----------------------------------------------
June 1960 - Present Day - Vichy France
----------------------------------------------

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.