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June, 1958 - Norfolk, United Kingdom (FLASHBACK)
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A jet black Rolls Royce swept sedately through the English countryside, the late afternoon sunshine glinting off the chrome bumper and hubcaps. On either side of the laneway towered great English Oaks, their huge branches reaching across the ancient track to join in an never ending tunnel of bright green, shot through with sunlight here and there. Beyond the trees grazed herds of cattle and sheep, watched over by shepherds who watched the vehicle pass with more than a slight interest.

Rowan Hogan, who was seated alone in the rear of the Rolls Royce, stared back. To the general public, Wolterton Manor House was the stately home of Lord Astleys, an elderly gentlemen who lived most of his time in London and only visited during the hunting season. The ancient red brick mansion dated back to the 1500's and had been significantly modernized since then.

The Rolls slowed as it approached the entrance to the Mansion, an imposing brick archway that was almost completely hidden by the heavy oak trees. A footman, who was quite young and very fit, stepped out into the roadway to greet the vehicle. The driver slowed and then came to a stop, rolling down his window to speak to the footman. Rowan could not hear what was said but she saw the driver speak her name in the rearview mirror. What else he said she could not make out.

The footman glanced in, offering her a smile and a wave as the Rolls passed into the gravel courtyard. More Mansion staff were moving about the courtyard, men and women, all of them watching her without trying to look like there were.

The car ground to a halt before the front door of the building, a huge set of double doors inlaid with the Astleys crest. Another footman, as fit and formidable as the first, appeared and opened the door of the vehicle. The smell of the countryside, fresh cut grass, flowering oak trees, manure in the fields beyond, all of it rolled into the vehicle to greet her as she clambered out.

Rowans style was clean, simple, well fitted, with perfectly matched accessories. She wore a green dress without collar, and a blue jacket. She wore sensible low heel shoes that were ideal for quick movement. She dressed so that you would notice her, but then forget her the moment she was gone.

"This way ma'am." Said the footman as he led her up the short stone steps to the great wooden doorway. She had counted the watchers in the courtyard now and was beginning to feel a sense of excitement building in her gut. There were normally fewer here and she could detect a distinct division between them, as if there were two separate groups brought together. Something was up.

The interior of the Mansion had been redone in a tasteful white plaster, the roof properly resealed, and everything still looked as one might expect the home of a Country Squire to look. More servants, far more than was practical in such an older home, seemed to be everywhere, cleaning rooms that did not need cleaning, moving items from one room to the next. All of it purposeless bustle.

The footman who led her turned left into a small sitting room where a fire burned in the hearth despite the heat of the spring day. Two large arm chairs sat facing the fire, a small table between them shared a pair of empty Scotch glasses, and an ashtray held the stub of a cigar. Those small clues, plus the increased security of the mansion, led her to conclude that the Prime Minister was in the building. The identity of his guest would remain a mystery for a few minutes more.

Through the sitting room was a final wooden door, currently closed, with two soldiers in uniform, pistols on their hips, sub-machine guns across their chests. They nodded to the footman, glanced her over, and then the one on the left stepped back to push open the door. Two men stood in the room, their backs to her, and they both turned toward her as the door closed behind her.

The man on the left she knew very well, Winston Churchill, his scowling visage and trademark cigar exactly as she had pictured him. The second man however brought her up short. It completely explained the increased security, not to mention the strange sense of division amongst the security forces. This second man was none other than Dwight Eisenhower, President of the United States of America.

"Ah, Miss Hogan, please, come in." Churchill waved her forward. He was leaning heavily on a large chair for support but gestured her to sit in it. Eisenhower simply smiled and Rowan had the distinct impression that she was being very severely judged.

"Thank you, m'lord." She said as she sat in the offered chair. Eisenhower sank into another while Churchill painfully shuffled his way to a third chair and slowly sat with a thankful sigh. He puffed at his cigar for a moment and then looked over at Eisenhower with a raised eyebrow.

The American President sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and looked very keenly at her. It was a strange moment for a simple Irish farm girl from Dún Laoghaire, to be seated in the same room as the two most powerful men in the free world. Eisenhower seemed to be weighing her for a moment before, finally, he began to speak.

"Miss Hogan. As you are no doubt aware, a current Cold War exists between the Allies and the German Reich. This entire state of affairs is based on the assumption that, should one or the other resort to nuclear warfare, the other would retaliate and doom us all."

The room suddenly seemed cold. Rowan had seen the images from Russia and Japan, of huge cities turned to rubble in an instant, hundreds of thousands dead. There was no greater fear for people of her generation than to know that they could be next. She felt her fingers digging into the soft fabric of the armchair as the President continued to speak.

"What we are about discuss cannot, ever, be discussed again outside of this room." Eisenhower sat back slightly and regraded her carefully through his glasses. "You have been selected for a mission, perhaps the most vital one ever undertaken by an agent of the Allied powers. I will not bore you with the process. But you have been chosen for your ability to speak four languages, your determination, flexibility in crisis, and complete loyalty to the Allied cause."

