Chapter Twenty-Four

Leistungsdruck

Paris, France; Aldbourne, England

20 - 24 August 1944

It was better than the blue pills, better than the zip of adrenaline that tightened her stomach when she reloaded a clip of bullets into her gun - walking outside in the early morning air that smelled of burnt rubber and gunpowder, the dim streets of the city before her, the breeze tangling the ends of her cropped hair. The freedom of being above ground, of feeling the earliest rays of the sun on her skin, coursed through her body and propelled her forward.

She was headed to the Louvre.

They hadn't wanted her to go, which was understandable. Martin nearly choked on his morning glass of wine when she had casually mentioned to him that she wanted to hunt down these supposed British intelligencers. "Absolutely not," he had said with a firm shake of his head. "No."

She had let his words settle over her for a moment, feeling the weight of his authority rest on her shoulders like it had for the past month, and then she had grabbed the stock of her machine gun and swung it around until the muzzle was pressed against his cheek.

Martin had scrambled backwards and the men in the room had grabbed their weapons, aiming for her heart and head. "Let me tell you again," she had said after a few tense seconds, her tone icy. "I was not asking for your permission. You must have not heard me correctly." Her blood pumped through her ears and she smiled. "I am going to find the British agents." She dropped her submachine gun on the wooden table and yanked the pistol from Martin's belt. "We will trade."

And then she had walked out of the storeroom and through the dining area of the restaurant, closed the front door behind her and stepped into the streets of the 4th Arrondissement.

The Hotel de Ville was three blocks away and she could hear the crackling of fire and the shouts of people worked up into a fury. She wiped her hands on the itchy wool of her skirt and then paused mid-step - she had forgotten that she was wearing a German uniform.

"Scheiße," Lina muttered. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem in occupied France, but she knew that today the citizens of Paris wouldn't be so tame towards a young woman wearing the uniform of their oppressors. She looked behind her shoulder - the street was empty save for a mutt nosing through trash that had spilled out of an upturned bin. Discretion was the only option. She would have to stay out of sight.

She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her skirt by the small of her back and readjusted her jacket. No need to be shot by a trigger-happy partisan looking to make their first German kill. An armed woman would be a threat, but an unarmed woman could be perceived as an easy target. If anyone was going to shoot her, it would be on her terms.

She stuck close to the stone walls of the buildings lining the street. Glass sparkled across the cobblestone sidewalks, shards grinding underneath her heels. Something had snapped inside the Parisians during the night - all of that subdued rage and the oppression had created a fusion of fury that could not be quelled by anyone, let alone the German officers who murdered their brothers in the streets. Lina could almost feel the animosity in the breeze that ruffled the sleeves of her jacket. Tar would be pleased - all of his predictions inside that little folder he had were coming to fruition.

Only a few blocks further to the Louvre. The cacophony of enraged voices was growing louder. She would have to be discreet: she couldn't afford to encounter an angry mob and risk drawing attention to herself in front of Tar's center of operations. She had to catch him before he left the building and joined in on the chaos. It would be harder to take him down in the street.

The road in front of her curved towards the right, and she slowed her pace. There was a farm truck parked sideways in the middle of the thoroughfare, its rusty hubcaps glinting in the early morning sun. Wooden crates lay shattered beneath the body of the truck and around its tires - whatever had been meant for market had never reached its destination. Its tailgate was down and dangling from the truck bed was one perfect pale foot drenched in blood.

Lina stood still. This stank of a trap, but then again, so did every deserted street she had passed. There had been no telltale signs of carnage so far on her morning jaunt and a body hanging from the back of an abandoned truck was downright suspicious.

The air reeked of a metallic tang, that sharp smell of warm gunmetal. There had been shots fired, she now saw - the wooden shutters of the buildings around her were pockmarked by bullets. The Parisians meant carnage. Perhaps the crackling of fire was really the echoing ricochets of bullets.

Lina stepped into the street. The chants of the crowd echoed against the whitewashed walls around her. She touched the hood of the truck with her palm and noticed that the metal was still warm. Recently parked then, and after a long journey to town. Her fingertips grazed the scratched body as she walked around the cab. She peered into the bed of the truck and blinked.

