Food, Communism, and Inappropriate Touching
Chapter Three!
Done with taxes, midway through the school enrollment fiasco, and drinking a coconut chai gypsy tea... I figure it's time to post.
3- Wainscoting
“Attention, my dear comrades,” Max rapped a butterknife against his empty wine glass.
The resounding peal brought conversation to a halt.
“Before Monsieur Saboteur arrives, I would like to take a moment to... shall we say honor? My fine field agents. And these charming gentlemen on loan from our comrade Thibault.”
He pushed back his seat and stood. Max's physique was hardly intimidating, and his tight black suit fit his petite body too snugly to look modern. His only embellishment was a silver mask, covering his face from nose to forehead. The mirrorlike sheen of the mask reflected the candlelit room before him, distorting its shapes into freakish, twisted images.
The Abesses supperclub, available only for private dinners, combined comfort and proletarian aesthetics. Simple food arrived on earthenware plates. The service was unintrusive, and the management discreet and sympathetic to the cause, providing a safe haven for Communist Party suppers. Though the Party gave no admission of supporting Max, Thibault, or any other handler, Max and his agents were invaluable to the Communist cause.
The Party would have approved of this dinner. Hearty food, rustic surroundings, simple oak tables and benches, with no trace of bourgeois frippery. A fitting place for a group of agents to discuss their latest assignment.
“On loan from Thibault, here we have Romulus and Remus,” Max indicated the two agents at the foot of the table, a few seats to his left.
Romulus was large and square, Remus more reedy. Their faces remained blank.
“Allow me to introduce some of our, ahem, finer servants of the Communist cause,” Max set down the wine glass with soundless grace and pointed to the seat to his right with a long, gloved finger.
“Faulkner,” he said, “Courtesy of the United States. Their expulsion of revolutionary minded warriors has been most beneficial to the Party.”
Faulkner, a graying man with predatory eyes, gave Romulus and Remus a curt military nod,
“Always good to meet a comrade.”
Max went on,“At the head of the table, formerly of the Francs-tireurs Partisans, the infamous Cutthroat Jean.”
Jean smiled, the candlelight creating deep pockets of shadow across his jaw. Pox scars merged with scarred craters of skin, which joined with the trails of sores that roiled outward from his scabbed lips.
Jean's teeth were equally unfortunate. Even Max looked away from his grin.
“Next, we have the lovely Olivia, and finally...” Max smiled, at the edge of a giggle, “My chief enforcer, Khilkov. Courtesy of our Soviet friends. Intimidating, is he not?”
Romulus and Remus eyed these last two agents. Valentin Khilhov looked solid, but middle age had carved his face with lines that made him look more weathered than chiseled. He held a cigar between his teeth, forcing his mouth to snarl at the newcomers.
Beside him, the voluptuous Olivia curled her fingers around her wine glass and raised it to Max.
“And to Max,” her voice was like velvet, “For the dinner, and the assignments.”
“Hear, hear,” said Faulkner, raising his own glass.
Max took his seat, exchanging the empty wine glass for a full water with lemon.
Olivia refilled her wine glass, then turned to Valentin with a rustle of stiff fabric.
“I'll take that,” he poured the rest of the bottle into his glass, “So, Max, you've got this Saboteur, this so-called cat burglar. Where is he? Pull the rabbit out of the fucking hat already.”
His inflection made everything sound bitter, trimmed with sarcasm and the thickness of alcohol and tobacco.
A scuff of a shoe sounded from the hallway behind the table. The rough wooden door swung open, and Saboteur stepped in.
“As if on cue,” said Max, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin, “A, hmmm.... timely arrival?”
Saboteur remained in the doorway, surveying the agents with darting eyes. Romulus, Remus, Faulkner, Jean, Valentin, Olivia, Max.
Saboteur was tall, with broad shoulders and a slim torso, dressed in simple black clothing. A black mask covered his neck, face, and head, leaving only his eyes and lips uncovered. While the faint light of the Abbessess supperclub made Olivia's bare shoulders glow, it made Saboteur's body shrink back into the shadows like a creature of the night.