Rowan nodded and sat up straighter in her chair. Churchill was watching her like a hawk and she had no doubt he was the reason she was sitting in front of them. He had known her father during the war, he had been killed during an SAS raid on Nazi Occupied France. Since that time she had found a powerful friend in the Prime Minister, a secret friend, who had opened many doors for her that might have otherwise remained closed because of her gender.

"I need to know, we, need to know, that what I am about to tell you will never pass between your lips. The mission, should you choose to accept it, will end one of two ways. With your success, or your death. There can be no capture. Your mission will not be acknowledged by the Allies, and you will report directly to us. Are you prepared to do that?"

Eisenhower stared at her intently, Churchill puffed on his cigar, a log popped in the fireplace and somewhere outside a hound gave a long low howl. All of it seemed suddenly very intense. Rowan stared into the flames. She had served the Allied cause as an agent for the last seven years, moving effortlessly through the German Reich under any number of aliases, gathering intelligence on German troops movements and dispositions. She had waited her entire life for this type of opportunity, and, if she was honest with herself, she didn't anything else to do. Her father was dead, killed in the war, and her mother had been killed in an automobile crash five years ago.

"Okay, Mr. President. I won't say a word." She brought her gaze back up to meet his, and then transferred it to Churchill. "You can continue to have faith in me."

Churchill smiled and nodded. Eisenhower allowed a flicker of a smile before the deadly seriousness came rushing back. He sat back fully now and gave a deep sigh. It was Churchills' turn to sit forward and take up the narrative.

"Miss Hogan, I will be blunt. The only thing that has prevented the Nazi's from invading our fair Island and, indeed, conquering the world, is the threat of a nuclear strike on their own territory." He paused now and such was the look on his face that she had to fight the urge to jump up and run from the room. He suddenly looked wasted, tired, spent, defeated, and, worst of all, afraid.

"Miss Hogan," His eyes met hers and she saw the weight of the world in them. "The Allied powers do not posses the atomic bomb."

Brotzeit Beirhaus on the Boulevard du Sichon was not the busiest German bar in Vichy, but it was one of the most popular with the large population of Germans, mostly former soldiers of the second Great War. Many of them had a similar story to the Beirhaus’ publican. Serving with the 2nd Panzer Division out of Vienna, Oberleutnant Georg Hegel had commanded his tank crew through Poland, France and Russia before heading back to France to counter the invasion of Normandy. He’d been wounded and thus missed the near destruction of the Division in the Falaise Pocket. The Fuhrer had dropped the bomb before he had rotated back to duty and he never saw action again.

Georg unloaded the last tankard from his tray on to the table of customers to a chorus of thank you’s. He made his way back behind the bar, collecting empties as he went. As he moved through his place he picked up snatches of conversion. Most was the usual, jokes and banter or classic bar arguments about history or films, but something caught Georg’s ear.

“It was those fucking Algerians, I swear it was!” complained an older Austrian man, not a regular.

“What did it say?” asked his companion.

“Vive la liberté! Right across the windows of my shop!” The man huffed in exasperation, the fire having come out of his voice. “I asked my neighbours, one of them said he saw one of those negroes watching my shop from down the street. I repair watches, now the paint is all over my...”

It was not the first story Georg had heard like this. The Tirailleurs, an activist group made up of young French-Africans and Army if Africa veterans, had been causing trouble in Vichy for years. Their ‘statements’ had become more common in the last month, with news of a diplomatic conference between certain European Powers. It was only weeks away, and the Tirailleurs and other likeminded groups had been working hard to make their position known. Mostly there were rallies and speeches in cafes and salons, but not always.

Georg stayed away from such things. His wife was French, and though Nicolette was a very patriotic woman she respected his wishes in the matter. Together, they would live their lives in peace. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

“Did you hear me, Georg?” asked one of his waitresses, Veronique. “You have a call on the telephone from Berlin. He says he is your cousin Anselm?”

“Je vous remercie Veronique,” said Georg.

June, 1960 — Vichy-France Railway System

“Not at all. By all means.”

The skritch of a match struck against the rough floor of the railway car as it thudded and bumped over the tracks. The flame brighted and crisped the end of a cigarette that had been rolled rather haphazardly in the dim light that barely crept in through the cracks in the big doors latched shut. A set of fatigued eyes with angled eyebrows struck up into sight as the rest of the woman’s face scrunched into itself to pull air through the poorly-assembled tobacco bunch into her lungs.

“Thank you,” responded a scratchy voice after a smoky exhale. “Christ, it’s hot in here.”

“Yeah.” Another long pause. The two didn’t know each other at all. Just a pair of awkward strangers stowing aboard the rail. Finding that the other existed in what was deemed obviously a solid solitary hiding place wasn’t a pleasant surprise for either. But there was no need to be discourteous. It had already been a four-hour ride with no incident. Neither slept. Not that either had planned to sleep at all, but neither was about to let the other out of their sight. Distrust was often a commendable method of self-preservation in Vichy France... but for two people ranking high on what would be considered by most as “distrustful,” the instinct was especially strong.

