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Sorry this is so late and I will probably add another chapter soon, ur the best and really deserve better, lots of love 333

November 1949

Berlin

Francis Crawford was, officially speaking, dead.

He had been dead for four years. His plane, a Spitfire on a reconnaissance mission for the RAF, had been shot down somewhere over east Germany in early 1945. He was declared killed in action in the middle of February. When his brother Richard returned from the front to Scotland to visit the empty grave, he kept saying how strange it was that Francis was the one dead. He had never been the martyr type. It would have made more sense for Richard, the patriotic hothead, to die, not the delicate and brilliant favored son. Richard left a poetry book Francis had liked on the grave instead of flowers. His mother Sybilla left his room unchanged. Time went on.

…

Will Scott of Buccleuch Ranch, Texas, was twenty-one years old. He was a capable soldier and terrible philosopher, and beneath his competing naïveté, brazen braggadocio, and reverent nihilism, he actually carried within him a good heart and a decent brain. He had run away and enlisted under a false name at seventeen during the last year of the war. When he returned to the the family ranch for a few weeks of leave after the peace, his father had punched him, then embraced him, and then admired the man his son had become. Will, overcome with remorse for never writing to his father and step-mother for a year (which led to a belief that he was dead) ever after wrote dutifully and swore that after his service ended, he'd finish school and take care of the ranch. But the US army had no use for touching family reunions, and so Will was stationed in Berlin for a few more years.

Generally speaking, it was an easy job. Much easier than the battle Will had seen four years ago. But it could stagnate the mind. Berlin was still in ruins, it's people miserable and unsmiling. Spies from every nation ran circles around each other and every once in a while one would end up dead. Most worrying to Will and the other Americans were the Soviets, continually expanding their influence even over the Western quarters- and Berlin was surrounded by Soviet territory. Will found refuge from the alternating monotony and tension in studying philosophy and German. Given a romantic soul, he appreciated the courage of nihilism but shunned its despair. He loved the equity and brotherhood of communism, but like any good American despised the brutality of the Soviets. Having fought in the war, he admired the great qualities of the soldier while acknowledging their arrogance and occasional cruelty. In short, he was a man who longed passionately for a path to follow, in a city looking for its own way, in an era that had spun completely out of direction. Perhaps all this meant it was destiny that Will Scott's life would become irrevocably entangled with Lymond.

He met Lymond through Jerrot Blyth. Jerrot was a disillusioned American semi-alcoholic who had served as an Army Chaplain. After the war, he had stayed in Berlin and was a foreign correspondent for the New York Times. Something about Will's whimsical character and nerve drew Jerrot's weary attention, and, happy to meet another American in a foreign land, Will had responded with friendship. When Will could get away with it, they would drink together at brightly lit clubs full of dancing, music, and light crime. It was at a particular club known as the Ostrich that Will learned of Marthe, the terrifying and brilliant woman that Jerrot was hopelessly in love with. Marthe knew four languages and was studying to be a doctor, and possessed a cruel and bitter cynicism that caused her to despise most of her fellow German citizens and even more so the various foreigners remaining in Berlin. She liked Jerrot enough to see him a few times a week, which unfortunately meant he only fell more in love. It was also at the Ostrich that Jerrot introduced Will to the extraordinary Lymond.

"I'm warning you," Jerrot had said darkly, "You can't trust him. Or love him. All you can do is respect him. He's been dealing underground since the war ended- won't say where he's really from,"

"Well, he must have connections," said Will reasonably. He had heard a little about the mysterious Lymond and his curiosity had finally grown enough to question the elusive Jerrot over beer at the Ostrich. "Somebody's got to know at least his country. If he fought or not,"

"He speaks Russian, German, French, and English," said Jerrot. "He fights like a Russian, does business like a German, and quotes poetry like a Frenchman. But my money's on the Brits, only they could be such stubborn —"

Jerrot finished his sentence and Will stared at the bottom of his bottle, watching the light warp through the glass. His curiosity had only grown with this description. He had known of Lymond as a shady underground dealer in arms and art (and occasionally alcohol), not as the magnificent legend of a man Jerrot described.

"He quotes poetry?" asked Will.

"Yeah, and writes it too," said Jerrot grumpily.

Lymond himself appeared a few minutes later. He was a slight blond man who moved like a cat. His voice, when he spoke, was entirely unaccented.

"Gluten Abend, mein Jerrot," he said cheerfully. Jerrot has lowered his head into his hands and muttered something along the lines of, 'Speak of the Devil and he shall appear,"

"But speak of God and all you get is Jerrot Blyth," said Lymond without changing his tone. "And who is your charming young American friend?"

