Blades of Winter (12 page)

“Why would the Abwehr help us fight the Fuerza?”

“Because we are allies. It is the same reason ze U.S. works against terrorists of Europe like ze Free French, Dutch Underground, and Circle of Zion.”

I brush bits of broken car window off my shirt. “You mean we go after groups that threaten Greater Germany?”

“Not here in Europe. Even in the States, not really. But CIA, FBI, zey stay out of it when someone is careless enough to let ze Gestapo catch zem on American soil.”

“Jesus!” My partner exclaims. “What’s the
Gestapo
doing in America?”

“Ze same things you are doing here.”

Patrick and I take a few moments to absorb all this graduate-level espionage stuff.

“Wait.” My partner narrows his eyes. “What about the times we spy on Germany?”

“Well-l-l,” Jacques tosses off one of the biggest French shrugs I’ve ever seen. At its height, his shoulders are practically over his head. “Zen I must lie to my friends in high places. But for me, it is not usually big lies. I mostly help American agents move safely through town and supply zem with whatever zey need. Very quiet, and I need to know very little. Tonight was an exception. The Fuerza are rarely all together in ze open, so to take advantage I had to jump in. But it is not my routine.”

“Well, you’re very good at it.”

“
Merci
, Scarlet. Yes, I do like it very much.”

“Do all Frenchmen drive like you do?”

“Hah!
Non, non
. I was a driver with ze Renault racing team. After a race in Italy, I was approached by a film producer who hired me as a stunt driver. Very exciting and glamorous.”

“Very dangerous, too, no?”

“Pah!” He waves his hand at me. “Not for Jacques!” He chortles to himself as he turns onto the Rue Saint-Sulpice and pulls into a barely visible alley. He stops in the middle of the alley and pushes a button on his dashboard. The whole car descends below street level, and a thick metal sheet slides across the rectangular hole above us.

The car softly bumps to a halt. Jacques turns to face us and asks, “Okay,
qui a faim
?” Who’s hungry?

It’s not the same ancient reeking cellar as the last time I was in Paris. Jacques says he had to move the safe house a few months ago. This particular cellar is on Rue Saint-Sulpice on the Right Bank. The poorly lit spy stuff is a typical mix of audio recorders, heat sensors, motion detectors, guns, ammo, a jackframe, a relatively clean bathroom, a few shitty army cots, and the always-excellent chow. It seems that even in the worst circumstances, the French can’t bear to have crummy food around.

Patrick talks through a mouthful of bread and cheese. “At wawn’t owa reah ob.”

Jacques laughs. “Slowly, Solomon. Watch out for your digestion.”

It was a long flight, immediately followed by our cover mission. We’re starved. Extreme Operations agents never eat airplane food because it’s so easy to get poisoned that way. Like all the Houses, Jacques is used to this and has a nice spread of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee waiting for us.

Patrick swallows his food and repeats, “That wasn’t our real job.”

The House leans back in his battered office chair. “I see.” Fluorescent light drags itself across his features and makes his face look even longer. He slurps his coffee from a small bowl and says, “Well, how can Jacques help you?”

I let my partner do the talking while I demolish my second sandwich. Trick takes a smaller bite of food and
says, “We’re really here to retrace an agent’s last mission. It was a few years ago.”

“Whose mission?”

“Big Bertha’s.”

Jacques gasps and accidentally inhales some coffee. He bursts into a long coughing fit. He holds his arms over his head and gradually regains his breath. “Sorry, but I have not heard zat name in a long time.”

Patrick drinks from his coffee mug. “He stopped here, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. Well, not
here
. We’ve moved several times. But yes, Big Bertha and I worked on many occasions together. Of course I heard what happened to him. Terrible.” His eyes pass to me. For the first time tonight, he hesitates before speaking. “I’m very sorry, Scarlet.”

I hold off on the giant bite I was about to take. “Thanks, Jacques.”

He looks down at his coffee bowl and gently shakes his head.
“C’est la guerre.”

Patrick drains his glass of mineral water. “Can you tell us anything about the last time you saw him?”

“Certainly. His cover story required zat he appear German, not American. I rounded up a selection of men’s outfits from a few Paris department stores for him. I remember his shoes were
très difficile
, because he had very wide feet. He already had his identity papers, but I gave him small things to augment his cover—old Metro tickets, a receipt from a movie house, and a card of membership to a popular exercise club. Things like zat.”

Patrick thoughtfully chews his food as he listens to Jacques. “Huh. I didn’t see anything about that cover story in CORE.”

Jacques refills his coffee bowl. “Perhaps it was his idea. An agent like Big Bertha makes many decisions from his own initiative.”

“Did he tell you what his assignment was?”

“
Non
, but zat was not necessary. From his preparations I could tell he was infiltrating some kind of organization.
When he asked me to get him transportation to Baghdad, I knew who he was going after.”

Patrick looks at me with a worried expression. He comms, “This doesn’t sound right.”

“No,” I comm, “it doesn’t.”

“Jacques,” Trick says, “are you sure that this was his
last
job?”

“Yes, M’sieur Solomon. Quite certain.”

“What told you he was doing an infiltration job?”