“Thanks for the light.” The woman’s head was covered in a red scarf, holding her long brown hair behind her ears and shoulders. The heat was relentless outside as it was, even in the dark of night, but inside what amounted to the wheeled wooden box it was almost unbearable. The hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette fanned its palm toward her face in a desperate attempt to manufacture any kind of cool air at all. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

He wasn’t much for talking. She let a long moment pass by. “Why go through all this trouble if you’re just going nowhere?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he shot back in a flat tone with a touch of iciness.

She smirked and quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll settle on not knowing anything, then.”

He grumbled and rolled his eyes. “I offered you a light.”

“Fair.” She took a puff on the cigarette. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

He shrugged. “No matter.” She blinked, apparently working to think of some way to tame down the obvious tension. She reached into her worn blue satchel and retrieved another poorly-rolled cigarette and gently tossed it toward him, deliberately landing it inches from his dirt-streaked hand. He studied her for a long moment before he took it, then repeated the process of striking a match for himself. “Honestly, I was just bothered you didn’t offer me one.”

“If only it was more apparent that I could have. Just look at that sour face.” Another long pause, broken by relieved but still nervous chittery laughter.

The ride would continue in comfortable silence.

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June 1960 - Two Weeks Ago - Vemork, Norway, The German Empire (FLASHBACK)
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A jet black Mercedes Benz swept sedately through the Norwegian countryside, the late afternoon sunshine already blocked out by the mountains that towered up on either side of the steep valley. It was not a warm place, but it was ideal to prevent Allied bombing raids. Scattered throughout the valley, crews standing at the ready, were numerous anti-aircraft batteries. The car had already passed through six security check points and the final one was coming up quickly.

Obergruppenführer Heinrich Himmler was leaning back in the rear seat, smoke curling up from a cigarette held between two fingers, a blue stream that swirled for a moment before being sucked out the window. His SS uniform was immaculate, the silver buttons, lace, and pips, all seemingly glowed in the later afternoon light.

Next to him, staring rigidly ahead, sat SS-Major Rowan Hagen. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight bun beneath her cap, her sharp features complimented by a pair of pale blue eyes that hid a savagery he had rarely seen in a woman. He had no doubt she would be an excellent choice for the position he had selected for her.

"And here we are." He said, breaking the silence. "Your new command."

The road had come to a right hand bend, the view of the valley altering until, at last, the Vemork Hydroelectric Plant came into view. The massive concrete edifice sat squatting on the edge of the valley like an ancient Teutonic Castle. "The home of our Nuclear program."

Rowan had to admit it looked impressive, maybe even more so since she had worked for almost two years to get here. She had done horrible things to convince the Nazi's she was one of them. Torture, executions, murders, espionage, and so much more. All to bring her to this moment when she could at last answer the questions Churchill and Eisenhower, well, just Eisenhower now, needed to know beyond all else.

"It looks formidable." She said with a nod of agreement. Part of her wanted to reach out and stab the man next to her. He was the embodiment of everything she hated, everything the Allies had fought against, and now she sat, only an arms length away. Men like him had killed her father after all.

She pushed the feeling down least it show on her face and turned her attention back to the approaching building. Her hard work had earned her several promotions, mainly through her work in the occupied Russian territories, and her attention to detail and security had gotten her here, the new Commander of Nazi Nuclear Program. Had this been an Allied nation she would never have come so far so quickly but in the German Empire Hitler kept his underlings constantly at each other throats to protect his own position. As a result, someone like Himmler could quickly come to rely on someone he viewed as an invaluable asset. Someone like her.

The final check point came and went, black clad SS guards snapping to attention as the car passed. A pair of black wooden gates swung slowly open to admit the car into the compound and the vehicle came to a halt before the tall doors that would lead inside.

Equipment was everywhere, piles, mounds, heaps of it. Scientists bustled in and out, guards with dogs seemed to be everywhere. Say one thing for the Nazi's, they were organized, and they never failed to amaze with what they could accomplish.

"Out we go Hagen, time to meet your command." Himmler said with a smile as he climbed from the car.

A Detachment had been drawn up and they slammed to attention as their Lieutenant saluted the two SS officers, both of whom ignored him as they headed for the front doors of the building.

Rowans heart was pounding in her chest now. This was it. In a few days she would have the knowledge she needed to return home and be rid of the Nazi's forever. The feeling was almost overwhelming and she had to swallow it again, forcing it beneath the character she had become for this, the ultimate mission.

"Heil Hitler!" A second young Lieutenant snapped to attention just inside the front doors and this time both officers returned his salute.

"Your office is just here Major." The young man said without emotion, gesturing toward an open door behind him.

"Thank you Lieutenant, that will be all." Himmler said before Rowan could speak. The young man saluted again and hurried away. Rowan had so far noted that every soldier she had seen was one of Himmlers personal fanatics. Men who would die at his command. Much as she was now expected to do.

Himmler led her into the office and she noted a massive black drape had been hung over one wall. Himmler closed the door behind her and then nodded to one of the two chairs that sat in front of the large desk. He sat in the other with a sigh and the look on his face suddenly reminded her of Churchill.

"Major, what I am about to tell you is something you can never ever speak of again with anyone other than myself or the Führer, do you understand?"

"No." Rowan whispered and she was already shaking her head as he looked up at her again. Her world was crumbling around her and Himmler hadn't even said the word. He mistook her emotions as he plowed on.