“Please, my dear Saboteur, do sit,” Max gestured to the chair beside him.
Saboteur came forward slowly, like the shadows were reluctant to give him up. He sat, ignoring the full wine glass in front of him.
“Saboteur, I am afraid you have missed our round of introductions,” Max laid a finger along the side of his face.
Max looked like a Renaissance lord at a masquerade, with a slick of white hair that contradicted his smooth skin, quaint gestures that contradicted the bizarre reflections dancing across his mask.
“Saboteur comes to us by way of Thibault, for a sort of joint mission which will take place two nights from now, the thirtieth, is it not?” Max gazed skyward, as if god would provide an answer.
Divine inspiration struck in the form of Olivia, who said,
“Yes, the thirtieth.”
Max went on,
“Unlike the rest of us, Saboteur is not an agent, but having outlived his... usefulness in the cause of fighting Fascism, he now follows- or, ahem, serves, the almighty power of cash. Is that so?”
“Quite,” said Saboteur, “I was a cat burglar, and fought the fuckin Nazis in the resistance. Before that, my history's not your business. I know what I'm doin, and if I get my cash, I'll get the job done. Simple as that.”
He nodded. Faulkner returned the gesture and turned his attention back to the food. Romulus and Remus remained focused on their plates, while the other agents stared at the newcomer.
“Hmm, yes,” said Max, tilting his head at Saboteur, “But can you be truly committed to our cause? Having breathed the heady air of capitalism.”
“As opposed to what? The stifling air of your own superiority,” Valentin set his wine glass down with a thump.
Silence descended over the table. Olivia shifted, her dress rustling again.
Max smirked, and looked about to pat Valentin on the head.
“If you're quite finished, I will return to more pressing matters,” he said.
Valentin downed more wine and raised one eyebrow. Max looked back at Saboteur, his mask reflecting Saboteur's in a series of odd contrortions,
“Very good!” Max clapped his hands together, “After the meal, once we are all more comfortable, we will review the strategy.”
Olivia drew a file from her handbag and slid it across the table,
“I've brought additional files on Wagner.”
“Such excellent work. Dare I say, Olivia, your intelligence gathering is invaluable,” said Max.
He smiled at her, revealing oversized teeth that looked strangely sharp. Faulkner shifted in his chair and looked away from Max. Romulus and Remus kept their eyes on their plates. No point letting one odd handler ruin a good meal.
Max pages through the file, simpering quietly.
They ate in silence for a few moments, before Saboteur broke it,
“This the group that's goin for Wagner? You didn't call in a lotta people.”
“It is a mission for delicacy, for the best agents. Hence the... joint venture between myself and Thibault,” Max told him.
“Pass that wine bottle,” said Valentin.
Max paused from slicing his duck breast to give Valentin a severe look.
The Russian ignored him and set his cigar down on the bread plate to pour the wine.
“Save some for the rest of us,” said Faulkner.
Beside him, Jean sniffed and made a grunting sound of agreement.
“You're forgetting the magnitude of the supperclub's wine cellar,” Valentin replied, grabbing his cigar again.
The end singed his finger, and he cursed under his breath, a string of strange words that he cut off with a swig of wine.
Olivia clicked her tongue, “Mat is such an ugly language.”
Mat, the obscene language of Russia, full of odd phrases an insults, like a secret code.
“And not fit for the present company,” said Faulkner.
Saboteur ignored his plate, glancing from one face to another as they spoke.
Olivia smiled at Saboteur and said,
“For a good insult, you can do no better than Spanish. It sounds so much more artful.”
“Such as?” said Sabotuer.
Olivia struck her fist against the table, affecting a rich tone of anger,
“Te voy a romper el orto!”
Sabotuer chuckled, almost indiscernible,
“Nothin like a useful insult.”
