me that in ten days the massed might of the Allies will attempt to storm Normandy’s beaches. Of course, it could be nine days, or eleven or twelve, depending on the weather.
Anton, a dear friend, is key because he’s the only member of the French Resistance who has complete knowledge of theirplans to disrupt the Nazis prior to and immediately following the invasion. Just his luck that he was captured six hours ago while quietly sipping coffee at a café outside the most famous museum on earth, the Louvre. Anton’s casual behavior—I should call it foolhardiness—was typical of him. With the fate of his nation hanging in balance, he screamed at me that he absolutely could not miss his morning coffee and cheese sandwich, before vanishing out the door.
I love Anton, I truly do, but a part of me worries I will kill him when I rescue him. Like many French men he can be terribly stubborn.
Ah, but he’s wonderful in bed.
I must keep him alive, I remind myself, even as I stare across the dark cobblestone street at the unimposing three-story building where he is being held captive. I’m in the southwest corner of Paris, on the fringe of the city, studying what used to be an elementary school. What’s interesting about the structure is how few of the local population know it’s a Gestapo stronghold. A secret entrance, which opens two blocks away, is the reason it has gone overlooked. But the fact it even has such an opening makes me think it was used by French intelligence before the country was overrun.
Whatever, the gray brick wall around the building is tall and I happen to know that its hidden front and back yards are choked with layers of barbed wire. Up top, on the roof, what looks at first glance to be a simple ornamental tower is reallya machine-gun nest manned by three Germans. The men are clever and manage to keep themselves, and their .30-caliber weapon, out of sight.
But I know they’re there. And I know they’ll probably have to die if I’m to enter the building. Yet I’m reluctant to kill them. Eventually their bodies will be found, which will create a fuss, and besides, I’ve been listening to them while I’ve been studying the building, and all they seem to care about is their girlfriends back home. Plus they hate Hitler. Every time his name comes up one of them is obliged to fart. They’re Nazi soldiers, true, but they’re not Gestapo, the secret-police arm of Hitler’s insane war machine. I can only assume they’re on loan to the Gestapo from some idle division.
Of course, if they were Gestapo, I’d enjoy killing them. I’d probably even drink their blood. It’s been a while since I’ve fed.
I know Anton is being held in the elementary school because Ralph and Harrah Levine, roommates of mine and close friends, saw him being dragged into the building. Yet, despite my supernatural hearing, I can’t hear Anton inside. For that matter, I can’t hear anybody being tortured, which leads me to believe the building has several deeply buried basements. I shudder to think what’s going on in them. Anton used to tell me he didn’t fear death, but pain was another matter. Brave men do not necessarily hold up under torture any better than cowards.
I need to get Anton out. Now.
To see the precise extent of the barbed wire, how far it stretches beyond the wall, I’ll have to leap to the top of the brick barrier. Chances are I can take a second leap and reach a door of some kind, but there will probably be outside guards, and if I have to stop and deal with them—for even a few seconds—the three men on top will become aware of my presence and open fire. Their bullets don’t worry me so much as how I’ll be forced to retaliate. Once again, they seem like good old boys, I don’t want to send them home to their girls in body bags.
My thoughts turn to the secret entrance two blocks away and I fade back into the night, momentarily leaving the old school alone. A friend in the Resistance told
Anton, a dear friend, is key because he’s the only member of the French Resistance who has complete knowledge of theirplans to disrupt the Nazis prior to and immediately following the invasion. Just his luck that he was captured six hours ago while quietly sipping coffee at a café outside the most famous museum on earth, the Louvre. Anton’s casual behavior—I should call it foolhardiness—was typical of him. With the fate of his nation hanging in balance, he screamed at me that he absolutely could not miss his morning coffee and cheese sandwich, before vanishing out the door.
I love Anton, I truly do, but a part of me worries I will kill him when I rescue him. Like many French men he can be terribly stubborn.
Ah, but he’s wonderful in bed.
I must keep him alive, I remind myself, even as I stare across the dark cobblestone street at the unimposing three-story building where he is being held captive. I’m in the southwest corner of Paris, on the fringe of the city, studying what used to be an elementary school. What’s interesting about the structure is how few of the local population know it’s a Gestapo stronghold. A secret entrance, which opens two blocks away, is the reason it has gone overlooked. But the fact it even has such an opening makes me think it was used by French intelligence before the country was overrun.
Whatever, the gray brick wall around the building is tall and I happen to know that its hidden front and back yards are choked with layers of barbed wire. Up top, on the roof, what looks at first glance to be a simple ornamental tower is reallya machine-gun nest manned by three Germans. The men are clever and manage to keep themselves, and their .30-caliber weapon, out of sight.
But I know they’re there. And I know they’ll probably have to die if I’m to enter the building. Yet I’m reluctant to kill them. Eventually their bodies will be found, which will create a fuss, and besides, I’ve been listening to them while I’ve been studying the building, and all they seem to care about is their girlfriends back home. Plus they hate Hitler. Every time his name comes up one of them is obliged to fart. They’re Nazi soldiers, true, but they’re not Gestapo, the secret-police arm of Hitler’s insane war machine. I can only assume they’re on loan to the Gestapo from some idle division.
Of course, if they were Gestapo, I’d enjoy killing them. I’d probably even drink their blood. It’s been a while since I’ve fed.
I know Anton is being held in the elementary school because Ralph and Harrah Levine, roommates of mine and close friends, saw him being dragged into the building. Yet, despite my supernatural hearing, I can’t hear Anton inside. For that matter, I can’t hear anybody being tortured, which leads me to believe the building has several deeply buried basements. I shudder to think what’s going on in them. Anton used to tell me he didn’t fear death, but pain was another matter. Brave men do not necessarily hold up under torture any better than cowards.
I need to get Anton out. Now.
To see the precise extent of the barbed wire, how far it stretches beyond the wall, I’ll have to leap to the top of the brick barrier. Chances are I can take a second leap and reach a door of some kind, but there will probably be outside guards, and if I have to stop and deal with them—for even a few seconds—the three men on top will become aware of my presence and open fire. Their bullets don’t worry me so much as how I’ll be forced to retaliate. Once again, they seem like good old boys, I don’t want to send them home to their girls in body bags.
My thoughts turn to the secret entrance two blocks away and I fade back into the night, momentarily leaving the old school alone. A friend in the Resistance told
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