"I am afraid it's true Major, our nuclear program is nothing but smoke and mirrors, we do not posses the nuclear bomb."

Rowan screamed. The sound tore her apart, coming from the deepest part of her soul. Everything she had done to this point suddenly didn't matter. The bomb wasn't real. The men, the women, the children, all those people she had killed or consigned to death in the name of reaching this point. It meant nothing now. She was no better than the Nazi's.

She slid out of her chair and onto the floor, tears streaming down her face. Himmler looked shocked. It was possible he had expected anything but this. He reached out a hand toward her.

"Now Major, come, we must remain strong. We cannot show weakness!"

"Weakness..." She hissed the word at him. A horrible change had come over her face and in that moment she looked more like a Valkyrie of legend than she ever had before. She slowly began to climb to her feet.

"Weakness?!" She screamed the word in his face. He recoiled in shock and surprise, his eyebrows narrowing as his own temper started to rise. He shot to his feet.

She didn't wait, she couldn't, she had reach an emotional breaking point. She snapped. She drew her sidearm and shot him between the eyes.

Georg stood by the telephone in his small office between the kitchen and the bar floor. He hasn’t spoken to his cousin in years, and hadn’t seen him since the war. Anselm had unexpectedly called to congratulate him the day before his wedding, and before that had visited in the military hospital outside Paris. He’d been in assignment he had told Georg, though he couldn’t say what for. Now he was Brigadeführer Anselm Diefenbach of the Schutzstaffel; more widely known as the SS.

“Anselm, are you there?” asked Georg into the telephone.

“Georg! How is the bar? Have I caught you at a good time?”

Georg had overheard two women talking in his bar once. One of them was telling the other that, according to some, you could hear in a persons voice whether or not someone was smiling when they spoke over the phone. He didn’t know whether that was true, but as he and his cousin exchanged polite and otherwise cheerful small talk, Georg suspected Anselm wasn’t smiling on the other end. Even when he was smiling, Georg remembered that it never quite made it to his eyes.

After what seemed like a precisely calculated amount of time catching up, Anselm changed tone and asked “Georg, do you have a pencil and paper handy?” He always uses your name when asking a question. After receiving an affirmative answer, Brigadeführer Diefenbach made his ‘request.’

“Georg, please write this number down,” he said, then wrote a long number that would reach Berlin. “And now a name: Rowan Hagen. It is unlikely she is using this name. I’m sorry to have to ask this of you, Georg, but I know I can trust you. If you hear anything about this woman, please call that number. No one will answer, however you must report what you learn after the tone.”

Georg’s cousin gave a description and a few other details before adding, “you must memorise what you have written on that paper, and then burn it. Can you do this for me, Georg? For The Reich?”

“Of course, Anselm,” came his reply easily. “I’ll keep my ear open.”

Georg Hegel didn’t leave his office until he was sure colour returned to his face.

“Oh, now you’re awake.”

The man startled awake, grasping at his pack awkwardly while sneering beneath angled eyebrows. “You, you better not have—“

“—touched your things? Well, of course not,” the woman rolled back calmly, holding her hands up non-confrontationally. Even her palms were facing him, fingers splayed. “It’s natural to worry about your safety after you’ve discovered you fell asleep around a stranger.”

He continued to glare for several seconds before finally relaxing his grip on his bag, then laid back down against the wooden wall. He grimaced a dry swallow of air... he was parched. Hopefully soon they’d stop. “A little stranger like you.” He added a confident smirk. “I’m not worried about the likes of you. What are you doing here, anyway? You Roma?”

She couldn’t help but notice the quirk of the eyebrow that accompanied his words. “If I were Roma, do you think I’d be sitting here?”

“More likely here than anywhere else,” he countered with a shrug, “and if you were I’d probably just do the job myself.” A long pause. “French?”

“Now if I were French, would I be sitting here?” she repeated with a laugh. “What better way for an Italian girl to see the countryside?”

The man’s face uncreased a little. “I see.” He yanked his bag toward him, unlatching the clasp and retrieving a crudely-printed leaflet. “Lucky for you, I’m no dummy.” A woman’s face printed in black ink on the rough newsprint accompanied by large print beneath emblazoning: ‘JUILLET, MANON: DANGEREUSE’

“You’re no dummy... because a real dummy would think I look like this woman?” the stranger clarified aloud. The man nodded as he jabbed a finger at the page and reached his other hand into his bag to search for water. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead the woman reached into her own bag and retrieved a flask. “I’ll drink to that. Or, you can.”

He readily accepted the drink, happily draining down as much as his heart desired. “Schnapps!” he sighed gratefully. “Where did you... oh, nevermind.” He kicked more of the sweetened liquor back into his throat and happily sighed. “Anyway. You, Italian girl, who likes to ride rails and share mystery schnapps with strangers... seen anyone like her?” He hastily grabbed for another flyer from his bag. This one with the face of another woman, in a similar monochromatic fashion: ‘HAGEN, ROWAN’

The woman’s eyes dragged upward thoughtfully as she apparently searched her mind for answers. “Gosh. The only other living being I’ve seen on trains, besides you... it was a pig.” She shrugged and offered a smile. “Wouldn’t let me share my schnapps with him. He was way more charming than you, though.”