“I think Mat is particularly ugly, though English is a close second,” said Olivia, “I know a number of languages, and none are as full of unfortunate words.”
“German's worse. Schnitzel, deiser, unter,” Saboteur replied, affecting a phlegmy German accent.
Valentin folded his arms, laughing a little around his cigar.
“I'll concede that,” dimples surfaced on Olivia's face as she smiled, “But for singular words with an unpleasant feeling- English as the dubious honor of being the most awful language.”
“Clavicle,” said Remus, “Pear-iss.”
Even Max laughed.
Olivia laid her silverware across her empty plate, “The worst is 'wainscoting'. I grew up on an English manor, a dismal place in that particularly grey country. One of the proletariat in that pompous house. The place was full of wainscoting, and the lady of the house always spoke of it in this nasal tone. Walnut wainscoting.”
“Fuckin English,” said Saboteur, flashing his teeth.
His shoulders relaxed.
“She was also fond of 'decorum,' a word that sounds like a refuse heap. The word 'clock' just grates my ears,” said Olivia.
“Clock,” said Max. He tittered, “Clock clock clock.”
The laughter was more strained this time.
“In the East, they've got these primitive tribes that speak in clicks and yelps. They sound like a pack of yappin little dogs,” said Sabotuer.
“Worse than wainscoting? Are you sure?” Olivia raised her eyebrows.
“Much worse. It's like listeinin to an orchestra of poodles all fuckin day,” Saboteur's smile seemed to float on the surface of his mask, false and disarming.
“Remind me not to travel,” Romulus muttered.
“Before we move on to strategy, where's the toilet around here?” Saboteur rose from his chair.
“Down the hall to the left,” Faulkner pointed.
Saboteur left.
“Max,” Olivia whispered.
Max leaned forward.
She felt something brush her skirt, too slow to make noise. Valentin's rough fingers traced the inside of her thigh.
“The mask he's wearing. Saboteur, I mean,” she said, and tried to brush the hand away from her leg quietly.
It remained, digging into her flesh.
“A real handful,” said Valentin. No one noticed.
“It's a fighter's mask,” she went on, prying Valentin's fingers away under the table, “They wear them in Mexico, to conceal their faces in the ring. The sport was very popular in the Caribbean, I'd recognize those masks anywhere. And he knows at least some Spanish. There's more to Saboteur than meets the eye.”
“Was that an attempt at irony? No matter, these tidbits of information are... shall we say invaluable?” Max steepled his fingers.
Olivia felt a sudden pressure as Valentin unhooked her garter from the top of her stocking. Seizing his forefinger, she twisted it just above the knuckle.
He coughed and grimaced, then took another drink. Olivia wrenched his finger a little harder.
Romulus spoke up,
“Its an honor to be part of this joint mission, to bring Wagner to justice.”
“Oh, it goes beyond that,” said Max. “Khilkov, are you perhaps indisposed?”
“Not at all,” Valentin jolted up from the table, yanking his hand free.
The finger throbbed.
He made his way to the bathroom, a place with thick porcelain tile and greenish copper pipes. Everything wavered a little, the effect of the evening's wine. Saboteur stood at the sink, drying his hands. His gloves lay beside the faucet.
His hands bore scars and callouses. The hands of a working man.
“Do you always wear that mask?” Valentin asked.
“Yes,” said Saboteur, voice crisper than before.
In the bright light of the bathroom, it seemed like a carnival costume.
“Even when you fuck?”
Saboteur looked away and put on his gloves.
“You're a vulgar old sot,” he said.
“And now you're all prim and judgmental,” Valentin laughed, a sound that grated in his throat, “Stay in this line of work, and you'll see. Whatever you're hiding under there, the women don't care. They like agents.”
Saboteur looked down at Valentin,
“Hope that works out for ya.”
His rough voice grew tighter, his accent less ingrained than a moment before. False mannerisms tended to wear thin when you made someone uncomfortable.
