Cold War! Episode III
Part III, "Mission,"
Tuesday June 13th, 3 PM
Party headquarters claimed to know nothing about the apartment on Rue Clovis. But the Official Communist Party didn’t know anything about spies, assassinations, or battles with the SIS. As far as lily-white hands of the Party were concerned, Max’s office didn’t exist.
Off the record, the apartment-turned-handler’s-office was the pride and joy of the people’s revolution. The décor was spartan. A few simple prints depicted workers employed in various industries, with Russian slogans proclaiming the greatness of the common people. The furniture was sturdy, chosen for quality and understated elegance rather than fashion.
And the display of weapons above Max’s desk always made an impression on visitors.
Conducteur and Baptiste entered with quiet reverence. The guards and passwords instilled a sense of respect for Max’s authority. Max himself inspired discomfort and a seasoning of fear.
Conducteur removed his brown driving coat and motioned for Baptiste to remove his jacket as well. Baptiste had only been to this inner sanctum once before, under cover of night. The daylight only made it more intimidating.
From across the room, Max regarded them as if they were ants.
Once Conducteur had hung the jackets beside the door, he and Baptiste crossed the great room to stand before Max’s gargantuan desk. The view of the city was obscured by heavy curtains over each window, and it gave the apartment a cavernous feeling. Their footsteps boomed across the hardwood floor. It was like entering the lair of a dark god, Baptiste thought.
“Thank you for answering my summons so promptly,” said Max, in a voice that lilted on the verge of a question with every word.
He pursed his lips, as if holding back a smile of amusement. The rest of his expression was hidden behind his mask.
Rumors circulated every now and then about what the mask concealed. A hideous birthmark, a series of burn scars, or a nose that was missing a piece in the middle. Nobody knew the truth, because no one had ever seen Max without his favorite accessory. It was a carnival half-mask, covering his face from mid-forehead to nose, with eyeholes so small his expression was indiscernible.
The silver finish of the mask reflected the face of whoever was talking to him. It was hard to stand proud while watching your face become distorted, squashed and elongated in a thousand hideous ways.
“Got the message this morning, sir,” Conducteur kept himself from saluting, but his posture stiffened out of habit.
“And me, also, sir,” Baptiste added, watching the reflection of his face twist horribly on Max’s cheekbone.
“Ah, Baptiste,” Max rose from the desk with delicate precision, drumming his slender, pale fingers against the desk, “How is our new- shall we say ‘fresh meat’?- enjoying his service to the Party?”
Max circled the vast desk and pranced over to Baptiste, each step careful as a choreographed dance.
“Very much, sir, but I want to be of more use. Sir,” Baptiste replied.
Conducteur concealed a smile. The new recruits were always nervous around Max.
“Does my presence unnerve you?” Max pursed his lips again, laying a finger on the side of his face.
The door opened, and Baptiste was saved from having to answer.
“So good of you to join us in a timely manner,” Max said, prancing back to his desk, “If only my chief Inspector were so considerate.”
The three newcomers were not Inspectors, but all were veterans in the fight for revolution.. Tom was about Baptiste’s own age, but had seen a few more fights. He had the perpetual grin of a child and the missing teeth of a boxer, and gave a smile-and-nod greeting to Conducteur and Baptiste Beside him, grizzled old Faulkner gave Max a halfhearted smile.
Robert never smiled, but he gave their handler the same stiffened posture that Conducteur had.
If nothing else, Max commanded respect. He dressed in overly tight funeral clothes, and his white hair was as motionless as if he had slicked it back with cement. But the theatrical air of Max’s existence became frightening once you saw him with a knife. Or a gun. Or a pen poised over an execution order.
Baptiste kept a respectful distance and lowered his eyes.
Max had resumed drumming his fingers,
“I expect our final guests were held up at the Party luncheon. The political arm of the revolution can be longwinded, and overfond of socializing. The luncheon was a lovely affair, but I managed to leave in a timely manner. Let that be your example, Baptiste. Timeliness is everything. One mustn’t loll about drinking punch and eating watercress sandwiches when there is work to do, hmm?”
