Knox complains to Dulwich as if Grace weren’t part of the conversation. “We’re making progress.” They sit at different tables in Café Papeneiland, a brown café—the Amsterdam equivalent of a London pub—at the intersection of Prinsengracht and Brouwersgracht. The mood is lively, the beer flowing. It’s so dark, due to the wood-paneled walls that stretch back to 1624 and and the thick smoke in the air that might be as old, it’s difficult to make out Dulwich in the corner by the main door. Grace is visible where she sits on a bench seat alongside a table of men, most of whom can’t keep their eyes off her. The three speak into their cell phones, a Skype conference call initiated by Grace. Grace places her hand across her mouth as she speaks into the mobile. “The object is to bring them to us. Not the soldiers, but the generals. The soldiers outnumber us. We have been lucky so far—all of us. If we are to expedite results, if we are to survive, we need a new strategy.”