“As much as you act- and its all an act, just like that fucking mask- I see the real Saboteur under there. And you think you're so much better than everyone,” Valentin spat into the sink, “Let me tell you something, a benefit of all my experience.”
He drew a small card from his pocket. On it, a few words were written:
Hotel Sainte Catherine
May First, 10pm
Room 103
Saboteur eyed it, then glanced away, so quickly it seemed like a flinch
“I just slip this to the most beautiful woman I see, and she'll meet me. It's too easy,” Valentin put the card back in his pocket.
“You're drunk, Monsieur Khilkov,” said Saboteur, and pushed past Valentin to the exit.
He didn't see Valentin smiling behind him.
The real Saboteur wasn't snobbish or superior, Valentin thought, he was addicted to his disguise. Terrified of his own humanity.
Saboteur could be very useful, if he wasn't allowed to get the upper hand.
When Valentin and Saboteur returned to their seats at the supper table, everyone was finished with dinner. Most of the wine was gone, though Max's glass remained dry as always.
“We have three targets,” Max announced, “Wagner, as we all know, is the most important. Another Nazi, Guzman, will be traveling with him. The third man, interestingly enough, is a...liason? Yes, a liason from none other than the American CIA.”
Valentin's hand crept over to Olivia's thigh, but he found her skirt firmly cinched around her leg.
She shot him a glare as she drew more papers from her bag.
“Should the lady be excused?” said Remus.
“Not at all, not at all!” Max's thumbs twirled over each other, “This is not an English manor, not a group of enterprising and chivalrous thieves. We are all comrades here, all, ehm, veterans of the war.”
Remus shrank back a little.
They all sat around the wooden table, comrades and fellow soldiers for this mission, under orders from the Party and from this mysterious handler called Max. Whatever the mission held, they had pledged themselves to it.
Max stood, and the reflections of the agents flitted across his mask, grotesque and conjoined.
“On the night of April thirtieth,” said Max, “We shall converge on the Hotel Oasis. A joint venture, for a common cause. We all have our... parts to play. Now, its time we went over strategy, is it not?”
Done with taxes, midway through the school enrollment fiasco, and drinking a coconut chai gypsy tea... I figure it's time to post.
3- Wainscoting
“Attention, my dear comrades,” Max rapped a butterknife against his empty wine glass.
The resounding peal brought conversation to a halt.
“Before Monsieur Saboteur arrives, I would like to take a moment to... shall we say honor? My fine field agents. And these charming gentlemen on loan from our comrade Thibault.”
He pushed back his seat and stood. Max's physique was hardly intimidating, and his tight black suit fit his petite body too snugly to look modern. His only embellishment was a silver mask, covering his face from nose to forehead. The mirrorlike sheen of the mask reflected the candlelit room before him, distorting its shapes into freakish, twisted images.
The Abesses supperclub, available only for private dinners, combined comfort and proletarian aesthetics. Simple food arrived on earthenware plates. The service was unintrusive, and the management discreet and sympathetic to the cause, providing a safe haven for Communist Party suppers. Though the Party gave no admission of supporting Max, Thibault, or any other handler, Max and his agents were invaluable to the Communist cause.
The Party would have approved of this dinner. Hearty food, rustic surroundings, simple oak tables and benches, with no trace of bourgeois frippery. A fitting place for a group of agents to discuss their latest assignment.
“On loan from Thibault, here we have Romulus and Remus,” Max indicated the two agents at the foot of the table, a few seats to his left.
Romulus was large and square, Remus more reedy. Their faces remained blank.
“Allow me to introduce some of our, ahem, finer servants of the Communist cause,” Max set down the wine glass with soundless grace and pointed to the seat to his right with a long, gloved finger.
“Faulkner,” he said, “Courtesy of the United States. Their expulsion of revolutionary minded warriors has been most beneficial to the Party.”
Faulkner, a graying man with predatory eyes, gave Romulus and Remus a curt military nod,
“Always good to meet a comrade.”
