Why take drugs when you can have fiction?
I have more fiction for you. Maybe I should actually "blog" about "real life" in the near future. But that is all kinda petty at the moment. I was accused of using drugs at work. It's stupid and obviously not true. We'll see how this one ends, I guess.
Anyway, with my employment "on thin ice" and new novel ideas beckoning, I give you the next episode. Saboteur knows Adele?! Stay tuned for the reappearance of Hargreave and one large betrayal....
9- Mask
Ozanne Manette hadn't been so terrified since she had been dragged through the streets with a shaved head and old vegetables pelting her body.
Saboteur's coat flapped around her, the tiny heels of her shoes skittered on the stones of the street. The masked man gripped her arm, marching her down this alley and that.
Paris- once so familiar, so promising. Her breathing lilted and caught, her vision filled with ominous shadows and blurred edges.
“Where does she live?” Saboteur asked.
His voice soothed her a little. Why had she thought him so rough and low before? He spoke like a scholar, precise and cultivated.
“Hampshire, at Smith Hall,” Ozanne told him.
“Left,” Saboteur steered her down an alley.
She remembered, then, the body of the guard outside the Supperclub. The masked man in black reeked of evil and throat-slitting and wolves at the door.
And yet- he held her arm and guided her toward the address of the Paris safehouse. It was a miracle, really, that she could remember the address Drew had told her, through her haze of terror.
“Who else knows this? I couldn't find any records,” Saboteur turned toward her, stopping.
She slid a little, hitting a wall before stopping. The buildings around her closed in, smothering.
“Breathe,” Saboteur told her.
Ozanne's breath came in with the force of a drum.
“Good,” he put an arm around her shoulders and took off again, “England is an obvious choice for a getaway. But why did she vanish?”
“She didn't.”
They clipped along for a few minutes.
“The marriage records, of course. It's obvious, when you think about it,” Saboteur said, just a whisper that the dark streets swallowed.
Then they stopped in front of an apartment that had probably been very nice ten years ago.
“Four twenty-three, this is it, isn't it?” he pointed.
Ozanne shivered and ran her fingers over the door. She'd never been to the safehouse before, couldn't trust her own dizzy judgment to be sure enough to knock.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“A man trapped within a mask,” Saboteur replied.
The door flew open, and Tycho's impish face appeared, smiling off-center.
“Help me,” Ozanne lurched forward, catching herself on the doorframe.
Saboteur stood just around the corner, out of Tycho's view.
“Tell them you have a defector with you, and I'll only speak to the Senior Agent,” he hissed.
A gun appeared in Tycho's hand,
“Who's there?”
“I... I have a defector, and, oh god just let me in. Send your boss out to talk to him, he'll only talk to the boss.”
“If you tell 'em I know Adele, I'll slit your fuckin throat,” Saboteur whispered.
The words were like gravel on her ears and her body seemed to turn into gelatin. A wellspring of tears burst out.
“Drew's inside,” Tycho opened the door just enough to usher her in.
Saboteur was left alone on the street for just a moment. He faced the door, waiting.
It didn't take long. The door opened again and a man stood in the opening. Tall, middle-aged, with a typical British squareness of features. Face lined, but still supple to the point of oiliness. Hair grey, but with the thick steel quality of someone military or bureaucratic who aged by wear and strain instead of time and withdrawal.
Not a bad sort.
“You're Saboteur,” the Agent said.
Saboteur nodded.
“You're in charge here, then?”
“Get in off the street,” the Agent opened the door and beckoned.
“No one sees me,” Saboteur told him, “Nobody can know I'm here. I ain't in the mood to deal with fuckin Dante.”
Saboteur entered the apartment, down an empty and nondescript hallway. They breezed into a small room, set as a study with wan little lamps and the requisite leather-bound books.
The agent sat in the lone wingback chair, making Saboteur stand- a typical agent's trick to make him uncomfortable.
Saboteur stood like a mannequin.
“I'm Senior Agent Hargreave,” the Englishman began scribbling notes, “And you are the infamous Saboteur.”
“So my reputation precedes me,” Saboteur smiled through the mask.
