Chapter V: A Ready Conspiracy
January 20th, 1931
Brooklyn, New York
"Holy shit." I approached the mirror carefully, or rather, the man looking back at me. I waved my arm. He waved back. I twitched my brow. He twitched his right back at me. He was me, and yet not me at all.
Randall Carter. My alias.
"You're quite the preener." Louie's face appeared next to mine, smarmy grin in full swing, "I think I did a pretty bang-up job."
"Don't flatter yourself D.C." I was too transfixed to think of a smarter insult. Randall Carter smiled, as if inviting me to lose myself in his shining, American blue eyes, his perfect white teeth, his handsome face. Me, and yet not me. It was utterly unnerving, "Jesus Christ. I look like you."
Indeed, our colors were similar before, but now we could have been brothers.
"You say that like it's a bad thing." He pouted. In the mirror I narrowed my eyes. Coming from me it would have been good natured, but from Randall Carter, it was terrifying. He was the type of man who could chew you up, spit you back out and walk away like nothing happening. I reverted back to a neutral façade, but it wasn't much better.
"You tell me." Louis stroked his mustache lightly, considering.
"Well, as long as no one gets wind that we're in cahoots you should be fine. I'll have your correspondence sent to your residence in Schenectady, if anyone questions your story just show them your papers. Airtight. I forged them personally. In all sincerity, this just might work." He answered in his coldly rational lawyer's voice. I nodded, if I blew my cover it was over. Louis couldn't protect me if they knew I wasn't a man.
"Understood." Randall Carter looked like any other soldier I'd seen in the field: steadfast and sure.
I could do this.
"Good luck, Romana." Louis extended his hand as a gesture of peace and we shook for the last time. I did not know when next I might see him.
"Thank you, Louie, I owe you one." He chuckled, shaking his fine, brown head.
"Oh no, New York, where you're going, I'd say it's me that owes you."
June 7th, 1944
Strasbourg France
I watched with wounded pride as the consternation on France's face melted into horror. He didn't recognize me. France, of all people, didn't recognize me. Sure, it had been over a decade, but a person doesn't just forget an old flame. Should'a known Carter, should'a known.
"Jesus, France you're scaring me. Snap out of it before you pop an artery." I whacked him lightly on the cheek when he started turning the color of a boysenberry, "Relax, will you? It ain't like I sprouted a third arm." The ungainliness of the situation brought out the worst of my accent but my temper was too short for me to care much. If he carried on like this everybody in the damn compound would think something fishy was going on, and while he should have seen through my guise, the rest of them had no business knowing about it.
"Romana? But… how? Why? I thought it was against the law for states to come here." He stumbled over his words, quite an uncharacteristic occurrence for a suave, sweet-talking Froggy like himself. I took a breath, conscious of the impatient frown curdling my neutrality.
"It is against the law. But I wasn't just going to dink around watching the grass grow while America goes to war." I replied briskly and started walking. Hopefully he would get the message before we attracted undue attention with all this hush-hush nonsense.
"But how on earth have you accomplished this? Fooled everyone?" He moved quickly in order to keep up, but I offered him little acknowledgement in favor of maintaining my stoicism.
"With difficulty," France led me to an unoccupied bunk where I sat, suddenly very weary. He perched on the one opposite, "Louie helped fix me up and then forged me some phony papers. He has connections with a few of the army physicians and I got in down south with the 1st division. After that I just flew under the radar, until the war started and America noticed me. I've been his aide-de-camp since '41"
"You served your own country as an aide-de-camp? Did he know it was you?" I looked up from beneath my brow irritably.
"You think I'd be here if he did?"
"Mon dieu, Romana," France was shaking his head, "He must be insane."
"Not any more than you are." I fired back, earning a self-conscious wince.
"Your disguise is masterful, New York." He murmured by way of excuse.
"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised just how blind people get when war lands right on their doorstep. Boy, oh boy," I shook my head in rueful mockery, "Japan really stepped in it with that one" He nodded. Everyone had heard about Pearl Harbor.
"So what's the situation around here? Shouldn't they have me bunked with the other Americans?" France sat back with dramatic breath.
