SARK - HQ of German Outpost - Island Constable Paxton shifted on the outdoor bench he had been directed toward to wait for an audience with Sark's ReichKaptain Lamburg. He felt the heavy jewel of the mysterious ring Philippe had brought to him weighing down the interior pocket of his uniform coat. His British-inspired domed policeman's helmet rested upon his knee.

Really, he could not believe his good fortune. Such a find, and, thanks to the trusting (and possibly simple) Philippe, something so valuable left totally under his control. It had been the natural order of his thoughts to offer it for sale to the most powerful man on the island.

He knew he, himself, was not an impressive man. Not to these Germans, anyway. His domain of Sark was small, crime within it infrequent before the war, and he held authority over but a two-cell jail - which prior to the Occupation had housed only the occasional more-irritating-than-dangerous drunk.

But he was the sole constable for the island entire, and that had always afforded him some respect among the local populace. His provincial mind, though not far-seeing, nor of a political bent, had eagerly seized upon the found ring, determined that it would prove his ticket (monetarily) to a more affluent level of existence and influence than he had currently known.

Around him, also out-of-doors from the office proper, various portable examples of livestock could be found: a cage of chickens, a small pig on a rope leash, two goats, and an unshorn sheep. Each accompanied by their respective owners.

Lamburg had been appointed to oversee them - the Sarkese - after all, due to his agricultural background, the islanders had been told. As Sark was to prove a key part of the breadbasket that would be used to feed the nearly trebled population of the Islands (with the introduction of the occupying German army at a ratio of 2:1), it was crucial that their Kommandant know both livestock and crops, how best to manage them - and to manage the people whose support he would need to ensure the farming industry (and therefore the Reich's food supply) on Sark continued to flourish.

The ReichKaptain was well-respected, and, in the absence of the island having even a single veterinarian at their disposal, sometimes expected to (and often successful at) diagnosing animal illnesses when conventional wisdom (and even arcane island lore) fell short of a cure.

Hence, the waiting line today. Paxton reckoned he was on the docket somewhere behind the ailing shoat. He relaxed his shoulders. He had plenty of time, then, to study on what he would say to the ReichKaptain.

GUERNSEY - Barnsdale Estate - It was coming on evening by the time Robin had found him still nearby the carriage house. On the whole, Allen Dale had gambled the day away, which of course was quite satisfying. The missed opportunity for a proper luncheon, and now, the early cold supper being served to the staff at the house - somewhat less so.

It had been a cold supper, he had been informed, as Lieutenant Gisbonnhoffer was bound for St. Peter Port this evening, and Fraulein Eleri had announced that she would be retiring early.

So, no reason to kindle the cookstoves if the 'family' of the house (he tried not to scoff outside of his head at the ridiculous, undeserved label granted them by the staff) were not themselves sitting down to table.

"Dale, you've got to smuggle me into St. Peter Port," Robin had pressed him almost immediately, when Allen'd found him at the agreed-upon rendezvous.

"I'm to go that way, Boss," Allen had informed his superior officer. "Tasked by Gisbonnhoffer to use the Kommandant's car to drive him to the night's Cabaret. The boot's yours, free of charge - though you might find the exhaust doesn't vent as well as a shut-in passenger might like."

"There's more," Oxley had continued, his face becoming quite intent as he spoke on. "A one-nighter at Cabaret Alstroemeria."

Allen's first thought was (dependably) toward logistics, rather than motivation.

"Plongeur?" Allen asked, thinking that might be do-able, what with the large crowd expected for the infamous psychic's farewell performance, and a rare, full-meal to be served rather than the cabaret's usual bits and bites of cheeses and sweets - things to enhance drinks. No, banquet fare was predicted for tonight. Proper dinner plates, settings of silver, rather a lot of glassware. Lots of plates needing washing-up.

"No," Robin disagreed with Allen's suggestion. "I've got to be out on the floor - waiting tables, or - sommelier? I could manage that."

"Sommelier?" Allen questioned him, now growing suspicious. He counseled against it. "That's a bit ambitious for a come-out-of-nowhere chap, ain't it? Sure to raise a few too many eyebrows." He paused, wanting to clarify his own abilities in regard to fixing such things, "not that, mind you, I couldn't fix it in a trice. I could get you Maitre d', only - too obvious. Garcon's more like it. They'll have needed a few extras, I've no doubt. I can call in a favor and get you on the floor for the night but -" now it came together, Robin's interest and his last-minute request.

Allen shook his head with the realization of Robin's out-of-nowhere plan. "He's taking Marion, wot?" He let out a noisy exhale. "That's a bad idea, right there. Should refuse to do it. For your own good."

"Wasn't a request, Soldier," Robin un-admirably pulled rank.

Allen craftily appeared to move forward in their planning, while trying to discourage him. "Wot'll you wear, then?"

"Sneak upstairs, into what once was Clem's room. Surely he's left something for formal dress behind for you to nick me for a night."

Allen actually snorted, thinking of the rugby-ready form of Nighten. "It'll not fit you, Ox."

"Have you forgotten?" Robin teased him, giving him a slap (that only half-registered as friendly) up the back of his head, causing the length of Dale's combed-back gingerish half-curls to come forward over his forehead and brow before he could push them back into slick, fashionable place.

"It's a war on," Robin needlessly explained. "All Islanders have lost weight. The only men present tonight who'll fit their tuxedos will be Jerries who haven't yet burst their armholes 'Heil Hitler'ing."

"True enough," Allen had to agree, beaten. "But I still say it's a rum idea. And a bloody indulgent one at that."

"Noted," said Robin, with a half-grin he could not suppress over having managed to find a way to spy on Marion and Gisbonnhoffer. "I shall be sure to list your stringent objections in my next report."

Waters near Sark - "Right," said Legg, somehow commanding an absolutely soft-as-down tone as he finished his briefing of Stoker before they prepared to surface and launch the boat.

Impossible, thought Stoker, finding he actually had to crane his neck to hear the other man. Ron Legg; giant, exuberant, man of the thunderous laugh, able to pitch his voice just above a whisper. Unimaginable.

"You've three days before we can return, and the boat you've been given will hold three. Three average-sized men. No more. And one, as you know, 's meant to be you. Stow it among the caves until the third day. When we surface, signal us with the flash torch from shore. If you are not there on the third day, we must pursue our orders and return home. If we are not there on the third day, re-attempt the rendezvous the fourth and fifth, and so on. But do NOT launch the boat without receiving our signal in return. She's more a dingy, really, than a proper launch, and she'll not last long out on the open water."

Stoker nodded his agreement to all that had been said. "I have a letter for you," he said. "In, in case -"

Legg's eyes showed that he need not explain more. The Naval Commander (and captain of the sub) accepted the fully-addressed envelope.

"Never did have one written before," he confessed. "Wrote it up just now, on the trip here."

...TBC...