In spite of a strong French accent, his affectation and lilt were a carbon copy of Dante.
“I wish to defect to SIS,” Saboteur resumed his montone, “I require complete amnesty and a new identity as a British national. In return, I offer my professional skills to aid your fight against Communism.”
“Are you reading a damned script?” Hargreave set his pen down for a moment, “You can't just march in here and demand amnesty, you know. If you're going to defect, try telling me who you work for.”
Saboteur's eyes darted around the study, as if he sensed the other agents watching him. This place was a rat trap, full of watchers and itchy trigger fingers.
“I worked for Thibault,” said Saboteur, “I will not speak of him here.”
“Oh really,” Hargreave paused for a forced, dry laugh, “I'm starting to doubt how useful you are.”
He tapped his pen and stared at the masked man.
“Max runs another group of agents. He had less power than Thibault until he killed Emanuel and all Emanuel's agents.”
Hargreave snorted,
“We knew that.”
“I'm just getting started,” Saboteur replied, switching back to French,“Max is a few inches shorter than I am, but delicate.”
Hargreave went back to note-taking while Saboteur delivered information in an incessant stream, like he was rattling off a memorized speech.
“I expect Max has spent most of his life behind a desk, but he's dangerous. He wears a mask of reflective silver. No one thinks its true until they see it. The mask is like a venetian carnival costume, no one knows what he's hiding under it. His hair's white, but I don't think he's much over thirty. Prim little mouth, blue eyes. He has a perverse sense of superiority, and the humor of a madman. I don't know what he looks like, though, or anything except that he's a simpering, self important butcher.”
“You've met him?” asked Hargreave.
“And his agents,” said Sabotuer, “Some of them. It was a contract job. The Abbesses supperclub is a Communist front, and I met them there.”
“We had wondered about that place,” said Hargreave.
“Let that be...” Saboteur slipped back into English for a moment, “a token of my goodwill.”
Hargreave kept writing, and Saboteur kept talking,
“The woman- I don't think she's Max's mistress- seems to be involved in... collecting information. She's the type that would be good at that. Witty, charming, seductive. She was in the Red Army, serves as a sniper apparently. I don't know if she's worth the trouble of going after, but her name is Olivia. Exotic looking. Spanish or Italian, maybe something less civilized. She has black hair, cut about here,” he gestured around his chin.
“Jean is hard to look at. He's got an infection of some kind, spreading sores all around his mouth. Disgusting little man, greasy strings of hair, eyes always oozing pus at the corners. He was a resistance fighter, better at the espionage business than he looks. A common butcher, but very useful since looks like an vagrant beneath notice.
“There's another man, Faulkner. American. He's mid-sized, a mindless sort of Communist. Greying blonde hair, with beady little grey eyes and his nose has a lump in the middle. On the whole, he looks like a vulture.
“The chief enforcer is a Russian named Khilkov. Somewhere between forty-five and fifty, I'd guess. Thick hair, dark but going grey, big eyebrows and full mustache. He's going to be at the Hotel Sainte Catherine, tomorrow night, in room 103, at ten o'clock. Go pick him up, and you've got a direct avenue to Max.”
Hargreave finished his notes, reminded himself to shut his mouth, and looked up at Saboteur. The mysterious Frenchman stood with arms at his sides, staring at the wall. Hargreave wondered for a moment if there was anything human under all that black cloth, or if he was just a lifeless marionette. There were men like that, scarred and soulless people who obeyed blindly and spoke without feeling.
He shivered a little. The promise of such a puppet held such heady possibility.
Saboteur would have to be held, the Langton woman questioned. If all stories checked out, they could pick up this Khlkov fellow and extract everyone to England as planned.
“One more thing,” Saboteur was staring at him now, with a look of actual fervency, “Dante must not know I'm here. Once I am brought aboard SIS, we can sort out our problems.”
“That can be arranged. If your story about the Hotel Sainte Catherine checks out,” said Hargreave.
