Chapter 52: Option B 7th November 1941
Sean Devlin was never a man who enjoyed resting, even after a long week at work. He always needed something to do, to keep his mind occupied. The devotion to the church was an easy void to fill the time when he was not out working to provide for his family but even he knew he could not be present in the house of God all of the time. Friday was a particularly frustrating day for him, finishing at lunchtime and having a whole afternoon almost to himself. With Geraldine and Clare both suffering without the luxury of such an early finish, he was home alone. Friday afternoon was a quiet time at Church, which was always open for prayer but Father Peter would rarely be there at that time. If he was, then he was preparing for his evening visits to those in need, which Sean was yet to see through as his way of bedding the local women who caught his eye. It certainly was not behaviour that he would have approved of, the faithful man that he was, but the less he knew about it, the better. The last thing that the church would want was a rebellion from within the community because the priest couldn't keep his desires nullified.
Playing the piano was the only real distraction to his afternoon boredom. Clare was probably the better at it out of the two, but as her teacher, he claimed the credit anyway. He would often play at church when the organist was not around, which was very rare as he was just as devoted to the church as Sean was. Sean never set out with any specific music to play in the afternoons, becoming lost in whatever took his fancy dependent upon his mood. His spirits would often lift the further he went into the afternoon, upping the tempo of the music that was played. Some afternoons Geraldine would arrive back from work a little earlier than usual and she would sit on the sofa to enjoy his offerings. A cup of tea would soon make its way to him too, his wife showing the caring affection that she had done for years.
There were also the afternoons where the piano was not suffice, the days when he would be very annoyed about having to finish early. He'd asked at work whether he could continue on in the afternoon, but was always told it was not necessary, regardless of how busy they were. His boss neglected to tell him that it was because nobody at his workplace could stand his religious mutterings, glad to be rid of him for the afternoon. On those occasions, he would simply sit in the living room or the garden, though it was too cold on that afternoon for the latter. He'd taken to keeping a diary of his thoughts on those days, which would often reveal sins for him to ask for forgiveness for at confession. He was lucky that they kept plentiful ink and paper at the house, otherwise it would have been an even more boring afternoon.
The diary entry for that afternoon was particularly bleak.
Dear Diary,
My workplace continues to be of great annoyance to me, though by the Lord's good grace, I have not informed my colleagues of this. To have to come home to an empty house on a Friday afternoon sends me into the deepest boredom, one which I feel I must fill with activity, but in a time of war, there is little for me to do. In the summer months, I could at least go for a walk, but it is now November, and the time for walking is long over.
The day is cloudy and overcast, with the threat of rain. As the Lord is my witness, I do not believe the temperature has exceeded the dizzying heights of six degrees all day. I cannot abide by this weather whenever it comes during the year, especially when my activities are prevented. I look out to see others trying to enjoy a walk in the cold, but their faces are miserable. I have always been taught to avoid the areas of life that make you miserable, for a melancholic man cannot serve the Lord God to his finest ability, if he cannot enjoy the simplicity of a quiet life. A young woman, who must be no older than Clare, has almost been blown over by the wind this afternoon. I cannot understand why she would venture into such conditions.
Writing about my daughter has reminded me that I must conduct the Lord's business tonight. She has avoided my attempts to find her a suitor for too long, and I do not believe that she holds any more excuses left. I wish she would show more enthusiasm for the task because I fear that our neighbours may begin to wonder whether she enjoys the company of women more than men. If it is the women that she spends time with then I cannot see why. Orla is a lovely young woman, but my Lord has not blessed her with a mind that is fit for the world. He has bestowed that upon her cousin, yet she has used the Lord's gift to craft the most oppressively awful poetry. The literary works of Erin Quinn belong in Satan's realm. Which is where Michelle Mallon belongs. I once described her as the sort of woman that would be suited to finding employment on her back and while I regret ever having to speak of her in that way, that is the truth of her nature. I wish Clare had chosen more wisely in her friends, but I have supported her through years of persistent frustration with them to the point where more years no longer pain me.
I shall end my entry there. I must make myself a cup of tea to calm my frustrations, or I shall disappoint my Lord.
Geraldine and Clare were not aware of the diary that he kept, and as long as he drew breath, Sean aimed to ensure that they never did. Once his entry was finished, and his tea was made, he made the trip up to his bedroom. Under a floor panel in the corner of the room, that he'd found conveniently loose without ever telling Geraldine about it, he hid the diary. It was more of the trait of the teenager to keep such an item, but he felt no shame in doing so. Very few people understand him the way in which he wished them to, not even his own wife. He thought she had for years, but in recent years, her mouth would run away from her and she would disrespect him. She was meant to be his wife who obeyed his every command, understanding that he was the man of the house and her standing was not equal to his. Their home was not like the Quinn house where Gerry would be put in his place by his wife at every opportunity. Geraldine might have held designs on it being the same, but he would not allow it.
After placing the diary back under the loose panel, Sean rose up, knees clicking as he did. Signs of old age were becoming plentiful for him, the fiftieth year of his existence approaching closer on the horizon as every day past. His knees were starting to become more painful as well as the old burst of pace he felt he used to have, disappearing. In his younger years he would run errands for a local business where his father worked, becoming used to having to rush around over short distances as well as longer ones. His youth was spent well, as the days of Sean Devlin running around the city of Derry were long over. Of the two Devlin brothers, Liam was always the more adventurous, riding a motorbike from around the age of thirteen. As far as Sean was aware, he still did, though they'd long become somewhat estranged even if they did send letters to each other a couple of times a year. It was some time before the war started that they'd last been in each other's company, and he was not perturbed by missing him.
Looking out of the upstairs window, he was startled to find Clare approaching. When he'd finished writing in his diary he'd checked the time, and it was only around quarter past three, fifteen minutes or so earlier. Clare arriving in the mid-afternoon was most unusual as although she would finish earlier on a Friday than the rest of her working week, it was odd for it to be before five o'clock. The times that she would, she would often know in advance, but nothing had been said over breakfast that morning. Luckily, none of her friends were with her, the tonic that would have made his Friday afternoon truly horrific. Having to deal with Michelle Mallon was not something that he wanted to do.
She reached the front door before he'd made it all the way down the stairs, and as she always did whenever she saw something out of the corner of her eye, Clare cacked herself when he arrived midway down them. It made it all the more strange to her father, as she knew that he would be there, often raising his suspicion that she'd been up to no good. The lack of Michelle with her suggested that was not the case though.
"Ach Daddy, ye scared me!" She breathed heavily, trying to catch the breath back.
"I can see that". He chuckled. "What are ye doin' back at this time, love?"
If there was anything untoward as to why she'd returned home at such a time, Sean knew it would show after his question. Clare was not a young woman that could lie easily, the twenty one year old frequently finding it the time to cack herself when she tried to lie, though she could cack herself just as easily when she told the truth too. There was no such hint in her reaction though, Sean satisfied that all was well before she even answered. Along with the lack of Michelle, it at least told him that she still held a job, which would have been a travesty if not. He'd never hit his Clare in his life, but if she lost her job because of her juvenile antics, it would change.
"We weren't so busy again Daddy…". Clare explained "We left just after two, but I had to go over to the bank, so I did".
