The Queen of Spades

[Charles Norris]

“Do you always get what you want, Monsieur Norris?”

Charles needed a moment to think about the question Victory asked him as they moved to the tango. Remembering back through his life, Chuck thought of the important things he had wanted. As a child during the dust bowl, he wanted food and to make the hunger pains stop, so his family had to work harder to get produce from the soil. Then when he wanted to make a name for himself in Pennsylvania, he had to train his body to show the other children that they shouldn’t mess with the new kid. He had to train even harder to become a fighter pilot, and then when he wanted to survive as one, he had to fly harder, and better then his German counterparts. But now, the main thing he wanted to do since being promoted was to fly in the squadron again. So far that hasn’t happened.

“Not without a lot of hard work.” Charles concluded, “Fighting for it makes the best things in life all the more sweeter.”

With Victory in his arms, and Charles in hers, he lead her across the floor to the beat of the music. Dancing was a newly acquired skill for Fl/Lt. Charles Norris. Apparently being able to do the foxtrot and most modern dances was integral to Commander training. Although it seemed like RAF COs did spend more time with the kind of “birds” that wore dresses then the ones that wore feathers. Especially for the recently promoted flyboy who was the poster child for the American support of Britain. Back in America, Charles the civilian could only do a little line dancing, and that was mostly just doing what the caller told you to do. But Officer Charles was proficient in the foxtrot, jitterbug, and tango, while he was adequate in countless others. Currently, those skills in the tango was what was being tested.

Move down the floor, hold Victory tight, loosen the grip, lift head, turn, Chuck’s mind was not only on the dancing. He was in occupied territory after all, and putting his guard down was not an option. “Killed during the tango” or “Died while fraternizing with the French” was not something he wanted to be written in his report. Trudeau too kept his ears and eyes open. And as he discussed modern improvements to fighter aircraft, fudging the details of course incase a collabator was listening, with an interested Frenchman sitting across from him, he also put his college level French to work by eavesdropping on the conversation Vallaury their host was having. French had been shoved down his throat by his parents, so it smoothly flowed into his head, almost like they were speaking the language he was born with. Words like d’inviter, Karl Ulvestad, Norvège, and Mouton Rothschild popped out at him, and when he got the general gist of what they were saying he uncharacteristically fell silent and allowed the other man to speak in broken English about what he knew about French and German aircraft. Casually, but quickly, he finished his meal, and once the man was finished and returned to his own meal, Dalton too stood up, acting like he was stretching his legs, but actually received the two airmen’s jackets and then walked over to the two people dancing to themselves. As he approached the swiftly moving couple, he watched Victoire’s curves smooth and fill through her red dress. But his annulaire became heavy and he quickly cleared his head of thoughts a married man shouldn’t have. The dancers stopped once he neared, Norris showed a slight look of frustration that only someone who fought beside him for years could notice, and Trudeau tried to calm his concerns,
“Don’t worry, no matter how much I would wish to dance with the exquisite Victoire,” and he held up the gold band around his finger, once again, “she would find out. I don’t know how, but she would and she wouldn’t be happy. Seriously though, I apologize for interrupting your dance, Chuck but” Dalton stretched towards Charles’ face, almost as close as Victoire a moment ago, “I overheard a conversation, sounds like a man named Ulvestad will be joing us. Sounds like he is Norwegian, and I don’t think we should let him know of our true allegiance. It would be like trusting a Finnish person with your woman. And he wasn’t checked out by our intel boys. So here.” Trudeau handed over Chuck’s worn brown leather jacket and the man in the Flight Lieutenant garb excused himself from the Frenchwoman’s grasp to slid into the heavy coat as Trudeau put his own tan trench coat over his 1st Lieutenant uniform.
“It will still be an hour until our friend will be expecting usl. You know your back-story?”

Chuck nodded as he returned to the embrace of Victory. “Carlos Rodríguez” he repeated the name from the bio he had memorized back in the barracks in Britain.

Carlos Rodríguez Zapatero, veteran of the Spanish Civil War as a pilot for the Nationalists, now a Managing Officer for the Spanish factory of Lebel Farming Instruments, an international French company with strong ties to their Nazi overlord. “Carlos” was currently vacationing with his friend Nicholas Fillon, the French Representative to the Spanish Branch who was now visiting his wife and kids in Paris.

Charles didn’t know if the people Dalt and himself were supposed to emulate were real or not, but hopefully if they got into a jam, Trudeau had told him on the flight over, they could hopefully use them to bluff good enough that they would be back across the channel before anyone knew that they were imposters. Unbeknownst to his sneaky 1st Lt, Chuck had ripped up his false papers the moment they touched down on the Paris airfield. Charles knew the Geneva Convention, and as he was now, he was just an American pilot who by chance didn’t have any insignia on his bomber jacket, at best he could convince any Nazis that he was a downed flyboy trying to make it back, and he would be sent to a POW camp. But if he had false papers, he would be a spy and get shot for the trouble of a couple of sheets of paper. And besides, if any German was close enough to demand his papers, they would be close enough to punch, and he would rather kill his way out then lie his way out.

With Trudea still standing there, Charles got back into the beat of the dance with Victory. Dalton excused himself to discuss the change of identies with their host, and as Chuck leaned he whispered, “Sorry about that, ma’am, but if you don’t mind, like I said, call me Carlos. No one here would come up smelling like roses if the Germans found out that there were 3 Americans under this roof. And the last thing I would want to do is hurt you, Victory.”

For the last part, she corrected him, her name was actually “Victoire” and if he hadn’t had a beard she would have saw him blush, but he blinked it off, “My apologies, Victoire, foreign languages isn’t something I’m good at, unlike…”

Chuck’s sentence was cut off by the announcement that the Norwegian had arrived, and as Victoire and Charles turned towards the door, in the back of his mind the flyboy had the terrible fear that he should have brought his .45.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire was already growing particularly partial to the Flight Lieutenant and his intellectual capacity, life approach and broad-spectrum perceptive abilities, as she clung to him tightly while he danced with her around the room, everything else completely forgotten, everyone else completely ignored, for the rest of the men were so utterly dull and painfully mind-numbing as would hardly stir her sharply feminine interest and cause her the slightest amount of concern. They were men talking of politics, military tactics, explosive techniques – did they know to talk of nothing else besides such insanely boring matters? What in regard to the fine arts? Had they absolutely no knowledge or desire to immerse themselves in something that would lead them to gateways out of this world, and possibly alter their perspectives in any way, shape or form? Sasha had been one of the few people in her life to share the same interests as her, but she had lost Sasha forever, had she not? Staring through the Lieutenant’s blue eyes, she could not help but notice just how crystal clear and bright they were, how compassionately warm, almost how innocent, contrary to hers; her eyes were a permanent faded, sinful steel-gray, ice-blue shade that was in chorus cold and calculating, irises dilating from the cavernous fascination presented before her, the elegantly thin and curvaceous lines of her scarlet lips slightly open as they moved to the sound of endless miseries, her long, thin and pale fingers gently touching his strong shoulder, ensnared by his viewpoint on toil and trouble bringing sweeter results in one’s attempts. A subtle smile, ever so small but charming, etched across her lips. “You fight for everything you desire, then,” she said in a low tone, and it was not so much of a question as a statement, “but would you fight even with the knowledge of fatality – never giving up even though you know the end will be the same? Even though you know … you’re heading to an abyss?” she asked him curiously, and for a second bore that knowing look through her refined features, before they were suddenly interrupted by Dalton Trudeau, who complimented her, and she only smiled warmly at the kind, polite man with the best of manners and careful speeches.