Dante was busy a few rooms away, interrogating Guzman or perhaps dealing with Langton and his wife. Dante didn't need to know about this business until the Hotel Sainte Catherine was investigated and Guzman taken to England and the Crown had been successfully defended yet again.
Anyway, with my employment "on thin ice" and new novel ideas beckoning, I give you the next episode. Saboteur knows Adele?! Stay tuned for the reappearance of Hargreave and one large betrayal....
9- Mask
Ozanne Manette hadn't been so terrified since she had been dragged through the streets with a shaved head and old vegetables pelting her body.
Saboteur's coat flapped around her, the tiny heels of her shoes skittered on the stones of the street. The masked man gripped her arm, marching her down this alley and that.
Paris- once so familiar, so promising. Her breathing lilted and caught, her vision filled with ominous shadows and blurred edges.
“Where does she live?” Saboteur asked.
His voice soothed her a little. Why had she thought him so rough and low before? He spoke like a scholar, precise and cultivated.
“Hampshire, at Smith Hall,” Ozanne told him.
“Left,” Saboteur steered her down an alley.
She remembered, then, the body of the guard outside the Supperclub. The masked man in black reeked of evil and throat-slitting and wolves at the door.
And yet- he held her arm and guided her toward the address of the Paris safehouse. It was a miracle, really, that she could remember the address Drew had told her, through her haze of terror.
“Who else knows this? I couldn't find any records,” Saboteur turned toward her, stopping.
She slid a little, hitting a wall before stopping. The buildings around her closed in, smothering.
“Breathe,” Saboteur told her.
Ozanne's breath came in with the force of a drum.
“Good,” he put an arm around her shoulders and took off again, “England is an obvious choice for a getaway. But why did she vanish?”
“She didn't.”
They clipped along for a few minutes.
“The marriage records, of course. It's obvious, when you think about it,” Saboteur said, just a whisper that the dark streets swallowed.
Then they stopped in front of an apartment that had probably been very nice ten years ago.
“Four twenty-three, this is it, isn't it?” he pointed.
Ozanne shivered and ran her fingers over the door. She'd never been to the safehouse before, couldn't trust her own dizzy judgment to be sure enough to knock.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“A man trapped within a mask,” Saboteur replied.
The door flew open, and Tycho's impish face appeared, smiling off-center.
“Help me,” Ozanne lurched forward, catching herself on the doorframe.
Saboteur stood just around the corner, out of Tycho's view.
“Tell them you have a defector with you, and I'll only speak to the Senior Agent,” he hissed.
A gun appeared in Tycho's hand,
“Who's there?”
“I... I have a defector, and, oh god just let me in. Send your boss out to talk to him, he'll only talk to the boss.”
“If you tell 'em I know Adele, I'll slit your fuckin throat,” Saboteur whispered.
The words were like gravel on her ears and her body seemed to turn into gelatin. A wellspring of tears burst out.
“Drew's inside,” Tycho opened the door just enough to usher her in.
Saboteur was left alone on the street for just a moment. He faced the door, waiting.
It didn't take long. The door opened again and a man stood in the opening. Tall, middle-aged, with a typical British squareness of features. Face lined, but still supple to the point of oiliness. Hair grey, but with the thick steel quality of someone military or bureaucratic who aged by wear and strain instead of time and withdrawal.
Not a bad sort.
“You're Saboteur,” the Agent said.
Saboteur nodded.
“You're in charge here, then?”
“Get in off the street,” the Agent opened the door and beckoned.
“No one sees me,” Saboteur told him, “Nobody can know I'm here. I ain't in the mood to deal with fuckin Dante.”
Saboteur entered the apartment, down an empty and nondescript hallway. They breezed into a small room, set as a study with wan little lamps and the requisite leather-bound books.
The agent sat in the lone wingback chair, making Saboteur stand- a typical agent's trick to make him uncomfortable.
Saboteur stood like a mannequin.
“I'm Senior Agent Hargreave,” the Englishman began scribbling notes, “And you are the infamous Saboteur.”
“So my reputation precedes me,” Saboteur smiled through the mask.
In spite of a strong French accent, his affectation and lilt were a carbon copy of Dante.