"Not so busy again? I hope yer job's not at risk". He spoke with concern evident in his voice.
"My job's fine Daddy, I promise".
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sean moved over to pull her into a hug, feeling her warmth from the fast walk she'd completed on the way home. The bank was unusually busy that afternoon, so much so that the McLoughlin brothers told her that they doubted they would be home in time for dinner that night. The effect of James not being there as the junior manager was very much evident, a level of efficiency lost when he went off to war. Although the rest of the staff were completely competent at their roles, they were nowhere up to the standard of the Englishman, who set a standard that was incredibly high. His loss was felt across the city, whether it was by Erin or by his former friends and colleagues. He truly was special.
"How are all ye friends?" Sean enquired, though he did not care too much.
"They're fine so they are, Daddy". She replied, pulling out of the hug. "Erin was a bit moody again but Michelle kept her quiet mostly".
"That I can believe". He snorted.
"Daddy! Michelle's more than just a mouth. She's…".
Clare could not continue with what she wanted to say, not without betraying everything she wanted. Although she could not have Michelle, the young Mallon making it incredibly clear that her persuasions were not aligned, it did not stop Clare thinking about her beauty. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman in all of Derry, certainly in her head, though in her father's, Clare knew without having to see his secretive diary that he thought her nothing more than a common whore. Michelle may have had her own views that differed from Sean when it came to love and relationships, but she was still a good woman. Most of all, attraction aside, she was one of Clare's best friends and not just a mouth as he might have thought.
"She's yer friend, I know Clare…". He sighed. "Do ye want a cup of tea love?"
Far from stupid, Sean did not attempt to continue talking about Michelle, as the outcome would have been a furious argument that belonged more at the Quinn's, not at their house. He might have been having a frustrating and generally quite dull afternoon, but causing upset for his daughter was not part of his plan to cure the boredom. A cup of tea for her was the least that he knew he could do to smooth any tensions over from what he'd said. Clare took the bait easily, not making any attempt to challenge him whatsoever. She really wanted the cup of tea, more than anything else, preventing her from becoming annoyed any further with him for his attitude over Michelle.
"That'd be grand Daddy. I'm goin' to go upstairs and change".
"Alright, love. Yer tea will be waitin' for ye".
Nodding, she left him to rush off up the stairs, eager to change out of her work clothes. With the day being a fairly easy one, there was no need for her to use the bath which would save her a bit of time in getting ready. With Clare's retreating figure heading off up the stairs, Sean retreated into the kitchen to start making the tea. He might not have been the domesticated man that Gerry was but being able to make his own tea was one skill that he had learned. Geraldine always made a very good cup when she was at home, Sean only learning for when she was not. He did not want to just have to drink water all of the time so the process of him learning how to make one began. His mother had always made the tea when he was younger, his father insistent that neither he nor Liam learn as it was her job. Liam being the free spirit he was, had to anyway from a younger age, but it was not until Sean married Geraldine that he began to learn from her. The beliefs of his father were installed in him still though, and if Geraldine was at home, he would not even consider making the tea unless he found himself in a frightfully chipper mood. It was her job.
Around ten minutes or so later, Clare returned to the lower floor of the house, refreshed from changing. She timed her arrival perfectly, Sean having finished the tea and placing it on a coaster in the living room just seconds before she'd returned. He was still in the living room as she did, though his back was to her, returning to finish off his own cup of tea before returning it to the side ready for Geraldine to wash later on. Like with the making of the tea, the washing up afterwards was her job in his eyes.
Sat down on the sofa when he returned to the room, he was drawn to his daughter's choice of clothing. Under the assumption that she would be changing into some of her regular blouses, he was surprised by her wearing one of her best dresses instead. She would only wear a dress when she was going out with the girls, but those nights were often decided well in advance, something he was grateful for so that he could keep an ear out for any trouble or rumours. Like with the early finish that day, nothing had been mentioned over breakfast nor was anything mentioned earlier in the week. Clare was not one to keep her plans from him, mostly out of the fear of him finding out and punishing her, yet it appeared that the usual rule was not in place. The frown had already broken out across his face when she looked up at him. It was again the chance for her to show whether she was up to any mischief and on the second time, her cheeks were reddened.
"Clare? Just what do ye think yer up to?" He asked, frown receding to be replaced by a raised eyebrow.
Fidgeting nervously where she sat, Clare had been dreading the conversation ever since she'd agreed to that evening's plans without thinking. It was the usual spontaneous idea of Michelle's that got out of hand, and when Orla decided that she was in too, Clare was left with little choice. If she were to say no, then it would mean an evening with the moody Erin who was unbearable to be around without the company of the others. They could at least keep each other sane as a group when they were with her, but if one of them were to be left alone with the young Quinn, it would be a very different story.
"I… I…". She began to falter upon attempting to reply, Sean's glare never leaving her.
"I… I'm goin' out… with the girls".
Shaking his head, and rolling his eyes, Sean was not surprised that it would be an evening out. He wasn't particularly annoyed, a revelation to even himself, although he reasoned it by knowing that she would at least be looked after. With the threat of bombing still looming in the air even when the Luftwaffe had not shown themselves since the Easter Tuesday incident, they would be close to a shelter when they headed into the town, a warden no doubt helping them to safety.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" He smiled. "Ye know Clare, yer an adult now, ye can go out if ye want".
Taken aback by his unusually calm attitude to her keeping something from him, Clare did not allow herself to fall into a relaxed state as he insinuated that she should. Her father was a man that could play games with people, witnessing it firsthand at home with her mother and it could have still been a trap to lure her into a punishment. Although she was in her twenties, in the same way it was for Erin, she still faced the regular punishment of the home like a child, and would do so for as long as she lived there. Attempting to find a reply to him, she found it almost impossible thanks to her confusion at his own reaction to her. Clare could be unsettled at the slightest comment; a whole change of attitude threw her world completely.
A knock on the door saved her though.
Sean was still on his feet, and was closer to it, moving to the front of the house to answer the door to the visitor. It was already an unexpectedly busy afternoon with Clare returning home early, with a visitor to the house on a Friday afternoon being very rare indeed. His daughter would have been able to tell him who it was if he'd have asked though, as she was expecting someone albeit not so soon. Time really had ran away with her at the bank though and looking up at the big clock on the wall, it became clear the visitor was not early at all. A knock was most unusual though…
"Michelle…". Sean greeted her, as warmly as he could stomach. "… how are ye?"
"Ach I'm fine Sean, so I am. Is Clare ready?"
Trying to poke her head around his figure to find her friend, Michelle could not. Sean did not allow her to look around him, leaving her unable to see if Clare was even in or not. It was not the first time that her father had shown a clear lack of friendliness towards her, but Michelle did not find herself bothered by it. Like in the same way many people held him, he was a nutter in her eyes thanks to his religious devotion that went far further than most.
"Clare is just drinking her tea and then she'll be with ye". He answered, finally moving.
"Right. Can I come in or what?" She asked, showing her frustration.
"Yes, if ye must".
It appeared that Clare's Da was not going to be friendly to the young Mallon at all yet she would not dwell on it. Their night out would be cracker at the Guildhall, where they could dance into the night whilst keeping an eye on Orla. A repeat of the incident with the punch was not something which they wanted to happen again.
