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Part 55

Posted on Saturday, 25 March 2006

July 3rd 1943 - Tripoli, Africa

I'm a dizzy-wizzy woggle wimp, for she will marry me.

Rory gave a final stab with the mop at the floor. The mop was probably dirtier than the floor, but the regulations said the floor must be washed with a mop and so Rory washed it with a mop. It had been a while since he'd last washed a hospital floor, but he hadn't lost the knack and was more than a little impressed with the result.

"I'm looking for a man called Halifax." The tone was impatient and Rory wasn't overly surprised when he recognised a military police uniform.

"You'll have to speak to Doctor Jerris before you try to find anyone." Rory shoved the mop back into the bucket. "Next floor up, he should be in B ward right now."

"Good." The man pushed past and headed up the stairs.

"I'm glad you think it good." Rory shoved the bucket out the back and emptied it into the sorriest excuse for a garden he'd seen in years.

"What's up with you?" It was one of the sisters on her break.

"Some MP shoving around ... he'll probably spit when he realises he could have collared me without facing Jerris if he'd known who he was after."

"Ahh, MPs should always face Jerris." The sister checked her watch and then abruptly swallowed the last of her tea and stubbed out her cigarette before returning it to her pocket.

"Mm." Rory grabbed a duster as he idled back into the front hall and began to dust.

"Halifax!" It was Jerris who provided the next interruption. Rory glanced up in response and was not surprised to note the MP on Jerris' heels. The MP looked rather more irritable than he had before. "This MP wants you to go across town."

"But..." Rory hesitated, there was a good hour of work left to do yet and the hospital was shockingly understaffed.

"It won't kill us to wallow in an extra day of dust ... and if this fatwit is speaking even half of the truth I've no doubt you'll soon be wishing it would." Jerris had reached the front hall and he gave a small shake of his head.

"Am I allowed to know why I'm being summarily hauled across town by the military?" Rory looked at the MP with a growing sense of dislike.

"Someone got their throat slashed and these fools seem to think you can enlighten them as to the cause." Jerris' mouth thinned as he spoke.

"I have had very little to do with the military in almost a year, I honestly doubt I can help." Rory was aware that Mallern was officially attached to various units, but they saw almost as much of the enemy as they saw of their own people and he certainly wasn't on drinking terms with anyone currently to be found in Africa.

"You'd be surprised what sort of people we find useful when investigating trouble." The MP spoke up. "You were acquainted with a man known as Roger ... his last name changing very frequently."

"Anderson was the official name by his passport." Rory responded absently as a frown drew his brows together. "Acquainted is the best word, I knew him to recognise but no more. Someone slit his throat?"

"No, but he is involved in the situation and we seek clarification on certain aspects of his connections."

"You'll want Peter James for that."

"Who?"

"Mr. Peter James, civillian of no fixed address who has a habit of knowing everything, everyone and any connections they might have."

"Civillians of no fixed address are of no use to us either."

"I never said he couldn't be found." Rory abruptly tossed his duster into the cleaning cupboard. "I'll help what I can and get you in touch with Mr. James if he is likely to be able to help."

"Thank you." The MP lead the way out into the street and Rory soon found himself in some barracks somewhere and facing a bevy of uniforms.

Two hours later Rory was in a third room and still as bemused as in the beginning. The questions were numerous and uninformative. The people, who changed with each room, seemed uniformly unhappy, worried ... alarmed? No apparent cause for concern voiced by any party. It was puzzling to say the least. One thing Rory knew for certain was that Roger Anderson had been the excuse rather than the reason for the interrogations.

"For goodness sake!" The tone was explosive and the door cannoned opened and rebounded violently off the wall. "I mentioned him because I wanted to speak to him myself ... not so you could interrogate him." Peter James came stalking into the room, as well as any man with a cane and noisy joints could stalk. Diemos, his tail at least double its normal size, shot in on Peter's heels and knew no hesitation as he sprang onto Rory's lap and buried his face with a loud purr.

"At least someone is glad to see me." Rory stroked Diemos' back as he looked curiously across the room at Peter.

"Well, I'm thankful I've finally found you in this rabbit warren." Peter rubbed his nose and then jerked his head towards the door. "Bring the cat and there is someone else who wants to see you."

"Only if I bring the cat?"

"Smart." Peter grimaced. "Fine, leave the cat ... but don't bother asking me for bandages after he's clawed you from knee to neck to get a comfortable perch."

"He would?" Rory eyed Diemos rather skeptically as he helped the cat settle on his shoulder.

"Trained." Peter lead the way at a very quick walk. "Used to be merely from elbow to neck, but old bones can't jump so well."

"Charming." Rory settled into step next to Peter. "What is going on?"

"They haven't told you?"

"No."

"It's Annette." Peter James lead the way out onto the street and Rory noted with concern that there was a blood-stained rent on Peter's left sleeve.

"What about her?" Rory dodged a something or other with big guns.

"Her situation needs to be changed." For a disabled man Peter James could move with misleading speed. Rory was almost needing to jog to keep up with that stick-assisted lurch.

"Why?"

"Because it would seem that her current situation is unacceptable to all parties."

"Speak English, damn you."

"Some kindly soul slit her throat..."

"What?" Rory had brought them both to a screeching halt.

"Annette Fouchiard is currently at a nearby hospital with eight stitches in her throat. The intent was to injure, not kill ... but next time..."

"Where were you?"

"Trying to remove the knife the same kindly soul had planted in my forearm ... rather disabling."

"I thought..."

"Take it as read Halifax, he was expecting me." Peter began them moving again. "He also knew that knifing my forearm would take me out of any fight ... at least until I cleared the knife."

"Why?"

"You really have to ask that question?" Peter's brows rose and Rory had the grace to blush, he knew perfectly well that Peter couldn't move without a stick and a knife would more than immobilise him for a while.

"Eoan?"

"A firm stick will break any dog's skull."

"Is he...?" Rory paused, unable to continue even with the idea.

"Fine." Peter chuckled. "Got one hell of a headache though. That kindly soul didn't account for the thickness of an arctic wolf's skull."

"Annie will be glad to know that."

"Then you can tell her." Peter lead the way into the back of a building which rather screamed military establishment.

"Why do you say that?" Rory frowned suspiciously.

"Eoan isn't allowed into the hospital ... I think she thinks he's dead."

"Why not tell her before?"

"I haven't seen her yet."

"Then how do you know that it wasn't attempted murder?"

"Because I had the charming task of holding her neck together until the medics arrived."

"That tells you whether it was deliberate or not?"

"I can tell the difference between a cut which has been interrupted and a cut which has been ended. If you've seen as many cuts as me, you know the difference." Peter paused outside a door. "Rather like you and faked evidence for insurance."

"How..." Rory's brows drew together again.

"Mr. Darcy has a habit of knowing everything about everyone he meets ... particularly if they spend fifty minutes haranguing him on the unethical state of affairs whereby he wasn't born a beggar ... by telephone at his expense."

"Oh." Rory got even redder, he actually remembered that incident rather well and he'd hoped Mr. Darcy would keep it to himself.

"No, he said nothing." Peter James gave an abrupt smile. "That was mostly guess work since you spoke to me on the way to speaking to him and he had nothing to say after a fifty minute telephone call. Jim usually has something to say when he gets off the telephone, if only to call someone a bungling incompetent or a parasitic blood-sucker of the nastier variety."

"Never anything nice?"

"Those who he might speak well of know well enough that he hates the telephone and write as a result ... or visit."

"I really don't want to ask any more." Rory abruptly pushed into the room they'd been standing outside of and was not overly surprised to find Annette within, swathed to the ears and interestingly pale in colour. "Hullo Warthog."

"Mm." A vague gurgle and an exceedingly dark glower were Rory's reward and he settled down with a grin.

"So divine this silence." Rory leant backwards and smiled slightly more widely. "Like the ... " Rory abruptly stopped for Annette had grabbed for a small chalkboard. "Relax, I will join you in silence until you kick me out."

Then you clearly won't be leaving any time soon.

The chalkboard was handed across and Rory read it with slowly lifting eyebrows. However, his comment had been made and he would stand by it. Until Annie kicked him out, he was remaining in that hospital.

"Halifax!" It was Peter who made his presence rather firmly felt at three in the afternoon. Rory blinked sleepily, first at the bed where Annie slept, then at the dirty window through which a shadowed building could be seen, and finally at Peter, who looked almost as bad as Rory felt.

"Time?"

"Mid-afternoon." Peter gave a disinterested shrug. "We need to talk ... in private."

"Fine." Rory hesitated for a moment and then resignedly shoved himself to his feet.

Leaving already?

It had been a faint tapping which drew the men's attention to the small chalkboard which Annette had lifted up. Rory opened his mouth and then closed it again rather helplessly. Peter gave a brief smile.

