I tried to avoid holding the parcel knowing what it contained but had to or else it would look suspicious. I know that Tom would be eager to open the well travelled box wrapped in thick brown paper covered in butterfly stamps and tied up with old string, secured with a familiar wax seal. He would probably visualise his wife dipping the wax stick in a candle, waiting for the melting to begin, carefully dropping a few blobs in the right places, hoping to avoid burning her fingers.

Wanda of course did not put lovingly baked cakes and pies into the box. She did not pack them around with old papers. Or add a few love letters, news about the baby and rest of the family.

I knew the box contained a bomb.

I ran away pretending to need the bathroom.

Tom never knew I was a double agent. Traitor.

Nor did any of the rest of my platoon.