"Perhaps you will meet a nice young man this evening, Clare". Sean immediately turned on his daughter when Michelle made her way inside. "Ye've been waiting long enough".
"Well that was the plan wasn't it Clare…". Michelle suddenly answered on her behalf. "… yer finally ready aren't ye?"
There was no conceivable way that she would ever be ready to give her love to a man, but Clare realised what Michelle was doing for her and was grateful for it. By making it appear pre-mediated, despite it not being so, it deceived Sean into believing she was now putting in the effort to find herself a future husband. She didn't think she could love Michelle any more than she did, as a friend at least, but those boundaries were re-evaluated in her head again.
"Aye". Clare replied, faking her answer to the best of her ability.
"Glad to hear it". Sean replied. "I hope ye girls have a good night".
Michelle was determined that they would, but Clare couldn't care less how it went. Her friend had done her a service that she did not know if she could repay her for.
Her father would be pacified for weeks, perhaps months, by her apparent willingness to find a fella.
Though what she would do after then, she did not know…
Berlin
A day of reckoning awaited, a day which Lyla Walsh had partially dreaded for some time. Leaving Germany was never part of the plan that was laid out to her at the start of the war, but war could not be predicted. The unpredictable nature of conflict meant that plans would have to change, even the best made ones, and the plan for her most certainly had. The writing was on the wall when Kurt returned from Poland to reveal that there was a new assignment for him to see to. Adolf Hitler held many favourites, the Doctor being one, and whatever the task was, it was clear that it was a vital one to the Nazi Empire that was breaking out over Europe. They may have been facing the harsh realities of the Russian winter in the Eastern campaign but the rest of Europe, barring the thorn in the side that was Britan, was in check. Kurt's role in maintaining their supremacy must have been of the upmost importance.
He'd already played a role in one way though, a way in which she did not wish to think too much about. There was a silence within the country in regards to the camps that were being setup, as well as the camps in Poland. The common populace were not to know of what was going on, instead made to believe that certain communities within the country were their enemies. The Jews were the main target of the persecution, not that many people truly knew the scale of it. For years the Jewish people were treated differently to most, sometimes even killed when trouble reached its worst. Systematic elimination of a race was something else though, an act that the people could not know about out of the fear that they may finally see the regime for what it was. Nazi Germany could not afford to crumble from within. Lyla's association with Kurt meant that she did know the details though, sickening her for over two years since she'd first found out. Britain decided to turn a blind eye to her reports though, at the detriment of all those who faced death at the hands of men like Kurt. She knew it was a slaughter at the camps, a tragedy of monumental proportions.
The morning was still young when she walked out of the bedroom with her packed cases in hand. Despite living with Kurt, her possessions were not plentiful even when there was the wealth available to have done so. If Kurt ever grew tired of her using him for money, then she would have been easier to get rid of, and the line of access to the information that he held was not one that she nor Britain could afford to lose. Her life could be packed into two cases, neither of which were large, a visualisation of how she viewed her own existence. She could easily move on from whatever she'd been assigned to do, never bringing much baggage with her whenever she arrived in a new area, despite people's perception of the woman that she was.
Kurt was in the living room, his own cases packed, stood at his favoured spot by the window. In the offices it was warm, almost no need for much more than one layer of clothing, though the fireplace was burning away, as it had been almost all night. Whilst they were to be away, the offices would be guarded by a contingent from Hans' regiment, the commander forced to commit his men even when he was losing an officer. When he'd been told who he would face if he disobeyed the instruction, he did so immediately. They would monitor the fire and keep it burning for their own sake, the men already waiting outside the offices to go in. It was hardly the most exciting assignment, but it was one without much danger unless the fire became uncontrollable, which was unlikely.
"How long do we have until we have to go?"
Lyla asked the question, prompting Kurt to withdraw himself from his watch over the city, taking a step towards her. He took her hand in his and squeezed, Lyla only just able to avoid bringing her breakfast back up when he did. His touch repulsed her now.
"A couple of hours, my darling. I know the pilot myself, he is never on time anyway". He replied.
"He is not punctual like you then".
"Not at all".
She'd told herself that she should have hated him for what he'd done to her that night, a night that was forever engrained in her memories… and her fears. No man could ever legislate for the atrocious act he'd committed against her when he forced himself onto her with the threat of her life. Most would be strung up if fathers of the woman involved discovered the truth, by the fathers themselves in the majority of cases. He was a monster for what he'd done to her, a master of evil that stained her honour. Yet she could not act any differently around him when there was so much at stake. A case of horror was left unchallenged due to the repercussions that she knew she would face if he were to realise why she challenged so passionately. Any hint that she was not the woman that she said she was would be the death penalty, and with so much more life left to give, Lyla did not wish to die at the hands of Nazi Germany.
"I did not think I would be moving away from Berlin for some time". She told him honestly. "It has come as a surprise to me".
"I have to say I am surprised to. I expected to be out in Poland for another few months at least but my country needs me elsewhere".
Kurt never knew how long his assignment would honestly take him when he'd left nearly two years earlier, aware that he could have been away from home for years. Although his experiments were completed before travelling to Poland, any evidence to suggest that his methods worked on humans would have to be proved by humans becoming test subjects. No one would willingly test what he was going to do to people, though convicted prisoners were suggested as potential candidates for the trial. Some were still used, but the majority were Jewish. After all, he'd been told to find the solution to the Jewish problem with his work. He duly obliged, even if the results were truly horrifying to all those with a conscience.
"Poland must have been freezing in the winter".
"It was, Lyla". He confirmed to her. "There were some days where gaining feeling in my toes was more of a victory than my work".
He found warmth in other places, not that she knew. The poor deceased woman, whose body lay out of the way in the woods outside the Polish camp was that warmth until she became pregnant. The warmth instead came from the others for the rest of his stay, being a liar to suggest that he ever lacked feelings in his toes. Lyla was well aware of that though anyway. He lacked feeling whatsoever, whether it was in his toes or in his mind. Kurt might have put himself across as a caring figure in the past, it was simply a mask for the horrendous man beneath it to wear. Doctor Kurt Van Der Heijden was evil in human form at heart.
"Sometimes it could be like that in Derry too". She continued the conversation, thinking of home.
"The memories never leave you, do they?"
"No they do not, Kurt".
Memories of that night did not leave her. The mention of memories set her off thinking about it, to how scared she'd been when it became clear that he would not be removing himself from her. Throughout her long life she'd never been the victim of a man forcing themselves upon her but into her forties, it changed. Rape was a word she'd never wished to associate with herself or think of, though that was before the time in Poland changed Kurt. He was not the same man that he was when he left her in December of thirty nine, nor was he a man that was in any way honourable anymore. It left her to wonder whether there was truly any honour in him to begin with, the chivalry he'd often displayed simply the front throughout his life. Darkness could hide within any man or woman without the person themselves knowing about it, but it would always be manifested, one way or the other. Kurt's manifestation was brought about by witnessing the hordes of innocents he'd sent to their deaths at the camp. Rapist and murderer were now tags that he secretively held, dishonourable titles that showed the true man he was.
That night would never leave her.