“He did not have his amazing pistol.”

I stop chewing my food and make enough room in my mouth to ask, “So?”

“An agent like Big Bertha, when he infiltrates, often he will pose as a sort of security guard for hire. Mercenaries typically have their own weapons, yes, but many organizations will provide weapons for their security personnel to unify ze ammunition and maintenance needs. For him, to bring his weapon on such a job would be like bringing his own pepper to a restaurant.”

“That’s it?” Trick asks. “That’s what told you Big Bertha was on an infiltration job?”

“Yes.” He sees our skepticism and spreads his hands apart. “Being in zis game has taught me to stitch ze truth together with very little thread. For example, I knew you were not here just for ze Fuerza.”

“How?”

“Because your luggage carries enough ammunition to arm a brigade, and you asked me nothing about Fuerza until we got to ze cemetery.”

Hey, Jacquo here is pretty good
.

I ask, “Did my father ask you for anything else before he left?”

Jacques looks at the ceiling to help his mind dredge up this old conversation. “He wanted to know where he could get a weapon in Baghdad.”

“What did you tell him?”

“We spoke of a man named Ilan who possessed a café in downtown Baghdad. He knew everyone and everyone
knew him. I told Big Bertha zat Ilan could make ze proper introductions.”

Trick asks, “Who was Big Bertha infiltrating?”

“Ze Blades of Persia. Baghdad was where their leader resided. Zis I guessed before your father left, but after his capture I confirmed it through my Middle Eastern contacts.” Jacques tilts his head to one side and asks, “Truly, zis is not in your Catalogue of Records?”

How do we tell Jacques that his version of my dad’s final mission contradicts the file in CORE and what we heard from Fredericks? Jacques’s version actually makes more sense, given what happened.

My partner deals with the question by pretending it’s not there. Patrick asks Jacques, “Who leads the Blades of Persia?”

Jacques shakes his head. “Oh, M’sieur Solomon, do not even consider it. Nobody sees zis man. Even ze fabulous Big Bertha failed to penetrate his group.”

Both Patrick and I put our food down and silently glower at Jacques until he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. “Very well.” Jacquo holds his hands up in front of him like he’s surrendering to our stubbornness. “Nobody knows his real name, but ze CIA calls him Winter.”

“Do you think this Ilan person in Baghdad knows anything about Winter?”

“Well, Ilan is no longer with us. His oldest son now runs ze family businesses both above and below ze table.” Jacques sets his coffee down and opens a bottle of mineral water. He takes a huge swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Our presence in Baghdad is very weak, however. I would recommend visiting our House in Beirut and working from zere. I will book you a flight.” He burps. “Perhaps a flying carpet?”

We laugh, mostly that our host can be so blasé about things. We eat some more food, and then it’s time to sleep. Trick and I share one of the army cots. He spoons behind me and drapes a blanket over the two of us. I’m tempted to get some French-style lovin’ from him, but we’ve been
on the move since early yesterday morning, and before I can even start a little fantasy going, I conk out.

My internal clock wakes me up at 6:30
A.M.
We gather our gear, meet Jacques outside, and off we go. I see Paris in the daylight for all of five minutes.

The Cuban War

This dossier contains public-facing and classified information. Do not remove this file from ExOps.

HAVANA, CUBA—Rebels ousted Cuban president General Fulgencio Batista early this morning and declared a provisional Communist government. The island’s marinas and docks have been clogged all day with former Batista supporters and American tourists desperate to flee the country. A flotilla of small boats operated by independent activists has worked ceaselessly all morning and afternoon, bringing refugees from this tortured island to Miami and other points in Florida.

The new self-styled president is the charismatic and iconically bearded rebel leader Fidel Castro. He is backed by his brother Raúl and the colorful Ernesto “Che” Guevara. Castro has yet to issue any official proclamations, but his men have already begun rounding up Cuban intellectuals, political activists, and suspected Batista loyalists.

President Eisenhower was quick to condemn the coup, claiming that he would be “damned before I’ll allow a Communist country only ninety miles from our shore.” This statement from the president confirmed earlier speculation that the United States would invade Cuba. President
Eisenhower called on the members of Congress to approve the deployment of U.S. troops “with all haste, that we may expunge this red stain as soon as possible.”

HAVANA, CUBA—The United States Marines 1
^st
Recon Battalion hit the beaches here this morning in front of a steel rain as navy battleships pounded Communist defenses. Immediately after the Marines landed, the 272nd Infantry Regiment and the 3rd Army Tank Battalion were put ashore in the largest U.S. amphibian operation since the invasion of Japan in 1943. Air force fighter pilots flew hundreds of sorties in support of the ground troops and devastated the insurgents’ efforts to withstand the flood of American men and supplies.

General Anthony McAuliffe, called out of retirement to command the U.S. expeditionary force to Cuba, expressed confidence in the progress of his units. At a frontline press conference, he said, “This shouldn’t take long. The rebels don’t have the support of the people. They can’t be resupplied or reinforced. They are energetically led but terribly equipped.” To Russia’s charge of America’s “cruel and aggressive meddling,” General McAuliffe simply replied, “Nuts!”