"Call it an abduction rather than a departure. He'll be back." Peter was holding the door open. "No guarantee it will be before tomorrow, but he will be back."

"Promise, Annie." Rory grabbed his coat and hat before swinging through the doorway. They reached the street before Rory even attempted to speak again. "So, what's so important?"

"I've been recalled to England."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" Peter abruptly rolled his eyes. "I was only ever any use when I was not precisely known about. Now it is clear I am known about, so I'm recalled ... more of a hazard than an asset now."

"Someone else coming to replace you?"

"No." Peter spoke rather carefully.

"So Annie's being fed to the sharks?"

"No." Peter utilised the monosyllable again.

"Then what? Eoan can't protect her and the normal sources of protection are totally useless in situations like this."

"Like I said, her situation needs to change." Peter dropped into the chairs of a streetside café and disposed of an irritating waiter with an order. "You're going to marry her."

"Wait a minute." Rory jerked back out of his chair as if it had been cushioned by thumbtacks.

"You have a problem?"

"Yes." Rory sat down again with visible difficulty and hesitancy, he was fighting mad. "It takes weeks before marriage can occur and you're clearly leaving tomorrow."

"That your only issue?"

"No." Rory took a firm grip on his head, the whole situation was too surreal for words.

"Tea?"

"Please." Rory responded without thought and choked violently on the viscous brew he was handed. "Ugh! How anyone can dare to call that tea." Rory choked again and shoved the mug aside. "You might have warned me that it was poison."

"Then the objective would have failed." Peter leant backwards and calmly sipped on his own 'tea'. "It's actually not that bad, all things considered. You correctly observed that I will be leaving tomorrow and I should like to feel that Annette has some degree of safety before I depart. You are the only option I can see."

"Why not simply take her back with you?"

"She won't leave and there's nothing for her to do in England."

"She would, however, be safe."

"Not necessarily."

"How can I possibly be safe?" Rory groaned silently to himself as he heard the question, Peter James now officially had the upper hand. Worse, Peter James knew he had the ascendancy in the matter and he would not waste it.

"You are constantly on the move. From day to day no one knows where you might be." Peter James smiled rather grimly. "Even you are not entirely certain of the future at any moment. If you don't know, how can anyone else know?"

"But..." Rory stopped and took a very deliberate breath. "I'm talking to Annie first."

"Fine." Peter finished off his tea very deliberately. "Trust your instincts though, you've been friends with that girl for seventeen years and you were engaged to her for at least one year. There is no one in the world, with the possible exception of some members of her family, who know her as well as you do."

"This all leaves me with a very nasty taste in my mouth." Rory emptied his mug into a nearby pot plant which looked like it had received many mugs of 'tea' already. "I can't help feeling that I'm a mere pawn in someone's chess game."

"You could always say no." Peter rose and stretched cautiously.

"Oh, and I'm meant to live with myself after that?" Rory gave a snort of disgust. "I may be an idiot and I may be fairly certain of getting a flea in the ear when I do bring this up with Annie ... but there is no way I can possibly stand back and watch while some ... fool practices his knife skills on her."

"That's all I wanted to hear, actually, but go talk to Annie."

"Thanks." Rory abruptly pushed up from his chair and stalked away, leaving Peter to settle the bill and close his eyes for an afternoon nap.

"I wish you could talk." Rory had been slouching rather grumpily in his chair for over half an hour before he spoke. Annette had greeted his return with a brief smile and a small note.

Brief ... even for Peter.

Rory had ignored the note, but given a brief smile of his own in return. Then he had slouched into the chair he'd used before and settled for glowering at the ceiling.

"I can." Annette's voice was little more than a whisper and the accent rather weird on some words, but it was undoubtedly a voice. Rory wasn't certain he hadn't imagined it. "It hurts."

"Oh." Rory had moved to the side of the bed and he now rested his elbows on it. "You know what Peter is up to?"

Rhetorical question which you clearly intend to answer yourself.

"True, depressingly true." Rory's attention drifted out the window, only to be sharply caught again by the tap of Annette's chalk board.

His attention drifted out the window, he saw it go and was satisfied with its appearance. It was dressed in a frilled shirt and nankeens, its face newly scrubbed and shining.

"Annie, have you been reading that tripe again?" Rory had read the board three times before he turned to stare at Annette.

"No, just knew it would get your attention."

"For that you'll just have to put up with tripe." Rory scratched his head. "You might at least have given it shoes to save the nanny from the exhausting task of washing its feet when it returns.

So certain it will return?

"Considering it is most likely my attention which is under discussion I can assure you with a great deal of assurity..." Rory frowned and mumbled the sentence back to himself. "Something wrong with that."

"You wish." Annette gave a smile. "Unbuckle, what's Peter up to?"

"Matchmaking." Rory resettled himself. "In particular his attention is focussed on you."

"???" Annette's eyebrow said it all as she lifted first one, and then the other.

"Peter James has been recalled to England, seems he's useless protecting you since he's known about." Rory jerked his head in a warped edition of a shrug. "Seems you also managed to persuade him to like you. He cares and he's concerned."

"Not England." Annette's mouth was firm.

"Meaning you're not allowing him to go? Or you don't want to ... " Rory gave a short nod in response to Annette's rapid blink, which replaced nods. Peter had warned him that she wouldn't go. "He seemed to realise that."

"Then what's the talk?"

"Well..." Rory hesitated and then stopped, Annette had abruptly waved her hands sharply.

"Get Peter up here now."

"Right-ho." Rory rose with a degree of alacrity foreign to him. Normally Rory would have wanted to know why he was to get Peter James, but for now, he couldn't care less about the reason. Procrastination was a wonderful thing and Rory was ready to seize upon any excuse to delay this mess.

The small café was empty when Rory reached it, but after a moments though he turned and headed for a small hotel which had been mentioned in passing earlier.

"Problem?" Peter looked up from a partially packed bag as Rory came into the room.

"No idea." Rory jerked his head towards the door. "Annie wants to speak to you."

"She's not going to..." Peter hesitated.

"Couldn't say, all she knows is that you're going back to England and you've been meddling ... no specifics though."

"Coward."

"Rather prone to it when I'm interrupted with a direct order from someone who can barely talk."

"Right." Peter glanced at his bag, hesitated and then abruptly came towards the door. Rory cleared out of the way and then fell into step beside the man. The return trip was faster than the outgoing trip and Rory was rather glad to settle back into his chair. Twenty-four hours without sleep tended to make you tire easily.

"Hullo, Peter." Annette had pushed herself up on the pillows at some point while Rory was away.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Not that I know of." Annette tickled Diemos gently under the chin. "Should you be?"

"Probably." Peter James settled on a nearby seat with a sigh of relief.

"Rory says you've been meddling."

"And?"

"Why?"

"Should I not meddle?"

"You're not in the habit of meddling." Annette winced slightly. "Rather like Ashie, on the rare event of you choosing to meddle it means that someone else is also meddling and you're attempting to reduce the effect of their meddling by meddling yourself. Who else is meddling?"

"Clarrington."

"Chris is meddling?"

"Well, past tense would be more applicable." Peter grimaced. "Chris has meddled. Did it about a month ago."

"Is this another trick of doing something in advance so that it's ready when the dire emergency occurs?" Rory was looking between Peter and Annette with some perplexity.

"Probably. He rather enjoys doing it." Peter glanced at Rory with a shrug.

"So what is this bit of meddling you're attempting to diffuse?"

"Well..." Peter hesitated and then carefully removed a half handful of pages from an internal pocket. Annette inspected the pages, paused and then re-inspected them.

"Is this possible?"

"Well technically speaking no legal system in the world is going to successfully disprove those papers. I've no doubt an investigation will prove that the officials involved have all deceased since that occured, or lost all their records in fire ... and considering that is Chris' work you'll be rather hard pressed to prove that those aren't your signatures and you weren't there at that particular time ... Chris is rather careful about these things."

"Yes." Annette inspected the pages for a third time and then carefully folded them up. "What are our options?"

"Well you could simply ignore them ... but there may trouble at a later date if you do. You could possibly arrange an annulment. The third option is simply shrugging and getting on with life."

"What a comfortable collection of options." Annette opened the pages again and frowned.

"What is going on?" Rory scratched his head in bewilderment.

"It seems that apparently we got married a month ago. The ceremony was quiet, the bride's dress ... one I actually have here. There was a lack of family members from either side, but Peter James was apparently our best man and Thomas Mallern the second witness. Papers to be lodged in England on our return, but all officially signed by people here. The groom departed with the second witness immediately for an unknown destination after having kissed his wife goodbye ... were you in Cairo a month ago?"

"For a single night, fourth to fifth, between trains ... slept at the station."

"I was working ... except no one saw me after eight." Annette flipped through the pages again. "What are we going to do?"