"We are fortunate that there is no rain today. That would have made the flight far from pleasant".
Lyla kept the conversation flowing while they waited for the others to be ready. The two of them had given themselves more time to be ready that morning, waking early when Kurt's snoring broke. She'd not slept that well anyway out of the fear of what was to come, but brushed off Kurt's concern when they woke together, after he'd seen the red slithers in her eyes. She could handle a bit of tiredness throughout the flight, although she could not risk falling asleep for the whole duration of it. Worries that he was planning a trap for her still ate away at the Irishwoman despite no evidence present that he was going to. With her own eyes she'd witnessed Kurt's devious nature though; Lyla would not be surprised by it again.
"The day that I made my way here by plane was very wet". She continued the poor weather stories. "It worried me when the pilot told the rest of us that he could not see the runway".
"He could not see the runway!?" Kurt shouted in surprise of his own. "That must have been terrifying!"
"It was, Kurt, it was!"
She was playing along, utilising her superior acting skills, but they were tested under the ultimate strain once more when he placed a kiss to her knuckles. She wanted many things in her life, however, Kurt's affections were not one of them. They never had been for her, not that he knew or hopefully would ever know. A familiar growl began in her stomach.
"You will not have to go through that again at least. I checked the forecast for where we are going too, and it will be dry there".
Dry weather was at least a positive when there was little else for her to enjoy. The little she knew of where they were going did not make it any easier to plan for the climate, especially when her wardrobe of clothes was somewhat threadbare anyway. The majority of the clothes that she did own were fine dresses, some of which were bought for her by Kurt but not many of those clothes were for the wintery temperatures. The prior winter, whenever she ventured out into the cold of Berlin's morning air, she would wear the same combination to keep her warm because she did not have anything else suitable. Her coat was delightful on a chilly day, perfect to snuggle into when the nip of the air began to bite, yet more would be needed if it were to be a consistent cool temperature for many months. Such was the expanse of the Nazi Empire, most climates could be achieved within its far reaching borders.
"Will it be cold?"
"Lyla, it is November". He replied, rolling his eyes. "Of course it will be cold".
The attempt to make her feel stupid did not work, no matter how well he thought he'd done. There was a hint of a smirk tugging at Kurt's lips as he spoke, amused that he believed he'd demonstrated his mental prowess over her. Whether he thought she was smart or not, she did not truly know, but the monstrous Kurt stood before her was not the same man that she'd once consider to be a clever man. There was still a working, methodical brain within his head, one that was shrouded in a layer of darkness that was hard to quantify. How much of the evil had pushed the genuinely smart part of his mind away was a mystery that would have to be tackled at some point in the future, and with how fate seemed to fall to her, it would probably be sooner rather than later.
A new arrival in the living room prevented Kurt gaining anymore mental victories over her, or perceived ones.
"Hans, there you are".
The other occupants of Kurt's offices were nowhere near as quick to rise, though it was understandable with their young son. Leopold continued to be a joyous addition to her life when she did not expect it, Lyla genuinely caring for the child when she was not meant to. Attachments to anyone outside of Kurt would be frowned up in London but it was hard not to attach oneself to a child, especially when the child brought joy to an otherwise boredom filled life. His father was the first to surface from the room that they shared together, although he did so alone without his soon to be wife or little Leo. She could hear Elsa singing to her son in the bedroom though, more joy that lifted the Irishwoman out of her melancholy state. Although the rest of them could not see how unhappy that she was, the melancholy was present nonetheless.
"Sorry Kurt, Leo was crying and Elsa wanted me to sooth him".
"You do not need to explain yourself". Kurt held his hand up in acknowledgement. "I know you are doing your duty as a father".
"I try my best".
Hans' ability to be not only a satisfactory, but also quite brilliant father to Leo, was one of the quainter surprises of her time in Germany. Although he'd always been a young man who attempted to put his best interests at heart, never doubting that fatherhood was beyond him, he'd became a doting father to his son. Leo's cries would never go unanswered, and if Elsa could not sooth him, then she would hand the young boy over to Hans. Between them, the couple were always able to develop their son and he was never found wanting for anything. Kurt's acceptance of them aided them significantly, as he too made it his prerogative to ensure that Leo would be looked after. Money was never going to be an issue as long as Hans was assigned to Kurt, where other young children would find that it would be. Leo's start in life was lucky, even when war raged around him.
"I am sorry to interrupt you, but your country needs you to do your duty to me now". Kurt explained.
"Yes… of course, Kurt". Hans was slightly hesitant at first, showing signs of the rushed state he was in. "What do you need?"
"Would you help me load the car? It will be quicker if we share the cases rather than me doing it on my own".
"Absolutely". Hans smiled, brushing a hand through his curly blonde hair. "Do you want to do it now?"
"That is my intention".
The two of them laughed at each other, Kurt at Hans' appearance that morning and Hans at Kurt's feigned seriousness. They would often have a laugh with each other, at the stage of their acquaintance where they could joke without the fear of the slightest offence being taken. Lyla had seen many friendships throughout her life, but the one between the two German men was quite unique. Kurt may have been a mentor to Hans when she first entered their lives, but over time the gap was considerably equalled. With the step up to fatherhood too, it had become more of a friendship than a mentorship although elements of the latter remained, combining an odd blend of the two into one. Kurt might have been a monster, but their relationship still made Lyla smile.
"Look at them, working together. I was honestly surprised when Hans told me that Kurt was not his father".
Elsa suddenly joined Lyla, little Leo tucked into her chest, observing the scene as Kurt held the door for Hans, who'd picked up the Doctor's cases first. Their own cases were still to follow, Elsa having only just finished packing for Leo. It was a scary prospect taking her young son on a flight as she could only hope that he would be on his best behaviour. In a time of war, there was not a choice of airports to divert to, nor were their plentiful airstrips that could be landed on. Coupled with no knowledge of where they were going anyway, it became quietly disconcerting whenever her mind dwelt upon it, forcing the young German woman to not think too much about it at all for her own sanity.
"They have a resemblance even though they are not". Lyla confirmed with a smile.
"Kurt has done a lot for my Hans. I am not sure I would love him if it were not for how Kurt has shaped him".
Privately, she wished to chastise Elsa ferociously for her ridiculous comment, but Lyla could not allow those thoughts to trickle out. The woman stood next to her may have been trustworthy in her eyes, but in the case that she was wrong, it would do her no good to reveal that she did not think that Kurt's influence shaped Hans. It most likely helped, and in a strange way she felt a sense of gratitude to Kurt for what he'd done for the young Lieutenant, even though he wasn't her son or a relative. In her own mind though, Lyla knew that Hans would have become the man that he was without Kurt's help. He may not have entered a relationship with Elsa, the two potentially never finding each other in the way that they did, but he would have made a young woman very happy. She'd misunderstood her own feelings for the Lieutenant, a time that seemed a lifetime ago, understanding how easy it would have been to fall in love with him. Kurt's influence was already infecting him then, though it was not as obvious as it was two years on. At heart, Hans was an honourable man, something which his chosen mentor was not.
"I think you would, Elsa". Lyla opted to chuckle. "He is a very handsome young man".
"He is… and soon he will be my husband".