The announcement of the new arrival came as a slight surprise to Victoire, for she was not aware Charles Vallaury, from what he had told her beforehand, had expected an additional guest to his house; it was, also, rather late and the dinner party was already under its way to the point where any other visitor would intrude upon the course of the evening – however, being that this arrival had evidently received a formal invitation and would join them for the afterward drinks, it did not seem suspicious or unnatural. His identity, perhaps, would have been so, but had Norway not been violated by the Germans as well, thus placing them on the same boat of anguish and despair? However, at this point Victoire was not whole-heartedly convinced. Once Trudeau left, and Monsieur Norris turned to her and requested she should call him by his new identity, and especially, once he voiced how he would never wish to harm her, she bitterly smiled. “That is very noble of you, Flight Lieutenant,” she told him, though through her words not appreciation but amusement could be deciphered, and through those shrewdly glowing cold eyes a sentiment of resentful pleasure. He began speaking once more, but then the servant’s announcement interrupted their dance.

Victoire was distracted, too curious of an individual as she was, and looked over at the new arrival. In walked not a human being but a creature that seemed out of their world, out of what they had come across so far, and out of their spectrum of reality, not least because of the rather weird-looking appearance, not in terms of beauty or physique but rather the ominous and sinister aura that seemed to have gathered around him upon his entrance; the overflowing but subtly concealed arrogance, the shrewdness in those wise and cold dark blue eyes, the superior intelligence marked from his very posture despite the utter lack of conversation that had yet to take place, the delicate, insinuating condescension etched through the curves of that proud, self-righteous face, in which the signs of time had been carved through. The imposing stance, commanding stare and silent disdain served enough for her to realize at the first moments of seeing him how he was not to be trifled with – but these were characteristics only Victoire’s awfully perceptible nature were able to acquire at such an early time upon their acquaintance, and rest assured whereas the rest of the Frenchmen within the wealthy apartment would be charmed by the Norwegian’s serious and intelligent discussions, she would remain vigilant, and calculating.

Charles Vallaury and Claude de Beauvoir immediately rose from their seats, and approached the strange man. “Monsieur Ulvestad, soyez bienvenus à ma demeure humble,” he greeted the man, but his apartment was anything but humble. “J’espère que votre trajet ici a été rencontré sans incidents désagréables? Je suis Charles Vallaury, j’ai reçu des nouvelles de vous de mon bon ami, Claude, il a été assez gracieux dans sa description d’entre vous; je dois dire, j’ai été plutôt intrigué. Mais s’il vous plaît, permettez-moi de vous offrir une boisson. Claude m’a rendu conscient de votre préférence pour Mouton Rothschild, mais j’ai peur j’ai seulement quelques bouteilles de Château Lafite quitté dans la cave. J’ai passé mon dernier Mouton pendant une invitation soudaine d’un officier SS la semaine dernière. Oh, ces allemands!” he laughed. “D’abord ils éclatent par votre maison comme s’ils possèdent la résidence et ensuite ils engloutissent tout votre bon vin! Hélas, c’est les temps, Monsieur. Maintenant – Philbert!” he called at his servant, looking over his shoulder as he addressed him. “Apportez-nous un Lafite … le 1934, le goût est plus laissé vieillir que les autres.”

He turned to the dark, tall man and thoroughly – however, not rudely so – examined him in appearance, believing he appropriately befitted walking in their elite circles, judging from the ostensible prosperity surrounding him. “Permettez-moi de vous présenter à certains de mes bons amis, Karl. Puis-je me vous appeler Karl? Vous connaissez Claude, évidemment … cela est Zacques Baptiste, la nouvelle génération prometteuse, il a étudié la science politique et a reçu quelques offres excellentes du gouvernement Vichy pour certaines de leurs positions bureaucratiques …” he presented to him the men sat around the table a few metres in the distance, who simply nodded in acknowledgement, “ah, Émilien Rondot, un vieil ami mien depuis les jours de Verdun, il a déjeuné avec Clemenceau dans plusieurs occasions … Basile de Poissy, il a travaillé dans le Ministère de l’Agriculture et la Pêche … Jean Fabry, notre Secrétaire d’Etat de guerre pendant 1934 – ah, Philbert, bien!” he interrupted himself once the servant had appeared back in the room, holding an elegant silver tray on top of which had been laden an expensive-looking bottle of wine and a crystal glass, a high-class case of French cigarettes on the side along with a golden lighter.

“Now, Monsieur,” Charles Vallaury told the new visitor in his horribly accented English, “I’m delighted to intwroduce you to two very special guests of mine; zis iz Monsieur Nicholas Fillon,” he said, gesturing towards Dalton Trudeau, “the Frwench representative een Spain who ‘as visited our countwry to ree-unite with ‘is family – and zis iz Monsieur Carlos Rodríguez Zapatero,” he added, his hand showing towards Charles Norris, “veteran of ze Spanish Civil War as a pilot for ze Nationalists, ‘e is now a Managing Officer for ze Spanish factory of Lebel Farming Instruments, an interwnational Frwench company with stwrong ties to ze Germans,” he finished, and then faced Victoire, his auburn moustache tingling from the warm sensation he received whenever looking at her or speaking of her, genuine admiration glowing in his old, tired eyes and a strange desire to protect her from harm despite the fact he absolutely could not. “Et cela a été notre seul compagnon femelle pour le soir, assez gentil pour concorder aux dépenses de son temps avec nous tous la conversation d’hommes vieille, ennuyeuse de politique et l’armement. Peux je présenter, Mademoiselle Beaudoin, c’est Monsieur Karl Ulvestad.” Victoire looked at the man curiously, unsmiling, guarding but also quite strangely so, open, remaining silent for a few seconds until she stretched out her hand in proper social etiquette. “Victoire, Monsieur,” she told him in her low, careful and deep voice, and whether she was pronouncing her first name or using an allusion to refer to France’s ultimate victory in the war, that was never made clear.