"Will Scott," said Will Scott, extending his hand and looking Lymond squarely in the eye. "Of Texas," he added. Something about Jerrot's attitude and Lymond's tone had struck him the wrong way.

"My, what a firm grip," Lymond said patronizingly as they shook hands, and smiled like a cat. "Shows nerve, that- I could use a man like you, Scott,"

Will, who had no idea what to say, said nothing. He found his easy confidence of before had vanished the moment Lymond actually spoke to him (he would discover that Lymond generally had this affect on people). This did not seem to bother Lymond, who passed a sealed envelope to Jerrot, and left the room after blowing a kiss to the man.

Will watched in mingled anger and admiration. Jerrot scowled. Time went on.

…

After about three months, Buccleuch discovered that his son had taken up with a gang of smugglers in Berlin. He found this out from Will's own letters and his own knowledge of Will's habitual insanity.

Will had, in searching for direction the US government had failed to provide him with, found salvation in the mysterious person of Lymond. Lymond defied all the beautiful philosophies and movements Will loved and substituted a sort of 'the world is dead let's make money above all' philosophy in its place. Lymond's apparent personal admiration for great poetry, music, and artists was entirely separate from the clinical detachment with which he freaked his work- acquiring art, and arms, and selling them at exorbitant prices to the highest bidder. He was, in Will's opinion, gloriously amoral. What Will abhorred above all was hypocrisy against one's moral code. Such hypocrisy was impossible for Lymond, who trusted no one and respected nothing except cold hard cash (generally in US dollars) and musical talent.

Buccleuch, aware of his son's follow-the-leader tendencies, was understandably worried. He decided to call up an old friend- a Scottish fellow he'd known since the man was a child- who'd recently taken a trip to Berlin.

Richard Crawford, given the distance and expense of telephone calls, did not learn of Buccleuch's concerns until a few days later. He picked up the letter with his morning mail and only read it after the newspaper- his German was only mediocre so this took some time.

Richard scowled upon reading it. He was on his honeymoon, after all. Perhaps war-torn Berlin hadn't been his first choice, but Mariotta had family there and he didn't want to deny her that. And now, to pollute his domestic semi-harmony with finding a suspicious person and keeping young Will Scott on the right path in life seemed a bitter pill to swallow. Buccleuch claimed finding this Lymond was relevant to government business, not simply personal problems. He said Lymond likely had dangerous information. Richard had, it was true, worked as a diplomat in the second half of the war- after the wound from 1943- and was used to delicate situations. But he did not exactly enjoy the work.

On the other hand, Will Scott was a bright young fellow. And this Lymond...he was a cruel and vicious man, if the rumors Richard had heard were true. And young Will surely didn't deserve such a fate.

Richard drank his cold and bitter coffee and absently ran his fingers along the edge of the paper. Something had to be done, he thought wearily. And someone had to do it- it may as well be him.

"Mariotta?" he called quietly, preparing for an unpleasant conversation.

…

As it happened, the official position of the British government (upon being asked by Richard) was that finding the notorious Lymond would be a worthy result and that all available resources (which meant Richard and a couple government contacts) ought to be sent after him. Thieves and dealers were common enough, but the government feared Lymond also worked as a Soviet informer. Richard decided to start by interviewing one of the contacts-a local woman known only as Marthe.

…

"Contact doesn't mean spy," she said upfront. She had invited him into her tiny flat and given him bitter coffee. She wore students clothes-better than her surroundings- and thick lenses. Her tone was clinical, no emotion save vague annoyance slipped out. "I don't work for the British government. I just sell information to the highest bidder,"

She tapped her red nails against her coffee cup. They made an unpleasant, cold sound. tap tap tap. tap tap tap.

Perhaps she thought Richard would display disappointment at her worldliness. He didn't, and placed several bills on the table. "At the moment, that's me," he said.

She eyed him distastefully after counting the money. "Yes," she said reluctantly.

She took a sip of her coffee and gazed at him coldly. "Francis Crawford isn't dead," she said.

Richard blanched with fury. "What the hell do you mean-"

"Does the name mean something to you?" she asked.

"He's my goddamn brother!"

"Oh," said Marthe, wrinkling her nose as though she smelled something unpleasant. Richard felt positive she had known all along. "Well, you should know he betrayed your glorious cause, then,"

"Francis would never," said Richard firmly.

Marthe smiled.