It was a child, a little girl. Her skin had begun to go gray and her eyes stared up towards the morning sky. She was shoeless and wore a simple pair of brown trousers and a white collared shirt. She had been hit square in the chest by a shotgun blast - the bullet had ripped through her, exposing the little white bones of her ribcage to the sun.

"Wow," Lina muttered to herself.

"Was tust du?" said a voice behind her.

Lina froze. Sloppy sloppy sloppy. She placed her hands on the truck and turned her head. Standing behind her were two SS officers, both exhausted and furious. They had been in a fight - the elbows of their uniforms were frayed, and the legs of their pants were covered in dust.

Play the fool. She opened her mouth, let it gape, and raised her eyebrows. "Es ist ein kleines Mädchen."

One of them - the soldier with black hair - furrowed his brow and stepped forward. "Where did you come from?"

"Look," she said, sweeping out a hand and taking a step backwards, forcing herself towards them. "I saw it from the sidewalk."

They didn't step forward to see for themselves, and Lina squinted. The blonde one cocked his head and rested his hand on his rifle. "Did you come from the Hôtel?"

"Yes," Lina said. "I've been waiting for the street to clear."

"So you walk towards the barricades?" said the black-haired soldier, approaching her from the left.

She widened her eyes. "Please, I got caught in the crowd. I'm a secretary..."

The blonde one circled around towards her left. "In which office?"

Shit. She tried to summon tears. "I haven't done anything wrong! I'm -"

The black-haired soldier scoffed. "I doubt that. Let's take her back to the Hôtel. I'm sure someone there is missing an idiot."

The blonde soldier shoved her forward. "Walk," he said. "And don't make us drag you there." The black-haired soldier turned and unshouldered his gun, pointing it in front of him as he led the way back down the street. The sun began to glint over the top of the buildings. The blonde soldier walked closely behind Lina, his breath labored. She glanced over her shoulder at him and he scowled at her, annoyed that she had heard him struggle for air.

They must had been out all night, battering back the protesters, driving them out of the streets. Lina thought she saw a slight limp in the black-haired soldier's step. A woman in an apron stepped out of the store front ahead of them, caught sight of their gray uniforms and retreated back into the shop. The two soldiers watched her dispassionately.

Lina sighed deeply and looked down at the black-haired soldier's weapon - it was a shotgun. She held her breath for a half-step and stumbled.

"Watch out," said the blonde soldier, poking her in the back. "You almost made me trip."

She glanced over her shoulder at his cool gazed, exasperated. "Look, I'm tired. I got chased down the street, had to hide for hours, and I sprained my ankle. Can we at least take the shortcut?"

The black-haired soldier stopped short and turned around. "What are you talking about?"

"If there was a shortcut, we'd know about it," said the blonde one.

Lina shrugged and looked down the street at the shady little alleyway that led to nowhere. "It cuts the walking time in half."

The black-haired soldier sighed deeply and stared at the blonde man. "What the hell does it matter, anyway? We're screwed regardless." He jerked the muzzle of the shotgun in Lina's direction. "If you take us down some dingy little side street and try to run, I'll shove this down your throat."

Lina blinked and smiled her most winning grin. "I won't run. Promise."


Dick sat down at the wooden table in the mess hall. "Something is happening in Paris."

"You're telling me," Nixon said, flipping the page of the newspaper. "We're intercepting all kinds of snippets of info down at HQ. People've built barricades in the streets, just like they did during the Revolution."

Dick bit into his toast. "Still no word?"

Nixon didn't look up. "Nope."

Dick sighed and nodded to himself. "Well then. I guess we're dropping on Chartres, huh."

"Guess we are." Lew glanced up from the paper and looked across the mess hall at the back of Ron Speirs' head. "I should probably tell him. Right?"

Dick followed his gaze. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't think you should do it if we're going to jump."

"True," Nixon said, picking up his mug of coffee. "Wouldn't want anyone to sabotage their own parachute." He shut his eyes as he took a sip and savored the warmth.


Something in her brain had switched itself off. Lina inhaled deeply and opened her eyes, and then saw for the first time the mess beneath her boots.

"Oh," she said to herself, looking at the blood on her hands. It had stained the skin under her fingernails pink.

