! Hold on! Which coat pocket do you want the paper in? Outside or inside?"

"Outside will do. Inside would be better."

"Inside it is, then." Mouse took another apple from the bowl and crunched into it. He glanced at Camille. "Anyone going to offer me some soup, or must I starve to death before morning?"

She made a noise that might've been a snarl, threw open a cupboard, and got a bowl for him.

In the bedroom Michael took off his cap and shirt and sat on the edge of the bed, studying a map of Paris by the light of a white candle. Another candle was lighted on the other side of the bed, and Michael looked up at Gaby's shadow as she undressed. He smelled the apple-wine fragrance of her hair as she brushed it back. It should be done equidistantly between Adam's building and his office, he decided as he studied the map again. He found the spot he was looking for, and he marked it with his fingernail. Then he looked up once more, at the woman's shadow.

He felt the fine down of hair stir from the back of his neck along his spine. Tomorrow was going to be a walk on the edge of danger; perhaps an encounter with death. His heart was beating harder. He watched Gaby's shadow as she peeled off her slacks. Tomorrow might bring death and destruction, but tonight they were alive, and...

He smelled the faint aroma of cloves as Gaby drew back the sheet and slipped into bed. He folded the map of Paris and put it aside.

Michael turned and looked at her. Candlelight glittered in her sapphire eyes, and her black hair lay over the pillow, the sheet barely up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She looked back at him and felt her heart flutter; then she lowered the sheet, just a fraction of an inch, and Michael saw and recognized the invitation.

He leaned over her, and he kissed her. Lightly at first, on the corners of her lips. And then her lips parted and he kissed her deeply, flame to flame. As their kiss went on, moist and hot, he could almost hear the steam drifting from their pores. Her lips tried to keep him, but he pulled away and stared at her. "You don't know anything about me," he said softly. "After tomorrow we might never see each other again."

"I know... I want to be yours tonight," Gaby said. "And tonight I want you to be mine."

She drew him to her, and he pulled the sheet aside. She was naked underneath, her body taut with antic.i.p.ation. Her arms went around his neck, and they kissed while he reached down, unbuckled his belt, and undressed. As the candles threw their shadows large upon the walls, their bodies pressed together, embraced in the goosedown mattress. She felt his tongue flick across her throat, a touch that was so delicate yet so intense it made her gasp, and then his head slid downward and his tongue swirled between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She gripped his hair as his tongue moved in slow, precise circles. A fiery pulse beat inside her, growing hotter and stronger. Michael felt her tremble, the taste of her sweet flesh in his mouth, and he grazed his lips down her stomach, down to the dark curls between her thighs.

His tongue in that place, moving as it did, made Gaby arch her body and clench her teeth to stifle a moan. He opened her like a pink flower, his fingers gentle. His tongue slowly traveled up and down the route Gaby had led him to. She gasped as he caressed her, starting to whisper his name, but realized she didn't know it and never would. But this moment, this sensation, this joy; these things were enough. Her eyes were moist, and so was her yearning center. Michael kissed the hollow of her throat with burning lips; he shifted his position and eased himself smoothly into her.

He was large, but her body made room for him. He filled her with velvet heat, and her hands on his shoulders felt the muscles move beneath the skin. Michael balanced on his palms and toes above her, and thrust himself deep within, his hips moving to a slow rhythm that made Gaby gasp and moan. Their bodies entwined and thrust together, pulled apart and pressed together once again; Michael's sinuous, strong movements molded Gaby's body like hot clay, and she yielded her bones to his muscles. His nerves, his flesh, his blood sang with a symphony of sensations, aromas, and textures. The scent of cloves drifted up from the tangled sheet, and Gaby's body breathed the heady, pungent aroma of pa.s.sion. Her hair was damp, beads of moisture glistening between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her eyes were dreamy, fixed on an inner focus, and her legs clasped around his hips to hold him deep inside as he rocked her, gently. Then he was on his back and she above him, her body poised on his hardness, her eyes closed, her black hair cascading around her shoulders like a waterfall. He lifted his hips off the bed, and her body with him, and she leaned forward against his chest and whispered three soft words that had no meaning but the ecstasy of the moment.

Michael cupped his body around hers, and she threw her hands back to grip the iron bedframe as they first strained against each other, then moved in a delicate unison. It became a dance of pa.s.sion, a ballet of silk and iron, and at its zenith Gaby cried out, heedless of who might hear, and Michael let his control go. His spine arched, his body held in her pulsing grip, and the pressure flooded out of him in several bursts that left him dazed.