“Ainsi!” Charles Vallaury interrupted this rather silent interaction in his cheerful, amiable tone. “Philbert, remplissez le verre de l’homme de notre vin excellent et permettez-nous de vous asseoir par la table pour discuter des questions,” he ordered his servant, and as the men walked towards the table around which the rest of the Frenchmen had been gathered, Charles moved next to Karl, appearing quite interested at this new turn of events and the sudden appearance of someone so utterly odd. “Dites-moi donc de la Norvège, Monsieur Ulvestad. Je vous entends avoir magnifique fromage.”




♠ Translation ♠

Monsieur Ulvestad, welcome to my humble abode. I trust your drive here was met without any unpleasant incidents? I am Charles Vallaury, I have heard from you from my good friend, Claude, he has been rather gracious in his description of you; I must say, I was rather intrigued. But please, allow me to offer you a drink. Claude has made me aware of your preference for Mouton Rothschild, but I’m afraid I only have a few bottles of Château Lafite left in the cellar. I spent my last Mouton during a sudden invitation from an SS officer last week. Oh, those Germans! First they burst through your house as though they own the residence, and then they gulp down all your good wine! Alas, it’s the times, Monsieur. Now – Philbert! Bring us a Lafite … the 1934 one, the taste is more matured than the others.

Allow me to introduce you to some of my good friends, Karl. May I call you Karl? You know Claude, of course … this is Zacques Baptiste, the promising new generation, he has studied political science and has received some excellent offers from the Vichy government for some of their bureaucratic positions … ah, Émilien Rondot, an old friend of mine since the days of Verdun, he has had dinner with Clemenceau on several occasions … Basile de Poissy, he has worked in the Ministry of Agriculture and Fishing … Jean Fabry, our Secretary of State of War during 1934 – ah, Philbert, bien!

And this has been our only female companion for the evening, kind enough to agree to spending her time with all of us old, boring men talking of politics and armament. May I introduce, Mademoiselle Beaudoin, this is Monsieur Karl Ulvestad.

So! Philbert, fill the man’s glass with our excellent wine and let us sit by the table to discuss matters. So tell me about Norway, Monsieur Ulvestad. I hear you have wonderful cheese.

[Otto Wolff]

A wolf in the midst of a flock of sheep, that was exactly how Otto felt. His lips curved into a very small, polite smile when the Frenchmen approached him, greeting their new guest in a manner that could only be described as overly decorous. The French had a penchant for talking far too much for Otto's tastes - he was more used to the prompt, no-nonsense way of doing things and being in France had made him realize how much he appreciated this particular German characteristic. For now he would tolerate their long, pompous speeches and pretend that he found them engaging, at least up to a point. The Norwegians were not ones to skirt around subjects or to garnish their words with endless frippery, either. He pushed aside his irritation for the Frenchmen and arched a dark eyebrow as he listened to Vallaury's seemingly endless speech, the man already going into the process of offering a drink to the Norwegian without giving him much time to react. The gaze of Otto's dark eyes was intent and attentive and even though the polite smile still lingered on his lips, the intended congeniality hardly reflected from his other features. Then again, he seemed like a businessman and not like a socialite, one that took part in such social gatherings out of necessity rather than enjoyment.

"Et c'est vraiment le plaisir de vous rencontrer, Monsieur Vallaury. J'ai entendu dire que vous êtes un homme avec un goût exceptionnel pour le bon vin et comme je peux voir, le bon goût s'étend à d'autres choses, aussi," Otto remarked, glancing around and observing the decorations of the apartment, his gaze stopping on the polished ebony piano for a moment. His eyes fixed on the Frenchman once again and the smile slowly disappeared, a sudden cold harshness evident in his voice when he spoke. "Et effectivement, je peux témoigner de la sympathie quand il vient aux allemands ruinant des choses pour d'autres. Ils vont quitter mon pays dans les ruines encore. Je redoute même de penser ce qui est arrivé à ma maison à ce moment-là. Peut-être c'est mieux que je ne dois pas en être témoin moi-même - je ne suis pas sûr ce qui pourrait arriver si j'ai fait." The Norwegians fingers started curling into a fist and the corner of his left eye twitched with barely suppressed scorn, but then the man took a deep breath and obviously tried to collect himself again. "Mais je vous offre mes apologies si mes mots semblent dédaigneux, il est juste que le sujet d'allemands a vraiment tendance à lever ma tension certains. Je suis sûr qu'il n'est rien qu'un verre de vin ne pouvait pas fixer, pourtant," the Norwegian accepted Vallaury's offer with an almost invisible smile.

As the Frenchman went into the process of introducing the other guests of the dinner party, Otto's mind automatically went into the process of studying each individual carefully, imprinting their faces into his memory and making note of their movements and reactions. It was a particular gift of Otto's to remember faces of people when needed, even years later - certainly a trait that had proved useful many times both in the service of Kripo and Gestapo. Baptiste, Rondot, de Poissy, Fabry... All the names and faces were stored inside Otto's head for later use as the man courteously greeted each one of the guests with cordial nods and quietly spoken words. Of course they could call him Karl, naturally he was so very pleased to meet all these fine Frenchmen and how sorry he was he had not had the time to join the dinner party earlier. Such benign words found their way out between the sharp teeth of a wolf as the predator masqueraded in the midst of them, content only in studying his targets for the time being. He was not an impatient, brash hunter - he would take his time to just observe them, waiting until the perfect moment would present itself and the prey would be caught truly unaware. The sweetest thing was that they were not even aware of being hunted. The mere thought made a new smile form upon his lips, this one more natural than the previous ones, although the reason behind it was far more dangerous than anyone in the room could have ever realized.

Clearly they had now moved on to guests that proved much more interesting than all others in the room and Otto's instincts sharpened up even more when Charles Vallaury suddenly switched from the elaborate and poetic French to horribly accented English instead. It wasn't just the sudden change in languages that caused Otto to perk up his ears and peer his eyes - these other guests were a curious bunch, indeed, ones that gave him a strange feeling of something being amiss. Not so much the one Vallaury introduced as Nicholas Fillon, but the red-bearded Spaniard, Carlos Rodríguez Zapatero. His stature and movements manifested the strength and power of a warrior and Otto listened carefully to Vallaury's explanation of the strange man's origins. A veteran of the Spanish Civil war, now a Managing Officer of a French company, a former pilot. Otto's dark eyes fixed on the face of this strange foreign man, trying to figure out his true nature. Both of the Spanish representatives had donned on their coats and it seemed as if they had been just taking their leave before Otto had joined the dinner party. Curious, considering that the servant had collected the other guests overcoats and placed them in coat hangers upon them entering the residence. He also seemed to resemble someone Otto had seen earlier elsewhere - certainly not in any official documents and not anywhere in person. He tried hard to put a name on that face, but for some reason he was unsuccessful, a fact that irritated him greatly. Yet another reason to tread carefully around this one, Otto concluded.