The blood had gone everywhere, she now saw - splattered on the walls that encircled her, soaked into her grey jacket in heavy splotches, smeared underneath the soles of her shoes. The bodies of the two soldiers lay in bent, broken shapes on the ground, and she threw the knife she had stolen from the black-haired one onto his torso. She was drenched in sweat, and she wiped the palms of her hands down her grey skirt, leaving streaks of blood on the wool.

They had followed her into the alley, and then one of them had grabbed her shoulder - after that, it was a fog until it had been over. It was the same blankness that had overtaken her after Ella's death - a strange gap in her memory where she destroyed everything in a matter of minutes.

The two men had said something to her - what had it been? One of them had stepped in far too close, grabbed her ass and pointed his gun to her temple. That must have been what set her off.

She would have stood there all day if the crackle of gunfire hadn't erupted from behind her. She jumped and hid behind a battered bin, hugging her legs to her chest. A man shouted from down the street, and a bullet ricocheted off the wall above her head. She winced as pieces of plaster rained down on her head.

She waited until the firefight had moved further down the street before crouching low and peeking over the lid of the bin. The street was filled with the haze of smoke, the shouts of angry people echoing off the walls around her. She grabbed the pistol from her waistband, checked to make sure it was loaded, and stepped carefully to the mouth of the alleyway.

A few citizens were jogging up the street away from the pops of rifles and pistols. Lina joined them, pushing past a woman who was trying to tie a basket full of silver onto the handles of a rusted bicycle. The woman glanced at her and then started, backing away from Lina with quick sidesteps, her eyes wide and trained on her jacket. Lina sped past her and made her way past the truck with the dead girl. It had taken her an hour to advance up the street.

Lina followed the curve of the road, straining her neck until she saw the massive structure of the Louvre a mile away from her. Her heartbeat fluttered in her wrists. She could hear the voices of people all around her but saw no one - it was as if an army of ghosts had occupied the streets. Someone had set a truck on fire, and it billowed black, noxious smoke into the air. A man came out of nowhere and clasped her on the shoulder before he pushed past her and headed towards the noise of fighting.

An abandoned patisserie. Strategically placed in front of one of the largest open parks in Europe, the perfect location for a vantage point to see what was coming. What were the chances that Tar would be home? She paused on the corner of Avenue de l'Opera and glanced around the corner at the Tuileries. The gardens were filled with smoke, the square in front of the Palace filled with German soldiers rallying against the barricade with had been erected in the middle of the Rue de Rivoli. If she could get higher, she would be able to spy the building.

The rusty lower rung of a fire escape ladder hung six feet above the sidewalk across the street, the iron balcony above looking worse for wear but still attached to the building. Lina tucked the pistol into the back of her skirt as she jogged over to the far wall, dodging a woman who was frantically herding a group of children in blue smocks away from the fighting. She braced herself in a crouch, and jumped upwards, grabbing at the rung and missing by four inches. She landed hard on the balls of her feet and huffed.

She didn't have time for this. She would have to walk down the Rue de Rivoli.

Fuck it. Go quickly.

She walked up to the street corner, glanced around the side of the building, and began to jog through the streams of citizens shoving their way towards the barricades.


Babe couldn't have been luckier - he had been placed into the Airborne, assigned to Easy Company, had made fast friendships with the Toccoa men (who didn't even like the replacements), and had a good buddy all within the span of a month. Granted, he hadn't seen any combat and was dying to do something just to prove that he belonged there, but he couldn't complain about lounging in the warm English countryside waiting for orders. Yep, life in the war was pretty swell – so far.

The one thing that bothered Babe was the cloud that seemed to hang over some of the men when anyone mentioned the spies. There was a part of him that still didn't believe that there'd been women in the company, even if they weren't officially part of the company - and it was hard for him to think of their inclusion as anything other than a mistake.

But you wouldn't catch him saying that to any of the guys.

Bill and he were sitting in the mess hall chain smoking and playing poker when Lieutenant Nixon ambled past, sunglasses still perched on his nose though he was indoors. The lieutenant glanced at the cards on the table and slapped Bill on the shoulder. "Wouldn't bet on that hand."

Bill rolled his eyes and rearranged the cards with a grimace. "Thanks, lieutenant."

A man in the back of the room quickly walked up to the wireless set that had been repurposed from an empty house and turned the dial, erasing the pleasant background noise of a woman's warbling voice.