Gaby was drifting, a white ship with billowing sails and a strong hand on the wheel. She relaxed into his embrace, and they lay together, breathing as one, as a distant cathedral chimed the midnight hour.

Sometime before dawn, Michael brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. He stood up, careful so as not to awaken her, and he walked to the window. He looked out over Paris, as the sun showed a faint edge of pink against night's dark blue. It was already light over Stalin's land, and the sun's burning eye rose over Hitler's territory. This was the beginning of the day he'd come from Wales for; within twenty-four hours he would have the information or he would be dead. He breathed the morning air and smelled the scent of Gaby's flesh on him.

Live free, he thought. A last command from a dead king.

The cool, brisk air reminded him of a forest and a white palace, a long time ago. The memories stirred a fever that would never be quenched; not by a woman, not by love, not by any city built by the hand of man.

His skin p.r.i.c.kled, as if by hundreds of needles. The wildness was on him, fast and powerful. Black hair rose across his back in bands, ran down the backs of his thighs, and streaked his calves. He smelled the odor of the wolf, wafting from his flesh. Bands of black hair, some of it mingled with gray, ran across his arms, burst from the backs of his hands, and quivered, sleek and alive. He lifted his right hand and watched it change, finger by finger; the black hair rippled across it, circling his wrist, tendrils of hair running up his forearm. His hand was changing shape, the fingers drawing inward with little cracklings of bone and cartilage that shot pain through his nerves and brought a sheen of sweat on his face. Two fingers almost disappeared, and where they'd been were hooked, dark-nailed claws. His spine began to bow, with small clicking sounds and the pressure of squeezed vertebrae.

"What is it?"

Michael dropped his hand to his side, pinning his arm there. His heart jumped. He turned toward her. Gaby had sat up in bed, her eyes puffy with sleep and the aftermath of pa.s.sion. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice groggy but carrying a note of tension.

"Nothing," he said. His own voice was a raspy whisper. "It's all right. Go back to sleep." She blinked at him and lay back down, the sheet around her legs. The bands of black hair on Michael's back and thighs faded, returning to the pliant, damp flesh. Gaby said, "Please hold me. All right?"

He waited another few seconds. Then he lifted his right hand. The fingers were human again; the last of the wolf's hair was rippling from his wrist along his forearm, vanishing into his skin with needle jabs. He drew another deep breath, and felt his backbone unkinking. He stood at his full height again, and the hunger for the change left him. "Of course," he told her as he slipped into bed and put his right arm-fully human once more-around Gaby's neck. She nestled her head against his shoulder and said drowsily, "I smell a wet dog."

He smiled slightly as Gaby's breathing deepened and she returned to sleep.

A c.o.c.k crowed. The night was pa.s.sing, and the day of reckoning was upon him.

6.

"Are you sure you can trust him?" Gaby asked as she and Michael slowly pedaled their bikes south along the Avenue des Pyrenees. They watched Mouse, a little man in a filthy overcoat, pedaling a beat-up bicycle past them, heading north to the intersection of the Rue de Menilmontant, where he would swing to the east and the Avenue Gambetta.

"No," Michael answered, "but we'll soon find out." He touched the Luger beneath his coat and turned into an alley with Gaby right behind him. The dawn had been false; clouds the color of pewter had roiled across the sun, and a chilly breeze swept through the streets. Michael checked his poisoned pocket watch: twenty-nine minutes after eight. Adam would be emerging from his building, following his daily schedule, in three minutes. He would begin his walk from the Rue Tobas to the Avenue Gambetta, where he would turn to the northeast on his way to the gray stone building that flew n.a.z.i flags over the Rue de Belleville. As Adam approached the intersection of the Avenue Gambetta and the Rue St. Fargeau, Mouse would have to be in position.

Michael had awakened Mouse at five-thirty, Camille had begrudgingly fed them all breakfast, and Michael had described Adam to him and drilled him on it until he was sure-or as sure as he could be-that Mouse could pick Adam out on the street. At this time of the morning the streets were still drowsy. Only a few other bicyclists and pedestrians were heading to work. In Mouse's pocket was a folded note that read: Your box. L'Opera. Third Act tonight.