"I am sure they would if there were any other Americans." That sure got my attention.
"What?"
"You are the only American here," France rubbed his whiskery chin contemplatively, "What exactly were the circumstances of your arrest?"
"We got pinned down, America was injured, and I went to draw the Germans off," I took a breath, entwining my fingers under my chin, "They took me to Germany when there was nowhere left to go. I gave 'em quite the run for their money." France exhaled, shaking his head.
"No wonder they took you here," He said, "The base over there is Germany's personal headquarters, and it is safe to say that you are now being held, as I am, for reasons of political advantage."
"You think he knew it was me?"
"Non, if America didn't recognize you then you can rest assured that no European country will. Do not be scared, Romana." I fixed him with a glare.
"You think I'm scared?"
"Right," He said, humbled, "I apologize."
"Doesn't matter," I flicked my head sideways, "But enough about me. What the hell are you doing here? I figured they had you holed up in Paris." Now was it was his turn to huff. He crossed his arms petulantly, but his eyes belied an impassioned outrage.
"The SS attempted to liquidate all of the spies passing information in Paris. When they suspected that someone under my command was participating in espionage activity I assumed the guilt and they took me instead. Germany has had me bouncing from prison to prison since then."
"Huh, well I'll be damned. I wouldn't a thought you had it in you." France looked hurt for a moment, though I couldn't tell if it was genuine or just more of his dramatics. Either way, I squared my shoulders in preparation for his swift riposte.
"Now what is that supposed to mean?" His tone was mild and teasing and I knew to return his foxy grin with a small, stiff one of my own; it wasn't easy, "Romana? Are you alright?" He inquired suddenly. There was consternation in his voice, and misplaced concerned.
"Peachy-keen, and you can't keep calling me that while we're in here. It's Major Carter. Don't forget it." The threat was mild, but it was still a threat. Thirteen years dealing with all manner of asshole taught you how to make a point and make it good. By now I was a real goddamned master. France opened his mouth, closed it again, and returned in a cautious tone.
"You have my word Rom-" He paused, correcting himself, "…Major Carter. Besides, I am the only one of my countrymen who speaks English. You are perfectly safe."
"Safe," I scoffed, "Not the first word that comes to mind."
"Did you meet the commandant?"
"I did, as a matter of fact. Son of bitch gave me this." I gestured to my black eye before it went away. France had the audacity to look at me in pity as I did so, like I was some kind of martyr, "Relax France, I can take it." I asserted when offense began to creep into my gut. France took a breath, imploring concern coloring his features.
"But why, New York, why? You don't need to do this. I cannot stand seeing you injured."
"Well you'd better get used to it." I said harshly, "This is how things are now France and if you don't like it then tough shit."
He recoiled, blue eyes wide and confused, with rejection, with alarm, I didn't care to find out. The last thing I wanted was his sentiment. Sentiment wouldn't save Europe, sentiment wouldn't liberate his country, and sentiment sure as hell wouldn't get us out of here. With a parting frown I laid back in my bunk and shut my eyes. Whatever was coming, I'd need my strength for it. There was no time to worry about hurting someone's feelings.
June 8th, 1944
"Germany!" The high-pitched, excitable voice of his Italian ally was the first thing to assault Germany's frayed nerves as soon as he stepped out of his automobile. Kemmerich, one of his subordinates, sighed in exasperation. The Italian in question waved eagerly from the doorstep, a large smile plastered on his face and hazel eyes sparkling as if the world could do no wrong, as if it were as bright and innocent as he. Germany frowned. He disliked when others were so oblivious, although in Italy he forgave it; it was his nature and Germany was simply too tired to reprimand him for it. He'd traveled all night to get here, and even then his chauffeur had been forced to take detours when convoys came through, thereby lengthening the trip from Normandy to Strasbourg by several hours. The long drive combined with the knowledge that every hour he tarried the Allies gained further purchase on the continent was a recipe for ultimate distress.
"Vargas." He greeted him with a nod, stark and cold to an Italian, but a mark of respect to a German.