Baptiste struggled to find the proper answer, but once again was rescued from speaking by the next arrival.
“I heard that,” a low, slow voice came from the doorway, every syllable thick and visceral, with an edge of mockery.
That would be Inspector Khilkov.
Though he was a head shorter than Conducteur, Valentin Khilkov had a swagger of often-exercised authority. His face had once been chiseled, but the years had turned those lines into an almost haggard cruelty. Valentin was the lone man at the end of the bar whom nobody messed with, the old veteran who met everything with cynicism and a gun. Which was why he was in charge. Max was the handler, but Valentin was the enforcer.
Cutthroat Jean came in just a step behind Valentin. His slight body was shrouded in lumpen grey clothes, and he looked like a vagrant with a skin disease. People spoke of sores blossoming, but nothing on Jean’s face seemed to unfurl. The skin was puckered in pockmarks across his jaw, the skin sucked tightly into the pits and sores that emanated from his chapped lips.
His voice seemed to have rusted over,
“Olivia’s outside.”
Baptiste tried not to wince around Jean, but the man’s face took some getting used to. But compared to Max’s maddening questions and quippy remarks, Jean and Valentin were a welcome relief. Even Conducteur relaxed, giving Khilkov a rare smile of camaraderie.
“Fashionably late, no doubt,” Max chuckled, “For those who are present, we shall begin. I trust that you are capable of carrying out your mission in spite of an excessive affection for the Party’s punchbowl. There is a bunker, near Buchy. Intelligence has long linked this particular location with our dear friends, the British SIS.”
“Fuckin Brits,” Faulkner muttered.
“We’ve been looking for the Fascists’ hideouts for years,” Valentin added, “Who found this bunker?”
“Oh dear!” Max’s hand flew to his mouth, “Unreliabe information! You’ve found the flaw in my plan, you clever boy.”
“Just doing my duty,” Valentin drawled, raising an eyebrow like he was in on some joke.
He was.
“Actually, the Party has given us authorization to ambush the SIS agents because it is very good intelligence,” Max paused to simper, “Another handler came across the information, if you insist upon knowing, but we were judged more worthy of handling the matter. Justinian is overworked it seems, so the task falls to us.”
Max looked up to the door, and Conducteur immediately turned to watch Olivia. He couldn’t help himself.
She strode into Max’s office, her gloved hands resting on her swaying hips. Without a second of hesitation, she went right up beside Max’s desk and grinned at him.
“Made it,” she said, “Hope I didn’t miss anything. But after a few trips to the punch bowl, you’ll be shocked what politicians will admit to.”
She winked at Max. He simpered and rubbed his hands approvingly.
Though she was only in her mid twenties, her rounded face had long ago traded in pretty innocence for a sense of exotic passion and mischief. Most men didn’t bother watching her face, though. She had curves that made most pin-up girls look like waning children. The outrageous sensuality of her petite body, rounded gestures, and full-lipped smile seemed to mock the austerity of the apartment.
“The gossip can wait,” said Valentin. “Where’s this bunker?”
“Behold!” Max strode across to the far side of the desk, whisking a map off a pile of papers with a flourish.
The location was marked in red ink.
Max’s gaze drifted across his assembled followers. Then, he got to the important part,
“Dante himself will be at this location Thursday night. The lot of you will ambush him and the rest of SIS. Do what you will to the others, but Dante must be brought to Paris to stand trial before a tribunal of the Party.”
With a final smirk, he went back to his imposing chair to peer at them over the monumental desk.
“Dante?” Conducteur asked, “As in, Dante the Shadow, the pride and joy of the SIS?”
“Of the whole capitalist faction,” Valentin muttered.
He and old Jean shared a look, while the others just stared at Max, waiting.
Dante was a code name, of course. Who he was or where he had come from were as mysterious as the origins of Max himself.
After the war, when the governments of Europe began to knit their countries back together, they knew how much they’d lost. Between the death tolls and the tumbling chaos of the cities, everyone had losses to count. The smart governments counted their gains, too. Like new intelligence organizations, greater patriotism and control. War made men into soldiers, warriors, zealots, patriots.