The wedding was another oddity that still required a solution, something which Kurt did not speak of very often. Hans and Elsa wanted to be joined in union properly yet did not know if where they would be visiting held a priest to conduct the ceremony. Any plans to have their families attend were out of the question, not that Hans would inviting his parents after their almost disownment of him, but Elsa would have liked her family to have witnessed what was meant to be the happiest day of her life. It still would be, marrying the man that she loved most in the world, but there would always be a touch of sadness within her because her family could not be there to see it. They hadn't properly spoken of the occasion for some time, Lyla soon rectifying the mishap.
"What will you do about the wedding?"
"I am not sure". Elsa sighed. "Hans wants to see what will be expected of him when we arrive. It does not help that Kurt refuses to tell us where we are going".
Elsa was just as frustrated as Lyla was when it came to not knowing where they would be going. Although Lyla's frustration held the underlay of fear, Elsa's was completely pure. She wanted to know where she was to be married and, as the Irishwoman had agreed with her previously, deserved to know too. Kurt may have been keeping the destination a secret under the orders of Hitler, which while annoying, was understandable, but he could have told them that morning. None of them dared ask him outright, not even Hans. With no further word of the destination that morning other than him mentioning to her that it would be cold like everywhere else, she could not offer any further assistance to her younger friend.
"I have tried to ask him myself, but he will not tell me".
"Has he given you any clues?" A persistent Elsa continued to question. "He only ever says to me that I will know when we are there".
"He told my it is not to the East but that is all I know".
One night she'd managed to get the solitary nugget of information out of the Doctor, the furthest he'd gone in revealing the destination to her. Sadly, it was the same night that he'd proceeded to force her into intercourse without her consent, the very night that she tried to forget. In pushing the thoughts of what happened on the darkest day of her life to the back of her mind, telling Elsa about what Kurt said was forgotten. When the words fell from her mouth that morning, she could still taste the fear from the night, the memory painfully strong. Elsa frowned when she began to bristle, but Lyla quickly recovered with a cough and a smile, her ability to act coming to her aid as it so often did.
"It could be France".
"I would think that it might be". Lyla agreed with Elsa's assumption. "Or the Netherlands, it would make sense as Kurt was born Dutch. He would be the right man for The Führer to have there".
"You may be right. I just hope we have somewhere nice for the wedding and not a prison camp".
A prison camp would not be the idyllic backdrop that a man or woman would visualise for their wedding, but with Kurt, it was not out of the question. His twisted way of looking at certain aspects of life guaranteed a lack of thought in some areas and that certainly could be one of them, Lyla thought to herself. He was definitely not a man who would suit marriage…
"Come now Elsa, I doubt Kurt would subject you to being married in front of captured soldiers". She tried to be positive.
"He would not allow them such joy". Elsa reflected glumly, wringing her hands.
"I quite agree".
Prisoners being allowed to witness the happiness of a wedding was not the abandonment of freedom that they were supposed to endure. A wedding was a time of peace and happiness, not the abject poverty and abhorrent conditions that prisoners of war were subjected to by their captors. The marriage of a young couple as radiant as Hans and Elsa would bring smiles to their faces despite them being on the other side of the war, and that would not do. Not only would Kurt not allow it, but if The Führer discovered what happened, then he would no doubt be outraged as well. Adolf Hitler was hardly a man of sentiment, being unmarried himself, although his partner did at least prove that he could love a little. Kurt would never allow anything to become out of hand though when he understood how privileged he was to have Hitler's ear, a spot many men would die just to have a chance of, let alone experience.
It would have made for quite the photograph, although it was an opportunity that could be easily missed.
Crunch
The sound brought Lyla out of her thoughts of the wedding and back into the reality of the day ahead of her. The crunch came from next to her, and when she turned to Elsa, the German woman turned away from her with Leo, not without Lyla noticing her red cheeks. Whatever she was up to, she really did not want to admit to it, visibly embarrassed to. It was certainly food when Elsa shied so suddenly, Lyla eager to find out exactly what.
"What are you eating?" She asked, eyebrow raised in the expression of a scolding mother.
"It is wrong of me but when I was pregnant, if you remember, I developed a craving".
"Oh yes, I remember…".
She remembered alright.
There was a stage during Elsa's pregnancy when the particular craving become almost unbearable for the rest of the occupants of the house it was that bad. Elsa was not a young woman that enjoyed moaning, unless it was at Hans' laziness. At the stage in her pregnancy when the craving became too much though, she moaned for the lack of the food that she could not eat too much of because the other two would not allow it. Leo did not need to arrive into the world too big, and too much of it would have made him so. It should have been a lot harder to get, with rationing and a lack of supply, however Elsa would always find a way of getting more despite their best efforts. Her friends were of little help when they encouraged her to eat more of it, to Lyla's chagrin. Her words were not always followed by the young woman she tried to look after.
"I do love the taste of Belgian chocolate".
Belgium was under the control of the German regime. Along with the fall of France, Belgium fell too, its industries added to the vast resources of Hitler's Nazi machine. Chocolate production could have been halted, turning the factories into munitions factories instead, but such was the dependency on the food to make the population content, they kept the factories open, making the chocolate that was adored. Should she have thought to do so sooner, Elsa would have written Hitler a personal letter of thanks for allowing them to continue, such was her fondness for Belgian chocolate.
"Do not eat too much Elsa". Lyla warned. "You will only have to lose the weight again and you have done brilliantly to return your body to the state it is in".
"I will not get fat, Lyla!" She pouted adorably.
"I do not mean that!" A chortled response came from the older woman. "But please, do not eat too much".
"Yes… mother".
Kurt and Hans may have teased each other perfectly, but the two women could do so as well when they wanted to. Their relationship was in many ways similar to the men's, with less mentorship required from Lyla to Elsa than from Kurt to Hans. Elsa still needed to be taught about certain ways of the world, the new surroundings would be of great help to her too, Lyla thought, although not in the practical ways. Practicality was drummed into the young woman, who clearly came from a home where the father very much dominated the house. Germany was very different to Ireland in that respect; the mother could not boss the family home like she wanted. There were certainly very few women like Mary Quinn within the borders of the Nazi Empire, which was their loss. A lack of use of the wooden spoon did not help the cause of the German women either.
"I never imagined I would be able to leave Germany, especially with the war".
"You have chosen wisely in life, Elsa. Your life revolves around the right people".
Around her and Hans as well as little Leo, Lyla told no lies.
Around Kurt was a different matter.
He was the only negative influence in close proximity to Elsa. In her own mind, Lyla doubted that Kurt would ever be able to compromise Elsa's outlook on life, especially with Leo in the picture, but she feared what he could do should she defy him. They'd only ever shared pleasantries previously yet so had she with Kurt, the two rarely arguing in all their time together. She'd been raped by him. The same fate could not befall Elsa, and whilst it was not an evident threat when Kurt surely would not hurt Hans, it still existed thanks to his actions of the night that she tried to forget. Again she remembered the night, quickly trying to think of more positive times when she did.
"You have too, do you not think?".
"I would not be so sure as to agree".
