ONE OCTO~Ea 8， 1942
IT WAS A bad night for it.
There was a low sea mist rolling in. If it got much thicker
he wasn t going to be able to make visual contact with them.
To make matters worse he was late for the rendezvous; and he
still hadn t reached the place where they d be looking for him.
It wasn t much farther， but that final bit was going to take some
. doing.
Jonas Ruyter stood against a sea cliff with the weight of oc-
cupied France against his back and his boots ankle-deep in surf.
This was one of the most rugged parts of Brittany s reach into
the Atlantic Ocean: a stretch of the Quiberon peninsula named
the Savage Coast. The surf hissed in and out of caves， under-
cutting the cliffs on either side of him， where centuries of
pounding waves had gouged the solid rock. The Atlantic wasn t
being that turbulent this night， thank God. But the night mist
was solidifying while he hesitated.
Jonas squinted at the three-pointed semicircle of jagged rocks
jutting out of the water two hundred yards from the shore.
That was where they d be looking for him， if they were still
waiting， on the other side of those rocks.
He had expected to steal a small boat from the village of
Carnac on the sheltered side of the peninsula. But German
security around the bay had stiffened considerably since Jonas
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