The man couldn’t suppress the laugh that flew out of his mouth. “And you’re even less charming than I am!” She laughed good-naturedly with him for a long moment before the train’s whistle broke their noise along with the silence of the summer night. The woman reached to clutch her bag reflexively, causing the man to wave his hand. “Ahh, don’t worry. I’m getting off at this next stop and I’ll make sure you’re not seen.”

She raised an eyebrow. “‘Seen’?”

His eyes widened as he seemed to realize he’d said too much. “I... I’m not French.” He pointed his thumb to a nearby crate. “Hide in there if you plan on riding. Or join me and my colleagues for a drink?”

The woman stared at the man’s face for a long moment, then nodded. “Sure. If you swear you won’t get me into trouble.”

He shook his head. “Just stick by me and I’ll make sure you’re all right. Gerhard... and you?”

“Mona.”

The train pulled into the station slowly, and it wasn’t long until the big doors finally opened, letting in the cool air like a fantastic reward. “Stick me with me,” Gerhard instructed as he hopped from the car and offered his hand up to assist Mona, who was far more diminutive than he’d expected, “we’ll loop up with some folks and go to the bierhaus. Stick close.”

Mona nodded, eyeing Gerhard and his backpack carefully, but grateful to be off the railcar all the same.

Farid Al-Hashim was a tall strongly built man who wore a tall dark green hat to accentuate that height. When the Europeans made jokes about a negro smiling in the dark, it was men like him they were imagining. They had to imagine, for none in Vichy were brave enough to make those jokes anywhere that they could be seen by him. Farid’s size had been useful in Algeria when fighting the other boys for coming near his sisters. After his sisters and father had died in the Second Great War, his mother had taken him to France and his size had been useful fighting there too, this time for himself.

As many problems as this country had, Farid still loved it for what it was, and that it wasn’t Algeria which had taken so much from him. He did not lament the ills of this place, but he was determined to stamp them out. Thus when his mother had finally passed, he had packed what meagre possessions he had and left warm Marseille in the south and come to the capital, where true change might happen. That was seven years ago. Quickly he’d found the Tirailleurs, and in him they had found a fierce resolve and soon enough a leader.

Farid smiled that bright smile, brighter for the darkness lit only by candlelight. The rattle of machinery filled this place as the salvaged printing press groaned to life on the concrete floor, working slowly at first but gaining speed. He’d argued long and hard about the first message to be put out in pamphlets. The older men, the veterans of the war wanted to claim responsibility for all their doings but Farid had been unrelenting. He knew that their way would result only in blame being put on the Tirailleurs and that the French would turn on them. He knew their cause needed the French and that - though they didn’t know it - the French needed the Tirailleurs to light the spark for them.

That cause was simple in the telling, but like most causes was difficult and complicated to achieve. For all the talk of the politicians of independence, Firad knew and deep down Jean Public knew it too: France was still a Client State to Nazi Germany.

Thus, as the press worked through the sheets of paper, and the boys snatched them up to fold into pamphlets, their message was not what the old veterans wanted. Farid Al-Hashim had not relented and in the end they realised that he controlled their printing press and had only included them in the discussion to maintain an air of diplomacy. The message he printed was bold and powerful and above all, Patriotic. He played on the fierce pride of the French people, the people who had started the European Democratic Revolution! The people who had cast off the chains of monarchy! The people who now languished under the yoke of a new tyrant, not a King but a Fuhrer.

Vichy would wake up to his words in the morning, and they would keep printing every night until all of France had read his words.

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June 1960 - Present Day - Vichy France
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Hiding in plain sight was often the best policy and Rowan had managed to navigate the increased Gestapo and Military roadblocks through the simple expedience of cutting her hair short, dying it jet black, and putting in hazel brown contacts. She didn't try to hide. She flirted with the soldiers, bought cakes from their wives, laughed at their jokes, and all the while, she moved effortlessly through Occupied Europe.

Most of the soldiers did not know why they were looking for Fräulein Hagen, only that she had done something terrible somewhere and the brass wanted her, dead or alive. Himmlers death had not been broadcast announced yet and that worked in her favour. Most of the men she spoke to seemed to think it that Fräulein Hagen was some sort of Jew on the run, or something like that. In the end, they did what most soldiers did when on garrison duty, they went through the motions and pretended to be extra vigilant.

The Gestapo was another beast altogether. They were, as they had always been, highly vigilant and double checked everyone they encountered. Fortunately they didn't have the type of man power that was required to enforce their fearsome reputation for being everywhere at once. They were easily spotted and avoided. In the few instances in which she had to interact with them she feigned terror, didn't make eye contact, and shuffled along quickly enough. The forged papers the allies had made for her two years previously still worked their magic and she passed along easily enough by posing as a French woman returning home from a German labour camp.

The only tense moment had been at the Vichy Border where Gestapo were checking everyone who came across. A pair of agents had approached her and taken her papers, asked her a number of questions, but she was Rowan Hogan, the best damn agent the allies had, and she was able to pass through without any further issues.