"More of a question is what do you want to do." Peter rose to his feet. "This is your lives you're considering."

"That's the problem." Rory abruptly crossed to the window. "There is no escape clause in a marriage and I'll be damned if Annie has to spend the rest of her life with me just because some fool in England who probably hasn't met either of us thinks this is a good way of hiding her." Rory rubbed a finger in the dust. "He could just have easily have written her a new identity ... safer probably since they have to know I exist."

"Yes, but everyone takes it for granted that she hates you. Who would look behind Rory Halifax to find Annette Fouchiard?"

"Peter, please leave." Annette finally spoke, but even after the door had closed behind Peter, Rory couldn't bring himself to move away from the window. The room he stood in was completely silent, not even the air stirred. The street outside was dusty and empty, the houses blind-eyed and staring. It was a completely empty corner which the world seemed to have forgotten. Rory jerked his eyes away from the view, a forceful move which caused him to physically rotate. Not even thinking of moving Rory found he'd lost his balance and was falling ... and yet he wasn't for hands had come from somewhere and caught him. Rory reached out himself and returned the grip as half-forgotten memories, emotions and desires flooded into his mind. Rory knew those hands, he knew the arms and he knew the body against which he now leant and he wanted to stay there. With a titanic effort and a mind whirling with confusion Rory took the weight back on his own feet, stabilised himself and then attempted to smile. It must have been a pretty sad effort, but he couldn't do any better.

"Sorry I..." Rory stopped and shrugged.

"You look remarkably like Hamlet." Annette ducked under Rory's arm and looked down into the street.

"You're not meant to be up, are you?"

"Probably not." Annette wasn't interested in medical requirements as she gazed out the window. "What do you want Rory?"

"Sorry?" Rory blinked and stared in bewilderment, his mind was still far from operational.

"What do you want?" Annette pushed back from the window and met Rory's eyes squarely. "If you could have any dream you've ever dreamt ... what do you want?"

"I ... " Rory stopped. "I don't know."

"Yes you do." Annette gave a tiny smile. "I said any dream. What do you want?"

"I..." Rory stopped again and stared down at his fingers which were intertwined with Annette's. Clearly they had yet to let go, propriety rather demanded that he should let go, and yet he didn't want to. "I..." Rory considered the word and found it lacking as a means of expression. Rory looked at Annette, her eyes so calm and friendly, her face so familiar. His mind flitted over the past year. The discovery she was alive. The first terrified and rather incoherent letter as he sought somehow to explain, even if only for himself, how he'd not realised she wasn't dead. The past year of irregular meetings and odd adventures. The pyramids, the cricket, the day they'd spent in gaol because of a slight misunderstanding ... all of it. Rory also remembered the last time they'd met and he suddenly realised what he wanted out of this shambles. "That's what I want." Rory's fingers twitched and took a firmer grip.

"Then I suggest we take the third option and get on with life." Annette gave a gentle tug and lead the way back to the bed. "Doctor would have a fit if he knew I was out of bed. However we also have a lot of ground to cover if we're going to make this work."

"True." Rory's mind had resumed its frantic tumbling and from it all he could draw was questions. This was not going to be easy, but somehow Rory knew that they would manage in the end. Confusion might reign now, but there was happiness ahead.

Part 56

Posted on Saturday, 1 April 2006

July 10th 1943 - Deraux, Cambridgeshire

Touch is of foremost importance to any human being ... it signifies trust.

The day had been an absolute nightmare. Disaster had followed disaster from daybreak until nightfall. By the time the children had been safely installed in bed Lucille was ready to scream. Nelli had quietly suggested that she retire for the night and Lucille had been only too happy to agree ... though unthinking impulse had taken her to a bedroom she had never slept in.

Brian had been asleep when some sense which never slept these days warned him that someone had entered his room. Ronan had dropped off the end of the bed to inspect the newcomer just after Brian roused. Clearly the intruder was no threat, which limited the possible identity to his mother, Mrs Butterworth, Ken, Marmelade and ... Brian's knew the identity of the newcomer. Only Lucille had such fine hands as the one which had just picked up his own hand. Suspension from the world gave you time to think, and then some. For days, weeks, months Brian had layn in the darkness of his suspended existence. At first he'd used thought to pass the time, but he'd discovered thought to be a two-edged weapon for though it helped pass time it also took his fears and blew them out of all proportion. Brian had discarded thought as a means to pass time and turned his attention to the task of sensory assessment. Without sight and hearing he was vulnerable, there had to be alternative senses to reduce vulnerability. Patience and determination had begun to pay off at long last. Awareness of atmosphere, the human skin was in fact incredibly sensitive to change if you took the trouble to study those changes. There were other senses which time and effort would also continue to improve. None of these senses were necessary though. Brian knew who had sat in the chair next to his bed. Brian knew by the simple sense of touch because he knew what Lucille felt like. In laughter and in tears he had held his wife and by the slightest adjustment of memory he could determine her mood. Though the only contact was one hand Brian knew Lucille was crying and he also knew that he had to at least make the effort to sit up and comfort her. There was pain and stiffness, but Brian successfully swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The small tug he gave on the hand he held was in fact an unconsidered act, but great was his personal joy when Lucille responded as she always had. She tucked as easily under his arm as ever and buried her face in his shoulder.

It was dawn when Brian roused again. He knew it was dawn because the air at dawn is very different to the air at any other time of day. Brian knew he'd been disturbed by someone's departure, but he was unable to decide if it was Lucille or not. His memory was decidedly vague on the point, but he was pretty certain that after she'd finished crying they'd simply curled up in the bed and gone to sleep. Contact with someone, not a person simply there to change his bandages and depart, was bliss. It seemed that a start had been made and Brian abruptly realised he must begin putting serious effort into regaining his strength and mobility. Courtesy of Mac and morse code he knew that Ronan was not simply a decoration with large teeth. It was time to discover the full extent of Ronan's uses and it was time he began learning what he could do to be useful.

It had been dawn when Lucille had carefully extricated herself from the comfort of Brian's arms. She hated to go but there were cows to milk, children to wake and dress, there was also breakfast for the masses, though the masses were also required to help with the making for there were too many people in the house for there to be a separate kitchen staff. Everyone pitched in with every job which needed doing, with the odd exception for whatever real or imaginary reason. Lucille was in the kitchen before she remembered, with a groan, exactly what particular disaster had driven her upstairs last night.

"Please tell me last night was a nightmare."

"I'm afraid I can't." Mrs Butterworth's rueful smile was commiserating. "The Dowager Countess of Deraux did arrive last night and she did express her intention of ensuring that you behaved yourself during these last three months."

"I'm going to milk the cows." Lucille spoke after a long silence which said infinitely more than mere words ever could. Mrs Butterworth gave a grim smile and resumed kneading her bread as Lucille let herself out the back door.

July 19th 1943 - Berlin, Germany

Even a point in space appears entirely different to two different people.

"If he had a different face, a different history and actually spoke I would be inclined to say we had the wrong man and shove him across into the civillian prisons." The man who spoke had a sour little mouth and rabbity teeth. "Soup please." The order was given to the silent waiter who paused next to the table.

"Hermann." Georg nodded politely to the waiter who knew him so well that he didn't ask for an order any more. "The face and history are unavoidable ... your problem is the fact that he won't speak to anyone."

"Amnesia?" The third member of the party had waved Hermann aside, indicating no wish for any food at all. Karl never ate at restaurants and occasionally went for days on end without food as a result.

"It's possible." Georg leant back on his seat with a sigh. "In most of a year we have absolutely nothing to show for our efforts ... except what we already knew, and we didn't get that from him."

"Anything from Wülzburg?"

"Not of him actually talking to anyone. Apparently he has developed at taste for the bread rolls and bargains for any he can lay hand on."

"Form of bargaining?"

"Through his guard, his soup for the other's roll. Amazing how many take him up on it. The guard says he then settles on the window sill and eats the roll. Never talks except to bargain and he seems more than happy with the situation. He had a fellow prisoner over night last week but appears to have said nothing except hullo, in French, when the prisoner arrived and confirmed that Einzelhaft actually means solitary confinement, even though they obviously weren't in solitary confinement."

"Tried depriving him of food until he speaks?" the man accepted his soup from Hermann, who had been waiting patiently for him to move so the soup could be laid down in the correct place.

"Yes." Georg's tone was rather sour. "Thanks." A polite nod to Hermann as the salad was placed in front of him and Georg frowned again. "We ended up with him in hospital for a month after he developed a high fever and became delirious."

"Say anything in his delirium?"

"Yes." Georg's smile was twisted. "We were on the receiving end of a detailed lecture on the religious aspects of Ancient Egyptian Culture, the importance and placement of the various gods and goddesses ... also their fates. The account was rather fragmentary which implies he knows considerably more than we heard and it was given in the French language. If it had been in German we would have been happier since it would have been reversion to the mother tongue, but in French ... either we have the wrong man, or there may be more to Stephan Kalt than anyone realises."

