So I have been watching the series The Man in the High Castle on Amazon which is great and I recommend viewing it if you haven't seen it (its free if you sign up for an Amazon Prime trial, if you don't want to pay be sure to cancel your subscription before the free trial expires).
This story is inspired by that story line.
If you haven't seen it is set in the early 1960s but assumed that Germany and Japan won the war and divided up the world between them. The UK would be occupied by the Nazis and America was split between the Nazis and Japan with a neutral zone in the middle.
Southhampton, England, 22 June 1961
She checked her watch. 5.45.
Right about now, dawn should be breaking.
It should be, but down by the port there was a chill in the air and one of the strange mists from the sea which plagued the coastal harbour at any time of the year, even occasionally in high summer, sat heavy across the city.
In a matter or an hour, she would wager from experience that it would clear and a fine sunny day would greet Southhampton's inhabitants.
Which meant that she should hurry.
She furtively checked behind her, and then stole a glance to her left and right.
Walking three quick steps she made her way to the old stone wall, then lifted one of the loose bricks and slipped a note underneath it, taking care to place it back carefully so that no trace of paper could be seen.
A few paces back and then she picked up and righted her bicycle and slid onto the seat.
A minute later, she had vanished back into the anonymity of the city's streets, the mist closing back in after her.
Jasper Frost gave it a good three minutes once she left until he made his way towards the wall.
The mist provided good cover that morning, and he'd flattened himself behind a nearby wall until he was sure she'd made the drop and seen her exit.
It took a few minutes of searching before he found the right brick and extracted the note, the slid it into his pocket.
He knew who the girl was. Not her name, but what she did. And in his opinion she wasn't a good choice for a courier.
It wasn't that she was incompetent. But the only thing a courier should be was invisible. Invisible. Anonymous. And entirely forgettable.
And whoever she was, she was not forgettable.
Swift and discreet - yes. Intriguing - yes. Beautiful – yes. Forgettable – no.
He strode back away from the port and over to the pub across the street where he'd parked his car.
Once he'd pulled open the door, he dug his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope containing a pile of photos.
He sorted through the pile carefully until he found the one he wanted.
The slight girl with the dark hair and the green eyes. In the absence of knowing her real name, he'd scribbled something on the back of her photo to help him remember her.
He folded the photo of 'baby doll' back into the rest of the pictures and slipped the envelope back into his coat. It was time to get the hell out of here, he had things to do.
She filled the kettle and then placed it onto the stovetop, warming her fingers near its warmth.
There was a time, not too many months ago, when she would never have even been awake at this time of day, let alone have managed to cycle right the way across the city and back before breakfast.
In a way nothing had changed in those few months, and yet for her everything had changed.
She still lived at the same address, she was still at arts student. Still 22. Still an orphan, adopted by one Mr James Hill, with a seven year old sister called Sarah Alice.
Yes there was money still, not much left considering what had been, but enough for the little luxuries.
But she no longer spent her days partying her time away fuelled by booze and poor decisions about men.
Now she had a purpose and her purpose was to find out what had happened to the person who meant the most to her in the world, the person she still called Robbie, even if he called himself Richard and made her do the same. And, if it was as she suspected that her (not) brother had died fighting the Reich unlawfully occupying her country then she was determined to fight them and make them pay so that they would suffer the way that she had suffered.
Because she, the girl who wasn't (couldn't be, never was, on pain of death) Eleanor Henstridge, who wasn't one of the last surviving members of a British Royal Family who didn't officially exist anymore, knew that King Simon hadn't willingly abdicated to allow the Fuhrer in his wisdom to lead the British people and Empire.
She knew that he hadn't been unfulfilled after his abdication and had decided to take his own life. She knew that he had in fact been suffocated in his bed one cold, dark winter night.
She knew that his three children hadn't been relocated to re-education camps in Germany but had been smuggled out of the Palace on her father's orders to be spirited away by loyal family servants to be brought up in secret in remote parts of their country.
She knew everything.
And in this world, knowledge was a dangerous thing to have – if you wanted to live.