The elegant older woman turned to embrace Sophie, kissing her on both cheeks. “It is good to see you, as always.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said. “It’s nice to be inside. The wind is chilly today.”
Signe was beautiful. Her blond hair was pulled up into a neat chignon with not a strand of gray in sight. Long lashes framed blue eyes. Despite her years, Signe had a dancer’s figure – slender arms, a swan’s neck, graceful carriage. Even her nose seemed aristocratic. Sophie wished she could have seen her dance at the height of her career.
Looking into Signe’s face made her want to cry out in pain. Michael bore a fierce resemblance to his mother, and Signe was a stark reminder of exactly what had been lost to all of them.
“You will stay for lunch?” the older woman asked. They went through the same ritual every week. She always asked, and Sophie always stayed for lunch. Signe led her into the living room where Maxwell sat reading the paper and drinking tea.
“Sophie.” He rose to embrace her. “So good to see you.” Every time she visited, Maxwell looked a little older. His black hair had gone almost completely white. “Please sit down.”
Sophie didn’t bother with small talk. She knew what they wanted from her, and what she needed from them.
“The coalition received a new intelligence report from the area surrounding Parnaas,” she began. She handed Maxwell a photocopy of the report, and he added it to an overflowing folder in front of him. Sophie told them everything the coalition had accomplished that week, every scrap of new information they’d learned. She held nothing back.
When Sophie finished, Maxwell shared what he’d heard through diplomatic and UN channels. As an advisor to the UN on Northern European affairs, Maxwell had access to a great deal of information.
“No indication yet that the Soviets will back down about allowing the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees into the camp,” Maxwell reported. “Security Council is still deadlocked; no one wants to take on the Soviets. In other words, the UN is effectively tied up in its own knots at this point. Your coalition is the refugees’ best hope.”
After that, Signe shared gossip and rumors from the Orlisian community. Then they ate lunch. They had done this every Sunday since Michael had disappeared. Nobody outside the family knew about this exchange, not even Will. He never questioned where Sophie got her nuggets of inside information. She doubted Max ever gave her any truly classified material, but she imagined much of it was restricted.
After lunch came the hardest thing. Signe told Sophie about the years that she and Michael lived in Vollka. Places they’d been. Favorite excursions. Friends. Events. And always she’d pull out the photos, pictures of Michael as a child and a preteen, before he’d come to America. His young face made Sophie want to weep.
If she had to search for him in Orlisia outside the refugee camp, she needed starting points, contacts. He might go to familiar places and people. Sophie wrote it all down in a growing series of notebooks, never knowing what piece of information might be the critical one when she was on the ground in occupied Orlisia.
Oh God, it hurts so bad.
You have to. Always be planning.
At the end of their time, Maxwell invited her to his study, something he rarely did. Curious, Sophie followed him upstairs, where Maxwell put a paper shopping bag on the desk between him.
“I have some things to tell you that I didn’t wish Signe to hear.” Maxwell’s mouth settled into a grim line, and Sophie’s heart froze. “Intelligence sources have determined that the person in charge of the Parnaas camp is Commandant Vasily Jaros.”