With a small smile, the dark-haired Norwegian greeted these rather unconventional guests as courteously as he had addressed the Frenchmen. "Karl Ulvestad," Otto introduced himself and extended a hand first at Nicholas Fillon and then, more cautiously, at Carlos. "From Spain, how very interesting. And a businessman, no less. I am sure we could talk endlessly about international commerce, but we would not wish to bore our present company, now would we?" There was wry amusement to Karl Ulvestad's low voice and the grip of his hand was strong, almost challenging. His English carried a slight accent to it, one that was very difficult to connect to any specific country. It was clear he was accustomed to using the language, but it was something that could be expected of a businessman doing trade in various different countries. The penetrating gaze of the Norwegian's dark eyes moved slowly to regard the only female in the room when Vallaury moved on to introduce her to the new guest, thankfully switching back to French once again.

She certainly stood out from the other guests, not least because she was a woman of considerable beauty. She was wearing a very striking scarlet dress, the cloth embracing her slender curves in an enticing manner. There was a strong contrast between her black hair and milky white skin, but it only made her appear all the more dream-like. Otto was intuitive enough to detect the intelligence behind those steel-gray eyes - clearly she was not just a simple decoration, one of those foolish little floozies who tagged along the rich elite just to get by on the little crumbs that might fall of the table of those who were better off than them. Well, she might have been here for the obvious luxuries, but foolish she was definitely not. Otto usually considered beautiful women only trouble, but beautiful and intelligent women... well, they were a whole different kind of trouble, weren't they?

Otto regarded the raven-haired woman with a small, slightly crooked smile and reached out to hold her hand when she extended it out for him. The Norwegian raised Victoire's hand slightly and bowed down to kiss the back of her hand politely, even though his lips never truly touched the woman's skin. There was being polite and there was being obtrusive - most of the time Otto was a gentleman first and a Gestapo officer next. He was the kind of man who would treat even his enemies with a fair amount of respect, he had been brought up by his father in a very old-fashioned and strict manner, after all. Letting go of Victoire's hand, the man straightened his back once again. "Karl," the man introduced himself, his dark-blue eyes boring into the woman's strangely glowing grey eyes for a moment, as if trying to grasp at the secrets hiding behind them. "Un plaisir, Mademoiselle." The Norwegian's voice was low and smooth, almost too pleasant for his ominous appearance. His attention was drawn away from the woman by Charles Vallaury's words, the Frenchman had already started fussing about the wine. With a somewhat irritated raise of his eyebrow, Otto nodded at the two strange men and Victoire once again, before turning around and following the host of the evening to the table.

Accepting the glass of wine the servant had filled up for him, the tall man took his seat, holding a hand over the front of his waistcoat to make sure it would not crumple when he sat down. The Norwegian's gaze briefly visited the direction of Victoire and her two curious friends, but returned back to Charles Vallaury when he questioned Karl about Norway and more specifically, about the Norwegian cheese. The man tilted his head to the side at the question and flashed the Frenchman a brief, almost amused smile. "Fromage? Bien, certainement pas la première chose je présenterais à d'autres quand il vient en Norvège. Je parlerais de la beauté de notre nature, la majesté des fjords, la beauté des cascades. Ou l'histoire de nos gens, nos traditions comme les matelots, les commerçants, les guerriers. Mais certainement pas ... fromage," the man arched an eyebrow at Vallaury, but raised his glass of wine next, studying the colour of the Lafite 1934 carefully before finally tasting it. "Mais que de vos autres invités, Monsieur ? Vont-ils partir déjà?" Otto enquired, his interest obviously peaked by the curious guests and no doubt by the charming raven-haired woman, also.


Translations:

"Et c'est vraiment le plaisir de vous rencontrer, Monsieur Vallaury..."
"And it is truly pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Vallaury. I have heard that you are a man with an outstanding taste for good wine and as I can see, the good taste extends to other things, as well."

"Et effectivement, je peux témoigner de la sympathie quand il vient aux allemands ruinant des choses pour d'autres..."
"And indeed, I can sympathize when it comes to the Germans ruining things for others. They are going to leave my country in ruins yet. I dread even to think what has happened to my house by now. Maybe it is better I do not have to witness it myself - I'm not sure what might happen if I did."

"Mais je vous offre mes apologies si mes mots semblent dédaigneux, il est juste que le sujet d'allemands a vraiment tendance à lever ma tension certains..."
"But I offer you my apologies if my words seem scornful, it is just that the subject of Germans does tend to raise my blood pressure some. I'm sure it's nothing that a glass of wine could not fix, however."

"Un plaisir, Mademoiselle."
"A pleasure, Mademoiselle."

"Fromage? Bien, certainement pas la première chose je présenterais à d'autres quand il vient en Norvège..."
"Cheese? Well, certainly not the first thing I would introduce to others when it comes to Norway. I would rather speak of the beauty of our nature, the majesty of the fjords, the beauty of the waterfalls. Or the history of our people, our traditions as seafarers, traders, warriors. But certainly not... cheese."

"Mais que de vos autres invités, Monsieur ? Vont-ils partir déjà?"
"But what of your other guests, Monsieur? Are they already leaving us?"

[Charles Norris]

“You fight for everything you desire, then,”

While the newcomer was greeted by their host, "Carlos Rodriguez" could only sweetly mutter, "Life has taught me that if I can't be bothered to fight for myself, no one else would either." before his, and everyone else's, attention shifted to Karl Ulvestad. With the introduction of the Norwegian at least the pilot, no longer felt the burning anxiety that everyone’s eyes were facing his way, yearning to find out the man’s private secrets, but this burden was replaced by the sense that the distinguished stranger was the sort of man who could make Chuck’s life very difficult with little effort on his part, but Carlos told himself that it was just the regular kind of paranoia that was from being not only a foreign American soldier in occupied France, but a battle weary pilot who had flown against those very occupiers. At 10,000 ft, where small black dots can suddenly emerge from behind a full, white cloud and instantly ‘smash the shining sunlight through your fuselage,’ there were only 3 different types of people you meet there, the ones you know, the ones you fire your guns at, and the ones you prepare to shoot at the moment they move into range if they turn out to be flying the flag of the enemy. But here on the solid ground it is not that simple, it is not just the good guys and the bad guys dueling for air supremacy, here there were poor innocent civilians, and just because those noncombatants weren’t loudly and actively supporting the Allies, it didn’t mean they were instead supporting the enemy, and deserved a fiery judgment.