Max went on,“At the head of the table, formerly of the Francs-tireurs Partisans, the infamous Cutthroat Jean.”
Jean smiled, the candlelight creating deep pockets of shadow across his jaw. Pox scars merged with scarred craters of skin, which joined with the trails of sores that roiled outward from his scabbed lips.
Jean's teeth were equally unfortunate. Even Max looked away from his grin.
“Next, we have the lovely Olivia, and finally...” Max smiled, at the edge of a giggle, “My chief enforcer, Khilkov. Courtesy of our Soviet friends. Intimidating, is he not?”
Romulus and Remus eyed these last two agents. Valentin Khilhov looked solid, but middle age had carved his face with lines that made him look more weathered than chiseled. He held a cigar between his teeth, forcing his mouth to snarl at the newcomers.
Beside him, the voluptuous Olivia curled her fingers around her wine glass and raised it to Max.
“And to Max,” her voice was like velvet, “For the dinner, and the assignments.”
“Hear, hear,” said Faulkner, raising his own glass.
Max took his seat, exchanging the empty wine glass for a full water with lemon.
Olivia refilled her wine glass, then turned to Valentin with a rustle of stiff fabric.
“I'll take that,” he poured the rest of the bottle into his glass, “So, Max, you've got this Saboteur, this so-called cat burglar. Where is he? Pull the rabbit out of the fucking hat already.”
His inflection made everything sound bitter, trimmed with sarcasm and the thickness of alcohol and tobacco.
A scuff of a shoe sounded from the hallway behind the table. The rough wooden door swung open, and Saboteur stepped in.
“As if on cue,” said Max, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin, “A, hmmm.... timely arrival?”
Saboteur remained in the doorway, surveying the agents with darting eyes. Romulus, Remus, Faulkner, Jean, Valentin, Olivia, Max.
Saboteur was tall, with broad shoulders and a slim torso, dressed in simple black clothing. A black mask covered his neck, face, and head, leaving only his eyes and lips uncovered. While the faint light of the Abbessess supperclub made Olivia's bare shoulders glow, it made Saboteur's body shrink back into the shadows like a creature of the night.
“Please, my dear Saboteur, do sit,” Max gestured to the chair beside him.
Saboteur came forward slowly, like the shadows were reluctant to give him up. He sat, ignoring the full wine glass in front of him.
“Saboteur, I am afraid you have missed our round of introductions,” Max laid a finger along the side of his face.
Max looked like a Renaissance lord at a masquerade, with a slick of white hair that contradicted his smooth skin, quaint gestures that contradicted the bizarre reflections dancing across his mask.
“Saboteur comes to us by way of Thibault, for a sort of joint mission which will take place two nights from now, the thirtieth, is it not?” Max gazed skyward, as if god would provide an answer.
Divine inspiration struck in the form of Olivia, who said,
“Yes, the thirtieth.”
Max went on,
“Unlike the rest of us, Saboteur is not an agent, but having outlived his... usefulness in the cause of fighting Fascism, he now follows- or, ahem, serves, the almighty power of cash. Is that so?”
“Quite,” said Saboteur, “I was a cat burglar, and fought the fuckin Nazis in the resistance. Before that, my history's not your business. I know what I'm doin, and if I get my cash, I'll get the job done. Simple as that.”
He nodded. Faulkner returned the gesture and turned his attention back to the food. Romulus and Remus remained focused on their plates, while the other agents stared at the newcomer.
“Hmm, yes,” said Max, tilting his head at Saboteur, “But can you be truly committed to our cause? Having breathed the heady air of capitalism.”
“As opposed to what? The stifling air of your own superiority,” Valentin set his wine glass down with a thump.
Silence descended over the table. Olivia shifted, her dress rustling again.
Max smirked, and looked about to pat Valentin on the head.
“If you're quite finished, I will return to more pressing matters,” he said.
Valentin downed more wine and raised one eyebrow. Max looked back at Saboteur, his mask reflecting Saboteur's in a series of odd contrortions,
“Very good!” Max clapped his hands together, “After the meal, once we are all more comfortable, we will review the strategy.”
