ONE OCTO~Ea 8， 1942<br > IT WAS A bad night for it.<br > There was a low sea mist rolling in. If it got much thicker<br > he wasn t going to be able to make visual contact with them.<br > To make matters worse he was late for the rendezvous; and he<br > still hadn t reached the place where they d be looking for him.<br > It wasn t much farther， but that final bit was going to take some<br >. doing.<br > Jonas Ruyter stood against a sea cliff with the weight of oc-<br > cupied France against his back and his boots ankle-deep in surf.<br > This was one of the most rugged parts of Brittany s reach into<br > the Atlantic Ocean: a stretch of the Quiberon peninsula named<br > the Savage Coast. The surf hissed in and out of caves， under-<br >cutting the cliffs on either side of him， where centuries of<br >pounding waves had gouged the solid rock. The Atlantic wasn t<br >being that turbulent this night， thank God. But the night mist<br >was solidifying while he hesitated.<br > Jonas squinted at the three-pointed semicircle of jagged rocks<br >jutting out of the water two hundred yards from the shore.<br >That was where they d be looking for him， if they were still<br >waiting， on the other side of those rocks.<br > He had expected to steal a small boat from the village of<br >Carnac on the sheltered side of the peninsula. But German<br >security around the bay had stiffened considerably since Jonas<br >11<br ><br >