As Ulvestad and Vallaury held a conversation Norris couldn’t understand and Trudeau must not have thought worthy enough to be translated, the Flight Lieutenant mimicked the easy, calm attitude of the room and eased into a relaxed stance with his hands behind his back. But this was not a sign that he had conquered his paranoia but rather an unprovocative defensive stance. Under his uniform, mere inches from his hands, the polished leathered handle of his 7 inch ka-bar rested under his belt. Like a bear trap set with a fresh piece of meat and ready to bolt into action at the slightest disturbance, Chuck’s highly trained combination of muscle and steel had first strike potential within 7 yards, the distance that years of proper training had assured him he could cover in a second. For those 21 feet, Charles dominated, he doubted that the men around him, some twice his age and twice his berth, had even a bit of the personal training he had been practicing his entire adult life. Although, even old, declawed lions still had their bite…

The conversation’s sudden switch into English jolted Chuck from his situational awareness and he took a few steps closer towards the Norwegian as their host introduced the Americans‘ new identities. In response Karl introduced himself and held out his hand, which Chuck took up and shook, and while keeping his arm stiff, allowing Ulvestad to guide the greeting, to conceal the power the mighty pilot’s hands possessed. “Cull meh Carlos.”

"From Spain, how very interesting. And a businessman, no less. I am sure we could talk endlessly about international commerce, but we would not wish to bore our present company, now would we?"

“Choo, therrrre probthably mor interrrresthed in meh wor storrries,” just as the last mumbled words left his lips, the crimson flyboy realized his slip and caught himself, “Im theh Civil War“

Chuck was fluent in Spanish from his childhood, but for this accent he exaggerated for the European flair. In hindsight he had probably over exaggerated, but it wasn’t like no one spoke like that, it was just that most of them were villains from the Zorro serials.

Zorro would always have a special place in Charles’ heart as his childhood hero. Brave, honorable, skilled in all weapons, and constantly vigilant in the fight for the underdog, young Charles’s dreams of following the fictitious character’s footsteps distracted him from his hungry stomach and aching back as his family tried to survive in the Dust Bowl. Then when they moved to the foreign hills of Pennsylvania, being entertained by “the fox’s” exploits was the only thing that didn’t change and still kept him company against the cold face of a different culture. But with all their differences, the terrain, industry, history, Pennsylvania and Texas did have one thing in common, Native Americans. But where out in the southwest the Apaches had quite recently scalped any Whiteman they met, up North the Susquehannock were the kind that had fed the Pilgrims on Thanksgiving. Now in the present many of the Native American tribes in Pennsylvania only kept up the old ways for the tourism and to document history, so when a fish-out-of-water teenage crop duster became interested in their ways because it reminded him of home, they were happy to teach him about nature, themselves, and himself. And how to use a bullwhip like Zorro was also a plus.

With the conversation among the Frenchmen and the Norwegian back in French, Chuck once again could only stand there and pretend he had some idea of what the others were talking about. From the way they acted when they said it, hopefully ‘Fromage’ wasn’t French for something along the lines of ‘spy’ or ‘firing squad.’ Suddenly though, the room’s attitude changed and Norris once again felt as if everyone was watching him. Trudeau then coughed and spoke in his smooth French accent, ‘Excusez-moi les gentilshommes, la madame,” he quickly switched to English for the blank stare Chuck gave him, “that reminds me, we really must be going. We have a rather long way to travel. And we wouldn’t want to be caught out after curfew.”
There was a pause and Chuck began to walk towards the door, but turned back to the crowd once Trudeau spoke up again, “We have a car, does anyone need a lift? Madame Victorie?” Good old Dalton, always a great wingman.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire observed Karl and Charles moving towards the round table within the living room and meeting with the rest of the French guests, while she and Karlos remained in the hall with Trudeau, glancing at the new arrival, until she turned around and faced Karlos; though she did not speak, a teasing grin was in her steel-gray, ice-blue eyes over this new turn of events. She returned her purposeful stare at the Norwegian and with interest listened to him speak of Norway as the gentlemen sat upon the classy chairs around the table; entranced by his speech, Victoire appreciated nothing more than a man speaking well of his country, a true patriot who cherished the land whose soil he was born in and whose flesh he was defending with all the might of his soul. A small, indistinct smile rose in the corner of her lips as she glanced at their direction, unmoving but affected, until she was suddenly brought back to earth by Trudeau’s voice when he leaned in on Charles and mumbled something to him, which she could not hear or was at this point interested in, mesmerized like a child by the beautiful description in a conversation she was not yet part of. Suddenly, the foreigner aired a question, and though not everyone acknowledged the underlying danger, Victoire with slightly narrowed eyes sensed the subtle touch of suspicion concealed behind the casual, enquiring tone of forbearance. Trudeau explained, and then offered to take her home. She carefully intervened. “The gentlemen graciously offer to accompany me home, it seems they have no intention of putting my life in jeopardy if I so wished to break curfew,” she said, and smiled warmly at the group of men.

Charles Vallaury turned over his shoulder and looked at the three of them in the hall, considerably relieved the woman had taken the initiative to answer, for he knew not how to respond in a perfectly believable manner and without a suspiciously loud, high-pitched laugh reluctantly followed by the others. Victoire graced the men at the table with a smile, and as Trudeau silently nodded at this, he gently placed his hand on her back, gently gesturing her towards the door. There was one small problem, however: she did not want to leave. Before the arrival she would have been only too keen to depart with these rather interesting men, especially enjoying a short walk with Monsieur Norris around Montmartre for the few minutes before curfew began, but the Norwegian’s entrance had altered her plans. Like a child rejoicing over a new toy, or whose eyes glinted at whatever appeared to be gold, she had been fascinated by the Flight Lieutenant’s presence; and with the new entrance, she desired to know, as before, the true essence of this peculiar creature she had never met. She turned and looked at Trudeau with reluctance in her eyes, then glancing at Norris silently, though with a meaningful glint, uncertain of what to do, and which choice to opt for; she did not wish to miss the opportunity of meeting the new guest and yet again neither did she intend to betray the reason behind the hefty departure. Her dilemma was, thankfully, solved by Charles Vallaury. “Mon cher, restez s’il vous plaît chez nous depuis un court temps? Le couvre-feu commence dans plus que …” – he checked his watch – “une heure ou à peu près Fabry peut vous accompagner à la maison et je suis un certain Monsieur Ulvestad apprécierait votre présence pour un peu plus. Nous cette courtoisie, mon chéri – Quelle est la valeur d’un rassemblement de ce genre ont sans une seule femme à des fins d’intérêt et d’intrigue?” he said with a short laugh.

