We Were Soldiers

93. Best Laid Plans

Peggy reached for the chair, and didn't so much sit, as crumple. Steve took a step forward, ready to catch her in case she fainted. He really didn't think she was the fainting type, but her face was so pale that fainting was a definite possibility.

"If that's a joke, Colonel, it's a mean-spirited one. Michael was killed in action three years ago."

"It's no joke. At oh-six-hundred today, one Lieutenant Andrew Cromwell arrived back in England after a harrowing journey from Poland, where he claims Captain Michael Carter, and six other British soldiers, are labouring in a Nazi stalag."

Phillips slid a file across the desk, and Peggy reached out with shaking hands to open it. There were photographs inside, of an emaciated man wearing threadbare civilian clothing. There was a typed account of the journey, and—in a separate wallet—a collection of hand-written letters, some so dirty and tattered they were barely legible. Peggy pulled one out, and began to read.

"Dear Peggy,

If you're reading this letter, it means Lieutenant Cromwell made it home, and years of careful planning has come to fruition. I know that rescue may come too late for me and my men, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about how I left things between us. Whilst I don't regret the things I said, for I do believe you're made for more than being somebody's housewife, I do regret how I phrased them, and that I left us both angry.

I just want you to know that whatever happens, I am proud of you. And if being a wife and mother is truly what you want, then I know you'll be the best wife and mother in the whole world. You never do anything by half measure, so whether you're breaking codes or raising children, I know you'll be giving it your all.

I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and by God's grace, we may see each other again one day.

All my love, Michael."

Steve heard the drops of water splashing on the paper before he saw Peggy's tears. She quickly ran her sleeve across her eyes, then turned her gaze to Phillips' face. For once, the colonel's expression had softened.

"This is Michael's handwriting," Peggy said, holding the letter up. "Years. He's been a prisoner for years. And all this time, we thought him dead. Colonel, we have to put together a rescue mission."

"Ordinarily, I'd tell you that your brother and his men are being held in a secure, well-guarded facility within the deepest heart of enemy territory and to forget about any rescue plans—"

"But?"

"But, from what Lieutenant Cromwell describes, it sounds like your brother's team is being held in a HYDRA facility, and it just so happens that taking down HYDRA is the SSR's main goal." Phillips leant forward, resting his elbows atop his desk. The craggy frown returned to his face. "That's not to say a rescue is going to be easy. Far as I can tell, the place they're being held isn't one of those marked on Captain Rogers' map, so it's probably not a primary production site for whatever Schmidt's building, and there are probably a dozen better, less-defended targets we could take a shot at right now. But if this place isn't on Rogers' map, we need to find out how it fits into Schmidt's operation. Rogers, if Carter can come up with a rescue plan that doesn't involve the death of everybody involved, are you and your team up for this?"

Steve stood tall and saluted. "Absolutely, Colonel."

"Then go with Carter. Lieutenant Cromwell is being treated in the hospital for a whole variety of conditions, but the doctors think he's gonna make it. Get as much intel from him as you can, and don't come back until you've put together a sound rescue plan with a reliable exit strategy."

Agent Carter was out the door before Steve could even open his mouth. He hurried after her, and caught up with her as she reached the elevator. They rode it in a silence in which he could feel the tension and desperation rolling off her so strongly that it made him tense just standing next to her.

Outside, she strode down the street, wearing an expression of determination so fierce that men walking towards her leapt out of her path as if stung by some invisible force. Until now, Steve had no idea that somebody in heels could move so quickly.

"Agent Carter, slow down!" he called, almost jogging to keep up.

She didn't. But she did glance at him over her shoulder as she replied. "Every moment that I tarry is a moment in which my brother comes a step closer to death in some HYDRA work-camp."

"I know, and we'll get him back. I—"

She whirled on the spot, finger raised in admonishment, just like his third grade teacher used to do. "So help me, Steve, if you say 'I promise,' I might actually punch you."

He took a step back. In her current mood, she might punch him anyway, just to let some of the anger out. "I was only going to point out that back in Italy, when I heard Bucky had been captured, I did exactly the same thing. You were the one who told me to slow down. To do things smart, not fast. I know exactly how you feel, and if I had my way, we'd already be en route to Poland. But let's do this right. Let's take our time to plan things here so that when we get there, we've got all our variables covered."