Olivia drew a file from her handbag and slid it across the table,
“I've brought additional files on Wagner.”
“Such excellent work. Dare I say, Olivia, your intelligence gathering is invaluable,” said Max.
He smiled at her, revealing oversized teeth that looked strangely sharp. Faulkner shifted in his chair and looked away from Max. Romulus and Remus kept their eyes on their plates. No point letting one odd handler ruin a good meal.
Max pages through the file, simpering quietly.
They ate in silence for a few moments, before Saboteur broke it,
“This the group that's goin for Wagner? You didn't call in a lotta people.”
“It is a mission for delicacy, for the best agents. Hence the... joint venture between myself and Thibault,” Max told him.
“Pass that wine bottle,” said Valentin.
Max paused from slicing his duck breast to give Valentin a severe look.
The Russian ignored him and set his cigar down on the bread plate to pour the wine.
“Save some for the rest of us,” said Faulkner.
Beside him, Jean sniffed and made a grunting sound of agreement.
“You're forgetting the magnitude of the supperclub's wine cellar,” Valentin replied, grabbing his cigar again.
The end singed his finger, and he cursed under his breath, a string of strange words that he cut off with a swig of wine.
Olivia clicked her tongue, “Mat is such an ugly language.”
Mat, the obscene language of Russia, full of odd phrases an insults, like a secret code.
“And not fit for the present company,” said Faulkner.
Saboteur ignored his plate, glancing from one face to another as they spoke.
Olivia smiled at Saboteur and said,
“For a good insult, you can do no better than Spanish. It sounds so much more artful.”
“Such as?” said Sabotuer.
Olivia struck her fist against the table, affecting a rich tone of anger,
“Te voy a romper el orto!”
Sabotuer chuckled, almost indiscernible,
“Nothin like a useful insult.”
“I think Mat is particularly ugly, though English is a close second,” said Olivia, “I know a number of languages, and none are as full of unfortunate words.”
“German's worse. Schnitzel, deiser, unter,” Saboteur replied, affecting a phlegmy German accent.
Valentin folded his arms, laughing a little around his cigar.
“I'll concede that,” dimples surfaced on Olivia's face as she smiled, “But for singular words with an unpleasant feeling- English as the dubious honor of being the most awful language.”
“Clavicle,” said Remus, “Pear-iss.”
Even Max laughed.
Olivia laid her silverware across her empty plate, “The worst is 'wainscoting'. I grew up on an English manor, a dismal place in that particularly grey country. One of the proletariat in that pompous house. The place was full of wainscoting, and the lady of the house always spoke of it in this nasal tone. Walnut wainscoting.”
“Fuckin English,” said Saboteur, flashing his teeth.
His shoulders relaxed.
“She was also fond of 'decorum,' a word that sounds like a refuse heap. The word 'clock' just grates my ears,” said Olivia.
“Clock,” said Max. He tittered, “Clock clock clock.”
The laughter was more strained this time.
“In the East, they've got these primitive tribes that speak in clicks and yelps. They sound like a pack of yappin little dogs,” said Sabotuer.
“Worse than wainscoting? Are you sure?” Olivia raised her eyebrows.
“Much worse. It's like listeinin to an orchestra of poodles all fuckin day,” Saboteur's smile seemed to float on the surface of his mask, false and disarming.
“Remind me not to travel,” Romulus muttered.
“Before we move on to strategy, where's the toilet around here?” Saboteur rose from his chair.
“Down the hall to the left,” Faulkner pointed.
Saboteur left.
“Max,” Olivia whispered.
Max leaned forward.
She felt something brush her skirt, too slow to make noise. Valentin's rough fingers traced the inside of her thigh.
“The mask he's wearing. Saboteur, I mean,” she said, and tried to brush the hand away from her leg quietly.
It remained, digging into her flesh.
“A real handful,” said Valentin. No one noticed.