Lyla's own mask began to slip at Elsa's inquisitive remark. The memory of that night refused to go away when she tried to forget it, the ghostly map of her tears still feeling as if it could be traced across her skin. The physical bruising may have faded weeks on, but the mental bruising was still an ever present that simply would not go away. She could deal with a lot, more than most women thanks to her acting skills, but the assault tested her beyond her parameters. Accidentally allowing her emotions to creep into the conversation, the realisation was soon upon her that Elsa could never know what happened. Becoming open and honest could set off a chain of events out of her control, which was the crux of what her whole life revolved around. Kurt wanted the control of her, whereas she needed to have a level of control over him, in order for him to spill the secrets that Britain so desperately required.
"Why not?"
The oblivious Elsa did not know of the pain that she was inflicting upon her dear friend by continuing to ask for more details around the comment. Lyla knew that it was not done on purpose to hurt her specifically, the pain still existing regardless when the question was asked softly. Elsa was no aggressor but was an unknowing agitator.
"I have led a longer life than you Elsa, there are many mistakes that I have made that cannot be taken back". Lyla explained quaintly, masking her grief once more.
"That is ridiculous! You are a brilliant woman who I have always seen do her best". The younger of the two argued.
"My dear, when you do your best, it is not always good enough".
The sigh that came from Lyla as she spoke was strained, in contrast to Hans' enthused belief of his efforts earlier that morning. Luckily, he was yet to reach the part of his life where cynicism began to overtake optimism, a stretch that she was unfortunately on once the forty barrier was hurdled. It was done so without much grace from her, that was for sure.
"It always has been since I have known you".
"I know. The rest of my life has not been as straightforward".
Layers of lies were another part of her life, though Lyla hated lying. She always had done and always would, as lying would only ever delay the inevitable facing of a truth at some point. Truth may have been harder to stomach but it always won in the end. For her own lies, hiding her work for Britain, she could only hope that they would not be revealed until a time where she could escape back to safety, the Nazi threat at an end. Though there was truth in her statement still, her life was far from the ordinary for most women, but it was not in the way that Elsa knew. It could not be told in the way it should.
"Are you thinking of your husband? And your son?" Elsa questioned yet again.
"Yes… but not just them". Another lie dropped from Lyla's lips.
"You could do nothing to help them. It is not your fault that they died".
"It is not. But my conscience does not agree".
Lies… Lies… Lies…
"Do not listen to it. I have only known you to be a caring woman who rarely meets failure. Do not dwell upon the past, Lyla".
With consistent reminds of various experiences of her past, it was hard for Lyla to do anything but. Experienced in the ways of the world, the highs and the lows, her memories of the better times were occasionally all that she felt she had left to cling to. The days in the past where she was the woman that she wanted to be, though it was a past that was not entirely as smooth as it could have been. Those days brought a smile to her face when she thought of them, of him and of everything she held dear in her life. The night in particular that her mind would often dwell on was one that she did want to forget, being the lowest of all the lows, the only one that ever made her feel ashamed. She should not have felt such shame, yet it was hard for her not to. Her fears, her grief… her rage… the way he'd put the knife to her throat…
It was all becoming too much again but she had no choice but to live with it. Elsa would have to be placated with more lies, in the hope that the questions would stop.
"I suppose you are right". She smiled as warmly as she could. "Thank you, Elsa".
"You would have done the same for me".
The warm smile was reciprocated by the young German woman, who rocked Leo gently, fighting off his attempts to grab the chocolate that she was eating. Before either of the women could speak or Leo could taste the craving his mother held, Kurt and Hans returned from their trip down to the car to pack. Hans looked a lot more tired than Kurt did, although he was the young Lieutenant in comparison to the Doctor, friend of Adolf Hitler himself.
"Come on ladies, we do not want to be late".
Kurt gave them their order to hurry, though they were still in plenty of time to make the flight. He was not a man that enjoyed being kept waiting, as Lyla had found out to her detriment previously, immediately making her rush over to help Elsa with her cases whilst she tended Leo. Hans walked over in her direction too, which left Kurt and Elsa in the middle of the room. The Doctor was not prepared to do any of the heavy lifting it seemed, which was his right when he was the main source of income into their family, but it would have helped more if he did. He didn't mind holding the doors open or barking out the orders. Manual labour looked to be too far.
"Where would be late to, Kurt?"
Elsa dared to ask where she wouldn't previously, realising there was little to lose from at least an innocent question. The look that Kurt gave her in the first split second, caught over her shoulder by Lyla, was not an innocent one in return, though he quickly recovered to smile sweetly at her. He hadn't spotted that Lyla saw his look when he gave it, a blessing for her in one way, although seeing it at all was no blessing whatsoever. She'd seen the look before and never wanted to see it again.
"Have you shared your inquisitive mind with her, Lyla?" He addressed the Irishwoman, who'd turned back round, turning again at his voice. "It is a surprise, I shall tell you when we arrive there".
"Have you at least told Hans?" The curious Elsa asked.
"No. It will be a surprise for him too".
Hans very much confirmed it.
A rare roll of the eyes from the young Lieutenant when it came to Kurt, Lyla held back the laughter out of fears for her own safety. Kurt most certainly would not have approved of them making fun of him, even if it was courtesy of Hans. They might have laughed most barbs off but a joint effort between the young man and the Doctor's partner, would not go down well at all. Hans' facial expression changed back to its normal, workmanlike appearance after a second or two, before Kurt turned his gaze on him. He was not stupid either; he would not annoy Kurt on such an important morning as the one that day.
Elsa and Leo soon went back into the bedroom, while Kurt held the door out for Hans, who retreated back downstairs with more cases. They were not so heavy as the prior ones, so Kurt stayed upstairs, to return to just himself and Lyla in the living room together. A scenario that she did not enjoy in the slightest, he made it even worse seconds later when he leant forward to kiss her on the lips. The taste of evil made its way into her consciousness, a poisonous substance that she'd grown to despise but ultimately live with.
"To our next adventure together".
"Yes". She smiled tamely. "Our next adventure".
Appearing to change his mind when it came to manual labour, Kurt turned on his heel, sauntering back down the stairs to assist the young Lieutenant. Lyla thought she'd heard the sound of a case being dropped, Kurt having had to, deducing that Hans was in need of his aid once more. A young father should have been used to having his hands full, but Hans was still learning on the job, doing so excellently.
Sighing, finally left alone, Lyla turned around and walked over to her own bedroom, which lay bare after her and Kurt packed almost everything in it. The door required shutting before they left, the soldiers being assigned to guard the offices strictly prohibited from entering. However she tried though, Lyla could only shut the door physically. The master bedroom of the Doctor's offices held far more than just a place to sleep for her, instead the temple of her worst nightmare that became a shuddering reality. Memories of a night of pain, humiliation, and above all degradation, would never leave her no matter how many doors she tried to shut. Pain like that did not respect the boundaries of the walls that attempted to hold it, seeping out from the thinnest of gaps in a person's armour no matter how strong they tried to be. There was a reason that the actions that Kurt committed that night were prominent in guerrilla warfare.
The chief weapon of the guerrilla was horror.
Horror that left everlasting scars, mental and physical.
But as always, Lyla carried on.