"We've deprived him of food, deprived him of sleep, subjected him to spacial deprivation, subjected him to various sensory overloads, assaulted him mentally every way we could think of and a very large number of ways others have thought of and generally done everything possible to put ourselves in danger of instant execution should he survive the war." Karl was looking rather glum as he sipped a glass of water.

"So he doesn't survive the war."

"Must confess he is a very strange prisoner." Georg spoke thoughtfully as he poked at his salad. "It is not that he resists interrogation, it always shows in the eyes when they are resisting. Yet neither does he submit to interrogation, though we could probably stuff him into a furnace and he wouldn't lift a finger to stop us. It is ... like interrogating a teddy bear." Georg shoved a forkful of salad into his mouth and chewed morosely. "I wish they'd handed him over immediately."

"You didn't get him immediately?" The man with rabbity teeth finished his soup and signed the waiter to approach.

"Three months passed before they handed him over and he came as rather badly damaged goods." Georg disposed of another mouthful and stared gloomily at the remains on his plate. "Whatever happened happened before we got him ... and we'll undoubtedly carry the blame for the lot."

"How can he be passive if he escapes so often?" There had been a pause for further ordering and the focus seemed to have shifted within the conversation.

"He has escaped three times and all three times been recaptured within a week. He escapes ... but I do not think there is either planning or intelligence behind the breaks. One of the escapes we actually enabled and we followed him for some distance. He goes to the nearest township, acquires a drink if he has the means and plays cards if anyone is willing. He moves from township to township playing cards until either we catch him or his health forces him to surrender himself."

"It is usually his health which breaks down." Karl sipped his drink. "Stephan Kalt has a remarkable talent for disappearing, even when watched, but fortunately he has the lousiest of health. If he were actually a patient of mine I would advise a holiday of several months duration, enforced mental inactivity and enforced physical activity. High up in the mountains or somewhere in the desert. A dry and extreme atmosphere to discourage the infection and virulence which attack his lungs. The damp is not good for his health or stamina and he will not be around much longer unless his environment changes."

"Telling me we'll get rid of him soon?" Rabbit-teeth looked up from his plate rather sharply.

"N-no." Karl hesitated and sipped his drink again. "A strong man, both mentally and physically, determined and stubborn. Would say his existence has never been particularly comfortable. Not the easy type to kill or he would have died already. There is the risk though that some day his endurance will be pushed too far and then he will die unless we do something to help him."

"Thank you for your words of wisdom." Georg finished his plate and rose. "Aware of the world or not, that man knows too much he isn't telling, and he will tell before we let him go."

"I am not so certain." Karl finished his drink with a sigh. "If he is Stephan Kalt he probably will tell ... eventually. If we have the wrong man, then for all appearances he has nothing to tell. If he is Stephan Kalt, but Stephan Kalt is other than is officially thought, I suspect no force on earth could induce that man to talk."

"Why?" Georg frowned, something in Karl's words was bothering him, or at least bothering a memory.

"Because if he is Stephan Kalt, and if Stephan Kalt is other than what is officially believed, then he clearly would be in possession of information too valuable to risk with just anybody. Do we grab the nearest boy to take a dangerous message? Usually we have people chosen for their special skills which make them abnormal. In all probability if Stephan Kalt is Stephan Kalt and something else, then this amnesia is quite possibly not induced by the treatment which has been meted out to him."

"What do you mean by that?" Georg's eyes became suspicious, but Rabbit-tooth looked even more suspicious. Karl was a bit of an oddity for in his training he'd had far too much to do with the lowly, uneducated savages in the rest of the world.

"I remember working as a young intern in Austria. Those were the days when I dreamed of being a world-famous neurosurgeon. Dr Marshall was brought in for consultation on a rather nasty case and with her was a Canadian with a crook leg. Absolutely brilliant bit of surgery which saved the man's life ... he'd been on the receiving end of a railway sleeper and the only real results in the end was a real beauty of a scar and eyes which did not adjust quickly to light alteration ... he works night-shift at a works canteen."

"These people are important?"

"Only the Canadian, he was speaking one night of a very interesting Japanese cook who worked in London. Not that Japanese cooks in London are at all interesting, but apparently this man told a story of a truly courageous man who could be run through without blinking."

"Loads of those type of story out there ... so what?" The rabbit-toothed man was impatient.

"If someone can take a sword in the stomach without any change of expression..." Karl hesitated and looked up from the table. Something in the air of that comfortable restaurant had changed and Karl realised abruptly that someone somewhere was listening very intently to him. To someone within the restaurant this story, connected with all that came before, meant something. Karl glanced around, but everyone seemed to be doing nothing.

"Karl?" It was Georg and his expression was almost as tense as Karl felt.

"Nothing." Karl hesitated a moment longer and then dropped his voice. "If you can take a sword to the stomach without blinking it means you have good control of yourself. If you have good control of yourself is it not possible that you might wipe your memories in a time when your memories might endanger yourself or others?"

"We hear the suggestion most reluctantly." Rabbit-tooth had clearly missed what had unsettled both Karl and Georg and he now folded aside his napkin and rose. "The consideration that someone might irretrievably dispose of their own memories is ludicrous and your secretive manner adds nothing to persuade me of the validity of the suggestion."

"Would not a man who can erase his own memories be a very useful sort of messenger boy?"

"Stephan Kalt never was a messenger boy. If you have caught this super messenger boy you may as well release him ... with no memories he is useless to everyone."

"He cannot be released." Georg spoke softly. "As stated earlier we did not receive him immediately and he was already marked by then. I will sooner kill the man myself than risk his return to the world."

"Buchenwald!" A single word, a curt order and one that was tantamount to the death sentence.

"He will not survive two weeks in Buchenwald." Karl rose as well.

"He seems quite willing to kill him out of hand."

"There is a very big difference between putting the bullet through the brain of a man and sending him to rot in Buchenwald." Karl only realised he was trembling when he felt the strength in Georg's fingers on his arm. The warning was there, but Karl was too upset to attend. "As a doctor I cannot condone such an action. Execution is one thing ... sending Stephan Kalt to Buchenwald ... you might as well..."

"Your brother..." Rabbit-tooth interrupted in a meditative tone of voice and Karl felt ice wash through him.

"My appologies, sir." Karl felt like someone else had abruptly taken over him, but rabbit-tooth was already departing and Karl felt Georg tugging on his arm.

"Fool." Georg had Karl out the door in almost record time. "Will you never learn that an order is an order and arguement will only get more people into trouble."

"But..."

"We can't save Kalt for old Rabbit-tooth will be calling through a guard re-enforcement already. I don't think we can save your brother either, unless Rabbit-tooth didn't really mean it ... which is possible, but ... "

"No." Karl suddenly knew exactly what he was going to do and he turned with appropriate decision. "Come what may we've a job to do and no time for messing around here."

"True." Georg fell easily into step beside his companion and they made their train easily, unaware of the eyes which watched them.

July 23rd 1943 - Farnborough, England

Sometimes it is what people don't say that matters.

Squadron-Leader Jeroen Fouchiard blinked at the page in front of him in a degree of stunned disbelief. Jeroen had been a squadron-leader for a grand total of ten minutes, though the actual rank change had probably occured two days ago when the letter had been posted out to him.

"I see you've received it." Group-Captain Lee, a Cranwell contemporary, dropped into the opposite chair with a grim smile.

"I wouldn't mind being told what's going on." Jeroen dropped the page onto the table and glanced across at Lee. "Why the d-dickens am I being given my squadron before you've even decided I can fly yet?"

"Complex minds heave behind this." Lee gave a snort. "You'd've'ad the squadron a couple of months ago if you hadn't crashed."

"I didn't crash." Jeroen snorted as he picked the letter up again. "I neither crashed, nor was I shot down."

"Oh?"

"I landed most skillfully in a very nice field."

"Then why didn't you take off again?"

"One, I was out of fuel, two I was on fire ... and three that very nice field had a very nasty ledge halfway along it. Very difficult to take-off if you've torn the under-carriage out of the aircraft."

"That's not a crash?"

"No." Jeroen frowned at the letter. "Why wasn't this held until you'd finished checking my flying skills, etcetera?"

"Simple fact of the matter is that they need you out there and no one believes you'll fail ... unless you lied about something in your medical."

"Well, I might as well get the rings on my shirt so I can stop getting in trouble for not saluting Gordon."

"Leave the rings off and then you can give him an earful for demanding unnecessary respect from an officer of equal standing."

"It won't stick for how will he know my rank has changed?"

"Officially your rank changed several months ago ... you just weren't in the country to be notified of it. Gordon's been having fun."

