Hampstead, London, United Kingdom, 27 July 1945
Michael would be twenty-nine today.
It strikes Peggy like lightning. She stares listlessly at the roses with their heavy blooms. It's not a special number. Not a particularly important milestone. But she is now older than Michael would ever be.
He would be twenty-nine. He might have a wife and child by this point. Mother always wanted him to marry Edith Harker - beautiful, intelligent, well bred, the picture of English womanhood. He could plug his nose to do that; and he was good with children. Father would be so happy. Or maybe they could finally accept that Michael would be a bachelor until the day he died. There was nothing wrong with that.
Maybe they would have gone to a nice restaurant. One that was still open. And they'd have a good dinner, catch up, and laugh and joke. Then Mother and Father would return home while Michael, Matthew, and herself would go to some pub or a swing club and really catch up. Really be themselves. She'd apologize for arguing with Michael at the engagement party. He was right in the end.
They could be happy. Truly happy.
Father is locked away in his office with the Kreutzer Sonata coming through the door. The signal to all of the Carter children to not disturb him.
Mother sits with her embroidery, saying nothing. She doesn't cry anymore when anyone mentions Michael's name. She just goes somewhere else.
Matthew left with the dog for a walk.
Her baby brother is turning nineteen this November. He's going up to Cambridge to read history and anthropology. He's always wanted to go to Mexico, he's been fascinated by the Maya and Aztecs since he was a boy. It seems like yesterday when he was a scrubby schoolboy, with knobbly knees and unruly ginger hair. He takes after the Carter side, with his rounder face, grey eyes, and auburn hair that curls in any humidity. He's already got Michael's height, maybe a little taller.
He's grown so quiet and stern. Spends most of his time reading, listening to records, smoking cigarettes. Father calls him sullen and sulking. Mother says nothing.
"You weren't here Peg!" Matthew rounded on her last night with angry tears in his eyes. "You haven't been in the shadow of Saint Michael for four years! Always being reminded of him, being told what he did, and how he would do things, and how I'm not measuring up to him! Nothing I do is good enough. I'm not good enough. I sometimes hate him. I truly hate him. And I wish I didn't."
Stark Estate, Hollywood, California
"Alright, let's start with what we know about the Council of Nine," Peggy says.
She's taken over the sitting room that they've been meeting up in most frequently for the past few days. Jarvis and Ana managed to dig up cork boards, a chalkboard, stationary, and other supplies.
"Half of them are dead thanks to Whitney Frost," Howard says.
"Which ones Howard?"
"Chadwick Calvin, of course. Thomas Gloucester, who ran Gloucester & Landman LLC. First National Bank's president Colin Shore, Paul de Graf who ran Timely Industries, and Walter Donovan of Donovan Manufacturing," Daniel lists off the names and companies while Peggy writes them down on the chalkboard.
Howard adds, "Gloucester & Landman are the lawyers to the rich bastards who own the west. First National is their bank - specializing in all sorts of money laundering. De Graf bought up Timely when old Phineas Horton went bust. And you've probably never heard of Donovan Industries because they make all the boring parts that happen to make our world tick."
"How do you know all this?" Peggy asks.
"Shear luck got me ninety percent of the way, but the other ten percent is knowing how the system works."
"So that leaves four: Hugh Jones, Mortimer Hayes, James Melvin, and Ned Buckman," says Daniel.
"We know about Jones," Peggy says, trying not to recall how grabby the lech was. "But who are the others?"
"Mortimer Hayes owns all the newspapers west of the Mississippi that Hearst doesn't own. James Melvin runs the Brand Corporation, who does engineering, procurement, and construction services. Though rumor has it that Melvin's really a seat warmer for someone down in Panama. And finally Ned Buckman, runs Marchand Pharmaceuticals and is the biggest opium and cocaine importer in the states. And that's on the legal side."
Daniel says, "Alright, so we have four very high profile men of four major companies who basically control vast swaths of American life…"
"... And they've been rocked by several very public scandals over a few weeks." Peggy finishes.
"Senate candidate, the most powerful lawyer in the west, the money guy, and two industrialists all dead in an 'accident,' Whitney Frost and Isodyne going down in flames. Communist spies crawling all over the place according to rival media." Howard tuts. "I'd say the best plan is to keep a very low profile until things settle down."