Her shoulders slumped, the anger and desperation fading from her face. It was something else Steve understood. A feeling to cling to in the hopes of keeping out guilt and hopelessness. Anger was easier to deal with. More useful. It kept a person going. Helped them keep taking those steps.

Without warning, Peggy crumpled. She sank to the sidewalk, face buried in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. Lacking any better idea, Steve crouched down beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to do more, to pull her close to him and hold her tight, tell her that together they would fix this. Together they would make it right. But he couldn't. He hadn't earned that right yet. And he was still Captain Rogers when they were on-duty. Passers-by looked at them with sympathy, but nobody stopped. Crying women were probably a common sight in England, since the start of the war.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. When she pulled her hands away from her face, her eye-makeup was smudged and her cheeks were red and puffy, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. "I'm not normally so… so…"

"Hey, you don't have anything to explain. There are some situations in which a person—man, woman, soldier or civilian—is allowed to go to pieces, and this definitely counts. Hell, if I just heard that my Mom was still alive, I'd've cried every drop of water out of my body by now. Tears don't make you weak, they make you human."

He offered his arm, and helped her regain her feet.

"You know what the worst thing about this is?" she asked. He shook his head. "I keep thinking that it's a mistake. That some other Michael Carter wrote a letter to his sister called Peggy, and that we'll get him back, only to discover it's not my Michael. I want so desperately to have hope, but what if it really is a mistake, or we're too late, or—"

"Don't be afraid to have hope. It's the one thing we have that the Nazis or HYDRA can't take away. When hope is gone… well, that's when the war is well and truly lost."

"You're right." She straightened up and brushed some of the dust from the sidewalk off her coat. "Michael's counting on me, and I need to have hope for the both of us. I just hope we're not too late."

"Then let's not delay any longer. The sooner we come up with a plan, the sooner we can save your brother." And the sooner they could put an end to Schmidt, once and for all.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It took every ounce of self control that Peggy possessed to keep from racing down the hospital corridor to the room where the triage nurse had told her Lieutenant Cromwell was recovering. Every ounce of self control to walk rather than run, to project purpose rather than desperation. It was the longest corridor of Peggy's life.

Steve hovered close behind, but he'd been quiet since entering the hospital. Though he'd never admit it, he didn't like hospitals. He got that tense, hunched-up look whenever he stepped inside one, even when he'd been visiting Sergeant Barnes during his convalescence. She supposed she couldn't blame him, not really. His mother had worked and died inside a hospital. A place of healing had become a place of death. She wouldn't like hospitals either, if she'd had to watch somebody she loved die in one.

At the door to Lieutenant Cromwell's room, she stopped and took a deep breath. Here was somebody who'd seen Michael as recently as a week ago. If Cromwell could make it out of Schmidt's work camp alive, so could Michael.

She knocked, and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. The smell of iodine hit her like a punch to the nose. The man lying beneath the covers of the bed looked more corpse than living body. The years of toil and deprivation had taken their toll on cheekbones that protruded at harsh angles, lanky, patchy hair that no amount of washing could make shine, and cracked lips that held teeth in the early stages of decay. The man's painfully thin arms were covered in scaly, flaky skin, and when he opened his eyes, it was like looking at somebody on death's door.

The thought of Michael in a similar—or worse—condition filled her eyes with tears. She quickly blinked them away, and stepped forward to introduce herself.

"Lieutenant Cromwell, I'm Agent Peggy Carter, with the SSR, and this is Captain Steve Rogers. We need to ask you some questions."

A smile flickered across the man's face, and a quiet laughter bubbled from his lips.

"Do you find something amusing, Lieutenant?" she asked. It wouldn't be the first time a man had laughed at her uniform. Most laughed behind her back, when they thought they couldn't hear, but a few had laughed to her face.

Cromwell's response came as a scratchy croak. "Just thinking about what the Captain would say, if he could see you now. He was sure you'd be playing the part of dutiful housewife. He'd be so proud to see you in uniform."