"He's got a flight with me this evening." Jeroen spoke after a meditative pause.

"I don't want to know about it and I haven't been talking to you." Lee rose abruptly. "I'll see you round and we'll consider that suggestion on inverted dives."

"Do that." Jeroen scowled at the letter again and then pulled his nose before pulling another letter out of his pocket.

Hullo Jerry,

I'm sending this by hand of a someone flying home for leave. A beautifully vague sentence that. I will also probably end up communicating in your own uniquely telegraphic style since I'm in a hurry, Rory's in a hurry and the 'courier' is in a hurry. Is that how you spell that word? Not in the mood to check my dictionary. Congratulations on returning safely to England, I'll hear of your many and fearless adventures if I ever manage to return to England myself. Don't write, you tell stories infinitely better than you write. At the present moment I am feeling pessimistic about ever leaving Africa, even though there are apparently no nazis left to be nasty to. The invasion seems planned with lots of people running around, but somehow they seem to be leaving an awful lot of people out. Al Bennet's apparently in Italy now, incase Kitty doesn't know you might pass the news along. He's apparently in as good health as can be expected and looking like earning himself a ticket to Colditz if he doesn't manage a successful escape first. Incase you didn't know he was captured in January, escaped twice and then was successfully bundled across to Italy. We didn't know anything until April and nothing concrete until just yesterday when a letter arrived. Rory's rather cynical on that subject and states that the Eyties will regret ever taking him ... but I suspect he's well and truly in Nazi hands and they probably regret taking him already. A thoroughly resourceful soldier who will undoubtedly make life miserable for his guards. 'Courier' is about ready to flip the last switch so hugs to all and a Happy Christmas in case I don't manage to write before then.

Button

Jeroen flipped the page over but already knew that there was nothing written on the other side. For all her threats Annette had managed to write more or less in her usual style, though it had been more telegraphic than usual. Crammed into the single page was actually quite a lot of information. Jeroen frowned over Rory's presence and the news of Alistair Bennet. He had not known that Alistair was a prisoner. In fact there was a fair chance that nobody knew yet unless Kitty had received a letter, and Kitty hadn't mentioned it last week. Jeroen flipped the letter back over, folded it up and restored it to its envelope. The letter would be forwarded to Annie-Bug just as soon as he saw her, the fact that Button had mentioned the fact that it was avoiding the censors meant he couldn't send it by post.

"Hi! Flight Lieutenants are supposed to rise and salute when a superior officer enters the room." Squadron-Leader Geoffry Gordon was the bane of Jeroen existence and he rolled his eyes as he pivoted around to glance in disgust at the man. Jeroen had been annoyed when Mac had rubbed him up about being the Cranwell Wunderkind, but Gordon was far, far worse. Mildly incompetent as a flyer he got his kicks from bullying those who were unable to retaliate. Gordon had marked Jeroen as his own prey from the day he'd arrived. Nothing got past Gordon, from a button which was slightly loose in its material to hair which did not come out of a helmet looking like it had just been brushed. In this flight testing course Jeroen had suffered more docked marks and suspended leave than he'd received in his life. Most of the punishments had been successfully appealed to the higher-ups, but it was unnerving and frustrating to receive them in the first place.

"Squadron-Leader Gordon." Jeroen had hesitated for a mutinous moment and then supplied the salute Gordon wanted, he wasn't really in the mood for a fight at the moment.

"You'll be happy to hear you have been cleared to begin flying in an actual aeroplane."

"Thank you, sir." Jeroen fingered the two remaining letters on the table in front of him and then abruptly pocketed them.

"You will go up this morning, supervised from below so don't try anything foolish."

"No, sir." Jeroen mentally added some stupidity to his normal daily routine when actively flying.

"You will complete the checklist of activities waiting for you at the supply office."

"Yes, sir."

"You will then land and fill out a report on the flight."

"Very good, sir." Jeroen nodded, turned and departed before Gordon could object that he had not yet finished. Jeroen knew from experience that Gordon had grounded more than one re-training pilot for not completing a task in time when it was not the pilot's fault. Jeroen swung past the supply office and grabbed the sheets of paper which listed the exercises he was to complete while aloft. The Mollie he was assigned for the morning was sitting on the runway and Jeroen approached it with a dark frown.

"Fouchiard!" It was Gordon again and Jeroen's frown darkened before he cleared his expression and turned to salute.

"Sir?"

"No funny business on the tarmac. You get in that bus, you drive directly to take-off position and then you take-off."

"Very good, sir." Jeroen had hesitated for a long and mutinous minute before he responded and he turned back to the Mollie.

"Fouchiard, I find you lacking in respect for your superiors."

"Very good, sir." Jeroen swung abruptly up into the cockpit and slammed the hatch shut before Gordon could speak again. Jeroen's expression was little short of thunderous, but his voice was as calm as ever as he received clearance to use the tarmac for immediate take-off.

Group-Captain Lee winced as somewhere immediately overhead an engine snarled in sheer agony. The pilot had just switched back into coarse pitch by the sounds and was far, far too close to the ground for safety. This was in direct contravention with all rules and regulations and Lee was aware of a cold flame of anger. There was times when he completely forgot that he had once been a raw recruit who thought it nothing but fun to break the rules. Now however he knew better, he'd seen too many men die and he knew why the rules had been written to begin with. However, rage at stupid greenheads was all well and good, but they wouldn't keep him alive unless he got moving. The instinct for self-preservation imperatively demanded immediate departure from the buildings and Lee was not sorry to satisfy his curiousity as to who was breaking the rules. There were not many pilots scheduled to fly today, and those few were unlikely to so brutally mistreat their machines.

"Who is it?" Lee grabbed a nearby arm as he reached the tarmac and winced again as the 'plane avoided collision with the hedge by the smallest of whiskers. It was a Mollie and it seemed to be in the hands of the rawest, most ham-handed recruit ever to attempt to terrorise instructors. There were no new flyers up for flying today, or even at the aerodrome. This was an old hand and a very odd situation.

"Fouchiard." It was spat as a curse. "I told him not to monkey around, and say what you like I refuse to pass such a criminal lunatic for active duty."

"Right." Lee moved on, it seemed that Gordon had already made up his mind about the situation. Not that Lee blamed him, the Mollie was wallowing in a decidedly dangerous fashion, barely achieving airspeed, or sufficient height. The fact that the Mollie hadn't crashed yet made it fairly safe to assume that the pilot was still in control and therefore not in any genuine difficulties. After each near encounter with terra firma the Mollie drove furiously for height, only to pitch over and plunge earthwards again almost before sufficient height was achieved to escape guaranteed destruction. In Lee's opinion destruction should have been guaranteed at that height, but the Mollie continued to remain in the air by some miracle as the last aircraft was dragged into the protective sheds.

"What on earth is going on?" Lee grabbed Jakes, the head mechanic and a very old acquaintance as he came out from the hanger.

"Dunno." Jakes shrugged, his eyes on the Mollie as it shivered and shimmered before abruptly lunging for the ground again. "One of the boys said Gerkin was looking like thunder when he got into the cockpit ... happen he's plain mad."

"Not Gerkin's style." Lee watched curiously for the Mollie had finally lunged, wiggled and wallowed to the appropriate end of the aerodrome for a landing. "Why put all the 'planes away?"

"Apart from the obvious fact that he's likely to crash ... he requested it and swore something shocking when someone attempted to argue with him."

"Here he comes now." The nose had dropped, the Mollie twisted and then lunged at the tarmac. That landing, more than anything else, reassured Lee that Jeroen Fouchiard was not simply having fun as the expense of his future in the RAF. Some miracle occured and the Mollie managed to get the right wheels on the ground in approximately the right places. Airbrakes whined and the Mollie finally began acting as a normal aircraft.

"I'm guessing we'll know what happened in a minute." Jakes spoke as the Mollie came to a halt, but the hatch did not slide back. Jeroen's head, just visible in the cockpit, glanced first left and then right before he slumped back in the seat and all but vanished from sight.

"This will be fun." Lee spoke softly as Gordon stormed towards the stationary aircraft. It was not perhaps wise unless a fight was wanted and Lee abruptly remembered the crowd. A hand waved the crowd to return to their various tasks and places, and a Group-Captain was not ignored by the sensible. The crowd dispersed, aware that a death was unlikely and they would hear soon enough what caused such bizarre behaviour.

Lee watched in silence as the hatch of the Mollie slid back. Gordon was yelling every threat he knew, and a great many he would never be able to carry out even if he lived three life-times. Jeroen was slumped in the cockpit and patently ignoring the tirade aimed at his head.

"Lee!" Jeroen's head abruptly moved and he rose from his seat as he spoke.

"Hullo?" Lee came across at an amble as Gordon spluttered to an outraged and congested halt.

