Fifty minutes after they left camp, Hogan and Carter traded packages with Tiberius, a trusted Underground agent.
"Weekly troop movements," Hogan whispered as he watched Tiberius hide a slip of paper in his hatband. Troop details were vital for keeping Tiberius and his team out of sight and out of trouble.
"Glasmine dreiundvierzig," Tiberius replied, handing a black portfolio to Hogan.
The Colonel's eyebrows shot up. This was valuable. "Glass Mine 43? Good work," he said quietly.
Hogan maneuvered the package inside the lining of his jacket, into a hidden pouch Newkirk had created. London had caught wind that the Germans were designing a new category of glass anti-personnel mines, which used minimal metal and could thus avoid detection. If and when an Allied invasion came, London needed to know how these weapons worked. And if bombers could target the factories producing them, better yet.
The operatives parted ways silently, with only nods to acknowledge it was time to go. Tiberius left first; five minutes passed, and Hogan and Carter set off.
By then, the rain was pelting hard, soaking the men's boots and clothes, trickling down their faces and stinging their eyes. Hogan wanted to get back to the Stalag, but when the sky cracked and thunder boomed, he knew it would get worse before it got better. They needed at least 40 minutes, and the ground was getting soggy. Decision time.
Hogan pulled Carter toward him: "Safehouse 3."
Carter nodded and followed for the five minutes it took to reach their destination, an abandoned post office surrounded by gravel. They wouldn't leave footprints, and they would hear anyone approaching. But no one would hear them — Carter saw to that. "You should take small steps, toe to heel," he had trained the team. "It's the opposite of how most of us walk, but this way, you'll feel twigs and pine cones under your toes before they go crunch."
The men approached the tiny building soundlessly. They drew their weapons as they creaked the door open, then inspected inside by the light of a SS Totenkopf cigarette lighter, another gift from Newkirk. They both exhaled as they found the space empty. A grandfather's clock adorned the corner, its pendulum unmoving. By the dim light of the Totenkopf, they could see a wall of dark wood framing smoked glass that separated the post office lobby from the back office, broken by two counters.
"How long do you think we'll have to shelter, Sir?" Carter asked. He bounced up onto the package window counter and jumped down to the office side, where they could remain out of sight just in case.
"Until this lets up," Hogan replied. "First thing, let's stash these papers." He hated being out of camp with important information in his possession. Sabotage blacks were risky enough if they were caught; carrying concealed evidence was a ticket to the firing squad.
Hogan's eyes settled on the clock. He tugged the glass door and leapt back as it swung open.