26/4/1946

Steve,

New York has a great many people, yet I often find myself feeling rather alone. I hadn't even thought of pursuing anything resembling a relationship. I should move on, I know, but...well, you're a tough act to follow. The other women in the office all work in the typing pool, and exist in their own particular social niche; the same goes for all the men. I find myself trapped in the middle, and I can't think of a worse place to be.

I saw Sergeant Dugan on 26th Street the other day. He wrapped me in an enormous hug, and I'm sure we drew a great many glances from whomever may have been within a 100 yard radius. He's working with Howard now, at SHIELD. Yes, I forgot to tell you, the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate is Howard's latest brainchild.

When I called him about it, he was very eager to tell me how long it took for him, Dugan, and four interns to come up with five words that could from a decent acronym. Three hours and two dozen martinis.

This Zodiac fellow we've been after is a slippery one. Whenever we get a lead, Flynn sends his "golden" boys out to catch him, but they never do.

I often imagine what they're doing wrong that you could fix in a heartbeat.

The SSR office in London was temporary, and we soon picked up shop to settle in New York. I had never been out of England before, and America made me feel rather...homesick. It was indeed a momentous change, and those of us who hailed from overseas were certainly feeling out of place, but the war tied us all together.

It was all rather similar to working in the radio office, actually. There was a constant pace around us, as if the world would never stop spinning, and God help us all if it did. I had an office all to myself, and grew lost in the job. It was indeed a rare occasion if Howard or someone else didn't stick their head through the door every day and ask to buy me a drink. I refused them all, but learned to be nicer about it as time went on. This lasted through 1943 and 1944.

Working as an agent, was of course, exhausting in every way imaginable. To a woman, missions were rare, very nearly unheard of. It was preposterous, and I always made sure to follow up Howard's flirtations with a substantial complaint about the lack of actual work that crossed my desk. He would always chuckle, call me "doll", then walk back to his office with a drink in his hand and a pretty young secretary in the other.

My very first field assignment was to stake out a nightclub which was supposedly a hotbed of Axis-affiliated activity. I was partnered with a square-jawed, stern-faced American with hands the size of clubs. We both turned heads wherever we went. He was a man of few words, and people called him "Brick". We sat in a car a block away, in street clothes, taking turns with a pair of binoculars. So far, nobody of interest had gone inside.

We had been there for six hours, and I was beginning to drift off during my stint, but then someone caught my eye near the door.

"I think I've got something."

"Who?"

"I'm not sure. Show me the files, quickly." He pulled several photographs we had depicting the various persons of interest from his briefcase, and one of them matched.

"That's him, Arnold Brown." I looked back at the nightclub door, and he was still there, talking to a tall, dark-haired man in a monocle. Then he went inside, while the man with the monocle went into a black car and drove away. I cleared my throat.

"What's the story on Arnold Brown?"

"Brown, Arnold, executive secretary of Imperial Industries International, we have him listed under 'possible Nazi sympathizer'."

"Hmm. Have we brought him in for questioning?"

"Not yet."

"Alright." I put the binoculars down and began to put on lipstick.

"Um...what are you doing?" Brick sounded worried, and I resisted the urge to smirk.

"I'm going in after him."

"You're joking, right?" I looked at him, and gave him the faintest smile.

"Not at all." I opened the car door and stepped out.

"I'll radio you if I need any help." I tapped my watch, then walked away. My head was rushing, and my knees felt weak, but I kept walking. It was nearly midnight now, and the street was empty and silent, save for myself and the soft clomps my shoes made against the pavement. I had my standard issue PPK attached to my leg, out of sight, and my finger twitched. I hoped to God I wouldn't have to use it.

I reached the door in about two minutes, and there was no one outside except for the bouncer. He was a big fellow, about as big as Brick.

"May I come in?" I flashed what I thought might have been my prettiest smile, and he eyed me for a moment of two. My eyes flashed across the various weak points along his torso, shoulder, neck, and groin. Inwardly, I scoffed.

"Yeah, alright, sweet cheeks." He had a thick Brooklyn accent. Again, I smiled.

"Thank you."

Then I went in. I had never been inside an actual nightclub before, and I understood why once I had. It was a portrait of depravity in the most civilized of disguises. Every woman was scantily clad, and nearly every man was chomping on a cigar. The air was thick with smoke, and the lights were dim.

Arnold Brown was nowhere in sight. Despair tugged at me, but I pressed on, and sat at the bar. I could practically feel the men's gazes on my legs, my hips, and my bust. I grinned at the bartender, and I could tell he had to keep himself from collapsing on the floor.

"Could I have a white wine, please?"

"Oh! Uh, sure thing."

He poured my drink, and even with the lighting being what it was, I could tell he was red in the face. He couldn't have been any older than twenty-five.

"What's your name?"

"Er...Brian."

"Hullo, Brian."

"Hi."

"Tell me, Brian...have you ever seen a man around here by the name of Arnold Brown?"

"Er, I think he goes into the Executive's Room with the club owners sometimes."

"Thank you, Brian."

I left him a 20 dollar bill and looked around again. Some of the men were gazing with lust, some with suspicion. I felt a small part of myself panic, and made for the powder room.

It was astonishingly empty, and therefore almost guaranteed to be dangerous. Nevertheless, I ignored my instincts, and held my watch up to my mouth.

"Brick, this is Carter, do you read, over?"

There was a short pause.
"This is Brick, over."

"Brown's somewhere in the building, but somewhere called the Executive's Room. Do we have any intel on that?"

"Hold on, let me check."

Another pause.

"No, sorry. You need me to go in after you?"

"Absolutely not!"

"I'm going in after you."

"Dammit, Brick, you-"

Then the radio went dead.

"Bugger." I went back into the main room, and it was more or less the same as before. Brick hadn't shown up yet, and I was relieved at first, but then mortified at the prospect of him being found out, or worse. I made for the door at once, until a hand like a club briskly (but gently) gripped my arm from behind. He was sitting down at the bar. I chastised myself for not noticing him at once.

"You know, you really ought to relax."

"Why are you here? I can handle this on my own."

"Er, is there a problem here? If there is, sir, ma'am, I suggest you take it outside.

We both gave Brian a stare that I'm sure made his knees wobble under the bar. He looked at his shoes and shuffled away.

"You couldn't find Brown, so I'm offering my services."

"Your-oh, you daft bastard."

"What?"

"I don't need you to come to my rescue!"

"Well, if you ask me, this isn't exactly the kind of mission that should involve a woman. Things can get hairy, you know."

Something boiled over in my chest, and I slapped him. It was like slapping...well, a brick, but I didn't dare wince. I was too angry to let a little thing like pain get in my way.

"How dare you." Two men appeared at his rear.

"Hey pal, if the lady's got a problem with you, you're gonna have to go." They were both about half his size, but somehow just as threatening.

"Oh yeah? Well, who's gonna make me, pipsqueak?"

They both gripped him by the arms, but he shoved them off, and four more took their place. Then he hit one, and another hit him. Sooner or later, there was a full-fledged brawl.

If there was ever a physical representation of chaos, that was it. Fights in bars are nothing like what people see in films. It's harsh, dangerous, and above all, inescapable. The police were there within about ten minutes, but Brick and I managed to slip out the back. Neither of us said a word to the other. We had gained that much wisdom, but little else.