"Hey, we were listening to that!" Bill called out, half-rising from his seat.

"Shut up, Gonorrhea," Tab said from across the room. "It's news from Paris."

Nixon immediately abandoned his search for a clean coffee mug and made his way towards the radio. The soldier caught a snippet of newscast and turned up the volume.

"... Leclerc moving towards the city as fast as he possibly can, with rumors that Nazi occupiers have been given the order to destroy Paris before allowing the Free French Forces into the city centre..."

"Shit," said Guarnere, laying his cards face-up on the table. He only had one pair of sixes.

"... after reports of citizens rising up against the occupiers in the streets, anywhere from eight hundred to a thousand men and women have been killed in action, with reports of an additional fifteen-hundred wounded in the efforts..."

"Jesus Christ," said Tab, leaning against his table. "They're not gonna give up."

"Of course they aren't," Nixon said, crossing his arms. "They've been waiting for this day for years."

"A bunch of old men and women can't fight off Nazis," Tab retorted. "It'll be a slaughterhouse."

Babe watched Nixon wipe a hand over his mouth and look towards the door, as if he could see across the Channel.

"Hope your bags are packed, kid," Bill said, picking his cards up from the table. "We ain't hanging around here for much longer."


She almost passed the patisserie, that's how fast she was running down the street. Any thoughts of an even-paced jog had evaporated from her mind when the Nazis had started firing into the crowd of protesting citizens.

Her skirt was now soaked in blood - a man had been shot in the chest and had fallen against her as she ran, knocking her into the pavement. She had pushed him off and kept running, determined to make it indoors before she caught a ricochet. It was only when she looked up and saw the sign for the bakery did she stop abruptly and turn back around, running for the door and grabbing the handle. When the handle wouldn't turn, she took a few steps back and kicked the full force of her heel above the doorknob, shattering the wood and breaking the old chain lock.

She shuffled inside and shut the door behind her. Outside, a woman screamed, and Lina leaned against the back of the battered wooden door and caught her breath.

Despite the chaos brewing in the street outside, the interior of the bakery was silent and still - the only light came from the bullet holes that had pierced through the glass and wooden shutters, casting ovals of grey light on the abandoned front counter and glass display cases. There was a thick layer of dust and grime all over the place, especially on the floors - tumbleweeds of filth had gathered in the corners and against the sideboards. Lina stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning the two doors on each side of the counter. One or both had to lead upstairs, and perhaps the one that didn't gave access to the back of the shop. Either way, all rooms would have to be checked.

She pulled the pistol from her waistband and checked to make sure that she had enough ammunition. Knowing Tar, he wouldn't be alone. Six bullets, six people. She could work with that.

The floorboards creaked under her feet - there wasn't much she could do about that. If Tar had seen her yesterday, he would already know that she would find him. He would be expecting her. Lina walked towards the door on the far right of the storefront and opened it, revealing a barren cleaning closet with a sordid broom leaning against empty shelves. She closed the door gently and made her way to the other, careful not to step on the broken glass in front of the counter.

The handle was shiny, recently used, and when she twisted it, it didn't make a sound. The door swung open noiselessly on its hinges, revealing a well-trod wooden staircase that led upwards - the steps were illuminated from above by a yellow light bulb.

"Quit dithering and come up already."

She inhaled sharply, but let the breath go. He always had to have the upper hand, always had to be the one in control.

Lina stepped on the stairs carefully as if they would splinter apart underneath her feet, her pistol gripped tightly in her right hand. Her heartbeat had slowed to a restful pace, as if she hadn't been sprinting, hadn't nearly been shot in the leg ten minutes before. Stress made her interpret everything in slow motion.

Lina walked into a round room with ovens on her right and wide windows on her left, where Tar stood gazing out on the ruckus below. He didn't turn to look at her when she stepped inside - rather, he fixed his eyes on the people screaming and fighting and bleeding below, as if he were hypnotized.

"We saw you coming," he said.

"We?"

He turned to look at her then with dispassionate eyes and nodded his head towards the industrial ovens. A blonde dressed in a muddy pair of trousers and a white blouse stepped into the light from where she had been leaning into the shadows, her face twisted into a self-satisfied grin.