Now, as she stepped off the train into Vichy, she knew she needed to find somewhere to lie low. She had been on the edge for two years now, living a lie, unable to be Rowan Hogan, even in the privacy of her house in Germany. They were always watching.

She slung her meagre possessions over her shoulder and hurried into the streets. It was strange to see French uniforms again after having spent so much time in the Russian Territories. The illusion of familiarity had been shattered when she saw two of those soldiers proceed to beat a blackman who hadn't moved out of their way fast enough. Everyone else had hurried past and averted their gaze. She did the same.

Her wandering eventually brought her to a fine looking establishment, a wooden sign advertising it as the Brotzeit Beirhaus swung in the gentle breeze. She stepped into the darkness and to one side of the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the darkened interior.

The Brotzeit Beirhaus buzzed with activity. Steins went up and clashed together and then down upon surfaces more frequently the more that the patrons of the establishment drank, but still the jovial air remained somewhat orderly. On occasion a war song or a drinking anthem from the Vaterland belted out from sets of lungs, multiplying occasionally but often dying down into the loud white noise of conversation within moments, before eventually rousing up again.

The dark rings under Mona's eyes were apparent as she carefully but strainedly set a pitcher of hefeweizen upon the table in front of the three shabbily-clad officers who'd by then plainly and openly admitted that they were plainclothes agents from across the border. But in town, they gladly wore their rifles slung over their backs, no questions asked as they strode through the doors, little swastiska pins that they’d brandished upon their collars only upon entry into the town. They were welcome here, especially in the Beirhaus, and clearly no harm would come toward them. Gerhard reached over to pluck two of the three glass steins Mona barely carried, handles slung along the insides of her wrists.

"Frauline Mona, you're going to strain yourself after such a long journey," he chastised with a brilliant smile that looked even brighter under the establishment's lights, "insisting you go retrieve our beverages like that." His eyes searched the table, then squinted at her. "Where's your glass, Frauline?"

Mona's left hand rushed to grasp a few strands of long dark hair as they tumbled from behind her ear. Her right hand's fingers wrapped around the handle of the pitcher. "I could only afford three glasses," she piped up meekly, her face darkening in an embarrassed shading.

The trio held their hands up sympathetically. "Frauline, no, you didn't have to do that!" insisted one, the other repeating similar sentiments after the other.

She shook her head as she collected their glasses. "No, no, no... I... I just..." she trailed off as she began to fill the steins one by one, "... I just know perhaps I shouldn't be riding on the train, you know. I could have gotten into big trouble."

Gerhard's smile was something else. The longer they stayed in the beer hall, the more at-home he seemed. "Well, that's no call for you to spend everything you had on us!" he responded good-naturedly. He raised a hand to gesture to the bartender.

Mona raised a hand. "Really, it's all right... if I drink beer right now, I'll fall asleep in my chair," she said while raising a hand to her face to suppress a yawn before distributing the drinks. "Zum wohl!" she cheeped, cautiously cheerful with a polite but still restrained smile. “... and Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler!” The three drank gladly. "Thank you, Frauline!" they all chittered one after the other. They seemed genuinely grateful--really, they did. It was hard to be on the job for weeks on end, slinking along through the underbelly of the Europe along the railway or even in worse daily conditions. A meal wasn't guaranteed every day--not one fit for a human, at least. Beer was a treat today, something that was a guaranteed once wandering into friendly territory once off duty... but since it was Mona who brought it along, the appreciation sent to her was higher than it might have otherwise been. "Let us buy you a meal, and then a beer after you have your energy back! The gedadschde here is delicious. The schweinsbraten is even better."

"Well," she started as her eyes darted over the heads of those gathered around them, "before I do that... I may need to visit the ladies' washroom. I look terrible.”
"No you do not!" they protested, in chorus yet again, almost comically. "You’re the loveliest Italian woman we’ve ever seen! Come now, Frauline. Take all the time you need. We're ordering the schweinsbraten for you. What a long journey you had. This food may not what you're used to down in Italy, so let us treat you to delicious German food... while you're in France." One sitting beside Gerhard tipped his felt-brimmed cap politely with a wink before Mona nodded and wordlessly disappeared.

The Beirhaus was ready for a busy Friday and the staff was grateful for the rush. Their job was good when their boss was happy and nothing cheered him up like a busy drinking hall. Delicious scents wafted enthusiastically from the kitchen, inspiring more food orders. Business was good, but for once Georg’s mood didn’t rise to match. He wasn’t foul by any means, but those who knew him knew something was wrong. At the taps he was smiles and quips in French and German, but in the kitchen he had his head down and didn’t speak to the staff in his usual encouraging way. When he went down to the cellar to bring up new casks, Veronique popped in after him.

“You don’t seem yourself, Georg,” she said from the second step to the bottom. “Is everything all right? Did you get bad news from your cousin?”

The older man looked up at her from the kegs he was shifting. He had hired Veronique because she could speak unaccented German, and also fit the ‘official’ standard of beauty for so many of his German customers. She was beautiful but approachable, with a mousey nose and round face framed by appropriately long sandy blonde hair. Unlike so many of the waifish French women in Vichy, she was fit and more strongly built. If Georg was to be honest with himself, which he wasn’t when it came to women, Veronique reminded him of a younger version of his wife, who in turn reminded him of the farm girls he’d known in Westphalia as a youth.

