Richard reluctantly swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and wrapped the sheet around his waist. He picked up his shirt, smelled it, and frowned. Over Leslie's shoulder, the New York skyline emerged from the blast of mist.

"This is the last place I want to be." Richard rubbed the back of his neck to ease the onslaught of a headache. Claire was in New York. And his mother, Nanette Rose Hart, now Mrs. Stephen Bishop. He sniffed. "Question number one. What's Nanette doing in New York? Question number two. Why are we here?"

"Nanette married an American. Stephen Bishop, a wealthy industrialist. It was her way out of France. The Nazis were getting too close to the truth."

"The truth to what? That she's a money hungry opportunist."

Richard gathered his clothes from the chair. The tinker toy bathroom had little space to dress. He preferred to enter New York harbor after a hot shower and a shave, but he hadn't the time. He struggled to yank up his trousers, and hit his elbow on the wall while buttoning the cuffs of his starched shirt. He had no choice but to deal with his mother. He was on a goddamn ship with no escape route in sight.

Richard poured two stiff shots of scotch. The liquor splashed out of the glasses, and he wiped up the spill with the side of his hand. After handing Leslie a drink, he went over to the window for fresh air. "This isn't our jurisdiction," he complained.

Leslie shrugged. "We're here as a favor to the Firm and the OSS. And, we know one of the suspects, actually, rather well."

The Firm was an endearment for the British Special Operative Executive branch, and the Office of Strategic Services was the U.S. equivalent. Richard felt no loyalty to either agency, although he had been told the OSS needed him for a special operation, a hush-hush affair. All he knew was the two agencies agreed to collaborate. Once he crossed over to the OSS, he'd switched to an army uniform, his direct commission the rank of captain.

He shook his head. "I blow up bridges, warehouses, and shoot the damn bastards in broad daylight. They can't possibly want us to blow up a building?"

Leslie took a delicate sip. "It's about art."

"You're kidding. We're here to stop a bunch of art thieves?"

"Yes, that's exactly why we're here. And, the list of suspects involves someone we know quite well. There's Claire, for instance."

Richard sputtered, his drink spraying in a mist. His head shot up and he glared at his friend. It had been a year since he had last seen or talked with Claire. He'd remembered their last night together in October, 1942, a dreary foggy evening, made drearier by their fierce argument. Now he had no idea who her friends were, or what she did with her time.

"Surely, you can't possibly think she's involved in art theft?" His voice came out hollow.

"Of course not, dear, but the art world's small. Claire happened to be identified in surveillance photographs. She knows the people involved. One may possibly be a friend, or..." Leslie's eyebrows twitched. "...a lover."

A man with his hands all over Claire, and Richard clenched his teeth, a pain shooting up his jaw. He focused on the horizon, the skyline growing in scope. The ocean voyage had been choppy, but uneventful since the threat of hurricanes faded. A few times they ran into trouble with German U-boats but they outmaneuvered them. Sailing across the Atlantic was an unpleasant experience at best. Richard glanced at the crumpled blankets. Even the sex had been unsatisfactory.

"Leave me out of this. Claire and I...we're over."

"You must put your differences aside. She could be in danger and needs our help."

"She has a way of driving me crazy, even when we're not together."

"Don't be bloody daft. She probably has no idea what's going on."

"Claire and Nanette, how on earth are both involved?" Richard's headache stepped up a notch. "What an impossible situation." He wanted to groan, or better yet, throw a tantrum and refuse to disembark from the ship. Of course, he wouldn't do either, but the temptation was seductive.