They came out of the alley onto the Rue de la Chine-and Michael narrowly missed hitting two German soldiers walking together. Gaby swerved past them, and one of the soldiers hollered and whistled at her. She felt the damp memory of last night between her thighs, and she nonchalantly stood up in her seat and patted her rear as an invitation for the German to kiss her there. The two soldiers both laughed and made smacking noises. She followed Michael along the street, their bicycle tires jarring over the stones, and then Michael turned into the alley in which he'd encountered Mouse the night before. Gaby kept going south along the Rue de la Chine, in accordance with their plan.

Michael stopped his bike and waited. He stared at the alley entrance, facing the Rue Tobas, about thirty-five feet ahead. A man walked by-dark-haired, stoop-shouldered, and heading in the wrong direction. Definitely not Adam. He checked his watch: thirty-one minutes after eight. A woman and man walked past the alley entrance talking animatedly. Lovers, Michael thought. The man had a dark beard. Not Adam. A horse-drawn carriage went past, the clopping of the horse's hooves echoing along the street. A few bicyclists, pedaling slowly, in no hurry. A milk wagon, its husky driver calling for customers.

And then a man in a long dark brown overcoat, his hands in his pockets, strolled past the alley entrance in the direction of the Avenue Gambetta. The man's silhouette was chiseled, his nose a hawklike beak. It was not Adam, but the man wore a black leather hat that had a feather in its band, as had the Gestapo agent on the road, Michael recalled. The man suddenly stopped, right at the alley's edge. Michael pressed his back against the wall, hiding behind a pile of broken crates. The man looked around, his back to Michael; he gave the alley a cursory glance that told Michael he'd done this too many times. Then the man took off his hat and brushed an imaginary spot of dust from the brim. He returned the hat to his head and strolled on toward the Avenue Gambetta. A signal, Michael realized. Probably to someone else farther up the street.

He had no more time for speculation. In another few seconds a slim, blond-haired man in a gray overcoat, carrying a black valise and wearing wire-rimmed eyegla.s.ses, walked past the alley. Michael's heart pounded; Adam was on time.

He waited. Perhaps thirty seconds after Adam had pa.s.sed, two more men crossed the entrance, one walking about eight or nine paces in front of the second. One wore a brown suit and a fedora, the second wore a beige jacket, corduroy trousers, and a tan beret. He carried a newspaper, and Michael knew there had to be a gun in it. Michael gave them a few more seconds; then he took a deep breath and pedaled out of the alley onto the Rue Tobas. He turned to the right, heading toward the Avenue Gambetta, and saw the whole picture: the leather-hatted man walking far ahead at a brisk pace on the left-hand side of the street, Adam on the right side and s.p.a.ced out behind him the man in the suit and the newspaper reader.

A nice, efficient little parade, Michael thought. There were probably other Gestapo men, waiting ahead on the Avenue Gambetta. They had performed this ritual at least twice a day since they'd zeroed in on Adam, and maybe the sameness of the ritual had dulled their reflexes. Maybe. Michael wouldn't count on it. He pedaled past the newspaper reader, keeping his pace steady. Another bicyclist zoomed around him, giving an angry beep of his horn. Michael pedaled past the man in the suit. Even now Gaby would be about a hundred yards or so behind Michael, positioned there as a backup in case things went wrong. Adam was coming to the intersection of the Rue Tobas and the Avenue Gambetta; he looked both ways, paused for a truck to chug past, then crossed the street and walked northeast. Michael followed him, and immediately saw the leather-hatted man step into a doorway and another Gestapo agent in a dark gray suit and two-tone shoes emerge from the same doorway. This new man walked on ahead, his gaze sliding slowly back and forth across the street. Way up at the junction of the Rue de Belleville and the Avenue Gambetta, n.a.z.i flags whipped in the breeze.

Michael put on some speed and pedaled by Adam. A figure on a beat-up bicycle was approaching, the front wheel wobbling. Michael waited until he was almost abreast of Mouse, and then gave a brief nod. He saw Mouse's eyes: glittering and moist with fear. But there was no time to stop the plan, and it was now or never. Michael pedaled past Mouse, and left it up to him.

On seeing the man's nod, Mouse felt a spear of pure terror pierce his guts. Why he'd agreed to something like this, he'd never know. No, that was wrong; he knew fully well why he'd agreed. He wanted to get home, to his wife and children, and if this was the only way to do it...