She glanced at the old man, then at Karl Ulvestad, back to Norris and Trudeau. Approaching the two men, she smiled at them warmly, stretched out her hand to the Lieutenant, and walked closer to Charles; she stretched out her hand once more in proper social etiquette for a courteous kiss. “Have a safe journey home – we shall meet again soon,” she told him in a low voice so that only he could hear and his friend. “Excellent!” Charles Vallaury cheerfully chirped, clearly content, as he then stood up from his seat in his turn to bid the gentlemen farewell, while she walked towards the table, the rest of the French guests standing up to properly wish them off. She sat opposite Monsieur Ulvestad in the empty table, pulling a cigarette from the case found in the middle, and lit it, all the while staring at him openly with curiosity in her narrowed eyes mingled with admiration and suspicion. “Ainsi …” she said in her low voice, and took a drag from the cigarette, “ … Monsieur Ulvestad …” she continued, pronouncing the name carefully and curiously as she speculated and pondered over matters. “Karl Ulvestad de la Norvège.” She slightly tilted her head on the side, and observed him closely. “Un pays de guerriers, vous dites. Alors, est-ce que vous êtes un guerrier, aussi? Et si vous êtes … pourquoi ne sont pas vous la bagarre?” she asked him, raising one eyebrow, her glassy, steel-blue eyes piercing through his own dark blues. Instead of fighting in occupied Norway and involving himself with the resistance, he was living in a different place which, though may be also facing hardship, was not where his loyalties should be. “Je suis curieux quant à comment vous êtes arrivés en France. Les allemands, peut-être, vous louent un aéroplane privé pour un voyage plus sûr?” she asked him, and Jean Fabry, who had returned to the table, chuckled upon hearing this. A furtive smirk rose on the corner of her lips as she stared at the foreigner almost provocatively.

“Où en Norvège avez-vous été nés, Monsieur? J’ai été là une ou deux fois,” she continued, but then Charles Vallaury and his entourage, who had just sent Norris and Trudeau off, sat back at the table. “Ah, le père de Mademoiselle Victoire était un ambassadeur distingué,” Charles intervened in a cheerful tone, “un homme si objectif et toujours un plaisir de converser avec, ses opinions étaient assez fascinantes, un vrai patriote.” Victoire remained silent, her face guarding and unresponsive during that comment, cold and emotionless; her relationship with her father notwithstanding, and the fact he had been captured in Berlin and probably treated as a political prisoner of war, it was a subject she did not publicly wish to discuss, especially with such company, however she did not allow her true feelings to surface outwardly, her face maintaining a perfect glassy ice sculpture for that mere moment; she coldly smiled and fixed her attention on Karl Ulvestad. “Oslo, Drammen, Bergen … nous avons été partout. Nous étions dans Christiana il y a quelques années pour Noël. Je me souviens que l’on m’a donné une paire de belles boucles d’oreille dans une grappe de foin. Comme les allemands dissent: andere Länder, andere Sitten,” she said, deliberately using the German idiom to examine his reaction, her pronunciation authentic and owing to the fact her grandmother hailed from dear old München; she had also spent many years around Berlin and other distinguished regions of the country, back when as a child she loved Germany for her rich culture, history and tradition in the fine arts, science and politics – and learned to despise the damn thing for violating her country. Taking the glass of wine from Philbert, who had, upon hearing of her stay, rushed to provide for her also, she took a sip and placed it on the table, all the while her calculating, Machiavellian eyes fixed upon the stern countenance of the Nordic businessman.



♠ Translation ♠

My dear, please stay with us for a short while? Curfew starts in more than ... an hour or less. Fabry can accompany you home and I am certain Monsieur Ulvestad would appreciate your presence for a little more. Do us this courtesy, my darling - what value does a gathering such as this have without a single woman for the purposes of interest and intrigue?

A country of warriors, you say. Are you a warrior, too, then? And if you are … why aren’t you fighting?

I’m curious as to how you arrived in France. Did the Germans, perhaps, rent you a private airplane for a safer journey?

Where in Norway were you born, Monsieur? I have been there once or twice.

Ah, Mademoiselle Victoire’s father was a distinguished ambassador, such a businesslike man and always a pleasure to converse with, his opinions were rather fascinating, a true patriot.

Oslo, Drammen, Bergen … we’ve been everywhere. We were in Christiana a few years ago for Christmas. I remember I was given a pair of beautiful earrings in a truss of hay. As the Germans say: other lands, other customs.

[Otto Wolff]

Dark eyes followed the curious guests very carefully as Otto contemplated why exactly they were leaving, but Victoire seemed to come up with an answer first, explaining how the good gentlemen had planned on escorting her home before the curfew. The wine glass clinked softly as Otto set it down and he averted his eyes for a moment, not wanting to appear too obtrusive, although he strained his ears in order not to miss any words. Charles Vallaury was asking Victoire to stay a moment longer to entertain the guests and Otto observed the woman from under his brows, not really expecting the woman to comply to the request. She was obviously an intelligent woman, but having to endure the tedious discussions of bunch of old men did not seem like a very appealing way for a young female to spend her evening. Even from this distance Otto could see the woman hesitating and he wasn't sure if she was just trying to come up with a way to politely decline the invitation, but much to his surprise Victoire soon proceeded to bid the strange guests farewell.

Like good manners dictated, Otto got up from his seat as the two men started taking their leave and he nodded at them politely, whether they saw the gesture or not. Only barely did he prevent himself from staring at these foreign guests too obtrusively - far too many questions had been raised in his mind by the two visitors, but Otto had no opportunity to investigate them further now that they were leaving. After it seemed proper, the tall man took his seat once again, brushing a hand down the front of his vest somewhat absentmindedly. He was still bothered by the fact that this Spaniard, Carlos, had seemed so familiar to him upon first seeing him and he stared blankly ahead of him for a small moment, his mind trying to come up with the correct context. The man glanced up when he noticed that the dark-haired woman had arrived to the table, taking a seat opposite to Otto. The broad-shouldered man smiled courteously at the woman to welcome her to the table, although he did not even try to appear overly friendly - it would have not just been very like him and judging by the curiosity glinting in those steel-grey eyes, Victoire would have noticed if Otto was being too artificial. Lighting a cigarette, the woman observed the Norwegian guest closely, but Otto only returned to that gaze calmly, clearly anticipating a question. It surprised him how closely the woman had been paying attention to the earlier discussion between the Frenchmen and the Norwegian and Otto arched an eyebrow when Victoire asked the man why he wasn't fighting for his country - he had, after all, just earlier stated something about Norwegians being warriors and merchants. Otto nodded slowly and tilted his chin up before answering. "Oh, il y a beaucoup de différentes voies de mener la guerre, Madamoiselle Beaudoin. Il serait très myope de penser que je peux seulement assurer l'entretien de mon pays sur son propre sol. Je peux voir où mes talents servent la Norvège le meilleur, c'est pourquoi je suis ici. Oh, croyez-moi, je lutte pour mon pays - peut-être pas avec un fusil dans ma main... mais il y a d'autres voies et je me trouve plus compétent dans eux," the man noted, although his insides burned when he had to play the meek part of a simple merchant. He had been in the trenches of the Great War, wading in blood and rainwater, after all, but he could hardly take open pride in his warrior nature here. He shook the irritating thought from his mind, knowing that there were other times and places for recalling the horrors of the previous war - he needed to focus on the task at hand.