She proceeded to tell him the long and strange history of Francis Crawford- the man who had come to be known as Lymond. The story they had all been told began truthfully. Francis had been shot down from flight, crashlanding near a tiny, abandoned village at the border of what had been Poland. Although nothing remained of his plane but ashes, however, Francis had survived only to be taken prisoner and sent to a German camp.

His existence was unreported to British authorities due to his use of an alias. At the camp, so far as anyone could tell, he had befriended several key Soviet prisoners who later took important roles in the black markets and espionage network of occupied Germany. At the end of the war, instead of returning home, he began working for said men- first as an employee, later as a boss of his own right. He had tangled in crime of various levels for the past few years and eventually his true identity had become known to the British consul, who had not informed to public due to a potential propaganda loss. They were content to let Francis- now known cryptically as Lymond- flourish in the German underground. Until last week, that was, when they had discovered not only that he regularly gave intelligence to the Soviets but that he had been involved in German espionage in the war.

Richard had finally broken at this point. He slammed his hand on the table. "Impossible. Even if Francis is alive-which I'm not saying he is- he would have no reason not to return home. He wouldn't build some- criminal empire- when he could easily come back to Scotland,"

"Really?" said Marthe, examining her perfect nails. "So he was always content at home, was he? Always felt fairly treated by society?"

Richard glared at her, but when he spoke, his voice shook. "Maybe- maybe he would get involved in shady jobs, sure. Maybe even, if pressed, he might help those Russian —-. But he would never, not in a million years, have helped Hitler. Never."

"How was it your sister died again?" said Marthe. "During the Blitz, wasn't it? She was, what, eighteen?"

"Sixteen," said Richard bitterly. "If you're quite done, I'd like to know exactly why my personal family history is relevant-"

"Lymond-Francis- caused that attack," said Marthe.

Richard stared blankly at her. "I'm sorry?"

"We've found evidence, now," said Marthe. "A report in his own handwriting. To the High Command. Surely you knew he was involved in espionage? By the end of the bombings he was already a double agent. The report- in German code, by the way- details the industry of a certain English village that ought to be bombed. The same one your sister was staying in, I believe,"

Richard sank silently into his chair. Marthe slid a photo of the report across the table with her shining red nails. "There," she said softly. "All you need to know,"

Richard stared at it blankly. "How the hell do you know all this?" he said.

"You're not the only one who lives off British handouts," sighed Marthe. "Medical school doesn't pay much. I take what I can get. And I've got a boyfriend who's Lymond's right hand man," she stirred sugar into her black coffee and sipped it again.

Richard, beneath the haze of grief and anger, found it in himself to feel sorry for the boyfriend.

…

That night, Jerrot found himself accosted by a Richard overflowing with cold fury. He had looked up from his daily temptation of drink in the ash-filled chaos of the Ostrich to see stormy gray eyes in an angry face and had heard in the background someone identifying himself as 'Blyth, that's the one,' and then a firm hand was dragging him out of the club and into the disreputable alley outside.

He felt a sudden shock of icy water, and, gasping and shivering, met Richard's unsympathetic eyes.

'Are you sober yet, or do you need another soaking?'

Jerrot glared at him. 'I'm sober now, thanks. I don't believe I owe you anything and I'd like to remedy my sudden and I requested sobriety with a return to the club. If you'll excuse me,'

There was a brief scuffle. Jerrot found himself again overpowered. He was discovering that it was just one of those poor days.

'What do you want?' he asked sullenly.

'Where,' said Richard through gritted teeth, 'is Francis Crawford?'

Jerrot squinted blearily up at Richard. 'You mean Lymond? I haven't the foggiest idea,'

'I was informed you were his right hand man,' said Richard. 'Excuse me if I don't believe you,'

Jerrot shrugged (as best he could while within Richard's firm grip). 'I had a crisis of faith. We disagreed about certain matters. I haven't spoken to him in a week,'

'You will take me to him, or you will regret it,' said Richard grimly.

Despite Jerrot's many faults, he was not a coward. He had seen his fair share of danger, and his utter lack of direction in life was more due to an unnatural cynicism then any fear. So, all other conditions aside, Richard's threats (combined with his admittedly frightening appearance) would not have convinced Jerrot to do anything. Jerrot (eventually and reluctantly) agreed to help Richard find Lymond for two reasons- the first was a petty spite that he openly admitted to. The second was simple compassion, although he did not tell this to Richard, who assumed Jerrot was like any other sleazy reporter willing to do anything for a drink and a dollar.

When Richard saw his brother for the first time in five years, he was unsurprised to see that Francis was singing.

To be continued