Peggy looks over and notes the glee in Howard's face. Oh, how the tables turned! He's at least not crowing about this small victory; let him indulge his pettiness for a while.
She declares, "So let's go catch some rats before they escape the ship."
US-Mexican Border at El Paso and Ciudad Juárez
"Purpose of your visit?" the border guard asks.
"Visiting family in Albuquerque. And there's the state fair, too. Boss wants me to look at the cattle," Ivan answers.
"Not buying?" pointing out the lack of a cattle trailer attached to the truck.
"No, he lives by the saying 'buyer beware.'"
"Ah, wise man," the border guard replies, stamping the passport with little fanfare and waves Ivan through. The easy part's over.
He drives through El Paso, stuck behind a truck stacked high with watermelons and crawling at a snail's pace. He switches between radio stations, going from a Mexican station playing ranchera ballads to an English speaking news station. When the host turns out to be some sort of Christian evangelist, Ivan switches again, finally finding a station playing western swing.
It takes almost an hour to get to the outskirts of El Paso due to the heavy traffic. But finally, well outside city limits - and practically within sight of New Mexico - Ivan turns off the highway onto a dirt road and pulls off to the side. From a hidden compartment under the truck's bench seat, he takes out Texas plates to replace the Durango plates that he tosses into the pasture.
Once done, he gets back onto the highway heading northeast towards Alamogordo. It's an hour along an unbroken scene of scrub and red earth. Around Orogrande the terrain becomes hilly and on the horizon he starts seeing mountains. The land gets drier and the mountains almost loom on to his right, made more sinister by the thunderheads coming up from the south.
It doesn't take long to find the bar for the rendezvous. It's a very rough looking dive, and Ivan's been in some questionable establishments, this one's just a different flavour. This was the white bar, but mostly for locals - there was a lot more cowboy paraphernalia around. There was a small stage in the back fenced off with chicken wire and a trough to catch the broken beer bottles. The interior is dark, the air stunk of grease, smoke and booze, and the floor is sticky. Base staff likely wanders over on a Friday evening looking to get pissed, have a dance, have a squeeze, and have a fight. Not exactly in that order. Ivan loves these places.
He finds Dan Kane sitting at a corner table.
"Well look what the cat dragged in," Dan says upon seeing Ivan
To the world he's a grizzled ranch hand. He's close to forty and looks ten years older. But he'd been born the son of a wealthy Texas rancher who was bumming around Europe playing Hemmingway for a bit before the war. Grew to hate fascism, and was one of Ivan's first agent recruits. Kept the faith all these years.
"Yeah, long time, no see," Ivan replies as he sits down at the table.
"So how's ol' Cristóbal?" Kane asks, using an ancient work name.
"Holding up. You?"
"Ah, could be worse," Kane holds out a packet of cigarettes, Chesterfields, and only three left. Odd number, everything was fine. If there was an even number of cigarettes, Ivan would have to leave town fast. "Got a good job with the Forest Service. Nice place near Cloudcroft. Wife and kid."
Kane calls over the waitress and orders two beers for them.
"How old's the wife?" Ivan asks. It's meant to be a tease.
"Jesus Christ you dirty old Cossack! Nan's almost thirty and I ain't that old. And Izzy's two for that matter."
"Alright, point taken," Ivan concedes. "They in town?"
"Yeah, Nan's buying groceries. She knows I'm meeting an 'old friend' and that I can hitch a ride back."
The waitress comes back with the beers before disappearing into the kitchen.
"Does she know why?"
"Doesn't ask. Beauty of the marriage: I don't ask about the fucked up shit she went through as a kid. And she doesn't ask about the extra work."
"Sounds reasonable."
They go quiet for a moment. The beer's awful, but the music coming over the radio's alright.
"Truck can handle off-roading?" Kane asks.
"Course it can."
"Good. Take you out to White Sands. Show you around. Got something else I want to show you."
"Alright. Got to be out of here by the thirtieth, though," Ivan says.
"Fair enough. Shouldn't take too long, though. We can do that tomorrow." Kane leans across the table, adding in a voice barely above a whisper. "Moscow's gonna be real interested in what I've found. It'll blow your fucking mind."