For a brief moment it appeared as if the man had fallen in deep thought, but his attention returned to Victoire once he heard her asking if the Germans had perhaps even gone as far as renting him a private airplane, a quip which made a small, crooked smile appear on Otto's lips - the woman certainly had a sharp tongue. "J'ai été en France depuis plus d'une année maintenant, Mademoiselle Beaudoin. Je crains que je sois arrivé ici en utilisant plus de moyens conventionnels - le chemin de fer, qui est. Pour le moment il semble que je suis coincé tout à fait - pas que je le surveille, j'ai apprécié mon temps ici en France, enfin - et je ne suis pas tout à fait sûr ce qui arriverait étaient je pour revenir en Norvège à présent. Je n'ai pas été en Norvège pour ... oh, je crois que cela a été deux ans, déjà... Imaginez-le," the man noted dryly, a subtle expression of distaste passing through his eyes. In reality, he was considering the actions of the young woman and wondered where she was heading with these questions. Did she have her doubts on the truthfulness of his story? Maybe she had heard that Otto dealt with the Germans and considered this a danger to her resistance friends? Just what could her role be in all of this, anyway..? A fancy, pretty weapon for the French resistance to be used against German officers, one who would charm her way inside the ranks of the enemy and provide the French with valuable information? She certainly seemed intelligent and observant enough and if Otto had been a man of lesser nerves, he would have found a way to back out of the situation and observe it from a distance before getting too entangled in it. But he had all the confidence in his ability to handle people and to guard his own actions so that his identity would remain uncompromised, so he simply picked up a cigarette from the case in the middle of the table, tapped it on the table a few times and lit it in an unhurried fashion, slipping a silver lighter back in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Blowing grey wisps of smoke from between his lips, the man kept the gaze of his dark-blue eyes on the woman as she questioned him about his origins. Vallaury interrupted Victoire's words in the middle, hurrying to explain that Miss Beaudoin's father had been an important ambassador - maybe the Frenchman thought that Karl Ulvestad was getting offended by Victoire's constant inquiries, but Otto only nodded and arched his other eyebrow slowly. Victoire continued with mentioning the places she had visited in Norway and then, quite unexpectedly, quoted a German idiom in very impressive German, no less. If the woman was expecting Karl to flinch, she was met with disappointment. Karl Ulvestad graced the woman with a small smile before he answered. "Andre tider har andre seder," the man quoted in the Nordic language of his country. He was fluent enough in the language to pass as a born Norwegian, although he was sure most people in France couldn't really tell the difference. His Norwegian was far better than his French, anyway. "Nous avons un dicton semblable, aussi. Et effectivement il semble que vous avez visité la ville où je suis né... Oslo, qui est. J'espère revenir là aussitôt que je suis capable, mais actuellement mes tâches ici me gardent tout à fait occupé," the man noted, enjoying his cigarette with the same unreadable expression as always.

The piercing gaze of his hooded, deep-set eyes remained on the raven-haired woman and smoke snaked slowly from the Norwegian's cigarette as he let a small moment of silence pass between them. "Évidemment, c'est une chose terriblement non originale à demander, mais je dois soutirer... Comment avez-vous trouvé la Norvège et ses gens, Madamoiselle Beaudoin? Il semble comme vous avez voyagé beaucoup et je le trouve toujours l'audition intéressante les opinions d'autres gens de notre pays," the man appeared almost apologetic as he posed the question, although genuine interest seemed to linger in his eyes, too. Otto knew how to play this game and it seemed like a natural thing to ask. Of course a Norwegian would love to hear just how impressed their foreign visitors were with their beautiful cities and the accommodating, friendly people that lived there, as also with the beauty of the nature. In terms of his work, he should have been really talking to the men in his presence, gaining their trust, but he could not just completely ignore the young woman and he had to admit that he was quite fascinated by the obvious intelligence behind those silver eyes. She was a challenge, much more so than the old Frenchmen who only wished to quarrel over the qualities of different wines and Otto couldn't help but taking the bait.


Translations:

"Oh, il y a beaucoup de différentes voies de mener la guerre, Madamoiselle Beaudoin. Il serait très myope de penser que je peux seulement assurer l'entretien de mon pays sur son propre sol..."
"Oh, there are many different ways to wage war, Miss Beaudoin. It would be very short-sighted to think that I can only service my country on her own soil. I can see where my talents serve Norway the best, this is why I'm here. Oh, believe me, I am fighting for my country - maybe not with a gun in my hand... but there are other ways and I find myself more proficient in them."

"J'ai été en France depuis plus d'une année maintenant, Mademoiselle Beaudoin. Je crains que je sois arrivé ici en utilisant plus de moyens conventionnels - le chemin de fer, qui est..."
"I have been in France for over a year now, Mademoiselle Beaudoin. I fear I arrived here using more conventional means - railway, that is. For the moment it seems that I am quite stuck - not that I mind it, I have enjoyed my time here in France, after all - and I am not quite sure what would happen were I to return to Norway at the present time. I have not been in Norway for... oh, I think it has been two years, already... Imagine that."

"Andre tider har andre seder."
"Other times, other customs."

"Nous avons un dicton semblable, aussi. Et effectivement il semble que vous avez visité la ville où je suis né..."
"We have a similar saying, also. And indeed it appears that you have visited the city where I was born... Oslo, that is. I'm hoping to return there as soon as I'm able, but currently my tasks here are keeping me quite occupied."

"Évidemment, c'est une chose terriblement non originale à demander, mais je dois soutirer... "
"Of course, it is a terribly unoriginal thing to ask, but I must pry... How did you find Norway and her people, Miss Beaudoin? It appears as you have travelled quite a lot and I always find it interesting hearing other people's opinions of our country."

[Charles Norris]

Once Trudeau and Norris gave there respective “au revoir” and “hasta la vista” they unceremoniously left the dining room and in quick time the chateau itself. The sky was darker and the air cooler then when they arrived, but neither of the two men noticed. Dalton was busy remembering their next objective, the extraction, and Charles was also deep in thought, thinking about his experience of the past hour. He was so deep in thought, in fact, that after sliding into the passenger side and closing the door of their supplied car, it seemed like only seconds until he swung the door open again at their destination.

To get out of France they couldn’t take to the air in the same matter that they arrived, in the guise of Industrialists arriving from Spain, of course, no one was expecting their alternative identities this time. Even if they got into a plane they would be shot out of the sky before they reached the Channel. So, instead of going back to the airfield, Trudeau had parked the car on the empty street outside a small apartment, which was not nearly as lavish as the chateau they had just left, and clearly meant for a Parisian a few classes lower.