Lieutenant Colonel Stewart Menzies paced around his office, annoying the other two occupants. Sunday afternoons were not meant to be tense and fraught, and in the quieter days of peace, they were not meant to be full for him at all. Despite his role in keeping Britain's intelligence services ticking over diligently, he could still have time away from his role with his family, if he wanted. The amount of time that he'd spent with relatives since the war began was miniscule; with so much at stake for the country, he was needed at his desk not at home. He was not the only man that the comment applied to, but he was a man that sat atop two of the most important missions that the country was committed to. Cracking the Enigma code was not something which he'd achieved himself, but he pushed for those at Bletchley Park to be given the resources to do it, confident that they would. He was proven right.
Bletchley Park was almost a magical land, where the war was being decided ultimately thanks to the decoding efforts of those who worked there. But their significance was absolutely nothing compared to that of a young Pilot who sat languishing in Italy, a man that they needed to have back under their thumb now his survival was confirmed. Giovanna did her job perfectly, though she'd not told her cousin about her attempt to seduce James of course, instead solely confirming that he was who he said he was and not an imposter that was forcing them into a trap. She'd told Domenico that she'd seen a picture of James together with a young blonde woman from his time in Ireland, and with a copy of the same photograph in their possession, positive identification could be made. Menzies couldn't help but admire James' devotion to Erin, keeping the photograph for more than two years. Although those two years felt more like ten, true love still held.
The Prime Minister did not often spend his Sundays sat underground in the offices of one of his Intelligence Chiefs, but such was the nature of the young man in question, he had to be. His bodyguard was present with him again to, a man that was privy to the story of James Maguire, where few else were. Such was the level of trust placed in him by Churchill, the two held an understanding that confidential information would remain so, and the Fleet Air Arm's Captain was the very definition of the need for it. Any man or woman that could not be trusted with the knowledge, was a danger. Threats like that could not be allowed to exist when it came to the young Englishman.
"Do stop pacing Stewart, it does you no good".
Reprimanded by the PM, Menzies came to a stop and finally sat down. They were fresh from a meeting that only lasted a few minutes, but the gravity of the information that Churchill took from it was extraordinary. New information about James filtered through that very morning thanks to the work of Captain Smithers, who was also present at the offices that day, though he was outside waiting his turn, talking to Lotty, Menzies' secretary. The two of them were not surprised at all to be called in on a Sunday, Lotty having come to expect it and Smithers being the man who'd forced the outcome in the first place. Not for the first time, he could not sit quietly at home in Kent with the information that came to him. Whenever it was related to James, immediate action was always required. Especially this time…
"This was not a position that I wished for us to be in.". Menzies explained to his superior. "The last thing that I expected when the report came in was this".
Sipping at his tea, the PM could only agree with him. He did not know every branch of the operation that Menzies ran, but he'd remembered the important details and what to expect from each agent or handler. When he was telephoned at home to be told that Captain Smithers' information needed to be viewed by him urgently, any other plans for the day were over. Since the beginning of the war, the weekend scarcely existed for those who wielded power in the highest offices, and few held as much as he did. That morning he'd spent some time with his wife for a change when there were no other pressing engagements, and although annoyed, she understood his need to leave once the call came through. She didn't know the ins and outs of the situation relating to James Maguire, but Clementine was well aware of the realities of her husband's position.
"We cannot predict every outcome of this war, Stewart…". Churchill spoke stoutly. "… but we will be judged on how we react to every amazon we are sent down".
"Quickly, I would say, when we look at the situation we have on our hands". Menzies replied calmly
"I agree with you, old boy. That is why I am studying the options that you have presented to me, rapidly but yet still carefully".
When he arrived at the office that morning, at the same time that both the Lieutenant Colonel and the secretary, Smithers was already planning ahead for how they dealt with the new information that they'd found bestowed upon them. Combining brain power with his superior, Smithers came up with two potential solutions that Menzies deemed feasible. The Lieutenant Colonel did not like either one particularly, which he'd adamantly stressed to the PM too, but something had to be done. They could not sit idly by when the young man's life hung in the balance, their actions depending on whether he would see the shores of Britain again. For their sake, as much as James', he needed to.
Winston Churchill's job as Prime Minister, the leader of the entire nation, meant that he was the man who would have to choose. Both options held their risks, though one was admittedly a lot easier than the other, but without the desired effect of spiriting him away so quickly. They also had the chance to lose their more wider reaching aim if it went wrong, one that did not concern James at all. The option that achieved it was incredibly high risk, and in any other circumstance it would never have been suggested. Smithers, backed by Menzies, understood that there was more room for manoeuvre when it came to the Pilot's life. His importance outweighed the usual worries of expense and boundaries of what was deemed acceptable when it came to risks. The cost of keeping James safe may have stacked up, but it did not matter… no cost was too much with him.
"Option B, Stewart".
The Prime Minister's word was final.
The second option was the higher risk of the two, the one that filled the men tasked with overseeing it with dread. They'd come to suggest it out of the fear that they had to, with other options certainly being out of the question, but it was an operation that was just as daring as the one that saw James captured in the first place. The technical skill of flying an aircraft such as the Fairey Swordfish was not required, instead a very different skillset would be deployed to ensure that they could return James to allied shores, away from the very imminent danger that he currently faced. Worst of all, it was their only chance to do so with the element of surprise on their side. If they could not extricate him from the basement of the Molinari mansion, then they would be faced with a crisis that threatened the whole continuation of the war. If Hitler got his hands on James, there was a strong chance that Europe would fall…
Churchill did not stay any longer once the decision was made, finishing his tea with a final mouthful before requesting his coat from the bodyguard. The two made themselves scarce a moment later, bidding farewell to Captain Smithers and Lotty too. For her, she was unexpectedly part of the future of the war that early afternoon, not that she knew it. Winston Churchill was a regular visitor to the underground office, the secretary never questioning why he was there nor wondering. Her father might have been deceased, and when he was alive, he did not spend vast amounts of time with her, but he'd taught her one important lesson. Not every question was worth asking in the presence of those who could decide one's fate. It stayed with her to that day.
Smithers knew almost everything though, and as soon as the Prime Minister and his bodyguard vacated the building, he was called into Menzies' office. The Lieutenant Colonel had returned to his seat after the Prime Minister left, the chair that Churchill was sat in being left out for the Captain to sit on. Visible signs of stress crept in underneath the eyeline of the superior of the two, although Smithers own eyes showed it too. Once again he'd had to race from his house out in the countryside, albeit in the daytime rather than the dark of the early morning, and this time without crashing the car. The greengrocer was paid remarkably well in damages for the incident, which was turning into a local legend around his area. The man played into the legend too to generate publicity for himself, the only witness to the phantom car driver who'd crashed into his shop that morning. Smithers may have lived the life of a phantom at times, but he most definitely was not one. Not yet anyway…
"Option B, Smithers…". Menzies sighed, a hand running through his receding hair. "… the Prime Minister chose Option B".
Smithers feared the choice just as much as his commanding officer. They'd both felt pressured into coming up with such an immediate solution, which pushed the feasibility limits to the extreme. There were so many factors to take into account in the chosen method that it was hard to keep track of them all, let alone asses every single risk that they may face. If the operation was on British soil then it would have been manageable, or even at least within an acceptable distance where they could deploy a stronger force to assist. Thousands of miles away in Taranto was not somewhere that filled the two with confidence. The whole plan relied upon the actions of the few to be able to secure the life of one of Britain's most important men, a young hero who did not even recognise his own significance.