Garment District, Los Angeles
Roger lounges in the back of the Plymouth, Emily and Dottie up front, as they drive through downtown. They'd learned that their new pet Russian assassin had been hiding in an abandoned Garment District storefront for a couple weeks since she escaped from the SSR. She didn't have much, but she had some important documents and a notebook with all her research. And Dottie needed new clothes anyway, and is currently wearing Roger's shirt and trousers. She's too tall for any of Emily's clothing and she would be swimming in Michael's things. And of course they could not let the poor girl go running around in a dirty nurse's uniform. All the while, Michael is off sneaking around Arena Club while Roger and Emily make sure Dottie doesn't do something stupid.
"So if I'm good, will you buy me some pretty jewelry? Those bangles are so 'fetching'. Am I using that correctly?" Dottie says with a teasing, breathless voice.
The girl is utterly barmy. Emily has the patience of a saint, knowing where those bangles were from.
"You're an adult. You can buy your own things," Emily responds. "Anyway, the warehouse is after this turn, is it?"
"Of course," Dottie answers with a pout.
Emily turns down an alley, going slow to accommodate the workers pushing racks of clothing.
"Stop here," Dottie says when they get to a two story red brick building that looked more neglected than the rest.
Roger immediately knows he's going to hate this. There's so much dust and at least two broken windows. He just knows it's infested with rats and cockroaches and Lord knows what else? But he doesn't complain because Emily will find a way to get him inside the building.
"Alright, ladies," Roger says, taking something of a lead. It's like plunging into a cold lake, if he doesn't go in right away, he won't go in at all. And he knows that Emily's place herself behind Dottie. He turns his fist into its diamond shell, and gives the door a swift punch, breaking the lock.
The backroom is dark, dingy, and stuffy; full of crates of unsold bolts of fabrics, threads, and ribbons. Once upon a time it may have been a haberdashery.
"So where'd you hide your things, Dot?" Roger asks.
"Upstairs, old bean," Dottie drawls with dripping sarcasm and mimicking his accent.
"Well lead the way, then." She rolls her eyes, but takes point as instructed. She takes them down the hallway and up the narrow stairs.
Hers has been a meager existence. A dirty mattress and camp stove. An evening dress carefully hung from a hanger with a rucksack underneath. Roger can smell the accumulated filth from years of neglect. Poor Emily has her nose covered with a handkerchief; her senses are so sensitive it gives her the appearance of precognition. Or in possession of an easily queasy stomach.
Dottie roots around the room as she packs up her few belongings. She shoves an old table aside and lifts up a floorboard next to the wall. She reaches in and pulls out a notebook swollen from use.
"This contains everything I know about the Anglo-American establishment aiding the reconstruction of HYDRA."
The Arena Club, Downtown Los Angeles
"Their standards seem to have relaxed considerably," Jarvis says.
Peggy, Daniel, and Jarvis sit in the car across from the Arena Club, watching who came and went. A black Lincoln Continental pulled up and the chauffeur let out his passenger: a woman with pale blonde hair and dressed in a lilac grey suit with the longer New Look skirt. She was let in without any objection from the club's majordomo.
Daniel snaps a picture, "Wasn't that long ago when she'd have to sneak in through the back."
"You know I do believe that we still have the club bugged."
"That was a couple weeks ago, do you think they're still there?"
"Well Mr. Stark did modify the wireless to pick up more radio channels than the average automobile's, and to operate his own remote devices. So if the listening devices are still transmitting…" Jarvis starts fiddling with the dials, scanning through the stations until a slightly muffled set of voices came over the wireless.
"... And this, Mr. Chapman, is one of our private reading rooms. As you can see, no expense was spared with the decor. This rug, for example, was handmade in…"
"Peg, where are you going?" Daniel says to her as she exits the car.
"Going to see what that woman's up to. Shouldn't have been so easy for her to walk in publicly. You two keep an ear on any conversation you can pick up on."
"I don't know, Peg."
"I got in there before, I can do it again."
She closes the passenger side door and swiftly crosses the street, finding the back entrance she used the first time. Peggy slips through the back halls, dodging service staff from the kitchen and laundry until she comes out into a hall used by club members. She wanders down the wood paneled hall when she comes to a stairwell and catches a glimpse of Joseph Manfredi. She ducks and presses herself up against the wall behind a decorative table topped with a fern.
"Right this way, Mr. Manfredi," the host says. Peggy peaks from behind the fern, and watches as he's led up the stairs.