Max’s own group was a testament to the galvanizing power of war. But for every person sworn to further the people’s Revolution, there was another who worked against them.
As these defenders of capitalism rose out of the rubble of war, one stood above the others. Dante appeared out of England, with a long black coat and a flair for daring escapades. He’d been a thorn in the Party’s side ever since.
“So,” Max clapped his hands together, “Shall we get down to the details?”
He looked gleeful, from what Baptiste could see. Was this a joke? With the exception of Valentin, who looked like a burning wrath was eating his insides, everyone else just stared dumbly at Max.
Were they testing him?
Baptiste glanced from Conducteur to Max. Then to Robert, Faulkner, Tom, Jean, Olivia. Back to Max, with his incessant smirk. Back to Conducteur.
“Is this real?” he whispered.
In the empty silence of the apartment, his voice carried with horrible volume. He cringed, down to his toes, as they looked at him.
No doubt judging him and finding him wanting.
“Your suspicion does you credit,” Valentin said, finally, “I was beginning to think you’d left your tongue at home.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“This is all quite serious, my dear Baptiste,” said Max.
He had begun twirling a fountain pen, letting its gold tip dip and swirl between his fingers with admirable dexterity. He went on,
“You have the great honor of capturing Dante himself. At great risk to your own life, of course, but it’s a risk I am quite willing to take. For the Party’s benefit, naturally. What do you say, then, to the mission? Shall we ensnare the pride and joy of the SIS?”
He leaned forward. Olivia leaned forward, her eyes goading him. Valentin leaned back against the wall, half-smiling.
So this was the real test, Baptiste thought. How eagerly could he accept dangerous orders? He found that his fear of death, even his fear of Max, faded before the magnitude of their assignment. Dante himself! It was worthy of Hollywood. Worthy of his own passion for Revolution and justice.
Conducteur almost elbowed Baptiste to make him say something, anything, and not just stand dumbstruck before the great and mighty Max.
Baptize affected a smile and shrugged,
“Sounds like fun.”
.... To Be Continued...
.
Tuesday June 13th, 3 PM
Party headquarters claimed to know nothing about the apartment on Rue Clovis. But the Official Communist Party didn’t know anything about spies, assassinations, or battles with the SIS. As far as lily-white hands of the Party were concerned, Max’s office didn’t exist.
Off the record, the apartment-turned-handler’s-office was the pride and joy of the people’s revolution. The décor was spartan. A few simple prints depicted workers employed in various industries, with Russian slogans proclaiming the greatness of the common people. The furniture was sturdy, chosen for quality and understated elegance rather than fashion.
And the display of weapons above Max’s desk always made an impression on visitors.
Conducteur and Baptiste entered with quiet reverence. The guards and passwords instilled a sense of respect for Max’s authority. Max himself inspired discomfort and a seasoning of fear.
Conducteur removed his brown driving coat and motioned for Baptiste to remove his jacket as well. Baptiste had only been to this inner sanctum once before, under cover of night. The daylight only made it more intimidating.
From across the room, Max regarded them as if they were ants.
Once Conducteur had hung the jackets beside the door, he and Baptiste crossed the great room to stand before Max’s gargantuan desk. The view of the city was obscured by heavy curtains over each window, and it gave the apartment a cavernous feeling. Their footsteps boomed across the hardwood floor. It was like entering the lair of a dark god, Baptiste thought.
“Thank you for answering my summons so promptly,” said Max, in a voice that lilted on the verge of a question with every word.
He pursed his lips, as if holding back a smile of amusement. The rest of his expression was hidden behind his mask.
Rumors circulated every now and then about what the mask concealed. A hideous birthmark, a series of burn scars, or a nose that was missing a piece in the middle. Nobody knew the truth, because no one had ever seen Max without his favorite accessory. It was a carnival half-mask, covering his face from mid-forehead to nose, with eyeholes so small his expression was indiscernible.
The silver finish of the mask reflected the face of whoever was talking to him. It was hard to stand proud while watching your face become distorted, squashed and elongated in a thousand hideous ways.
