Cold War: News Flash
10- Thursday, June 15, 11:45 PM, “Evidence”
Dante leaned against the wall of the bunker. The cold night air and the chill of the wall on his back had cleared his head. It had been too stuffy inside. It was better outside, easier to ease his mind to a higher level.
“Are you all right?” Langton leaned in.
“Don’t crowd me,” Dante waved him off with his right hand.
The left was still occupied, clamping down on the wound in his side. He’d seen his bullet take the damned Communist in the same place, just a half-instant before he’d been shot himself.
Dante wondered how the Commie bastard was faring. Hopefully thrashing about like a dying fish, bleeding out by drops.
Pain stabbed through Dante’s abdomen, but he breathed slowly and fought it down. The wound was just a pinch at the edge of his side, and the bullet had passed through. It hurt, but there was no serious danger.
He hadn’t survived the wilderness of Bihar, the chaos of Agra, and the privations of the Burma campaign to fall apart now. Stiff upper lip and all that.
Dante kept watch while Langton ripped up the nearest dead Frenchman’s shirt. They had two bodies piled in front of them- one without a jaw, the other a young man with no front teeth- and there was no point letting the Reds’ clothing go to waste.
He handed a wad of the makeshift bandage to Dante.
“You are so useful around the house,” Dante gave a wan smile and pressed the fresh cloth against his side.
The feeling of blood flowing from him always brought a rush to his head, not unlike alcohol. Not a pleasant feeling. Dante didn’t care for drinking, or getting shot, for that matter.
“Damned slow, aren’t they?” he kept his voice light, unconcerned.
“I told them not to bury our men yet,” said Langton.
A scurrying through the trees signaled the arrival of the others.
For a moment, Dante feared a double-cross. Perhaps more Communists lurked in the trees, waiting to spring on them. Perhaps the sniper was still there, picking her targets-
His targets.
Dante swallowed, bringing himself back to reality. There was no need to give into flights of dark fancy. Dozens of men could rival that woman at sharpshooting. The war had produced hundreds of decent snipers. All of whom would be more likely to ambush SIS than a strangely talented woman.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder-
Tycho burst out of the trees, the other agents in tow.
“They killed the men on the bikes,” Tycho announced.
Dante’s heart dropped, but he clenched his jaw, keeping his face immobile.
“And they blew up one of the cars. Jacob got hit, and….” Tycho paused, “Anyway, we searched the car, and we’ve got something.”
He produced a small, dark object from his pocket and made as if to throw it to Dante.
A throb of pain ran through his side, as if to warn him against trying to catch.
“Bring it here,” Dante held out his right hand.
Tycho gave him the object. It was a cigarette case, silver, covered in delicate etchings and charred burn marks.
“It survived the blast, but what of it?” Langton asked.
Tycho shuffled his feet on the glob of grass and dirt, affecting sheepishness.
Dante popped it open. Inside were a pair of cigarettes and a matchbook.
His view spun out of focus for a second, and a wave of pain and tension ran through his body. He was still losing blood, but he could keep up appearances for another few minutes.
A deep breath restored his calm. The matchbook came into focus, crisp and clear. It read,
“Café Voltaire, 7 Rue de La Vieuville, Paris.”
He looked up at the eager faces around him. Tycho and Langton alone would have been sufficient. Those two would see this to the end, and if others helped them along the way, all the better.
“It appears to be the address of a Red café. I know the neighborhood, and its all quiet, niche places. We have something here, gentlemen, something very important.”
“Max?” Tycho breathed, “Will this lead to some agents?”
“One of the infamous Khilkov’s haunts, even,” Langton added.
Dante laughed, in spite of the pain in caused. They knew who a few of them were- the pest Baptiste, and a giant driver who hung around with Khilkov. Rumor had it there was a woman, too, but she was probably just someone's mistress.
It was only an address, but to Dante it was a key that unlocked the secret world of Paris agents. And more importantly, of their handlers.
“You think too small! Max, Justinian, Thibault, We need them all,” he said. The words were like names of ancient gods, men of myth and conspiracy, men who pulled strings from the shadows.
“So we keep pushing?” Langton asked, but he knew the answer.
Dante smiled faintly,
“Until we get the whole lot of Commie bastards. I say we bring them all down!”
..................We'll finish up with the Communists next time.