As quietly as she can, Peggy follows, hiding in behind furniture and alcoves until the host gestures from Manfredi to enter a room. To her surprise, she finds a room with its door left ajar that shares a wall with one Manfredi was directed into. Maybe she can eavesdrop on them. There is a door that appears to connect the rooms. It's a risk, but she opens it and discovers a jack-and-jill style closet with a cane lattice on the upper parts. She walks up to the door and sees Manfredi and the woman.
"Have a seat, why would you," the woman says. Her accent is that of a patrician American who's spent quite a lot of time abroad.
If she keeps close to the other door, she should be able to go unseen.
"So how's dear Aunt Aggie?"
Manfredi knows that he's not going to like this woman. "Miss Frost is doing fine. Given the circumstances."
Cassandra Romulus gives a brief smile, but it doesn't reach her green eyes. And something about that silver snake bangle coiled around her wrist was a little too lifelike for his comfort.
"Mr. Manfredi, I do appreciate the care you've given my aunt in these trying times. Especially when I was so hard to reach."
"Thank you, Miss Romulus."
"Your choice of hospital for her was very wise. They're very discreet; for the best, of course. It's such a terrible thing to see such a brilliant mind deteriorate as her's did. And creating such a mess to clean up. But, again, Mr. Manfredi, you've done an excellent job."
She lounges against the leather couch like she's fucking Cleopatra. She looks up with expectant eyes and a do-you-like-what-you-see pose. So does this make him Caesar?
"You flatter me, but if you're trying to chase me off…"
"Chase you off! Absolutely not! I want to work with you. We want to work with you."
Cleopatra wrapped in a rug.
"Who's 'we'?"
"The people who will be owning this club by tomorrow morning," Romulus says, pointing around the room. "Mr. Melvin is handling that."
"Melvin as in James Melvin of the Brand Corporation?"
"He's my man in the USA. I prefer Panama, myself. Anyway, my associates and I are very interested in everything contained in that laboratory. There are many secrets here related to the Council of Nine that we will be taking into our custody."
Government secrets, probably. He's got his own deals with state and federal officials, but he knows the Nine have secrets on a whole other level.
"Thought the Feds had that all locked up?"
Romulus smirks, "Everything was released back to me. They have what they want."
"And how do I fit in?"
She leans forward, speaking in a soft, soothing voice, "I need someone to take care of Whitney. I genuinely meant when I said that you've been taking exceptional care of her. Her condition is quite serious and requires considerable attention, and I will be leaving Los Angeles sooner rather than later. So to have you here, looking out for her, it gives me such relief." Romulus then gets up and starts walking around the room. "I also understand that she moved a considerable amount of Isodyne assets to an undisclosed location. And you see, Isodyne is my inheritance. So while I would rather not impose on your hospitality, I do need your help to at least account for and secure those assets. And you'll be compensated handsomely, I promise."
Romulus completes her circuit of the room, turning on her heel to look at him. Those green eyes are so transfixing. Hypnotic.
"I'm not that easy to buy, Miss Romulus," he says. He knows when he's being buttered up.
"I'm not buttering you up, Mr. Manfredi. You buy people, not the other way around. I am proposing a partnership. An alliance. We can go over the money later, but that is only a means to an end. And you understand that, don't you, Mr. Manfredi."
He swallows.
"You are a man of action. Dynamic. Adaptive. I have done my research into you, Mr. Manfredi. You came from nothing and managed to build an empire, A secret empire, yes, but an empire nonetheless." She throws her arms wide. A wild look in her eye the likes he'd only seen in tent preachers and dictators. "The Caesar of the Pacific coast. You came, you saw, you conquered. The Council of Nine is dead. What they represent is an old, fossilized aristocracy. You are a true American, the one who looks to the future, honors tradition, but isn't bound by it. You weren't handed power: you took it. You built and created your, protected your family and community, not sat around on your laurels. And with my associates and our resources, you can bring your empire into the sunlight. And more importantly, you can better protect Whitney and her legacy."
"Sounds a little too good to be true, sweetheart," Manfredi says walking up close to her, desperate to remain firm in his suspicions. There's still something about her he doesn't like and something's warning him about a trap but that voice gets more and more muffled the longer she talks.
"I know. I am promising you the moon and stars," Romulus says so sweetly.
"Got a good feeling you're promising a trap."
