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While fearing the wrath of Donovan, she shared O'Connell's resolve. This was her opportunity to make a difference. She raised her chin in assent.

"My contact will board the midnight train for New York—before flying on to Stockholm," he explained brusquely. "The meet is at 23:45. There's vital intel in it for us."

"What?"

"I was told only that there's a thank-you from Swedish friends." He shifted his leg off the case. "Open it."

Lifting the briefcase onto her lap, she undid its brass clasp and removed a large novel, Gone with the Wind. Her bookworm mother had owned the same edition—Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett in his arms, her heaving bosom a reminder of Julia's own feminine deficiencies. Fortunately her gams—

"Now open it."

Inside, a rectangular cutout held a stack of hundred-dollar bills about two inches high. The book felt hot in her hands; she swiftly closed and returned it to its case. Hearing the clasp's loud click, she glanced at the immobile patient in the other bed. Was he dead? Or playing dead?

"My contact is unknown to me. He'll be at the end of the platform holding Assignment in Brittany by Helen MacInnes. You'll hand him Gone with the Wind and say, Here is the novel I promised. I wish you safe travels. He'll give you his book, saying, Thank you. The same to you. Then he boards, and you leave." O'Connell looked at the wall clock. "Union Station is always jammed. You're in no danger—but need to move fast. You have fifty minutes."

*  *  *

Outside the hospital, she nabbed a taxi vacated by a harried doctor. "I know everyone tells you they're in a rush," Julia told the graying driver, "but I really am. It's a matter of national security." She felt as if she'd stepped from the wings onto the stage. He eyed her through the rearview mirror. She returned a steady look. He hit the gas.

A year ago, she had arrived at Union Station with two trunks, her portable Royal typewriter, and a passion to serve. Then, the crowds had energized her. Now they were a hindrance to her urgent lifesaving mission. The whole world, it seemed, was on the move, but she had to give priority to the desperate Danish Jews. Patting her mother's pearls for luck, she hastened through the great domed concourse, gripping the precious briefcase. The tiled hall echoed with the clatter of feet and voices as masses of people milled about, their faces grim or impatient, shiny from the humidity that had followed them all inside.

Elbowing through their midst, she passed a curly-haired Travelers Aid volunteer showing a map to one of the uniformed men waiting three-deep across her oval counter. They sat, slept, and smoked on packed wooden benches, coats and duffel bags at their feet. Everyone going off to war—or already there.

Americans will always fight for liberty. 17781943. The large poster depicting three GIs backed by three Revolutionary soldiers had been designed at the Office of War Information. Thanks to her Smith history degree and a family connection, Julia had obtained her first Washington job at the OWI Research Department, where she'd typed file cards on every government official at record speed. After two months and ten thousand cards, she moved on to OSS.

Wondering if the two army officers who'd commandeered her taxi would spot her, she headed for the Departures board, which indicated the Manhattan-bound train was on time. The big clock read 11:39. Six minutes till the rendezvous. Six minutes to save thousands of innocent lives—children, their mothers and fathers, grandparents and cousins—from Nazi poison gas. Her sweaty hand clutched the leaden briefcase.

The gate was swarming with military and civilian passengers rushing to board. Halfway up the platform, the person in front of her came to a dead stop, searching for his carriage. She almost crashed into him. Cutting off his profuse apologies, she pushed on.

But there was no man waiting with a book. Only a couple embracing, saying their farewells. And a tall voluptuous blond in a deep-purple dress and mink cape. She was holding a book, Assignment in Brittany. Their eyes connected.

Julia approached the fashionable woman. Seeing the expected title, she fumbled open the briefcase and, with a shaky hand, reached for Gone with the Wind. "Here is the novel I promised," she said, her voice waffling with nerves. "I wish you safe travels."

They exchanged books. "Thanks. The same to you." The agent offered an easy smile, which she then focused on a tall captain carrying an overnight bag. "Hey, good looking."

As Julia lowered Assignment in Brittany into the briefcase, the man with whom she'd nearly collided was staring. The embracing couple parted. One boarded; the other turned her way. Sweat trickled down her spine.

Keep your chin up and move forward, Caro urged. She strode down the platform, through the gate, and into the crowd. Then threw herself into the next cab.