"That is… disconcerting, Sir". Smithers replied, worry evident in his voice.
"We knew that when we finalised the plan Smithers. There is little that we can do other than hope that everything proceeds smoothly".
"Yes. But what are we to do if it does not?"
"We turn to Option C".
Option C was the last resort for them, the one that even Churchill wasn't allowed to know about… yet. If Option B risked a lot, Option C put the wealth of their resources on the line for just James, though it was a cost that was not too much at all. When they did put it to the PM, it would be undoubtedly be met with much scepticism, but ultimately, neither man was foolish enough to think it would be denied. Not when it came to James. Option B was no guaranteed failure but given the risks that would need to be taken to achieve its aims, it left the alternative Option C a very realistic prospect. Option A could never be returned to if B failed too, and there simply were no other avenues open for them to explore. One of the ways had to achieve success if they valued their own lives enough to wish to live them until their old age.
"I hope her information is accurate…". Smithers spoke up again. "… this could be a disaster if it is not".
"Not necessarily Smithers. It may even be safer if it were to be wrong". Menzies tried to offer him some hope.
"Option A held so much more merit. There was danger but not to James".
"There is always going to be a danger to James, Smithers. Foreseeing the outcome of Option A was always going to be a problem and I believe that is how the PM saw it".
"You are most probably right, Sir".
Menzies didn't know whether that was the case or not, Churchill neglecting to give him a lengthy explanation into the decision. The final word of the Prime Minister was enough; the details behind it were not necessary. The Lieutenant Colonel would have liked to have given his officer a more detailed explanation too but that was how their line of work often proceeded. The shortest answers were sometimes the safest. Both men were barely saying a word to each other for the next few minutes, other than Menzies enquiring about Smithers' wife's pregnancy, which he had not yet had chance to do. Trying to say anymore on James' situation was not easy, but something was going to have to be said sooner or later. As the Commander in the room, it fell to Menzies to ensure that something was.
"You best relay the information to Italy, Smithers. We can at least give them a date for the operation, even if it is so soon".
"Yes, Sir". He replied, retrieving his folder of information, already adorned with a 'Top Secret' label. "It is quiet poetic, do you not think?"
Frowning, Menzies was lost by the Captain's thoughts. Poetry was hardly something that came into the equation with the task at hand. It had only appeared sparsely during his tenure at the helm of the Intelligence services, one of those times being the evidence submitted pertaining to Erin Quinn. That was poetry that no man would want to revisit in a hurry, still being the worst literary work he'd ever held the misfortunate of running his eye over.
"What do you mean?"
"It will mark exactly a year since Taranto, Sir. A year without freedom for James but perhaps he will be free again".
"Ah…". Menzies' face lit up with recognition. "… you make a valid point. I cannot believe it is a year since I was fraught with worry over the mission… and yet here we are again".
The long night waiting for news of Taranto was still fresh in their minds, a milestone in the careers of both men that somehow saw them alive a year later. From how Menzies portrayed it to him, and how the man saw it himself, Smithers was led to believe that death was the option if they lost the young Pilot. They'd came away lightly in the end when it could have been far worse, although the same fate appeared to be hanging over them a year on. Option C was all they had to fall back on, and although it was a legitimate plan with legitimate aims, it really was the final throw of the operational dice for their branch. Failure would leave them disgraced and ostracised by those who'd came to rely on them. The Enigma breakthrough wouldn't save Menzies if they were to fail completely.
Smithers rubbed at his tired eyes, which already bore the signs of the work and pressure that he faced on a daily basis. A man of his age should not have shown such aging, but he'd convinced himself when he stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom at home three nights earlier, that by his mid-forties, he would be a wrinkling mess. His hand ran over the collar of his smartest blue shirt, embroidered carefully by his own wife years earlier. She insisted that he wore it when he'd set off that morning from their home in Kent and it was a most comfortable shirt for a day that was anything but. There too remained an uncomfortable question for him to ask. For his own conscience, he needed to know one final piece of information from his commanding officer.
"Sir, may I ask you one question before I go".
There was a rueful grin slapped across Menzies' face when he looked to the Lieutenant Colonel, which quickly turned into a complete smile. Channelling the most diplomatic tone that he could achieve, the Captain began his long winded question when a nod came in reply from Menzies.
"Sir, this plan risks almost all of our friends in Italy… all except Domenico in fact. There is so much intelligence that we may lose, not to mention the lives of those loyal to us are being gambled on this Pilot. I do not doubt his skill nor his heroism but… but I feel if I am asked to sacrifice my loyal operatives, then I have a right to know the cause for which they may die for. Why is James Maguire worth all of this?"
Menzies's rueful grin remained. He knew the question was coming, having expected it for days let alone minutes. For the whole time that Smithers had been involved in safeguarding James, the truth was hidden from him. He was not allowed to be part of the elite group of individuals that knew who James really was or how important he truly was. That had been agreed between Menzies and the incumbent Prime Minister at the time, Neville Chamberlain, who insisted that any handlers involved when it came to the young man would have to be unaware of the precious details that were hidden from the public so carefully. The deal was not set for life though… it could be altered if it were deemed necessary.
"I have been waiting, Smithers". Menzies admitted in a chuckle, before sighing deeply. "I am actually pleasantly surprised by your continued patience. The Prime Minister has given me the authority to give you this".
Reaching his hand out to the left, Menzies picked up a second file that was labelled 'Top Secret', holding it out in front of him when it was transferred to his right hand. Smithers watched with interest, nose scrunched and brows furrowed. His question was speculative when he thought about it optimistically…
"This will tell you everything you need to know but…". Menzies stopped, leaning forward with a murderous stare in his eyes. "… if you ever divulge its contents to any unauthorised persons… I will kill you myself".
"I understand how it works, Sir". Smithers replied, a chill running through him at his superior's words of warning.
"Good". Menzies breathed out, leaning back whilst handing the document to the Captain. "And Captain, you cannot unsee what is written within that document. This is your last chance to forget this conversation ever happened".
Innocence was lost long ago for the prematurely aging Smithers. At the back of his mind a small voice, more the remnants of the boy left within him, screamed at him to turn back without having to understand the whole truth. However, a larger voice reminded him that he owed those operatives who were risking their lives, despite them being unable to know the truth themselves. If the plan backfired at all, him knowing the truth would at least allow their memories to burn brighter, knowing of their heroism for the true cause they were fighting for. They were not doing it for Britain or for peace around the world; they were doing it for a twenty one year old hero of the Fleet Air Arm who was presumed dead to all but a few.
He chose to open the document.
Scanning down the information about the young man, the majority of which he knew anyway, his eyes finally came to rest on the knowledge that was withheld from him for so long. The unredacted truth showed him why, even when he persistently questioned his commanding officer, Menzies could say nothing. The Lieutenant Colonel's expressions remained unchanged when he glanced up at him upon first spotting the secret.
Smithers had to read it again to convince himself that he was still in the present reality.
Sinking back into the chair, he couldn't quite believe what he'd read.
"Good God…".