"I understand the suspicion. It's kept you alive so far," Romulus steps closer to him. He can smell her perfume, something expensive, leathery, and a little masculine. She keeps her hands to herself, doesn't look at him, but her voice drops to a low purr. "Please do not consider me the enemy. I want what's best for my aunt, just like you. And we can help each other achieve what we want."
"Protecting Whitney."
"And setting this country - this world - to its proper order. Let those who can rule do so unhindered, and those who cannot will be productive and enjoy happiness and safety. People like you, like my baron, you are among those who should be in charge."
Romulus looks up now with those green eyes and a coy smile.
"Meet me at Isodyne headquarters tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. I will show you exactly what my plans are."
And like that Cassandra Romulus walks out. Manfredi collapses onto one of the couches, releasing a held breath. She'll be the death of me and I'll be thanking her for the experience. Just like Whitney.
Manfredi checks his watch and makes to leave. There's business to attend to and wants to check in on Whitney. Peonies don't have thorns on them.
Quietly, Peggy leaves the Jack-and-Jill closet. She listens by the door, waiting for Manfredi to leave. She listens to his and his bodyguard's fading steps, and quietly slips out the door towards the back of the building and the staff exits. The club is quiet this time of day so thankfully, Peggy gets through most of the building with little trouble. Home free soon.
She turns a corner, a man exits a room. Peggy hides behind the wall, peaking as much as she dared to see where he's going.
Her heart stops.
The man is tall and dressed in a light grey suit. He has black hair and is surprisingly pale for southern California.
In profile he looks exactly like Michael.
Peggy steps out from behind the wall. He turns.
They look at each other for an eternity.
It's his eyes. Deep brown and alight with recognition. The sort of eyes that could fix a person in place. Make them feel like the only person in the room. They were expressive and despite his best attempts, would always show his heart. Laughing and dancing, filled with mirth. Locked with a hunter's fierce concentration and determination. Fiery and passionate in debate. So filled with sadness that all Peggy wanted to do was hide her brother away from a world that was cruel to him.
"Michael?"
Her voice is a dry rasp holding back years worth of tears. She aches to reach out and touch him. To make sure it's truly him. That this isn't just a ghost.
"I thought you were dead."
He looks as stunned as she feels.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "You must be mistaken."
"No I'm not."
She knows her brother like she knows herself.
"Michael it's me," She says, fighting against the tears. "Peggy. Don't you remember?"
"I'm sorry," he says, turning on his heel, walking away.
"Michael please!" She calls after him. "Please stop!"
He picks up his face. She follows.
"Michael, stop! Please!"
One of the staff appears between Peggy and her brother, shouting, "What are you doing here!"
Michael rounds a corner.
"Get out of my way!" she shouts back.
"What are you doing here!"
She knees the staff member in the stomach and shoves him against the wall, tossing him down on the floor. Peggy follows, sliding around the corner that Michael disappears behind.
He's gone.
There's more voices. More shouting. Half-blindly she bolts out of the club and onto the street and somehow Jarvis and Daniel are there with the car.
"Drive!" She orders Jarvis.
Daniel asks, "What's wrong, Peg?"
"Just drive!"
They speed off.
Maybe that was a ghost.
It's one of the hardest things he's had to do. Never dreamed of it. Never thought he'd have to do that. Denying Peggy like that.
Telling her she's mistaken.
Denying who he is.
Michael sits in the back of the taxi almost unable to breath. Felt like that the other night in the stairwell. He wanted to make sure she was alright. Maybe tell her what's going on.
Tell her everything.
But he can't have Peggy interfere. Can't paint her with his brush. He's all but an outlaw and the world's far less forgiving to a woman for that. He's damned Emily and she volunteered. It's cost her everything and it eats him up inside.
You did this, you're responsible for this. You can't do that to Peggy.
What was she doing there in the club?
He hadn't kept up with her career and that damned file is useless. Someone doctored it. Put in things that he and those under the Union Jack banner had done. What the Invaders had done. He's certain that she was in France for a short time then wound up in the SSR and continued on with them. But there were parts clearly lifted from Emily's record. So what's the point? Why go to that length? Namor's file was mostly intact.
Distraction? Likely. Has to be. She was there, she's snooping, she's onto something. Peggy's got a lead and she doesn't let go. At the very least, she's at the top of a rabbit hole.
Perhaps there is a way to work with her without dragging her down with him. He feels the subminiature camera tucked away in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. They can't be at cross purposes. Her file and that cabal are the key. They have what he wants and there is far more that Peggy needs to know.