“I wish to defect to SIS,” Saboteur resumed his montone, “I require complete amnesty and a new identity as a British national. In return, I offer my professional skills to aid your fight against Communism.”
“Are you reading a damned script?” Hargreave set his pen down for a moment, “You can't just march in here and demand amnesty, you know. If you're going to defect, try telling me who you work for.”
Saboteur's eyes darted around the study, as if he sensed the other agents watching him. This place was a rat trap, full of watchers and itchy trigger fingers.
“I worked for Thibault,” said Saboteur, “I will not speak of him here.”
“Oh really,” Hargreave paused for a forced, dry laugh, “I'm starting to doubt how useful you are.”
He tapped his pen and stared at the masked man.
“Max runs another group of agents. He had less power than Thibault until he killed Emanuel and all Emanuel's agents.”
Hargreave snorted,
“We knew that.”
“I'm just getting started,” Saboteur replied, switching back to French,“Max is a few inches shorter than I am, but delicate.”
Hargreave went back to note-taking while Saboteur delivered information in an incessant stream, like he was rattling off a memorized speech.
“I expect Max has spent most of his life behind a desk, but he's dangerous. He wears a mask of reflective silver. No one thinks its true until they see it. The mask is like a venetian carnival costume, no one knows what he's hiding under it. His hair's white, but I don't think he's much over thirty. Prim little mouth, blue eyes. He has a perverse sense of superiority, and the humor of a madman. I don't know what he looks like, though, or anything except that he's a simpering, self important butcher.”
“You've met him?” asked Hargreave.
“And his agents,” said Sabotuer, “Some of them. It was a contract job. The Abbesses supperclub is a Communist front, and I met them there.”
“We had wondered about that place,” said Hargreave.
“Let that be...” Saboteur slipped back into English for a moment, “a token of my goodwill.”
Hargreave kept writing, and Saboteur kept talking,
“The woman- I don't think she's Max's mistress- seems to be involved in... collecting information. She's the type that would be good at that. Witty, charming, seductive. She was in the Red Army, serves as a sniper apparently. I don't know if she's worth the trouble of going after, but her name is Olivia. Exotic looking. Spanish or Italian, maybe something less civilized. She has black hair, cut about here,” he gestured around his chin.
“Jean is hard to look at. He's got an infection of some kind, spreading sores all around his mouth. Disgusting little man, greasy strings of hair, eyes always oozing pus at the corners. He was a resistance fighter, better at the espionage business than he looks. A common butcher, but very useful since looks like an vagrant beneath notice.
“There's another man, Faulkner. American. He's mid-sized, a mindless sort of Communist. Greying blonde hair, with beady little grey eyes and his nose has a lump in the middle. On the whole, he looks like a vulture.
“The chief enforcer is a Russian named Khilkov. Somewhere between forty-five and fifty, I'd guess. Thick hair, dark but going grey, big eyebrows and full mustache. He's going to be at the Hotel Sainte Catherine, tomorrow night, in room 103, at ten o'clock. Go pick him up, and you've got a direct avenue to Max.”
Hargreave finished his notes, reminded himself to shut his mouth, and looked up at Saboteur. The mysterious Frenchman stood with arms at his sides, staring at the wall. Hargreave wondered for a moment if there was anything human under all that black cloth, or if he was just a lifeless marionette. There were men like that, scarred and soulless people who obeyed blindly and spoke without feeling.
He shivered a little. The promise of such a puppet held such heady possibility.
Saboteur would have to be held, the Langton woman questioned. If all stories checked out, they could pick up this Khlkov fellow and extract everyone to England as planned.
“One more thing,” Saboteur was staring at him now, with a look of actual fervency, “Dante must not know I'm here. Once I am brought aboard SIS, we can sort out our problems.”
“That can be arranged. If your story about the Hotel Sainte Catherine checks out,” said Hargreave.
Dante was busy a few rooms away, interrogating Guzman or perhaps dealing with Langton and his wife. Dante didn't need to know about this business until the Hotel Sainte Catherine was investigated and Guzman taken to England and the Crown had been successfully defended yet again.