"Assign this Mollie to Jakes' personal attention and it is not to be touched by anyone until Jakes clears it for flight."

"Right." Lee stepped back as Jeroen scrambled down, then he frowned slightly. "Looking a bit pale."

"So would you if you'd had as many near-shaves with death as I've had in the past couple of minutes." Jeroen pulled off his kit and then rubbed his hands together. "Do turn an official back for a moment, I've got a job to do."

"Right." Lee followed rather curiously as Jeroen headed for the hangers. Jeroen's business was brief but definitely to the point. Lee was not particularly interested as he made the arrangements over the phone for the unconscious mechanic to be removed. The mechanic was under notice as it was and so would be no real loss.

"What's wrong with it?" Jakes returned from looking at the grounded Mollie and he seemed rather perplexed.

"Look at the hydraulics?" Jeroen looked at Jakes with a frown.

"Aye, they're sound. Well connected, good pressure, no leaks. Sound."

"I know they're sound." Jeroen rubbed his forehead. "Did you look at the cockpit connections?"

"I looked at all the connections." Jakes was frowning now. "Why the cockpit ones in particular?"

"They've been crossed."

"Ahh." Jakes nodded slowly and pursed his lips. The Mollie's wallowing was now explained, crossed controls meant all movements were reversed, a small movement made a big turn and a big movement made a small turn. Most people would have crashed that Mollie before it was even properly off the tarmac, and Jeroen had flown it for ten minutes before landing it without damage. Criminal negligence, the fact that Mollie had been cleared for flight was criminal negligence. There was no other way of putting the matter. Jakes did not blame Jeroen at all for laying out the mechanic ... in fact he was rather sorry he wouldn't get the chance himself. "That does happen occasionally, you're lucky to have got her down even remotely nearly intact."

"Bloody lucky to have got her down without breaking my neck." Jeroen gave his head a shake. "Find me another Mollie Jakes, check her over and have her ready before lunch."

"Right." Jakes moved away and Jeroen headed towards the barracks.

"Jeroen?"

"Don't worry, I'm fine." Jeroen sank down on a chock and gave a thin smile. "Or I will be if Jakes gets that Mollie ready before lunch. I'd like a bit of leave if you don't mind ... just a weekend."

"Whatever, just file before you depart and don't hit Gordon."

"Will do." Jeroen nodded and leant back against one of the hangers. "A nice little sit-up for the lot of you."

"It certainly was." Lee had filed certain scraps of information in his memory, several people were going to catch it hot for such a diabolical plane being passed for flight. He'd need Jakes' official report before he could do anything, but Jeroen was never wrong about aircraft.

Part 57

Posted on Saturday, 13 May 2006

July 28th 1943 - Berlin, Germany

Whispers on the wind will betray any man.

Hermann was washing plates with his customary efficiency. Plate from the pile, into the soapy water, scrub, into the rinse, check and then place it in the rack. Near him there stood another person drying the plates as quickly as he rinsed them.

"Quaint evening." Stefan spun the plates expertly against a cloth for drying and stacked them in the shelves for service the next day.

"Oh?" Hermann had been on dish duty all evening and seen nothing of the customers.

"A largish group of the SS came in to celebrate." Stefan caught the plate which he had almost dropped. "Masses of food, masses of drink, one of them looked like a rabbit. Can't understand how these types can worry so much. Seems some prisoner has snuffed it ... along with all the hundred of others. Seems they've been a bit worried about him for their own private reasons, anyway he's snuffed it."

"Lucky sod." Hermann wished he could close his eyes even for a minute. He'd been working for twelve hours straight and was beginning to wish he was dead himself.

"Not my idea of lucky. Blew up in a massive fever one evening, delirious for two days and then dead. They called it TB, but I've never heard of it behaving like that."

"Who was it?"

"There you seem to have the lot of them for half the time they're not certain whether he's a German Soldier, an Englishman Gentleman, or a French Mechanic from Strasbourg.

"I've got a cousin who lives in Strasbourg ... used to visit him a lot, but he disappeared a couple of years ago."

"Well they were calling the dead one ... well it was Stephan when he was the German ... I can remember that because it's my name. The Englishman they were very doubtful about, but seemed to think it might be James ... or something like that."

"I'm not interested in that, I just want to be certain it wasn't my cousin. What was the French name?"

"Laurent Sevier. I can remember that because they got in an awful stink when it was pointed out that Canaris apparently had a boy of that name."

"Never heard of him and Canaris never heard of us." Hermann lost interest with blinding speed and attacked the dishes with renewed vigour. "You'd best get back to those plates or we'll never get out of here. What I wouldn't give for one of their cushy jobs."

"Ah." Stefan was rather disappointed, he'd been hoping for a good old gossip about the SS and their dead prisoner. It was a good topic, and yet Hermann, apart from a minute or two worrying that it might be his cousin, was his usual silent self and quite useless. Stefan decided to stop by Otto's place on his way home where he could really enjoy a grumble and a gossip.

Hermann let himself quietly into the dusty closet under the roof which had been mendaciously rented to him as comfortable accommodation fitted for a guest as much as for a staff member. The blinds were still up for he had not taken them down when he'd got up. Hermann pulled the blinds down rather impatiently and squinted down into the street below. It was dark as pitch below and Hermann replaced the blinds with a snort of disgust, he was going to have to go out if he wanted some lights and a drink. A curfew is laughable, provided you are willing to take a risk. Hermann knew of just the place he wanted to go to and with a smile he picked up his jacket and headed back down the stairs. A drink, some time watching his fellow men make fools of themselves as the lost money on whatever game was choice of the night, the perfect way to spend a night after too many hours of washing dishes.

Hermann was delighted for the omens were all in his favour. His favourite stool in the corner was vacant. The tough who liked upsetting drinks was absent. The company was undoubtedly convivial and determined to enjoy themselves. It was with relief that Hermann took his order and turned his gaze outward to enjoy the game which seemed to be based on cards and a lot of money.

"Guten abend mein freund." The thin voice came from the next chair, an old man, weathered by too many years of existence, bright eyed for all that and bent with age and disability, his accent foreign.

" ... " Hermann fumbled and then cursed because his drink had somehow ended up on the floor. There was a brief scuffle and two heads collided rather violently before the glass was successfully retrieved and the mess mopped up. Hermann eyed his new acquaintance with dislike, which abruptly changed to liking when the old man ordered Hermann's drink anew for him and paid for it. "Cigarette?" He'd been tipped a packet by one of the officer's who had particularly liked his dinner. The old man accepted gratefully and took two. Hermann frowned slightly but chose not to object and took one for himself before carefully restoring the box to an inside pocket. Hermann also supplied a match and they smoked with quiet enjoyment. The old man had very carefully stored the second cigarette behind one ear.

It was three in the morning when Hermann deliberately swallowed the last mouthful of his drink and rose to his feet. The old man had been quite good company, maintaining a comfortable silence and a suitable attitude towards the card players as their fortunes waxed and waned. However now he was for bed, or he would be too tired to wash dishes in the morning. His life was boring, his job was a drudge and it had got worse since the SS had taken his friend Joe away. Now all that remained was survival, if for no other reason than to prove he could survive a stupid war. Hermann would have waved good night to the man if he'd known then that he was going to serve him breakfast, but such foreknowledge is only gifted to the gods and a queer twist of fate caused Hermann to whistle that night at he scrubbed the hundreds and hundreds of dishes that came in from the dining room.

Chris Angel fingered the thin papers of a dismembered cigarette. The writing on the interior was miniscule in nature and totally preoccupied with racing tips. The racing tips were unidentified and you had to be in the know to know what races to align them with. If you were in the know and also knew how to rearrange the tips the information in those cigarettes was significant. These particular tips concerned a race in Kentucky ... which had actually been raced six months ago. Chris was rather laboriously reproducing the actual results of the race, as well as all that he could remember about the advance forms and odds before the race. The material he amassed on the subject covered eight sheets of paper which was fortunately onion based and could go in his soup as soon as he was done with the situation. The contents of the cigarette made rather grim reading after the necessary comparisons were made, but it was a faint smile which graced Chris' face as he finished with them. Chris might be getting old, he might be losing control of the MAGI and he might be on the verge of dying, but he still knew the habits of James Darcy. Stephan Kalt may have blown up in a massive fever and died ... but James Darcy most certainly had not. It would be rather satisfying to know that the boy had once again wriggled out of the clutches of the Nazis. Perhaps a day would come when Jim pushed his luck too far, but that wasn't today and Chris rather felt that he deserved a trip to England. But first he had to arrange for his old friend to have a nice sumptuous breakfast so Hermann's mind might be relieved of any concern. The message had been received and the evidence destroyed. Hermann would become a simple waiter again until he heard something else of interest.

