Japhy
Banned
Our Man in Berlin
A Short Story By Japhy
A Short Story By Japhy
ONE: Untitled Opening
This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a Unilateral Declaration.
London had become a sad, odd place this spring morning as he headed down Shaftesbury Avenue. The streets quieter than normal, but not by any means abandoned. No, many a pedestrian continued their rounds as if nothing was happening. Many a cab rushed someone off to important meetings and meaningless rendezvous. But as they did so they passed windows being boarded up, and sacks on the make to being sandbags.
As the snug road gave way to the loosened up hub of Cambridge Circus Peter Fleming found himself glancing at the modestly-covered nude lady atop the Palace Theater. She was still there, but now more modest, wrapped up and bundled against the bombs everyone was sure would be on them soon.
And of course, prominently placed as an assurance to anyone who needed it, the barrel of an Heavy Machine Gun could be seen atop at least two of the other buildings around the junction. And at least part of their crews, old men in mothballed Territorial Uniforms were about, enjoying the snacks from the vendors.
Fleming knew what was coming. And while there was no time to spare took a moment to stop. Closed his eyes and took a breath before looking about. The children were gone. The rough and rude courteous pride was drained out of the city. Hammers from window covers going up ricochet about. He knew whatever else came, and whatever else was so wrong at this moment, distorting the city, this was the last time he’d see it in any semblance of what it was.
The Luftwaffe will be here soon, he thinks to himself, not giving away a thing of the reports he’s read They will be here with incendiaries, and high explosives and gas.
The war hasn’t even begun and London is already dead.
He looked about, one more time, took in everything he could. A snapshot to remember it all by.
He let out the breath and headed for the office.
Though the heavy old doors, past old Mr. Goodwin at the desk, a smile and a nod as the man pressed the button out of reach of any interloper. Though the steel gate and up the steps. Four flights up, three hallways. And then into the outer office.
“Hello Eve.” He offered a smile as he tossed his fedora expertly onto the top of the coat rack with the determined and precise skill of a Foreign Office Third Deputy Secretary. The Old Man’s young hatchet woman was in a pressed, perfect Navy Uniform, something Fleming had never seen her in before, sitting upright at her desk, a helmet and a gasmask hung with determined intent on the high of her chair, a moment's grab away.
Even with these dire times and this impressive entry of military precision into her formerly civilian office, Eve had to offer a smile as the hat rolled about on the pole before as usual coming to a perfect stop.
“It would be nice Peter if you prove to be able to toss other things so precisely these days.” She offered as she turned from it back to him.
“You’ve never seen my cricket game, my lovely. I’ll be just as good with a grenade when it comes to it.” He offered a cocky half-smile, a shit-eaters grin he’d spent quite a bit time developing.
She smiled once more, with the sad eyes he knew he’d had down on the street.
“How’s the Admiral dealing with all of it?” He asked. Other subjects, we can’t just stand here thinking about the end.
“He’s doing as well as anyone could have expected. He’s going to be sixty-two in a few months. The whole country needs him to go slower, get some rest. But no. He had me order a cot and a shaving kit brought up the other day. Keeps trying to figure who needs burning and who to light up. What reports to take and what reports to question. He’s going to kill himself at this ra---”
Eve’s impassioned fretting was cut off as suddenly the red padded door opened and there, as she said was The Old Man, aged more than a decade than when Fleming had last seen him two months ago. Burnt out eyes, the hunch of a man hurting, his hair a mess of hastily done combing, and a stubble that no ex-Admiral would ever have ever given permission to have even grown out.
“Alright Peter, come on then, work to do.” He waved the young point-man inside his office and closed the padded door behind him.
As Peter took his seat he couldn’t help but notice the standard Army cot and blanket, and the overloaded ashtrays atop the big desk. As he sat the Old Man walked over to the window to the left of his desk and stared out at the street below. Out of one pocket came a cigar and out of the other a light. With that sign, Fleming was quick to pull out his own pipe and begin the process of lighting up, all the while watching his boss and waiting.
As he struck his own match his boss finally spoke. “Baldwin said it again at the cabinet meeting last night.”
“Whats that Sir?” Fleming asked with a raised eyebrow.
“That damned quote of his. ‘The bomber will always get through.’ A mantra to stand aside.”
“I don’t normally work on the technical side of things sir, will they be able to get though?”
“Damned if I know, or anyone knows. But the RAF says if they can’t stop them they’ll at least make sure they can’t do it more than once.” The Admiral replied gruffly.
“And are we going to stand aside?”
“No. The Germans will cross the border sometime in the next three days. And then we’ll give them a deadline. And they won't listen. And then its war. The balloon will go up by the close of business hours on Friday.”
Peter sat in silence at that, puffing on his pipe as he tried to recover.
He bobbed his head about slightly as his eyes tried to regain the ability to stop on any one target, his voice though remained smooth, controlled, a skill he’d learned to handle as a ten year old boy when the news had come home from the last war. “Well then, I’d have to say I’d like to get my hands on a commission.”