"Hi," said Katya, as if they had run into each other on the street, as if it had been a few hours – not months - since they had last seen each other. As if she hadn't deserted them in France.

"Hi," Lina replied, her stomach full of acid. Katya looked sleek, well-cared-for despite being covered in mud. "How are you?"

Katya shrugged. "I hate France."

"Likewise."

"You weren't very discreet," Tar said. "Tracking us down."

"I did not have much of a choice," she replied. She was hyper-aware of the pistol in her hand, and the look Katya was giving her.

Tar turned back to the window. "Look at them all," he said, his voice hazy, detached. "Like a Hieronymus Bosch painting - have you ever seen his work? The Garden of Earthly Delights. Well, a garden, at least."

Lina raised her right arm and pointed the pistol at his head. Katya raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"Really?" Tar said. "I thought we'd have a chat first, review some details that might carry a bit more weight for you than you think."

"I have had some time to think," Lina said. "About what we talked about in Normandy."

"Oh, do tell me your fascinating insights," Tar said, turning towards her and leaning on the window frame. Katya returned to the oven, watching the discourse with a small smile.

"I would like to know why you killed Ella."

"Technically," Katya said. "I poisoned your friend. In theory."

Tar smiled sweetly; his eyes were beneficent, peaceful. "I didn't work very hard to conceal our hand, did I now? I was a little short on time, you see. Lots to be done, lots of fires to stoke up. Lots of little letters from little Ella to send to Italy."

Katya shrugged. "She wasn't very good at self-censorship. Wrote down many names, important people. You understand."

Lina took a measured breath and looked at Katya. "I bet you enjoyed it."

Katya raised an eyebrow. "You are so emotional – when did you begin to care so much?"

Tar cocked a finger in Katya's direction. "You've hit the nail on the head, darling."

Lina could shoot them both in rapid succession, take them both down in a few minutes, but others could be lurking. She steadied her aching arm. "I care when a woman is wrongfully murdered."

Tar dropped his mask and scoffed. "Don't be so conceited. There was more at play than you could ever fathom." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I brokered a nice deal with the Italian government over her, with my end of the bargain resulting in her in a box under six feet of soil. And Katya here made a nice deal with your dear adopted father in Berlin a few months ago as well."

Lina's mouth went dry. For once, she didn't have the words to contradict him.

"You're no idiot, despite the idiotic tendencies you have," Tar continued. "Which is why I'm going to tell you once to put the gun down before Katya chops off your head."

"I have a very impressive knife," Katya said.

She shouldn't have come here. The worried look on Ron's face flashed across her mind. Don't go on your own. He had been right and she had ignored him. There was no turning back now.

Her resolve must have showed on her face, because she only had a moment to process that Katya had moved off of the oven before she was knocked sideways, a hand squeezing around the wrist that held the pistol aloft. Lina felt her body roll over, pinning Katya beneath her, but the Russian kneed her in the stomach and Lina doubled over.

"It's not easy to get a never-ending supply of German methamphetamine," Tar said above the fray. "Surely you didn't think I just had a warehouse full of those little blue pills. Herr Droessler was very concerned about your safety – I had to reassure him that you were under control."

Lina pushed herself to her knees, dodging Katya's kick to her ribs. She scrambled for the pistol on the floor, but Katya grabbed her by her hair and jerked her upwards. Lina cried out at the pain, but her voice stuck inside her throat when she felt the cold metal of a blade against her throat.

"You have been too costly to manage," Tar said, walking towards the women. "I had high hopes for you, but you were ruined after being sent to the Airborne. I should have known you would be influenced by those men, but who could have predicted they'd turn you into a rogue?" He beckoned at Katya. "Kick that pistol to me."

Katya obliged, and Tar picked the gun off of the floor, wiping the grime on his pants. "This place is filthy, really. Disgusting."

Katya shoved Lina's head forward as she rose up from the floor. "There will be better places to go once Leclerc arrives."

If this was the end, it was a horrible way to go. Lina felt so weak. She could fight back, but Tar would shoot her before she got on her feet. She watched Katya walk to the window, the knife glinting in the early morning sun. "We need to hurry," she said, looking back at Tar.

Tar looked down on her with something akin to pity. "It really tears me up to do this, you know. I wanted you to be such a success."