“Got the message this morning, sir,” Conducteur kept himself from saluting, but his posture stiffened out of habit.
“And me, also, sir,” Baptiste added, watching the reflection of his face twist horribly on Max’s cheekbone.
“Ah, Baptiste,” Max rose from the desk with delicate precision, drumming his slender, pale fingers against the desk, “How is our new- shall we say ‘fresh meat’?- enjoying his service to the Party?”
Max circled the vast desk and pranced over to Baptiste, each step careful as a choreographed dance.
“Very much, sir, but I want to be of more use. Sir,” Baptiste replied.
Conducteur concealed a smile. The new recruits were always nervous around Max.
“Does my presence unnerve you?” Max pursed his lips again, laying a finger on the side of his face.
The door opened, and Baptiste was saved from having to answer.
“So good of you to join us in a timely manner,” Max said, prancing back to his desk, “If only my chief Inspector were so considerate.”
The three newcomers were not Inspectors, but all were veterans in the fight for revolution.. Tom was about Baptiste’s own age, but had seen a few more fights. He had the perpetual grin of a child and the missing teeth of a boxer, and gave a smile-and-nod greeting to Conducteur and Baptiste Beside him, grizzled old Faulkner gave Max a halfhearted smile.
Robert never smiled, but he gave their handler the same stiffened posture that Conducteur had.
If nothing else, Max commanded respect. He dressed in overly tight funeral clothes, and his white hair was as motionless as if he had slicked it back with cement. But the theatrical air of Max’s existence became frightening once you saw him with a knife. Or a gun. Or a pen poised over an execution order.
Baptiste kept a respectful distance and lowered his eyes.
Max had resumed drumming his fingers,
“I expect our final guests were held up at the Party luncheon. The political arm of the revolution can be longwinded, and overfond of socializing. The luncheon was a lovely affair, but I managed to leave in a timely manner. Let that be your example, Baptiste. Timeliness is everything. One mustn’t loll about drinking punch and eating watercress sandwiches when there is work to do, hmm?”
Baptiste struggled to find the proper answer, but once again was rescued from speaking by the next arrival.
“I heard that,” a low, slow voice came from the doorway, every syllable thick and visceral, with an edge of mockery.
That would be Inspector Khilkov.
Though he was a head shorter than Conducteur, Valentin Khilkov had a swagger of often-exercised authority. His face had once been chiseled, but the years had turned those lines into an almost haggard cruelty. Valentin was the lone man at the end of the bar whom nobody messed with, the old veteran who met everything with cynicism and a gun. Which was why he was in charge. Max was the handler, but Valentin was the enforcer.
Cutthroat Jean came in just a step behind Valentin. His slight body was shrouded in lumpen grey clothes, and he looked like a vagrant with a skin disease. People spoke of sores blossoming, but nothing on Jean’s face seemed to unfurl. The skin was puckered in pockmarks across his jaw, the skin sucked tightly into the pits and sores that emanated from his chapped lips.
His voice seemed to have rusted over,
“Olivia’s outside.”
Baptiste tried not to wince around Jean, but the man’s face took some getting used to. But compared to Max’s maddening questions and quippy remarks, Jean and Valentin were a welcome relief. Even Conducteur relaxed, giving Khilkov a rare smile of camaraderie.
“Fashionably late, no doubt,” Max chuckled, “For those who are present, we shall begin. I trust that you are capable of carrying out your mission in spite of an excessive affection for the Party’s punchbowl. There is a bunker, near Buchy. Intelligence has long linked this particular location with our dear friends, the British SIS.”
“Fuckin Brits,” Faulkner muttered.
“We’ve been looking for the Fascists’ hideouts for years,” Valentin added, “Who found this bunker?”
“Oh dear!” Max’s hand flew to his mouth, “Unreliabe information! You’ve found the flaw in my plan, you clever boy.”
“Just doing my duty,” Valentin drawled, raising an eyebrow like he was in on some joke.
He was.