“You already have one, welcome to the Navy Lieutenant Fleming.” The old man dismissed the topic with an off handed wave. “I don’t care how much time you spent playing sailor in Rio on your last assignment, you’re not getting sent off to a Destroyer, at least not yet. There’s work to be done, out of uniform still.”
“And that is sir?”
“I have a job. I am not exaggerating when I say this is the most important task in the Service right now.” As he spoke he walked back behind his desk and from one of the drawers pulled out a small manila folder.
“The head of the Swedish station received an interesting telephone two weeks ago, just before he left the office for the night. The caller spun an interesting little juicy bit about what's going on in Berlin, asking for a meeting with a representative of the Circus.”
“A trap.”
“I can’t discount the possibility but for the flavor of the information they handed us as proof of intent.” The Admiral finally took his seat as Fleming opened the file.
“They gave us the mobilization date, before it happened, down the hour the Fuehrer would announce it to the country.” He paused for just a beat. “And that the Lithuanians were going to agree to transit rights.”
“That didn’t happen until the other day.”
“The Skirpa government seems to have been sitting on the deal for a while now.”
“So you think it's legitimate, why not use someone we already have in Sweden or Germany to have the meeting.”
The Old Man straightened up at the question and was suddenly to Fleming’s surprise, the man he’d left before his recent escapade in Brazil.
“We can’t trust any of them. The Gestapo has gotten their claws into everything it seems, we’ve had to clear a lot of house. They want to meet in Germany itself. Which can be a trap or it makes a good deal of sense if they’re as high up as I think they are.
“And even if I could trust everyone in Berlin right now --- I’m don’t know if I can, and I have to know for this job --- they’re too busy covering up tracks and cleaning shop to play dangerous games in dark alleys.“
“But you can trust me, Sir?”
“You did the right thing in Brazil Fleming, so you’re the best man I have on hand.”
“When do I leave?”
“I could be sending you to your death Fleming.”
The young man pictured London under clouds of gas and smoke.
“All part of the job.” He offered as he took the pipe out of his mouth. “And that said, I’ll ask again Sir, when do I leave?”
London had become a sad, odd place this spring morning as he headed down Shaftesbury Avenue. The streets quieter than normal, but not by any means abandoned. No, many a pedestrian continued their rounds as if nothing was happening. Many a cab rushed someone off to important meetings and meaningless rendezvous. But as they did so they passed windows being boarded up, and sacks on the make to being sandbags.
As the snug road gave way to the loosened up hub of Cambridge Circus Peter Fleming found himself glancing at the modestly-covered nude lady atop the Palace Theater. She was still there, but now more modest, wrapped up and bundled against the bombs everyone was sure would be on them soon.
And of course, prominently placed as an assurance to anyone who needed it, the barrel of an Heavy Machine Gun could be seen atop at least two of the other buildings around the junction. And at least part of their crews, old men in mothballed Territorial Uniforms were about, enjoying the snacks from the vendors.
Fleming knew what was coming. And while there was no time to spare took a moment to stop. Closed his eyes and took a breath before looking about. The children were gone. The rough and rude courteous pride was drained out of the city. Hammers from window covers going up ricochet about. He knew whatever else came, and whatever else was so wrong at this moment, distorting the city, this was the last time he’d see it in any semblance of what it was.
The Luftwaffe will be here soon, he thinks to himself, not giving away a thing of the reports he’s read They will be here with incendiaries, and high explosives and gas.
The war hasn’t even begun and London is already dead.
He looked about, one more time, took in everything he could. A snapshot to remember it all by.
He let out the breath and headed for the office.
Though the heavy old doors, past old Mr. Goodwin at the desk, a smile and a nod as the man pressed the button out of reach of any interloper. Though the steel gate and up the steps. Four flights up, three hallways. And then into the outer office.
“Hello Eve.” He offered a smile as he tossed his fedora expertly onto the top of the coat rack with the determined and precise skill of a Foreign Office Third Deputy Secretary. The Old Man’s young hatchet woman was in a pressed, perfect Navy Uniform, something Fleming had never seen her in before, sitting upright at her desk, a helmet and a gasmask hung with determined intent on the high of her chair, a moment's grab away.
Even with these dire times and this impressive entry of military precision into her formerly civilian office, Eve had to offer a smile as the hat rolled about on the pole before as usual coming to a perfect stop.
“It would be nice Peter if you prove to be able to toss other things so precisely these days.” She offered as she turned from it back to him.
“You’ve never seen my cricket game, my lovely. I’ll be just as good with a grenade when it comes to it.” He offered a cocky half-smile, a shit-eaters grin he’d spent quite a bit time developing.
She smiled once more, with the sad eyes he knew he’d had down on the street.
“How’s the Admiral dealing with all of it?” He asked. Other subjects, we can’t just stand here thinking about the end.