Lina looked at the man who had forced her into so much pain, and put a smile on her face. "You are the only failure here."

Tar shook his head minutely, aimed between her eyes and pulled the trigger.

She had been holding her breath, her ears ringing, but she heard the click of the empty chamber echo around the room. She opened her eyes to see Tar holding the gun up to the sparse light.

"Oops," said Katya from the window. Turning to face them, she opened her palm. Six copper bullets shone in her hand. She stared at Tar as she threw them out of the window behind her.

Lina moved quickly, propelling her body forward to grab Tar's knees. He wasn't prepared and went down hard, rattling the floorboards underneath him. Katya was on him in an instant, kicking the side of his head and pinning arms above his head with her knees. Tar kicked out wildly and caught Lina in the jaw – she was hurled backwards for a moment, but then Katya skidded the knife in her direction.

It was a Bowie knife, something Katya could have only stolen off a soldier. Lina grabbed at the knife and looked up to see Katya slam a hand over Tar's mouth and pinch his nostrils shut. The Russian looked up at her with wild eyes, and Lina reached over and stabbed Tar in the stomach.

The knife sliced cleanly through his tan sweater, and Tar screamed, his shrieks muffle by Katya's hand. Sweat was dripping into Lina's eyes, blurring her vision. "Again!" Katya yelled, and Lina jerked the knife out of Tar's abdomen and rammed it into the soft triangle at the base of his neck.

There was so much noise – the gunshots in the street, Katya's hoarse voice in her ear, and the screams of the dying man under her palms, Lina's own heartbeat in her ears, the rolling rumble of tanks and trucks and heavy artillery coming to burn the city to the ground. She could only focus on so much, so she focused on the blood seeping onto her knees and hands, on the look in Tar's eyes as he watched her kill him, the plain fury and shock of the betrayal of Katya, and Lina felt herself turn inside-out. It was as if she was molting, ripping off a layer of her own flesh to reveal something hidden beneath. Katya had her hand on Lina's arm now, urging her to stop.

"He is dead," the blonde was saying to her. "Enough. Enough."

Her arm ached, and she blinked at Tar's neck, nearly shredded to ribbons of bloodied flesh.

"You are a mess," Katya said. She reached out to touch Lina's cheek, and Lina reflexively grabbed her by the wrist. "Be calm. It is over."

"Nothing is over," Lina said in a raspy voice. She looked down at her skirt – in was drenched. "My clothes."

"Take his," Katya said, rising up from the floor shakily. "At least his pants. I will help." She crouched down beside his feet and began to unlace his shoes.

Lina sat the knife on the floor by the puddle of blood that had started to flow towards the stairs. She watched Katya toss his shoes across the room before undoing his belt buckle. "You saved me."

Katya scoffed. "Not because I like you or anything. I had a better offer elsewhere." She paused to look Lina in the eye. "By the way, that Droessler man is insane. And he wants you back."

"What did he promise you?"

Katya grabbed the waistband of Tar's pants and yanked downward. "My sister."

Ah. Family. Everyone's weakness.

"The British men were never going to give me what I wanted," Katya continued. "Freedom, my family… it was worth it."

"And if Germany loses?" Lina caught the pants as Katya threw them at her face.

"Who cares?" Katya said, resting on her knees. "We'll be gone before they notice."

Lina stood up and held the pants to her waist. They we too long for her, but they would have to do. She unbuttoned the back of her skirt and let it fall to the floor while Katya cleaned her knife on Tar's sleeve.

"By the way," Katya said. "Droessler knows about the lieutenant."

Lina looked up from buckling Tar's stolen belt. "Which one?"

"The one that matters," Katya said.

Lina ground her teeth. "I assume you were the one to tell him about the men."

"I had to," Katya said. "No hard feelings."

Lina couldn't think about that now. She bent down to roll up the hem of her new pants as Katya straightened her top and walked towards the stairs. "You owe me a favor for this," she called to Lina from the doorway. "I hope we meet again."

Lina stepped away from the expanding puddle of blood, feeling around in her jacket pocket for a lighter. "We will see."

Katya gave her one last dazzling smile before walking down the stairs and into the street below. Lina watched her merge into the crowd and disappear around a corner.