“It's a fighter's mask,” she went on, prying Valentin's fingers away under the table, “They wear them in Mexico, to conceal their faces in the ring. The sport was very popular in the Caribbean, I'd recognize those masks anywhere. And he knows at least some Spanish. There's more to Saboteur than meets the eye.”
“Was that an attempt at irony? No matter, these tidbits of information are... shall we say invaluable?” Max steepled his fingers.
Olivia felt a sudden pressure as Valentin unhooked her garter from the top of her stocking. Seizing his forefinger, she twisted it just above the knuckle.
He coughed and grimaced, then took another drink. Olivia wrenched his finger a little harder.
Romulus spoke up,
“Its an honor to be part of this joint mission, to bring Wagner to justice.”
“Oh, it goes beyond that,” said Max. “Khilkov, are you perhaps indisposed?”
“Not at all,” Valentin jolted up from the table, yanking his hand free.
The finger throbbed.
He made his way to the bathroom, a place with thick porcelain tile and greenish copper pipes. Everything wavered a little, the effect of the evening's wine. Saboteur stood at the sink, drying his hands. His gloves lay beside the faucet.
His hands bore scars and callouses. The hands of a working man.
“Do you always wear that mask?” Valentin asked.
“Yes,” said Saboteur, voice crisper than before.
In the bright light of the bathroom, it seemed like a carnival costume.
“Even when you fuck?”
Saboteur looked away and put on his gloves.
“You're a vulgar old sot,” he said.
“And now you're all prim and judgmental,” Valentin laughed, a sound that grated in his throat, “Stay in this line of work, and you'll see. Whatever you're hiding under there, the women don't care. They like agents.”
Saboteur looked down at Valentin,
“Hope that works out for ya.”
His rough voice grew tighter, his accent less ingrained than a moment before. False mannerisms tended to wear thin when you made someone uncomfortable.
“As much as you act- and its all an act, just like that fucking mask- I see the real Saboteur under there. And you think you're so much better than everyone,” Valentin spat into the sink, “Let me tell you something, a benefit of all my experience.”
He drew a small card from his pocket. On it, a few words were written:
Hotel Sainte Catherine
May First, 10pm
Room 103
Saboteur eyed it, then glanced away, so quickly it seemed like a flinch
“I just slip this to the most beautiful woman I see, and she'll meet me. It's too easy,” Valentin put the card back in his pocket.
“You're drunk, Monsieur Khilkov,” said Saboteur, and pushed past Valentin to the exit.
He didn't see Valentin smiling behind him.
The real Saboteur wasn't snobbish or superior, Valentin thought, he was addicted to his disguise. Terrified of his own humanity.
Saboteur could be very useful, if he wasn't allowed to get the upper hand.
When Valentin and Saboteur returned to their seats at the supper table, everyone was finished with dinner. Most of the wine was gone, though Max's glass remained dry as always.
“We have three targets,” Max announced, “Wagner, as we all know, is the most important. Another Nazi, Guzman, will be traveling with him. The third man, interestingly enough, is a...liason? Yes, a liason from none other than the American CIA.”
Valentin's hand crept over to Olivia's thigh, but he found her skirt firmly cinched around her leg.
She shot him a glare as she drew more papers from her bag.
“Should the lady be excused?” said Remus.
“Not at all, not at all!” Max's thumbs twirled over each other, “This is not an English manor, not a group of enterprising and chivalrous thieves. We are all comrades here, all, ehm, veterans of the war.”
Remus shrank back a little.
They all sat around the wooden table, comrades and fellow soldiers for this mission, under orders from the Party and from this mysterious handler called Max. Whatever the mission held, they had pledged themselves to it.
Max stood, and the reflections of the agents flitted across his mask, grotesque and conjoined.
“On the night of April thirtieth,” said Max, “We shall converge on the Hotel Oasis. A joint venture, for a common cause. We all have our... parts to play. Now, its time we went over strategy, is it not?”