“He’s doing as well as anyone could have expected. He’s going to be sixty-two in a few months. The whole country needs him to go slower, get some rest. But no. He had me order a cot and a shaving kit brought up the other day. Keeps trying to figure who needs burning and who to light up. What reports to take and what reports to question. He’s going to kill himself at this ra---”
Eve’s impassioned fretting was cut off as suddenly the red padded door opened and there, as she said was The Old Man, aged more than a decade than when Fleming had last seen him two months ago. Burnt out eyes, the hunch of a man hurting, his hair a mess of hastily done combing, and a stubble that no ex-Admiral would ever have ever given permission to have even grown out.
“Alright Peter, come on then, work to do.” He waved the young point-man inside his office and closed the padded door behind him.
As Peter took his seat he couldn’t help but notice the standard Army cot and blanket, and the overloaded ashtrays atop the big desk. As he sat the Old Man walked over to the window to the left of his desk and stared out at the street below. Out of one pocket came a cigar and out of the other a light. With that sign, Fleming was quick to pull out his own pipe and begin the process of lighting up, all the while watching his boss and waiting.
As he struck his own match his boss finally spoke. “Baldwin said it again at the cabinet meeting last night.”
“Whats that Sir?” Fleming asked with a raised eyebrow.
“That damned quote of his. ‘The bomber will always get through.’ A mantra to stand aside.”
“I don’t normally work on the technical side of things sir, will they be able to get though?”
“Damned if I know, or anyone knows. But the RAF says if they can’t stop them they’ll at least make sure they can’t do it more than once.” The Admiral replied gruffly.
“And are we going to stand aside?”
“No. The Germans will cross the border sometime in the next three days. And then we’ll give them a deadline. And they won't listen. And then its war. The balloon will go up by the close of business hours on Friday.”
Peter sat in silence at that, puffing on his pipe as he tried to recover.
He bobbed his head about slightly as his eyes tried to regain the ability to stop on any one target, his voice though remained smooth, controlled, a skill he’d learned to handle as a ten year old boy when the news had come home from the last war. “Well then, I’d have to say I’d like to get my hands on a commission.”
“You already have one, welcome to the Navy Lieutenant Fleming.” The old man dismissed the topic with an off handed wave. “I don’t care how much time you spent playing sailor in Rio on your last assignment, you’re not getting sent off to a Destroyer, at least not yet. There’s work to be done, out of uniform still.”
“And that is sir?”
“I have a job. I am not exaggerating when I say this is the most important task in the Service right now.” As he spoke he walked back behind his desk and from one of the drawers pulled out a small manila folder.
“The head of the Swedish station received an interesting telephone two weeks ago, just before he left the office for the night. The caller spun an interesting little juicy bit about what's going on in Berlin, asking for a meeting with a representative of the Circus.”
“A trap.”
“I can’t discount the possibility but for the flavor of the information they handed us as proof of intent.” The Admiral finally took his seat as Fleming opened the file.
“They gave us the mobilization date, before it happened, down the hour the Fuehrer would announce it to the country.” He paused for just a beat. “And that the Lithuanians were going to agree to transit rights.”
“That didn’t happen until the other day.”
“The Skirpa government seems to have been sitting on the deal for a while now.”
“So you think it's legitimate, why not use someone we already have in Sweden or Germany to have the meeting.”
The Old Man straightened up at the question and was suddenly to Fleming’s surprise, the man he’d left before his recent escapade in Brazil.
“We can’t trust any of them. The Gestapo has gotten their claws into everything it seems, we’ve had to clear a lot of house. They want to meet in Germany itself. Which can be a trap or it makes a good deal of sense if they’re as high up as I think they are.
“And even if I could trust everyone in Berlin right now --- I’m don’t know if I can, and I have to know for this job --- they’re too busy covering up tracks and cleaning shop to play dangerous games in dark alleys.“
“But you can trust me, Sir?”
“You did the right thing in Brazil Fleming, so you’re the best man I have on hand.”
“When do I leave?”
“I could be sending you to your death Fleming.”
The young man pictured London under clouds of gas and smoke.
“All part of the job.” He offered as he took the pipe out of his mouth. “And that said, I’ll ask again Sir, when do I leave?”
--------------------
Author's Note: This is a bit different than my normal stuff, for example astute readers will notice this isn't in East Asia. What this is is a bit of a short story I've been mucking about with for the past few months, first as a conventional TLIAD or Vignette but I decided to steal a very good page you should go read out of EdT's book and turn it into a short story. Should be no more than five parts, which should hopefully offer more illumination as to what exactly the divergent world we are facing is. Suffice to say I hope you will all find it interesting as I found the planning exercise, and as enjoyable as I found writing it once I settled on 'fun spy story' over anything of value.
Thoughts, Comments, and Critiques are as always welcome. So are "This is interesting to me posts." Not to be a big baby, but knowing if there's an audience really does help write these things. Next update should be in the next day or so.
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