“Actually, the Party has given us authorization to ambush the SIS agents because it is very good intelligence,” Max paused to simper, “Another handler came across the information, if you insist upon knowing, but we were judged more worthy of handling the matter. Justinian is overworked it seems, so the task falls to us.”
Max looked up to the door, and Conducteur immediately turned to watch Olivia. He couldn’t help himself.
She strode into Max’s office, her gloved hands resting on her swaying hips. Without a second of hesitation, she went right up beside Max’s desk and grinned at him.
“Made it,” she said, “Hope I didn’t miss anything. But after a few trips to the punch bowl, you’ll be shocked what politicians will admit to.”
She winked at Max. He simpered and rubbed his hands approvingly.
Though she was only in her mid twenties, her rounded face had long ago traded in pretty innocence for a sense of exotic passion and mischief. Most men didn’t bother watching her face, though. She had curves that made most pin-up girls look like waning children. The outrageous sensuality of her petite body, rounded gestures, and full-lipped smile seemed to mock the austerity of the apartment.
“The gossip can wait,” said Valentin. “Where’s this bunker?”
“Behold!” Max strode across to the far side of the desk, whisking a map off a pile of papers with a flourish.
The location was marked in red ink.
Max’s gaze drifted across his assembled followers. Then, he got to the important part,
“Dante himself will be at this location Thursday night. The lot of you will ambush him and the rest of SIS. Do what you will to the others, but Dante must be brought to Paris to stand trial before a tribunal of the Party.”
With a final smirk, he went back to his imposing chair to peer at them over the monumental desk.
“Dante?” Conducteur asked, “As in, Dante the Shadow, the pride and joy of the SIS?”
“Of the whole capitalist faction,” Valentin muttered.
He and old Jean shared a look, while the others just stared at Max, waiting.
Dante was a code name, of course. Who he was or where he had come from were as mysterious as the origins of Max himself.
After the war, when the governments of Europe began to knit their countries back together, they knew how much they’d lost. Between the death tolls and the tumbling chaos of the cities, everyone had losses to count. The smart governments counted their gains, too. Like new intelligence organizations, greater patriotism and control. War made men into soldiers, warriors, zealots, patriots.
Max’s own group was a testament to the galvanizing power of war. But for every person sworn to further the people’s Revolution, there was another who worked against them.
As these defenders of capitalism rose out of the rubble of war, one stood above the others. Dante appeared out of England, with a long black coat and a flair for daring escapades. He’d been a thorn in the Party’s side ever since.
“So,” Max clapped his hands together, “Shall we get down to the details?”
He looked gleeful, from what Baptiste could see. Was this a joke? With the exception of Valentin, who looked like a burning wrath was eating his insides, everyone else just stared dumbly at Max.
Were they testing him?
Baptiste glanced from Conducteur to Max. Then to Robert, Faulkner, Tom, Jean, Olivia. Back to Max, with his incessant smirk. Back to Conducteur.
“Is this real?” he whispered.
In the empty silence of the apartment, his voice carried with horrible volume. He cringed, down to his toes, as they looked at him.
No doubt judging him and finding him wanting.
“Your suspicion does you credit,” Valentin said, finally, “I was beginning to think you’d left your tongue at home.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“This is all quite serious, my dear Baptiste,” said Max.
He had begun twirling a fountain pen, letting its gold tip dip and swirl between his fingers with admirable dexterity. He went on,
“You have the great honor of capturing Dante himself. At great risk to your own life, of course, but it’s a risk I am quite willing to take. For the Party’s benefit, naturally. What do you say, then, to the mission? Shall we ensnare the pride and joy of the SIS?”
He leaned forward. Olivia leaned forward, her eyes goading him. Valentin leaned back against the wall, half-smiling.
So this was the real test, Baptiste thought. How eagerly could he accept dangerous orders? He found that his fear of death, even his fear of Max, faded before the magnitude of their assignment. Dante himself! It was worthy of Hollywood. Worthy of his own passion for Revolution and justice.
Conducteur almost elbowed Baptiste to make him say something, anything, and not just stand dumbstruck before the great and mighty Max.
Baptize affected a smile and shrugged,
“Sounds like fun.”
.... To Be Continued...
.