“There are a number of new faces tonight,” he said to dodge the question. “Are there any... strange customers tonight?”

Veronique responded in the negative at first, then described an Italian woman speaking with some young men. German’s didn’t have a good ear for Italian, but the French did and the woman didn’t sound like the one described by his cousin. Georg thanked her, managing a smile, then set to bringing a cask up to the taps

The hallway to the washrooms had been relatively empty until Gerhard stumbled into it, clutching Mona's knapsack in one hand by its straps. He glanced around in the low electric light, a little wobbly on his feet thanks to the handful of pints he'd consumed by then. It had been approximately twenty five minutes since Mona had departed for a break, and he'd begun to wonder if perhaps she was all right. Or stranded for a personal item without that bag of hers.

He didn't have to wait long for Mona to emerge from the women's washroom, startled as though surprised to see him. "Herr Gerhard!" she exclaimed restrainedly, her spine straightening up and her expression clearing from somewhat burdened to neutral.

"I brought you your bag, Frauline Mona." He extended his arm to offer the bag. "Signorina." A lopsided grin spread across his face cautiously.

Mona tilted her head and smirked as she accepted the bag. "You must have known I'd forgotten something."

"It's easy to do something like that after such a long journey." He took a step closer. Not too close, but close enough to correspond with the sudden reddening of his face. "Frauline, I'm wondering if anyone is waiting for you back in Italy."

A dark eyebrow raised steeply. "Now that's quite a question."

His face turned even redder. "Well, no one is waiting for me in Heidelberg."

"Heidelberg is a beautiful place. But I'm sure you have a frauline in Munchen."

"No, no... no frauline anywhere. No madamoiselle. No senorita." He paused and smiled. "... No signorina, either."

Mona's face drained of all color as she listened to him, her eyes intensely studying every feature on his face. A group of partygoers piled loudly into the hallway, filing into washrooms drunkenly. After that long moment, she sighed. "I have no one waiting for me, Gerhard."

Gerhard took a breath, shrugged, and stuck his hands in his tattered jacket's pockets. "Well, maybe we could meet each other in Berlin. Or Hamburg. You wouldn't believe the music in Hamburg. It's not something they're really supposed to do, but as long as they keep their shit together and so do the crowds, then it's allowed. Everyone imitates that English sound. You like music?" Mona nodded fervently, a hint of a smile cracking in the corner of her mouth. "Ahh? Ahhhh?! You're no Berlin girl, you're a Hamburg girl! I knew you were fun, Frauline."

Mona's own face turned red as she shouldered her bag. "It's been a long time since anyone's called me 'fun,'" she remarked wistfully. She shook her head and sighed sardonically. "Are your comrades enjoying their drinks?"

"They're quite appreciative," Gerhard responded brightly, leaning against the wood panel of the hall's wall and sighing. "You didn't have to spend the last of your cash on us. That was beyond generous." Mona shrugged. "Really, now. You even shared your schnapps with me on the train. No one ever shares their schnapps on the other train rides." He winked. "Come to think of it, I never really let anyone ride with me."

Mona stared back for several long seconds, to the point where Gerhard wondered if he'd made some kind of mistake. But, finally, to his relief, she spoke. "Oh, Gerhard. You're so kind. Perhaps it would be nice to meet you in Hamburg."

He smiled broadly. "Well-... well..." he stammered, genuinely surprised. "How about September?"

Mona drew air to fill her lungs, and took a step slightly closer to Gerhard. "You don't know who I am." The partygoers who had gone into the washrooms, every last one, clambered out of the doors and back into the beer hall.

Gerhard shrugged his shoulders after giving pause. "I'll learn more about you in Hamburg. Or... or unless you will be in Vichy for another few days?"

One couldn't blame him for trying.

Mona sighed as she imitated Gerhard's stance against the wall, lowering her voice. "I must confess, Gerhard. What's that word you Germans possess for it... 'weltschmerz.'" He nodded, rapt and at attention, paying attention to her every word. The lull of the crowd from outside the hall seemed far away for now. "Every morning I wake up and feel the pain of the world. I remember the war."

Gerhard frowned. "The war... was a hard time for many Germans and many of our friends," he stated rather diplomatically, reaching one hand ahead to carefully take one of hers. "I'm sorry, Frauline. That must be extraordinarily difficult."

Mona's eyes were dark pools flashing with an elusive brightness. "It's something, Gerhard, when you don't know if you'll wake up in a pool of sweat or if you'll even remember your own name." Gerhard tilted his head curiously. "Nightmares. It's hard to sleep. The nightmares that take place. It's..." She stopped herself, and blinked as she squeezed his hand. "Never mind."

Gerhard opened his mouth to say something, his blue eyes kind with sympathy. It was clear that he was indeed quite human, and that the weeks of loneliness had taken their toll and he was caught unawares in fairly unique circumstances. But it also became suddenly clear that something was wrong with him. He joltingly pushed himself off of the wall and rushed hurriedly into the men's washroom. Mona watched unflinchingly, as though not terribly bothered about the state of what seemed like sudden illness. By the time she issued a deep yawn, stood up straight, and entered the washroom, Gerhard was already face-down on the floor, an inky red pool forming close to his mouth. "September. In Hamburg."