Maybe they could be a family again.
I wonder if she likes girls?
What a strange question, Dottie thinks. It wandered into her head, unbidden, but not unwelcome. Emily's easy on the eyes.
They've rolled the car windows down to catch a breeze, which plays with her hair. As they drive through the city, Roger goes over Dottie's notes, asking her how she came across her discoveries and put together her conspiracy.
She doesn't know if she likes any of her new companions. They're competent and appear experienced. So there's that going for them. Jury's still out on whether Dottie will have to turn on them.
But Emily's so different from Peggy. There's the obvious, of course. She's short, and a copper blonde. Her eyes are hazel, all greens and amber brown; big and cat-shaped under her sunglasses. Her face has a more sylph-like quality. She's boyish in a more muscular way - like a jockey. Emily would probably make a rather pretty boy.
That's the thing. Emily isn't beautiful. Not in a classic sense. Just pretty. Peggy is beautiful. Frightfully beautiful. Just like Michael; they must be siblings. She's a goddess and someone Dottie wants to be. The unobtainable, the perfect, the distant. Emily's got scars on her face; on her lip, cheek, and through an eyebrow. It's a memorable face. There's a sweetness and softness to it that's absent in Peggy.
And she's been unfailingly kind and patient with Dottie. Something she's never experienced. Not even Peggy's shown her that. But there wasn't any fun in that. Their whole dynamic was based around antagonism. This kindness is almost terrifying when Dottie thinks about it. Despite the initially rough treatment and the threat of crushing her legs, Emily is gentle. Gentle despite herself and her monstrous nature.
"I'm surprised you haven't connected the Masons to this," Roger says dryly from the back.
"That fascist canard? Please. They take the blame for secretly controlling everything. They're a great scapegoat for being so secretive. There's some overlap with individual Freemasons, but they no monolith," Dottie retorts.
"But still, our HYDRA sympathizers are using charitable organizations to move people and goods," Emily says.
"Yes," Dottie answers, "It's easy to move money when it's used to 'aid European refugees' and not have the government look too close at the books. In fact, they're usually chipping in money or using their services for their own ends."
"Nice little system they've got," says Roger.
"It's only the beginning. The elites of this country hate the whiff of workers unions, let alone communism, so there's always been pro-capitalist propaganda fed to average Americans. But I have proof that there's a campaign a foot to make Americans believe these organizations are the protectors of America. To make every man, woman, and child a willing participant in fully embracing fascism. Because these bastards, want to turn this into a holy war."
"All the while summoning powers from the aether. Good Lord!" Roger exclaims. "The Yanks have the atom bomb, what more could they want? They have us all hostage!"
"Until the glorious Soviet Union has their bombs."
"Then the fascists build a bigger bombs. Or they find a shortcut," Emily says. "Hence why they're looking for the crowns."
"And they'll let in something that will swallow the bloody earth. Do they know what the Hell they're playing with?" he replies.
"They don't care, Roger. Never have, never will. They think they can control this and we'll just bow before them in submission." Emily says, overtaking a heavy truck. "Arrogant enough to try and all that the powers above and below need."
Dottie looks on at the two in complete bewilderment. "What the Hell are you two talking about?"
Through the rearview mirror, Roger gives a sly look. Tapping her notebook he says, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Dottie, than are dreamt of in your conspiracies."
Stark Estate
"You never said you had a brother," Daniel says. He sits down next to Peggy in the study on a settee. She had been updating the cork and chalkboards with their new discoveries. Though she was rather reluctant to put Michael onto them. She did tell them about the encounter. Edited, of course, but they know that Michael's in play somehow.
She bristles, his statement being so blunt, but she holds on a snap. Peggy had never told anyone about her family. "I have two. Michael's the elder and Matthew the younger."
"All 'm' names? Really?"
"I don't know if mine and Michael's naming was intentional. Matthew's was. He's seven years younger than me and, as I learned years later, not planned."
"Oh. I mean, they had two with alliterative names, it would be odd for the last one not to have a matching name. Have to complete the set."
Peggy knows he's trying to lighten the mood, but she's not feeling it and Daniel takes the hint. "Why so curious?"