A fresh set of tears threatened to spill. This time, she didn't bother trying to keep them back. No doubt she'd be hearing more that would make her cry, by the end of the interview, and putting on a strong front was exhausting.

"It sounds like you know Michael well."

"You spend three years living with and slaving beside a man, and you get to know him pretty well. The chain of command doesn't mean very much, in a stalag."

"How was he, when you last saw him?"

"As good as a man can be, in that place." Cromwell winced, and rubbed at a bruise on his arm. "He's exhausted, we all were, but his spirit lives."

Peggy's heart fluttered inside her chest. Thank God Michael hadn't given up! So long as he was determined to carry on, there was a chance.

"I need to ask you some questions about the work camp and about your escape." She pulled out her notebook and pen. "And I need you to be as honest as possible with me. If there's any chance of pulling off a rescue mission, I need to know exact details."

"Rescue?" Cromwell scoffed. "No offence, Agent Carter, but there's no chance of a rescue."

"Then what was the purpose of your escape, if not to help enact a rescue plan?"

"To let the world know we were still alive. And to provide intel on Nazi mining operations. Trying to organise a rescue… well, it's madness."

Peggy gripped her notebook tightly—less chance of her throwing it at Cromwell. Telling herself that the man had been through a lot, and much had changed in the three years since he'd been captured, she schooled her voice to patience.

"Do not underestimate the resources and capabilities of the SSR, Lieutenant. We're no ordinary army outfit. We have eyes and ears all over enemy and occupied territories, and access to technology beyond your imagination. Believe me when I tell you that we can and will rescue those men."

"You don't understand." Cromwell tried to push himself up in his bed, but his ordeals had weakened him; he only managed to shuffle up by a couple of inches. His eyes, though… there was a hardness in them that Peggy had not seen since France, when a very sick Sergeant Barnes had been convinced Nazi spies were trying to kill him. "The stalag lies twenty miles outside Toruń, in the heart of enemy territory. The whole country teems with Nazis and their spies. There are checkpoints at the border of every town, and a Gestapo interrogation centre in every city.

"The stalag itself sits atop a mountain of iron ore, surrounded on three sides by unclimbable ravines. The only way in to the camp is by a narrow road which creeps up the side of the mountain, and if you were to get that far, you would come to an electric chain link fence, twelve feet high, which runs around the entire camp. You would be approaching an enemy who would've seen you coming from a mile away, and who possess weapons capable of disintegrating a man into nothingness with one shot. The camp is impenetrable."

"And yet you managed to get out."

"I am one man. We dug beneath the electric fence, and I managed to sneak away and get a good head start before my absence was noticed. I had a change of clothes and falsified papers waiting for me, and my mother is Polish, so I learnt to speak it fluently growing up. One man might sneak out, with a suitable distraction. Forty could not."

"Forty? When you were debriefed, you said there were only seven others left from your unit."

"There are. But the Captain wouldn't leave the Jewish prisoners behind. None of us would. Even if it was possible to sneak in and find my team and extract them, they wouldn't abandon their fellow prisoners to death. If you can't liberate the whole camp, there's no point even trying. And liberating a camp in the heart of Nazi territory is impossible. A suicide mission."

Steve cleared his throat. It was the first sound he'd made since entering the hospital. He had his notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other, and a topographical sketch of a mountain and work camp had started to take shape on the open pages.

"How deep is the ravine that surrounds the camp, and how narrow is the path up there?"

"The ravine is deep enough that I almost died climbing down it. A river runs through the bottom of the east side, too swift and deep to wade across in winter. Downstream, the river opens out onto a flood plain, but by the camp, it creates an impassable barrier. The road itself is so narrow that vehicles must go up one at a time, in convoy formation. The rough-terrain vehicles such as jeeps and tanks do not fare too badly, but the lorries must go more carefully and slowly; the road is only just wide enough for them."

"They have tanks?"

Cromwell shook his head. "No. Sometimes, tanks will escort the outgoing shipments of ore, but there are none stationed permanently at the camp."

"What about guard-posts?"