She dropped the knapsack next to him and casually strode out, emerged from the hallway and into the beer hall, and after briefly breaking through the drunken haze of merrymakers bumped straight into a woman, dropping a small mirror compact from her pocket and upon the floor. Making just the briefest of eye contact with her, Mona didn't even bend over to pick the thing up before she scuttled along.

Out of the beirhaus she went, as though nothing had happened. She ditched the red bandana on her head next to a building nearby, along with the light gray coat she wore, and kept walking, hoping that she wouldn't hear the sudden screams of those who'd come upon Gerhard's body. Or those who would see Gerhard's comrades, or any of the other unfortunate bearers of the other pitchers that had been poisoned.

# # #

It seemed almost impossible that she made it into the door of the safehouse--a perfectly normal, shabby little widow's home--nearly thirty minutes later. A frantic pair had waited at the door, bolting the door tight after they received her and heading down into a deep basement, again locking themselves behind that.

"A little more advance notice would be nice next time, Manon," finally came the reprimand after they were down far enough into the subterranean level of the home.

Manon whirled back on them. "Perhaps if you'd waited I'd have been able to explain how I got caught up on a train with fucking undercover SS, carrying a poster with my fucking picture on it," she snapped back. That had been a close call.

"Did you get Hagen the mirror?"

Manon scowled at the pair, the rings under her eyes aging her far beyond her natural years in the moment. Sleep was what she craved... and feared. She hadn't exactly lied to Gerhard about that. "I delivered the mirror at the feet of... 'Hair. Short. Black. Eyes. Hazel. Likely alone. Do not engage.'" She glared. "Maybe you'll thank me for thinking fast and doing the best I could with so little."

One of the pair, a short, stout woman with about fifteen years on Manon, held up a hand. "We'll argue about this tomorrow. In the meantime, we've got work to do."

A loud sound broke from the outside of the home, the basement shaking briefly. The two reflexively ducked for cover, the unshakeable memory of war still fresh in their minds. Others in the house shouted out of surprise, and the sound of feet began to stamp about the floors all around and above them. Manon, however, didn't duck at all.

The other of the pair, a man not that much older than Manon, squared his eyes on her. "Don't tell me. Don't even tell me."

Manon shrugged. "I left a note in the compact telling her to get the fuck out."

"That does not make it... That..." the woman huffed and puffed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingertips and sighing. "It's been nice and quiet here lately, and then Hagen gets in trouble and lands in Vichy. And then... you."

"I'm glad it's been 'nice and quiet' for you, Marguerite," Manon answered back cuttingly, emphasizing the woman's name with a sappy, overly-sweet tone, "but the rest of us have actually been busy."

"Please tell me it was just a bomb."

Manon shrugged. "I can't tell you that."

Marguerite frowned deeply. "What you mistaken for 'not busy' has been months of collecting information. Working things over. Making the most amount of progress we-"

"-'progress' while you all sit and eat black market beef and cheese with these assholes and offer up cushion criticism while twenty-six of us hard workers get shot up in Bayern-"

"-and if you want to get your rage out in a homicidal fashion, you do it somewhere else!" Marguerite fumed. She glared, and then held her head in her hands as she shook it and sighed. "I don't know what to do with you. We'll talk in the morning."

Manon watched the two as they walked away, back into the main section of the house to join a few of the others who'd been mobilizing in apparent efforts to receive this "Hagen." Moments later Manon trudged into one of the bedrooms and shut the door behind her, collapsing upon the old bed in a corner of the stoney room. She immediately set about working to vacate her mind of all thoughts, feelings, everything about everything that had transpired at all that day. Or the days prior.

She hadn't slept at all on that train. Perhaps the last time she'd slept had been before she met Gerhard. It would have been a pity, really... he seemed almost human for a German in uniform. He'd mentioned Heidelberg, so was he Bavarian? He seemed to have an Alpine charm about him. That affable smile screamed "sunshine." He certainly fit that stereotypical dashing mold, but was also graced with what could have been a personality. Maybe even a kind one. One that wanted to see her again.

But it didn't matter, really.

What did matter, however, was that Manon had had a chance to tell Gerhard about what she feared. And for a moment that fear lived aloud in someone's mind, until she'd killed it. But it wasn't gone, of course. It wasn't like others didn't know. It wasn't like Marguerite didn't know. It was probably why the woman was so forgiving in the face of Manon's expressed flaws, or perhaps even what could have been lapses of judgment.

But it didn't matter how many times Manon might have more or less thrown others' lives into a state or turmoil, or even snuffed them out... and it became clear to Manon as the seconds went by as she lay alone on the old bed that sleep would come quickly but overpoweringly for her.

Manon didn't think much of praying. But she found herself doing so, wondering just where sleep would take her, quietly begging to lose memory of what was the come. Always the same thing, exponentially worse every time... that place... Manon felt her heart sink as her consciousness faltered and she returned, anyway. Then... silence.