Although neither of them confessed to know anything about renovations, the two Americans agreed that the hotel was badly in need of redecorating and a good contractor, once they stepped inside of it’s main area. Aside from a front desk, a folding chair behind it, and a series of mailboxes missing #5 to #9, it was completely bare of furniture. This was a good thing for Chuck and Dalton, they had little chance of running into anything as they crossed the dim room lit only by a small lamp by the elevator. They decided to take the stairs, but it’s creaking, rotted wood was probably only marginally safer then the lift.

On the 3rd floor, a second after Trudeau knocked on the warped door of #12, it slowly opened a couple of inches, revealing the dark apartment behind it and the occupant, a short 5 foot man whose shadowy face was further obscured by his door chain swaying at eye level.

“Hallo? Wa…” The German began to ask Trudeau, but his face lit up the dark hallway once he saw Norris behind him, and he opened the door, but not before sliding something into his inner jacket pocket. “Ah ‘Carlos‘, I would recongnize you from your description anywhere, and this must be ‘Nicholas.’ Come in, how have you enjoyed occupied France?”

Chuck scanned the now lit room as they entered, it looked nicer then the rest of the hotel, cleaner anyway, as if their host had to wipe it down completely a few times. And although there was only the one entrance, and a small blackout curtained window, the Captain still kept on his toes and stood with his back to the wall, near the door, incase he had to get out of dodge as fast as possible.

“Oh, France is a wonderful country, but it is a shame we could not have seen it in November.” Trudeau told the German, who responded, “Well, I prefer it in March” followed by a mutual nod. Chuck didn’t understand, but assumed it was some kind of code. It had been perfectly clear since Dog Company’s barracks many hours ago that his subordinate knew a lot more of this then he told his friend.

“Well, if you trust me then, let me tell you how this is going to go down. It is much easier to land a plane with false credentials then steal one, so getting you out is going to be the difficult part of this mission. But it can be done. Tomorrow, you two will once again become and Rodriguez and Fillon and be whisked away on a plane headed to Berlin. But they will never get there, LFI doesn‘t realize that their pilot is working for the Allies.” The words went straight through Chuck’s mind, he didn’t know want to make of it. He was just a pilot, not a spy.

“So,” the operative asked, “do you have the package?”

“Package?” asked Chuck, and shared a glance with Dalton.

“What?” the agent sighed, “Did you really think your trip was a social visit?” This was a hypothetical question, and the German did not expect an answer, but he did want one for his next question, “Did you use the same car you to leave the chateau that you arrived there in?” Trudeau nodded. “Show me.” And the two men left Capt. Norris alone in the apartment.

Moments after #12’s door closed, the room suddenly started to intensely vibrate. Chuck had no idea what was going on. Then as sudden as it started, it stopped, and there was a soft “ding” in the hallway. The elevator. Chuck started to calm down, but then the apartment door burst open. Bayonet first, a gray uniformed rifleman rushed in. He was looking for the short traitor that rented the room. What he found was a bearded American pilot that didn’t like surprises.

Chuck slammed himself into the German soldier, and grabbed hold of the wooden stock to grapple for control of the rifle. A left jab into his opponent’s eye socket shocked the Nazi into releasing his grip, allowing Capt. Norris to turn the gun around and shove it down the man’s throat, bayonet first. The body fell back into the hallway, where two more Germans were prepared to enter the apartment. The nearest one, a civilian dressed entirely in black leather dropped his luger as the stiff knocked into him, and he too tumbled onto the floor. This allowed Charles to put his attention to the last German, another gray uniform, this time armed with a SMG.

Using the same successful tactic that dispatched the first German, the American body checked the soldier into the elevator’s safety fence, and they grappled for the machinegun, in a quickstep that had he had not been fighting for his life, could have reminded the pilot of the dances he shared with a lady only an hour earlier. Head butts were exchanged, muscles strained. Neither man would give in or show weakness, for they both knew that defeat meant death. Victory would rely or who’s friend arrived to their aide first, or who died of exhaustion. But Charles could not wait that long.
Suddenly releasing his grip on the machinegun, the pilot shoved his opponent into the elevator with all the force he could muster. After years of use with little maintenance, this sudden mistreatment was too much for the decades old technology. Rusted bolts and cables broke and snapped, and the whole lift moaned and shuttered. Carefully Chuck stepped into the tilted cabin to pushed the Down button before quickly jumping back out. Suddenly the entire hallway bore witness to the horrifying combination of the high pitched whine of a dying animal, and the fierce shaking of an earthquake. Misshapen gears and pulleys tried to work against machinery that had snapped off now and fail safes that had rusted away long ago. The elevator had become a deathtrap, and before he could thinking about using his fought over Schmeisser, the German realized he was it’s prey and attempted to jump out, half of him was too slow, and the lift shot him down the painful 4 stories to his grave.

In the few seconds, that this took place, the civilian in the leather suit was able to get up out from under Charles’ first victim, and attempted to give the American the same fate as his second, by sneaking up behind the worn out pilot and shoving him into the now empty elevator shaft. This almost succeeded, but was able to grab one of the broken cables, and swing back into the hallway, throwing himself onto the civilian, again knocking him down. The two men quickly picked themselves up, and started circling each other, preparing themselves for an attack against or from the other.

The German pulled a pen knife from his pocket, and so Chuck pulled out his KABAR, but on second thought, sheathed it. The civilian thought of this as a sign of weakness and attacked, but was countered to a swift kick to the hand, which knocked his knife away. For a moment, his mind was blank, he had lost his weapon and had no back up plan. Charles used this stunned moment to put all of his weight onto his left heel, and bend his knees. Quickly, he twisted his body and shot his right foot out at his opponent. The kick connected and caused the German to fall back, into the awaiting jaws of the elevator shaft.

The American thought that that was the last of the Germans, but from behind him, he heard a cough. The rifleman layed against the wall, one hand holding the nasty wound on his throat, while the other held the civilian’s luger. His aim slowly danced across Capt. Norris as he tried to build up the strength to pull the trigger. Suddenly though he had a heart attack, brought on by a .22 caliber bullet. Standing in the stairway, the secret agent holstered his long barreled pistol and checked the body.

“I don’t understand, we were only gone a few seconds.” he remarked. Trudeau with a large packet of papers followed him up into the hallway, his face in a frozen face of shook. He almost vomited when he looked down the elevator shaft, but their German companion and Chuck kept calm.

“Well, looks like this safe house is compromised,” the Good German remarked after taking a pack of cigarettes from the dead body, “I might have to change our plan around a little bit. But for now, we need to get to someplace safer before more Gestapo arrive or my neighbors start giving a damn.”

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The following CP has been issued:

Beaudoin - 10

Anderson - 4

Norris - 10

Wolff - 5

-JT