Peggy could see wheels inside Steve's mind turning as he approached the camp from all angles. He might not have very much experience—not yet—but he'd clearly read all the books Peggy had given to him on strategy and warfare.

"There are four, spaced equidistantly around the perimeter of the camp. They are manned all day and night, by pairs of guards who operate in rotating eight-hour shifts."

Steve's pencil scritch-scratched furiously over the page. "What else can you tell me about the layout of the camp?"

Cromwell closed his eyes, and for several minutes, he was silent. When he spoke, it was in a whisper so quiet that Peggy had to strain to hear. Steve had no such issues.

"When I got out of that place, I told myself it was over. That I'd never have to go back. But I see it. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. In my dreams, I walk it, breathe it, live it. In some ways, it's like I never left."

Across the other side of the bed, Steve flinched. Peggy raised a questioning eyebrow, but his focus was on Cromwell, and he didn't see her silent question. Cromwell continued before she had chance to speak.

"The access gate opens up approximately in the centre of the perimeter. To the west are the Nazi barracks and their munitions store. Behind that is a garage, where they keep and service a couple of jeeps and the lorries which take away the ore once it's been extracted. On the east side of the camp are the prisoner barracks, and set further back is the mine entrance."

"How deep do the mines go?"

"They are extensive," Cromwell confirmed. "But the Nazis didn't let us explore them freely. Each six-man team had their own designated work area. They tend to send the Jews down into the more dangerous levels. But if you're wondering whether any of the mine shafts lead to the outside of the fence; no. They're all dead ends."

Steve tapped his pencil thoughtfully on his chin, and Peggy jumped in with a question of her own.

"In your initial report, you stated that these Nazis are unlike any others; that they wear strange armour and use deadly weapons. Have you ever heard the name Johann Schmidt, or seen him in the camp in person?"

Cromwell shook his head, and Steve continued.

"How many prisoners are in the camp? And how many guards?"

"Between forty and fifty prisoners at any given time. It's a fairly small work camp, as far as these things go. Space is at a premium, because of the camp's elevated location. They only bring in more when a few die. As for guards… there used to be about thirty, split between the rotating shifts on the guard posts, and overseeing work in the mines. But just before I left, we got word that an additional company was being sent to bolster the camp's defences. That's why I left when I did. We knew it was now or never."

"I wonder why they sent more guards to such a small camp."

"Probably because of Krausberg," Peggy ventured. "After his defeat there, Schmidt likely gave an order fortify all his facilities. They probably started with those most remote, and most at risk of attack. The stalag where Michael is being kept is right in the middle of HYDRA and Nazi forces, therefore a lower priority."

"Anything else you can tell us about the camp?" Steve prompted Cromwell. "Shift changes, work patterns, weaknesses…"

"There's little more to tell. The mining goes on 'round the clock. Daylight doesn't matter when you're digging underground; it's all done by lamplight. The guards rotate at oh-six hundred, fourteen hundred, and twenty-two hundred. The prisoners work twelve-hour shifts; the change-over is always at nine o'clock, to prevent any slipping away during the changing of the guard. We're only fed once per day, at eight in the morning, and it's usually some sort of meat stew and sauerkraut."

Peggy glanced over at the map Steve had drawn. Pertinent locations were labelled in his spindly handwriting. The picture was grim.

"What do you think, Captain Rogers?" she asked.

Steve pursed his lips as his eyes roved the pencilled-in fence. "I think we need to talk to the rest of the Commandos. This is going to require some creative thinking."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky was ninety-eight percent sober, because the English beer Dugan had handed to him wasn't that strong, and because some instinct told him something was going down, so he hadn't drunk that much of it. In fact, all the Commandos had nursed their drinks, so that when a second Private showed up, requesting the whole team double-time it to the SSR's headquarters, they were all ready for duty.

Half an hour later, they'd been fully briefed and were now sequestered around Steve's notebook, where a top-down map of the HYDRA work camp had been drawn. Seeing it brought uncomfortable knots to Bucky's stomach. At least this time, he'd be on the right side of the fence. He'd be the liberator, not the prisoner. He'd get a chance to do for other men what Steve had done for him. He wasn't going to leave a single man behind in that stalag.