He shrugs, "You know a lot about me. I grew up Catholic in Massachusetts, have four older sisters - one's a nun - played shortstop on my high school baseball team, and went to a local college before the war. You, Peggy, have kept a pretty tight lip about your past. And I think it's good t0 get this stuff off your chest. I guess it's like Confession."
"Crikey, I'm Church of England. We left you papists so our king could screw a younger woman," she sighs. She's been tight lipped because it's painful. Almost more so than losing Steve. "But you make a fair point."
"Were you guys close?" he asks.
"Yes. Of course," Peggy answers. "For a time. Michael and I were thick as thieves. There was a time when strangers mistook us for twins, we looked so much alike."
"And Matthew?"
The guilt hits her, "When Mother was pregnant with him, she tried to get me interested in the prospect of having a baby around. 'It'll be better than your dolls' she said, but by then I was rather uninterested in playing house. But by the time he was older and had a personality, Matthew was quite fun. Michael and I just weren't around that often. Especially Michael."
"How come?"
"School. I went to grammar school in London. Mother didn't want me sent too far afield." She lets out a half-hearted laugh. "She did threaten me on several occasions to send me to a convent school in France. Though I think I was entitled to go to the Maison d'éducation de la Légion d'Honneur."
Daniel raises an eyebrow.
"A French girls' school for the daughters and descendants of those awarded with the Légion d'Honneur. My great-grandfather got it during the Crimean War. Michael, though, he went up to Repton."
"That's a boarding school?"
"Yes. My father and grandfather went there, and Matthew did, too when he was old enough. Hated it, called it a prison camp in the Midlands. But he endured. It's the done thing in families like mine, you see. A point of pride, especially for our father. Three generations of Carters."
"What was he like?" Daniel asks after a pause.
"Utterly brilliant." Peggy answers, allowing her a little sentimentality. "At least I thought so. Always so kind and considerate. He was always in my corner when no one else was."
And our last conversation ended in an argument.
Peggy takes a breath, willing tears to not come. "He wanted to be a historian. He was good at writing and loved the Middle Ages. Was fascinated by the Byzantine Empire, practically taught himself Greek to read their own histories. I helped him edit his honours thesis on Anna Komnene. He liked to go on these excursions to Greece, Egypt, and even went to the Holy Land once. Our Uncle Lucien helped with that, he worked for the French colonial government in Syria at the time. Michael managed to take me along a few times, and all three of us were in Greece the last summer before the war."
The memories come back: the sun, the sea, the mountains. Shaded museums and ruins on rocky outcroppings. They were so happy.
"And he'd bring me along to visit his friends over holidays. I went to Girton at Cambridge and was good friends with Lydia Aubrey, the sister of his closest friend. Michael went to Oxford, so we saw each other whenever we could. I don't know what it was like being around your sisters' friends, but at sixteen, Michael's Oxford friends were gods to me."
"Gods?" Daniel repeats back.
"I mean, they were all beautiful and brilliant. New sophisticated bright young things. Roger Aubrey was writing book reviews for newspapers barely out of school. Robby had a good career as a solicitor mapped out for him. Maddie Joyce-Frank was this debutante - presented to the King - was friends with Nancy Mitford, insulted Lady Mosley, and gave quite the cold shoulder to Mrs. Simpson. And of course there was Edith Harker who was one sweetest, kindest person I ever met. Sort of the sister I never had."
And it all fell apart. It seems like everything was in a continued state of falling apart. Is there an end to it?
"But you see, Michael's the reason I'm talking to you now. If he hadn't pointed me in certain directions, I don't think I'd have tried out for the SOE. I'd be married to a man I'd grow to loathe. Living a life I would hate." She lets out a sigh. "Just it came at the cost of Michael."
Daniel takes her hand. Peggy hadn't realized that her hands were shaking. "I got engaged to Fred Wells. He was safe, and boring, and a dead end. I don't think I was even in love. It was just something I was supposed to do. And I wasn't being rejected for being a woman. So at my engagement party, Michael took one look at Fred and told me I was throwing away my life. He'd been the one to recommend me to the SOE. I balked because there was this whiff of nepotism, even though that's how this world works."
"Old boys network. Know too many people who got this job because they knew someone."
"How many of our former colleagues have ties to Sullivan & Cromwell?"
"Too many."
She leans her head on Daniel's shoulder. "The last time Michael and I spoke, I told him to stay out of my life. That was in August '41. In November we received his death notice." Peggy swallows against a tightening throat. "I never said 'goodbye.'"