He saw a man with two-tone shoes glance sharply at him, then away. And walking perhaps twenty feet behind the two-tones was the blond-haired man with round eyegla.s.ses whose description had been drilled into his head. He saw the dark-haired woman approaching, slowly pedaling her bicycle. She'd made enough noise last night to give the dead hard-ons. G.o.d, how he missed his wife! The blond man, wearing a gray overcoat and carrying a black valise, was nearing the intersection of the Rue St. Fargeau. Mouse pedaled a little faster, trying to get into position. His heart was hammering, and a gust of wind almost threw him off balance. He had the piece of paper clenched in his right hand. The blond man stepped off the curb, began to cross the Rue St. Fargeau. G.o.d help me! Mouse thought, his face tight with fear. A velo taxi swept past him, upsetting his aim. His front wheel wobbled violently, and Mouse thought for a terrible instant that it was going to leap off its spokes. And then the blond man was almost up on the opposite curb, and that was when Mouse gritted his teeth and swerved to the right. He threw himself over, the tires skidding out from under him on the edge of the curb, and his shoulder brushed the blond man's arm as Mouse fell. He reached out with both hands, seemingly fighting the air for a grip. His right hand darted into the coat's folds; he felt patched wool lining and the rim of a pocket. His fingers opened. Then the bicycle and his body crashed down over the curb, the impact whooshing the breath out of him. His right hand, the palm sweating, was empty.

The blond-haired man had gone on three paces. He turned, looked back at the fallen, raggedy figure in the gutter, and stopped. "Are you all right?" he asked in French, and Mouse smiled stupidly and waved.

And as the blond-haired man turned away again and kept walking, Mouse saw a gust of wind swirl the folds of his overcoat-and a small piece of paper spun out of them and took flight.

Mouse gasped with horror. The paper spun like a treacherous b.u.t.terfly, and Mouse reached out for it but the thing whirled past. It landed on the sidewalk, and was scooted along a few more inches. Mouse reached for it again, sweat on the back of his neck. A dark brown, polished shoe stepped on his fingers, and crunched down.

Mouse looked up, still smiling stupidly. The man who stood over him wore a dark brown suit and a fedora. He was smiling, too. Except his face was gaunt and his eyes were cold, and his thin-lipped mouth was not shaped for a smile. The man plucked the piece of paper off the pavement and unfolded it.

Less than thirty feet away Gaby slowed to a crawl and put her hand on the Luger beneath her sweater.

The man in the brown suit looked at the writing on the piece of paper. Gaby started to pull the Luger from her waistband, aware that the Gestapo man in the beret was walking faster toward his companion and he was holding his newspaper with both hands.

"Give me some money, please sir," Mouse said, in his best French. His voice shook.

"You dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.d." The brown-suited man crumpled the paper in his fist. "I'll give you a kick in the b.a.l.l.s. Watch where you're riding that wreck." He tossed the paper into the gutter, shook his head at his companion, and both of them strode on after the blond-haired man. Mouse felt sick. Gaby was stunned, and she took her hand off the Luger and swerved her bicycle onto the Rue St. Fargeau.

Mouse picked up the crumpled paper from the gutter with his left hand and opened it, his fingers palsied. He blinked and read what was written there in French.

Blue suit, middle b.u.t.ton missing. White shirts, light starch. Colored shirts, no starch. Extra collar stays.

It was a laundry list. Mouse realized it must have been in the blond man's inside coat pocket, and it had been knocked out when Mouse's fingers had deposited the note.

He laughed; it was a strangled sound. A flex of his right hand told him the fingers weren't broken, though two of the nails were already turning violet.

I did it! Mouse thought, and felt tears pressing at his eyes. By G.o.d, I did it!

"On your feet. Hurry!" Michael had circled back, and now paused astride his bicycle, a few feet from Mouse. "Come on, get up!" He looked down the Avenue Gambetta, watching Adam and his Gestapo guards nearing the Rue de Belleville and the n.a.z.i building.

"I did it!" Mouse said excitedly. "I really did-"

"Get on your bike and follow me. Now." Michael pedaled away, heading toward their rendezvous point-the scrawled sign that proclaimed GERMANY VICTORIOUS ON ALL FRONTS. Mouse pulled himself up from the gutter, got on the wobbly-wheeled bike, and followed. He was shivering, and perhaps he was a traitor and deserved to be hanged, but the image of home bloomed in his mind like a spring flower and suddenly he felt very victorious indeed.