Her hands were tingling, shaking slightly, and she balled them into fists. She half expected a team of British commandos to storm into the building at any moment – but no. She was just one woman, and Tar was just one less man opting in to beat the ever-living shit out of the Germans before Leclerc came to save them all. She looked down at his lifeless body. Hard to believe this was the person who had caused her so much grief, this shell, this mess of blood and guts on the ground.

Her hands didn't shake as she stole half-burnt kindling from the empty ovens, or when she ripped up dry floorboards to pile around his body. They didn't shake as she closed the shutters on the window.

They most certain didn't shake when she dropped the lighter, it's flame a cheerful yellow, onto the homemade pyre. She went down the stairs in a hurry, her heart beating wildly. What was this feeling?

She stepped out onto the street, joining the crowd. The fighting had moved further into the park, and the people were collecting the remnants of their barricades in a hurry. A woman bumped into her, dropping an armful of ancient rifles on the ground. Lina bent forward to help her pick them up, and handed them to her with a smile.

Giddiness, she thought, as the woman gave her a worried look and hurried away.


It was time to put off the inevitable.

Nixon felt like he was going to be sick as he made his way to Spiers' billet. Just tell him, Dick had reassured earlier that day, after Nixon had gone to him with news of the Paris riots. You need to get it over with.

Easy to say when you weren't the one personally delivering the news that a man's German girlfriend had deserted him to slaughter every Nazi that had ever wronged her – and Nix was willing to bet that would be a long list of names.

Fuck. Speirs was actually in the sunshine for once, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the wall of his house. Nixon slowed down as he approached the man, shoving his hands in his pockets. The summer air was full of bees bouncing between blooming roses.

"What?" Speirs said dispassionately. He was wearing sunglasses, making it difficult to read his mood anywhere past general surliness.

"I need to talk to you," Nix said. Ron didn't move a muscle. "Maybe inside?"

"Here is fine," said Speirs in a monotone voice.

Nix looked over his shoulder. "No, I don't think it is."

Ron threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with his boot. "Fine. Come inside, then." He opened the little blue door and walked into the billet. Nixon sighed and followed him in.

Spiers lived with three other men in the house, but based on the lack of furniture and a thick layer of dust on the kitchen counter, it felt as if the house had been abandoned for years. Nixon walked into the parlor and stood in the middle of the room while Ron grabbed a dilapidated wooden chair and sat down heavily. He fished another cigarette from his sleeve and lit it, eyeing Nixon.

"I don't know how to tell you this," Nixon started. "And I never wanted to have to say it anyway, but I guess I don't have a choice… so I'll just come out and say it: Karolina is probably, most likely not coming back." Speirs was silent, still. That made Nixon even more nervous. "She left me a letter."

"Where?"

"In her trunk," Nixon said. "I found it the day after she left. She said she knew she wouldn't make it out of Paris alive, and if she did, she was going to try to go back to Berlin."

Speirs only stared. Nixon took his silence as a cue to continue.

"Her reasoning was… very flawed, to say the least, but she did it to protect us," Nixon said. "She thought we would all be killed eventually, because of her. Especially if she didn't take care of the people who want to kill us first."

"Let me see the letter," Speirs said in a low voice.

"I destroyed it after reading it," Nixon said. "It's what she wanted me to do. She also expressly told me not to tell you."

Speirs closed his eyes. "I knew she would do something like this. I tried to tell her that we could help, that I would… but I knew. I knew what she was planning, I think I knew it since the beginning."

Nixon sat down on the arm of a moth-eaten sofa. "There's still a chance –"

"No," Speirs said gruffly. "It's clear now that neither of our opinions mattered. And I don't believe in chances." He stood up quickly and stared at Nixon's boots. "Thank you for… well, at least now I know."

Nixon's brain scrambled for an appropriate peace offering. "If you'd like, I can have her trunk sent over… if you want it." And only after he had cleared out the important papers, the Nazi documents and the narcotics.

Ron paused on the stairs. "No need," he said dryly. "I don't want it."

Nixon watched him walk up the stairs stiffly, and then exited the house as quickly as was polite. He swore he heard the sound of glass shattering as he walked down the street, but he didn't turn around to look. He turned down the lane towards Lina's old billet, his nerves closing up his throat.

It was time to dig a little deeper into that trunk