August 2nd 1943 - Operation Husky, Sicily

All's fair in love and war

"Annie!" Rory had flung himself at the shattered masonry that had been the front-line hospital. He'd heard the explosion where he'd been with Mallern and without a word he simply run for it. The injured were even more injured now and many were totally dead. Rory helped those he could when he came across them, but his intentions never wavered. Annette was in this mess somewhere and he was going to find her if it was the last thing he did. It felt like it would be the last thing he did because his brain seemed to be on the verge of explosion.

"Mr. Halifax?" It was a nursing sister with a broken arm he was attempting most incompetently to splint who spoke.

"Yes?" Words, they didn't matter at all and this stupid bandage simply wouldn't tie.

"Your wife took a message to headquarters for us ... she should be safe."

"Repeat that?" Rory was aware that his jaw had dropped, for suddenly the words which had been sheer annoyance a moment ago became deadly earnest.

"Mrs. Halifax was taking a message to the headquarters for us, she should be safe."

"Good, now hold still while I tie this." Rory finished the splinting much more competently than he'd begun it, but his head still seemed on the verge of explosion and it was a poor splint.

"If you want to find her..."

"Don't be daft, you need to get everyone out of that mess." Rory turned his attention back to the area he had elected to clear and heaved a large rock off a clearly dead officer of some rank ... Air Force ... Rory knew the face but his memory wasn't co-operating at the moment. There had been faces earlier in the day too, but they'd all been strangers. Thomas had been drawing rapidly all day, finally been sick in a nearby ditch and announced that they were going back to their hovel which served as a home base.

It was the faces Rory remembered, always the faces. It had started at Magwe when the wing had pulled out. Left for dead under a pile of corpses Rory had awoken to find himself nose to nose with one of the mechanics, a cadavaric skull who was grinning as only a fleshless jaw can. Rory had known all the mechanics at Magwe, but in that condition he'd never recognised the man. Now he seemed only ever to see the faces and sometimes they even showed up when there was no one around.

Rory realised he'd paused with his hands on a rock, he jolted and then jerked the rock away to an area he knew contained nothing but shattered stone. He was working in a ward space and he knew there were more people to find. There wasn't time for daydreaming and he certainly didn't want to indulge in them. Rory bent his back to the rocks, ignoring himself and his environs alike. A body, dead. A body, injured. One and all they became faceless entities to be treated or moved. There had to be others working on the building but Rory was unaware of them. Shattered beds were grouped together if they were reparable or piled aside where they might well be cobbled into beds. It was darkness which finally caused Rory to lift his head. Torches flashed around the ruin and Rory realised with some shock that the ward he was working in was totally cleared and a nearby army shirt was beginning to rebuild the walls.

"Hey!" It was a Captain who came over and Rory closed his eyes against the wave of irritation that flooded through him, he knew what was coming and he very nearly said the Captain's next words for him. "No civilians allowed."

"Just doing what I can while I could." Rory nodded to the man, retreated to where the injured were and after several minutes found the nursing sister with the broken arm who'd mentioned Annette's absence earlier. "What happens to you?"

"Oh, I'll be returned to Africa by the next ship."

"Good luck and come for dinner some day if you have a chance before you depart."

"Thanks ... you've ruined your hands."

"They'll be fine." Rory straightened and looked around himself. Between the injured and the torchlight it was an impressive reproduction of what one of Dante's circles of hell must have looked like. All that was missing was Lucifer and his dervishes. "Good luck with the rest of your war." Rory moved off hurriedly, confused as to why he'd felt the need to speak to the nurse, disturbed by the faces which seemed to be confusing him again and aware that wherever Annette was she might well be beginning to worry about him.

"I thought you'd be back about now." Annette was leaning against the remaining gatepost, a dim patch of not so dark in the darkness. "Help much?"

"I think so." Rory hesitated and then settled down on a bit of low stone wall. "Moved a lot of rock, bandaged and splinted the odd injury. Only a couple more dead than they expected to have."

"That's a relief." Annette sniffed at the air. "Tea should be ready in a couple of minutes and there's jam tonight."

"Jam?"

"Yes, honest to goodness it's plum jam and it's edible."

"Tasted it did you?"

"I always knew my housekeeping wasn't appreciated, but I did feel..." The rest of Annette's theatrical speech was lost as Rory closed his arms around her tightly, his face buried against her neck. As always it was laughter which had triggered it and Annette waited quietly, giving as much support and comfort as she could while caught in that crushing embrace. Rory would release her soon, probably appologise at the same time and then he'd be miserably sick for most of the night. Mallern had already been sick twice and Annette knew she was in for a sleepless night. There was nothing to be done except make a huge drama out of nothing, get them laughing and then hold them while they were sick. Then more drama and usually more sickness. The process was repeated time and again until either the men were too tired to laugh, or could laugh without being sick ... usually exhaustion hit first. For Annette sleep didn't matter overly much, tomorrow she would be able to sleep, unlike Rory and Mallern who would once more wander off, equipment in hand to record the sights of war. Tomorrow night might well be another repeat. The island was too small, the horrors were too close and Annette was fairly confident that if either man was actually officially assigned to anywhere he would have been packed off back to Africa on about three months of sick leave. There was no Captain to worry about the two men though, just herself and there was nothing she could do except make them laugh and hold them while they were sick. The first few times had been embarrassing and awkward, Annette had helped simply because she couldn't not help, but now it was a comfortable habit that came with single room accommodations and the sharing of rations.

"Sorry." It was muffled as Rory tore himself away and threw-up in the ditch.

"Such a divine evening." Annette stepped over to brace Rory so he didn't fall into the ditch. "All it lacks is a nightingale." Annette held Rory firmly as he retched again and again. She had never realised before how physically debilitating recurrent retching was. Now she knew all too well how exhausting it was for the human physique.

"Possibly a solid stomached husband wouldn't go astray." Rory leant against Annette with a groan and closed his eyes. "I know you made me promise not to ask whether you regretted coming ... but I can't help feeling there are better things than holding your husband as he's sick in the ditch."

"True, I could be sitting somewhere in Africa holding some fat official's hand as he sweats his way through boring and unnecessary letters wishing I had the means to leave."

"Well, if you find this preferable I'm glad I saved you." Rory buckled over again. "So sorry."

"Stop being idiotic ... however I'd better get you inside and chuck some water over this." Annette helped Rory to his feet as the retching eased again. "Two deep breaths and then we're going to get up the front path and into the house. Then you can go straight out into the back area and be sick again."

"Thank you." Rory hesitated, took the two advised breaths and they ran for it. Who knew why it worked, but it did. Rory was safely on the other side of the house when his stomach heaved again and but for Annette's steadying hands he would have fallen flat on his face, as it was, he simply crumpled down on his knees again. Annette handed him a glass of water when his insides ceased their revolt, then took the rest of the bucket of water to hurl into the ditch and clean up the previous mess.

"I'm saving the jam for another night." Annette returned from cleaning the ditch and handed Mallern a glass of water at the same time as she refilled Rory's. Rory was always the worst, sometimes not having fully recovered from the previous week before it came again. Annette knew why Rory was usually significantly sicker than Mallern, but she wasn't about to talk about it to anyone. "I presume bread and water are the necessary tonight?"

"Undoubtedly anything else would be wasted ... Halifax is bleeding."

"I was going to clean him up as soon as I got the pot off the fire." Annette ducked inside as she spoke, re-emerging soon after with bandages, bread and another bucketful of water.

"Someone's at the door." Mallern's comment came after Rory had interrupted Annette's repair work for the second time so he could be sick. Rory had yet to even touch his bread and all he was bringing up was the water he'd drunk, but it still wore him out and Annette was aware of the chill feeling which always was a precursor to Rory being monumentally sick all night and in no shape to go out the next day. His stomach had to settle soon, particularly since if he threw up while she was at the door the mess would be sickening.

"Neither of you is allowed to throw-up again until I'm back." Annette quickly refilled both of their glasses and then dove into the cottage to find out who was visiting at such an inopportune moment.

"Hullo?" Annette all but gaped to see Matron Sarah Weston, splinted and coated standing on the step.

"Your husband was kind enough to invite me for dinner." Sarah's severe nursing demeanour was apparently packed away with her uniform. "I doubted I'd be welcome, but I need somewhere to stay until the ship arrives in two days time and even with a broken arm I can cook or gut fish."

"I'd like to see you gut a fish one handed ... but it doesn't matter for we haven't even got fish. We've floor space if you don't mind floor space, but I'm afraid that's all we've got." Annette hesitated and then swore. "Sorry Matron ... weekly cleansing, totally the latest thing among artists ... you'd probably better stay in the house and I'll get you some food as soon as I can."

