January, 1926. Stalingrad, USSR.
A quiet shriek of excitement bounced off the walls of the small apartment. The woman at the stove smiled at the noises emerging from the living room yet kept her attention focused on the overflowing pot in front of her. She ladeled the stew into four bowls and set the table before calling out for dinner. The laughter stifled into giggles and two small feet padded towards the kitchen.
"Hello, my little sun," the woman cooed. "Were you playing?"
"Da," the little girl giggled. "Papa was trying to get Vanya to walk."
"Shhh, Nastya. Do not let your mother know. It will be a surprise!" A man entered the small kitchen with a baby on his hip. He ruffled the little blonde head that barely came up to his thigh and pressed a kiss to the woman's cheek.
"Now, Mikhail, I know that you would never try to do something behind my back," she crooned.
"Never, my Svyeta."
It was a picture perfect family with a perfect life.
Until it all went up in flames.
England, 1940.
"Ms Kennedy?"
The boy's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Ada raised her head from the map in her hands and stared at him with hard eyes. He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another and she sighed, folding the map and throwing it on the table.
"What?" she snapped.
"Corporal Easton requested that you join him at his plane."
The blonde lifted an inquisitive eyebrow and stood, smoothing down the front of her trousers. She stepped around him and raised her chin up, walking past the men seated around one of the tables. One man whistled sharply but she merely ignored him.
"You rang?" she commented dryly as she joined the dark haired man standing next to one of the Spitfires. He grinned up at the stoic blonde and tossed the oil stained rag in his hands over his shoulder before leaning against the plane.
"I figured you might like to see the inside of this thing rather than sitting there staring at maps all day," he chuckled. She stared at him impassively before nodding sharply in assent. He held out his hand and helped her up onto the wing, leaning against the cockpit so he could explain the various switches and controls.
Her blue eyes flickered rapidly over the numerous buttons in the cockpit as if she was cataloguing every single last detail. Ada never spoke, never asked a single question, just simply sat and listened. Easton turned to the blonde at the end of his speech and she regarded him coolly.
"I can see why you boys love your toys," she spoke finally. "You all seem to enjoy flying very much."
"Why are you here, Ms Kennedy? The Observer Corps does not work on bases. I find I'm curious by your presence on base," he said in return. Her cold eyes turned on him and she pursed her lips.
"There is a spy amongst your men," she stated calmly. "You do not know him and yet you fly beside him every night."
"And you know this to be how?" he chuckled.
"You don't believe me."
"If there was a spy in my ranks, I would know. And even if I didn't know, why would you tell me?"
She scoffed and leaned forward, her red painted lips mere inches from his ear. "You flatter yourself, Corporal." The blonde pulled away and climbed down from the plane. He watched her stride back towards her maps, back straight and chin held high with pride. Shaking his head, he hopped down from the plane.
"Women."
And yet when the air raid sirens wailed that night and men stumbled out of bed, frantically pulling on clothes and rushing for their planes, Corporal Easton found one of his men, Aircraftsman First Class Hudson, fast asleep in his bed.
"Up, man! Up!" Easton shouted. He grabbed Hudson's shoulders and rolled him over. Blood stained his hands and poured onto the bed as lifeless eyes stared up at him. A deep, clean cut sliced the younger man's throat wide open and on his cheek laid a bloody swastika.
There is a spy amongst your men. Her phantom voice danced around him. Haunted him.
Taunted him.
Easton sprinted for the airfield only to find Hudson's assigned plane leaving the air field. He could only watch in horror and awe as it dipped, spun, and teased the Messerschmitts before disappearing out of view with the other planes.
When the men came back, a few planes missing, to find police and officers swarming the air field, it seemed like all words had been sucked out of their lungs. Easton approached the men, his eyes darting back and forth to account for names and faces.
"Who took Hudson's plane?" he finally asked.
"None of us, sir. We took our assigned planes," Andrews spoke up. "I did see his plane, however. Dogfight after dogfight. Never took a hit."
"And who was flying it?"
They fell silent once more, their eyes fixed on the numerous men talking and gesturing behind their leader. Easton cleared his throat to bring their attention back to him.
"We don't know, sir."
He dismissed them and returned to the bunks where Hudson's body had been removed. Heading for the small cot in the very far corner, Easton wasn't surprised to find the bed neatly made and a slip of paper sticking out from under the pillow. He snatched it up and read the looping scrawl.
Robert,
Don't say I never warned you. Apologies for taking the Spitfire. You're a good teacher.
Burn this.
A.M.K
A startled laugh spilled from his lips as he read the words again. Taking the lighter out of his pocket, the dark haired man lit the edge of the paper and watched as it floated to the ground, becoming ash just as it touched the floor. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit that next, taking a long drag in an attempt to stem the tide of the headache pulsing behind his eyes.
"Spitfire," Robert Easton mumbled. "She knew how to fly a Spitfire."
When reports of spies being rooted out of the RAF and other organizations started to permeate the airfields, Easton knew exactly who it was. Turning the page of the newspaper in front of him, a smile settled on his lips as he read the title of the page.
Mysterious Spitfire Puts Fear in Nazis.