Peggy feels the tears well up. Michael was a pillar of her life; her pole star. There was so much more she wished to say but couldn't. It hurt too much. When she last visited, it was like a bomb had gone off and ripped apart her remaining family. His absence seeped into every facet of her home. Not a moment passed those few weeks that didn't remind her of Michael. To see the damage done broke her heart and ripped open wounds she long thought had scarred over.
The worst was seeing Matthew. He had grown up so fast and with so much pain that looked so small compared to what others had been through. He kept so much to himself and it hurt him so much. The sadness, the anger, the loneliness. She knows how it looked to him. Peggy went off to pursue her dreams, and abandoned him. He was just a boy. She failed him, there's no other way to put it.
And now there is this phantom Michael running around. Part of her feels like she's losing her mind. Part of her is hoping against hope that Michael is alive and well and they can be a family once more. That they can make things right. But she dares not hope.
Trinity Heights Mental Hospital, Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles
There's a nurse sympathetic enough to let Manfredi into Whitney's room. She goes to fetch a vase for the bouquet of peonies and for a while, it's just him and Whitney.
"Hey there, doll," he says.
She's unresponsive. Heavily sedated and bound to her bed. The fool of a doctor suggested shaving her hair off. "Easier to maintain hygiene," he said. Manfredi told him he'd stick those shears up the doc's ass personally if he touched a hair on Whitney's head.
Christ she's a natural blonde.
"I met Cassandra today. Weird kid. Got a feeling she's gonna rob ya blind."
Romulus had him for a few moments. But she's nuts and he's happy with his place in the world. Just wishes Whitney could be by his side. He strokes her hair and she looks so tired. It's gotta be the drugs.
He almost misses it, but Manfredi realizes that she's awake enough to be humming something. He can't tell what the tune is, but it seems nice.
"You awake, honey?"
Whitney still doesn't respond and continues humming.
Part of him hopes that maybe, somehow, there's a way to get her back. It would cost a fortune and then some, but there's got to be a way. There's so much more for her to give the world. More than any of her papers he could publish.
He notices that the hum stops too late.
Her head snaps to look up at Manfredi. Her eyes are completely black. The black scars start spreading across her face. A grotesque grin spreads as black liquid comes pouring out of her mouth.
He grips her shoulders. "Whitney! What's going on!"
"There's so many stars," she says with a voice that isn't her voice. The liquid's now coming from her eyes as well.
"Baby, come on!" He says, shaking her. The liquid gets on his hands and it is so cold.
"My love, there are so many stars! Do you not see them?"
She breaks free of her bonds. The liquid seems to have eaten through the leather and metal. It pools from her body, falling on her, the bed, the floor. Everywhere.
"Come with me my love. Come see."
The liquid starts climbing up Manfredi's arms. He tries for the door. Something trips him and he spralls on the floor.
He gets up to his knees, reaching for the door. So close. So far. The liquid is so cold.
It swallows him.
Joseph Manfredi's world goes black. And then there are stars.
Lincoln National Forest, New Mexico
Ivan and Kane left his modest home outside Cloudcroft before dawn on horseback. A rough ride by many standards, but Ivan didn't mind. Lived most of his adolescence in the saddle, following old Stepan, his step-father, from one mapping project to another.
"Just trail where we're going, Comrade," Kane had said at breakfast when it was still dark out.
They come to a ridge, on the southside facing the desert, as the sky becomes a pre-dawn grey.
"I'm guessing that's military land down below," Ivan says, nodding towards the vista of flat wasteland.
"Yeah," Kane answers. "Army officially. Though the chatter is that there's some big reorganizing going on. Interesting time for a big project."
Ivan takes out his binoculars and Kane points him towards a ridge that bends out from the mountain. "Don't know what they're building. But they've been here since March and are still working on it. It'll be big, that's for sure."
Through the binoculars, Ivan sees what Kane's talking about. It looks like the Americans were hollowing out the ridge, they've piled up such masses of dirt. There were buildings both complete and under construction. Large buildings, small ones. And many built into the ridge. It's a massive complex that spreads down to the valley floor.
"Some say it's a bunker," Kane explains. "Some say it's a laboratory. I think it's both."
Ivan slowly lowers his binoculars. Even with pictures, he doubts anyone in Moscow - anywhere in the world for that matter - would believe him.