The Grace of Sorrow
By Nix Winter
Philip Joachim looked German, blond hair, on the long side for a man with green eyes, emerald and cold. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, smiling as if he weren't concerned, not in the least. His papers bent under his fingers, slipping farther down into his pocket and he chased after them, a sinking feeling, for no real reason, licking at him. The soldier's eyes narrowed slightly. The papers slipped, unfolding back into his hand and he pulled them free, holding them out, smiling.
They were taking from his hand, sharply. It was the hair; he knew it. Too long, blond with caramel shades, almost the ideal and just willfully not. He lifted his glasses up, straightening the wire rims. He was just an historian, just here to help the Reiche decide which were the best historical documents to remove to Berlin, to maybe root out Jewish forgeries.
"Marc Herbert," the solider said, looking from the photo to the man sitting in the first class train seat. The photo matched. Philip knew it did. He'd done the forgery himself. "Business in Paris?"
"Here to make sure important historical works go to Berlin, where they belong," he said. "I am a specialist in antiquities."
The solider went back to looking at Philip's papers. He was a Nazi Party member there. He'd never been arrested. His ribs weren't still sore from his last discussion with the SS. "Welcome to Paris, Herr Herbert. Heil Hitler!"
Philip's salute was true and straight. There were lives hanging in the balance. Welcome to Paris.
The soldier moved on, inspecting papers. He kept one woman's. Philip ignored her tears, ignored her pleas as she was escorted from the car. A bullet can't change paths, pick its own target. It's only good if it hits where it's going. It made his mouth dry though. One day that would be him.
That wasn't today though. Soon the car was released and those who had passed inspection picked up their bags.
He'd been to Paris once, when he was a boy. A city of light and possibility, he'd thought then, full of books and secrets. Philip loved secrets, loved finding the out, loved telling the truth about them. Philip loved giving the screw to people who hurt others. Carpet bag in hand, one hand holding his hat on his head, he waited for his contact. He was to meet Anise here. All he knew was red headed and the name Anise. A woman, he thought. She'd be slender, he imagined, standing there, waiting for her, almost boyish. She'd be calm too, with hard eyes and soft lips. He hoped she'd be single. He'd kiss her. It would be romantic. He smiled. He loved women as much as he loved secrets, almost.
Red flashed in the crowd, catching his attention. Hair so red it could have been rubies, or some taboo lipstick worn by a singer in a club, he watched as the person meeting moved through the crowd of people exiting the train from the rest of the cars. Now he under stood why knowing red hair was all he needed. She was beautiful.
And then he saw her face. Beautiful. He nearly dropped his bag. He was twenty-seven and he'd been in love many times, feel in love more often enough that his friends accused him of being in love with all of Berlin. That wasn't far off from the truth, but there was something about this red head, with violet eyes that made him feel as if he'd found home. The lost feeling he'd had all his life sank and ended and he knew this was the one he'd looked for all his life, before this life, lives before. His heart woke and he thought it had been sleeping until that moment, waiting. Then the red head broke free from the crowd. Slender, boyish, and male, 'she' wore a suit, a neat black tie, and expression that could have killed. The love of his life was a man and a bloody Medusa.
"I'm Anise," the man said, voice making Philip's stomach flutter rebelliously. "Adrian Anise. Marc Herbert?"
Philip held out his hand. "Thank you so much for meeting me."
"Let us hurry," Adrian said, holding Philip's hand for just a moment longer than he needed to. "The housekeeper is holding dinner for you."
Oh that's right, Philip remembered. He was here for a reason. "Adrian," he said, rolling the name like poetry, making it more intimate than he should have, "I'm so glad I have this opportunity to come to Paris."
Any spy knows, opportunity is everything.
By Nix Winter
Philip Joachim looked German, blond hair, on the long side for a man with green eyes, emerald and cold. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, smiling as if he weren't concerned, not in the least. His papers bent under his fingers, slipping farther down into his pocket and he chased after them, a sinking feeling, for no real reason, licking at him. The soldier's eyes narrowed slightly. The papers slipped, unfolding back into his hand and he pulled them free, holding them out, smiling.
They were taking from his hand, sharply. It was the hair; he knew it. Too long, blond with caramel shades, almost the ideal and just willfully not. He lifted his glasses up, straightening the wire rims. He was just an historian, just here to help the Reiche decide which were the best historical documents to remove to Berlin, to maybe root out Jewish forgeries.
"Marc Herbert," the solider said, looking from the photo to the man sitting in the first class train seat. The photo matched. Philip knew it did. He'd done the forgery himself. "Business in Paris?"
"Here to make sure important historical works go to Berlin, where they belong," he said. "I am a specialist in antiquities."
The solider went back to looking at Philip's papers. He was a Nazi Party member there. He'd never been arrested. His ribs weren't still sore from his last discussion with the SS. "Welcome to Paris, Herr Herbert. Heil Hitler!"
Philip's salute was true and straight. There were lives hanging in the balance. Welcome to Paris.
The soldier moved on, inspecting papers. He kept one woman's. Philip ignored her tears, ignored her pleas as she was escorted from the car. A bullet can't change paths, pick its own target. It's only good if it hits where it's going. It made his mouth dry though. One day that would be him.
That wasn't today though. Soon the car was released and those who had passed inspection picked up their bags.
He'd been to Paris once, when he was a boy. A city of light and possibility, he'd thought then, full of books and secrets. Philip loved secrets, loved finding the out, loved telling the truth about them. Philip loved giving the screw to people who hurt others. Carpet bag in hand, one hand holding his hat on his head, he waited for his contact. He was to meet Anise here. All he knew was red headed and the name Anise. A woman, he thought. She'd be slender, he imagined, standing there, waiting for her, almost boyish. She'd be calm too, with hard eyes and soft lips. He hoped she'd be single. He'd kiss her. It would be romantic. He smiled. He loved women as much as he loved secrets, almost.
Red flashed in the crowd, catching his attention. Hair so red it could have been rubies, or some taboo lipstick worn by a singer in a club, he watched as the person meeting moved through the crowd of people exiting the train from the rest of the cars. Now he under stood why knowing red hair was all he needed. She was beautiful.
And then he saw her face. Beautiful. He nearly dropped his bag. He was twenty-seven and he'd been in love many times, feel in love more often enough that his friends accused him of being in love with all of Berlin. That wasn't far off from the truth, but there was something about this red head, with violet eyes that made him feel as if he'd found home. The lost feeling he'd had all his life sank and ended and he knew this was the one he'd looked for all his life, before this life, lives before. His heart woke and he thought it had been sleeping until that moment, waiting. Then the red head broke free from the crowd. Slender, boyish, and male, 'she' wore a suit, a neat black tie, and expression that could have killed. The love of his life was a man and a bloody Medusa.
"I'm Anise," the man said, voice making Philip's stomach flutter rebelliously. "Adrian Anise. Marc Herbert?"
Philip held out his hand. "Thank you so much for meeting me."
"Let us hurry," Adrian said, holding Philip's hand for just a moment longer than he needed to. "The housekeeper is holding dinner for you."
Oh that's right, Philip remembered. He was here for a reason. "Adrian," he said, rolling the name like poetry, making it more intimate than he should have, "I'm so glad I have this opportunity to come to Paris."
Any spy knows, opportunity is everything.