It had been nearly three months since Germany left and clearly Italy was delighted to have him back. After embracing him quickly he began jabbering on animatedly, half in Italian, half in German, and a smattering of English, while Germany only partially listened, agreeing with him when it was appropriate. Indeed, it was refreshing to be in the presence of someone whose outlook was enthusiastic instead of dour, and Germany, for once, was glad that he'd taken part in Operation Eiche a year ago, rescuing Italy, his awful brother, and his ignoramus of a leader from the encroaching Allies.
"I am so glad that you are back! There is nothing to do here!" Italy bounced along beside him as he made his way swiftly from the front entryway to his office on the second floor, sparing little more than a glance for his subordinates.
"Italy, please, contain yourself. There is work to be done."
"But Germany, I just made dinner! Surely you can spare time for that, it has been ages!"
"It is seven in the morning." He deadpanned. Even after all these years, Italy's behavior still managed to shock him, and though it wasn't quite as vexing anymore, it remained incredibly unconducive to a productive military environment. Germany had gone through hell and back to train him up and still he was no more suited to a professional setting than a fish to a tree. It was one of his more discouraging moments.
The familiar surroundings of Strasbourg were comforting to Germany on a certain level. The Alsace region was calm and green and rustic and it reminded him too much of home. In spite of the military presence, the allure of peace-time beckoned every time he looked out the window or went for his morning exercise in the sweet smelling air. It was for this reason that he'd established his headquarters here instead of elsewhere, even at the disapproval of his colleagues. They much preferred the buzzing activity and authority offered by Tiergartenstrasse, but city life in the thick of the bureaucracy held only limited appeal for Germany. He was a man of uncomplicated tastes – though he would be loath to admit it to his compatriots – and regardless of the advantages of Berlin, he would stubbornly remain here. At least until the Allies broke the defensive lines.
"Italy, there are things we must discuss," He said after reoccupying his tall desk chair, "Please. Sit." Italy cocked his head quizzically but, sensing Germany's grave tone, did as he was commanded, expression serious for once.
"What is it, Germany?"
"The Allies invaded Normandy two days ago," Italy gasped, "They now have established themselves on the coast."
"What? No! That's impossible!" Before he could jump out of his seat Germany held up a hand for silence.
"There is a silver lining." Italy's eyes glistened with rare hope, "We captured an Allied officer, and I suspect that he is one of America's states."
"A state?"
"I know that you have had dealings with them in the past, I had hoped that you might be able to assist me with the interrogation." This time no gesture by Germany could contain Italy as he leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together childishly.
"Of course, Germany, anything!"
"Wunderbar, I wish to get started as soon as possible. Rommel is expecting information."
"What would you have me do?"
"I will handle most of the questioning; however, I would like you to kick things off. This man, if he is a state, is not protected under the Geneva Convention and if he is as intelligent as he is bold he will be well aware of that. I want to see if you can get anything out of him before we turn to more drastic measures." Italy nodded vigorously. In spite of his naïveté he was well aware of the 'measures' to which Germany referred; he would do what he could to spare this man from all of that.
"What is he like? Perhaps I know him?"
"Perhaps," Germany concurred, "He is very American."
"What else?" Italy prompted, making Germany roll his eyes. He stood and went to the window.
"See for yourself." Italy followed. From here they had a perfect view of the center of the compound where the POW's were assembled for morning roll call. Kraus stalked along the line, a raven among wrens.
"Which one is he?" Germany squinted but found that it was not necessary. A series of raised voices, one much higher than the other, cut the quiet of the camp and Kraus reeled back and punched one of the prisoners squarely on the jaw. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
"That's him."
"Oh my, he and the commandant must have gotten off on the wrong foot."
"It would appear as such." He said lowly. That was not a good thing. As Germany knew from personal experience, Kraus was the last person you wanted for an enemy. He was intelligent, proud, and vengeful, and his philosophy regarding corporal punishment was significantly more liberal than Germany found healthy.
"Germany look." Italy pointed back toward the compound, "He's getting up."
"Mein Gott, so he is." Germany felt an unbidden sense of respect rise up in him for Major Carter as the man picked himself up from the dirt and stared back at Kraus defiantly, "Feliciano, we have our work cut out for us."