"Rubbish." Sarah threw her small case of effects into a corner and hustled Annette back out into the back area. As a nurse Sarah knew very well what the sounds meant, and it more than explained Annette's hassled demeanour. "You deal with your husband and I'll deal with this complete stranger and hopefully we'll get some sleep tonight." Sarah grabbed Thomas as she spoke and held him expertly over the small pit which had clearly been excavated for such purposes.

"Matron Weston, Mr. Mallern. Sarah and Thomas, you can't stand on ceremony in such a situation." Annette grabbed Rory as he buckled again.

"They're both badly strained." Sarah spoke softly over a cup of tea during one of the peaceful periods when both men had actually drifted off to sleep at the same time. "Your husband particularly so ... he must have the constitution of an ox to have gone for so long without requiring medical attention."

"Define requiring medical attention." Annette spoke dryly as she sipped at the tea. The drink was actually barely more than hot water, but it was soothing. "Rory won't go. Doctors start asking questions apparently and things get terribly embarrassing when they do. In Africa it apparently wasn't so bad because they might spend an entire week driving from one place to another ... but here it's almost next door and they simply can't get away from it. Experience has taught us that quiet and water are the best medicine for getting him on his feet in the morning." Annette glanced around the little hut which didn't smell its best at the moment. "It makes me very meticulous about my weekly cleaning ... the smell makes it worse, but there's no shortage of water here."

"They need leave ... a couple of weeks at least."

"Tell me something I don't know." There was an edge of bitterness in Annette's voice. "They apparently are on leave whenever they come back here because I'm Rory's wife." Annette heard the touch of bitterness in her tone and shook her head energetically. "They were in Algiers until we sailed and this island is too small for them to properly get away from it ... we seem to be managing."

"How often are they sick?"

"Like this, maybe once a week, maybe once a fortnight ... certainly not more frequently."

"What of mildly sick?"

"They both throw up at least once when they come back here." Annette gave a small shrug. "It helps them to be sick and they lose little after a day in the field. I don't feed them now until after they've been sick and I know whether they'll hold it."

"What you're doing is little less than a miracle." Sarah looked up instinctively as Thomas muttered. "What do you do?"

"Cook, clean, help at any hospital or place who are willing to take my aid." Annette gave a shrug. "I keep busy and enjoy myself ... better than writing letters for some fat official."

"You are a thoroughly astonishing woman." Sarah finished her tea and blinked tiredly.

"No." Annette shook her head slowly. "I just discovered what I wanted to do and at the present moment it works rather well." Annette hesitated, but whatever she had been going to add was lost as Rory stirred and Annette hurried across to get him outside and into the air.

"Rather humiliating for them isn't it?" Sarah spoke again when Annette finally resumed her seat.

"No." Annette helped herself to more tea. "If you go out day after day looking for the most gruesome aspects of war you are guaranteed either to be sick in the stomach or sick in the head. By general consensus we prefer they're sick in the stomach. From what I've heard and seen I know for a fact I'd be more than sick in the stomach if I saw what they saw. There is nothing humiliating about it."

"Permit me to tell you that you are the most amazing woman I have ever met." Sarah finished off another cup of tea. "If anyone had told me earlier this evening that I would be given an entirely new philosophy about life while helping hold the hand of sick men I would have laughed in their face."

"It may be a new idea, but that doesn't make me amazing." Annette glanced across at Rory. "I've met people who truly are amazing and I do not come into the same class. I just live my life."

"And therein lies what makes you amazing." Sarah gave a yawn. "I'm going to rest for a while and I'm sorry if I've bothered you."

"Not at all." Annette sat down on her own sleeping mat and took Rory's hand, he was still awake from being sick and he was looking restless. "Get some sleep, Rory."

"Nice Annie ... 'Mazing Annie." Rory gave a faint little smile. "Take you out to dinner in Rome just so you can write home and tell folks you were taken out to dinner in Rome."

"Sleep Rory." Annette lay down and closed her eyes, aware she would wake at the first distressed movement of either man. "It will be nice to eat out in Rome."

"Go see the cathedral and the bridges." Rory was beginning to slur his words a trifle as fatigue overtook him once more. "Buy you a dress in Paris ... what does one buy in Rome?"

"No idea ... dinner will be wonderful."

"Sleep Annie."

"I am." Annette pulled the blanket over her shoulder and snuggled down. Hopefully the worst was past and the rest of the night would be peaceful, but Annette doubted it. The sickness seemed to come in waves throughout the night, though Rory's voice had lost the leaden edge from earlier and that was unusual.

August 20th 1943 - Deraux, England

...And sometimes there is only time." - Wise Owl

Lucille O'Niell muttered a muffled curse as once again her stomach intervened between herself and her objective. How anyone could possibly walk when they could barely see their feet was quite beyond her. Technically speaking Lucille was not supposed to even be out of bed, but quite frankly bed was very boring and she wanted to get outside and see the world and the harvests and the children. In fact there was a degree of malicious glee behind the act because she knew it would enrage the Dowager Countess and in the Dowager Countess' rage Lucille was finding that she still had some control and rights within the Castle, even if they were greatly curtailed from what that had been. If Nelli had remained a landed lady in Ireland and had become like that, Lucille was eternally thankful to who ever was responsible that a war and various things like that had forced her into working. It made her a nice person.

"Hullo." Brian seemed to emerge from a nearby tree-trunk and Lucille paused to glare at him. The fact that he'd never left the house before this was irrelevant. The fact that at any other time she'd have been wildly excited to find him out and about was irrelevant. Lucille wanted to be alone and his presence meant she wasn't alone. Lucille glared at him. It didn't matter that he couldn't see the glare ... on an exceptionally good day Brian could apparently determine the difference between day and night. Lucille then proceeded to glare at Ronan, for there was an off chance that seeming psychic link that connected those two would supply Brian with the hint that he was unwanted. There was no point even speaking for he was still completely, totally and utterly deaf.

"Go away." Lucille swung off to the left.

"Mad at me." Brian spoke in a rather clinical tone as he hesitated, waiting for Ronan's directions, then he abruptly swung around to followed Lucille. "Pity, but such is life. I have not seen my mother all morning so don't even consider being mad at me because I've come to hound you about being out of bed." Brian had dropped into step beside Lucille again. "In fact when we return to the house we'll probably both get the scolding of a life-time."

"Blast." Lucille had stumbled yet again over a something she hadn't seen. It was a bad stumble and would have been a nasty fall had Brian not got a hand to her. Lucille untangled her feet and settled them solidly on the ground again. Irritability made her want to shake off Brian's arm, she wasn't helpless, she didn't need molly-coddling and she wasn't a baby ... but something else prevented her from acting on the want. They remained there, motionless and entangled among the trees, both of them waiting for something but neither of them knew what. The silence was broken by the actions of a third party and Lucille stirred rather uncomfortably. "Brian?" Lucille looked up around her shoulder as she spoke and discovered that Brian had an exceedingly strange expression on his face.

"It moved." There was something in his voice, a noise, an accent ... perhaps an edge, that Lucille had never heard before. "I felt it move." The sheer awe in his tone was all that prevented Lucille from snapping rudely, she knew the baby could move, it had been for months and usually at the most inconvenient moments. The baby seemed to realise it was the centre of attention because it was becoming exceedingly active. "Dear God, Luce, I am so sorry." It was abrupt and pained, Brian tightened his grip and buried his face in Lucille's shoulder. "Almost as stupid as my father and I can't even justify it because I don't think it's worth it."

"Brian!" Lucille simply couldn't believe her ears. Everything was abruptly spinning out of control and place. "It was your job."

"I know, and yet..." Brian's shoulders heaved.

"Brian, you're responding to me." Lucille moved her head slightly and went practically cross-eyed so she could frown at him. "Can you hear?"

"Bits and pieces." Brian straightened with a tired smile. "Enough to make educated guesses about the whole remark from what I do hear and the tone of voice it's delivered in."

"How long...?"

"Since yesterday."

"Good!" Lucille burrowed into his arms and hugged him firmly. "Can you take me fishing?"

"Fishing?" Brian blinked, clearly thrown off by the question.

"Ken was talking about guddling trout, except I've never guddled in my life and I don't know where the stream is." Lucille didn't know herself why she'd lifted this matter, but somehow she'd felt quite certain that she needed to arrange to want to do something and fishing was the first thing which had come off her tongue.

"I might know where the stream was if I knew where I was to begin with." Brian twisted his face up thoughtfully and firmly squelched the bubble of fear which had risen within him. Now was not the time for panicking because he was out of the house for the first time in months and had no way of getting back except for by aid of Ronan or Lucille ... and Ronan was still unreliable on occasion. They'd ended up in the bathroom twice yesterday when he'd been wanting the kitchen. Brian shook his head again as he realised he'd only heard a single half word of whatever Lucille had just said. He needed to concentrate on the person if he didn't wish to miss things.

Continued In Next Section