Agent Carter was doing better than Bucky would've imagined. Only the way she chewed her thumbnail gave any indication that she was tense or nervous, and he could sympathise entirely. If his brother or sisters were in that camp, he storm it single-handedly to get them out.

"Ideas?" Steve asked the group.

One by one, the Commandos chipped in with their suggestions.

"Parachuting is out," said Falsworth. "One strong gust and we'd be plunged into that ravine."

"I can't believe you actually sound disappointed about that," said Jones.

"A frontal assault would be crazy," said Dugan, twirling the corner of his moustache around his finger. "Naturally, I'm all for it."

"I bet I could scale that ravine," said Morita.

"And sit outside the electric fence shaking your first?" Jones quipped.

"And here we get to the crux of the issue," Steve spoke up. "First, they'd see a frontal attack coming. Second, if we tried to sneak in, we'd be thwarted by that electric fence. Third, even if I could jump the fence and make it into the communications room where the electricity switch is located, by then the sentries in the guard-posts would've spotted me and opened fire. With no way to warn the prisoners of what's happening, they might run out or be hit in the crossfire. Short of getting ourselves captured, I don't see any way of us getting into that camp."

His words brought a memory crashing back into Bucky's mind. "Maybe that's not such a bad idea," he said. "The old, 'Hey, let me in, I've got prisoners' routine has worked against HYDRA before."

"You mean like back in France?" Jones asked. "All those comms bunkers the 107th was sent to take?"

"Exactly."

Dugan snorted loudly. "This ain't like France, Princess. For a start, we're not talking about some lightly fortified communications bunker; this is a stalag, full of heavily armed guards, in the middle of Nazi territory."

"So was Krausberg," Bucky pointed out. "And Steve got us out on his own. This time, he'll have us helping." He knew Dugan was just trying to point out the obstacles they'd have to come, but there wasn't a chance in Hell Bucky was gonna leave those men to work to their deaths in a HYDRA camp.

"What happened in France?" asked Morita.

Agent Carter stepped forward, more composed now that they were talking missions and not missing family. "The SSR was tasked with capturing a range of HYDRA communications bunkers spanning the south of France. It was a significant part of Schmidt's communications networks, and it's one of the reasons why we're now able to intercept so much intelligence about his operations. The 107th, supported by the 69th, employed a range of tactics to achieve their missions, including a mission in which they pretended to be 'captured' by one of our German double-agents acting as an SS officer."

"I still remember how Nurse Klein painted your faces with bruises from that kit of Stark's," Jones said, a grin plastered across his face. "You looked like you'd gone ten rounds with a pair of fists."

"Which gives us another problem," said Dugan. "Back in France, we had those German guys on our side." He stuck his thumb out at Falsworth. "I don't trust Monty's German accent, and it's not like we have a bunch of Krauts just sitting around waiting to be called up for missions."

"What about Kaufmann's team?" It was the first time Stark had spoken since the meeting had been called, and all eyes in the room swivelled in his direction.

"Who's Kaufmann?" asked Steve.

"That," said Carter, shooting a malicious glare at Stark, "is classified."

"How can it be classified? We all work for the SSR."

"Even if it wasn't classified," Carter continued, "Kaufmann's team are scientists, not soldiers. I doubt any of them have ever held a gun before in their lives."

Stark slid off the table he'd been sitting on and took centre stage. As he spoke, he ticked off points on his fingers. "We wouldn't need somebody to fight, just to pretend to be one of Schmidt's cronies. We can use the comms network to intercept HYDRA authorisation protocols, thus paving the way for an infiltration team to access the camp. Once inside, our tame German could spread word of the plan to the prisoners, to ensure they stay out of the way while the action goes down. And finally, we may need German or Polish personnel to help get us out of the area after any rescue has taken place."

The glare on Carter's face was replaced by a look of speculation. "We do have several Polish Army companies training with us. Some made it out before Poland was captured. And I suppose a true German would stand a much better chance of getting us inside than somebody just pretending."

"Uh, us?" Steve asked.

Agent Carter whirled on the spot to face him. "I am, of course, going with you. This is my brother we're talking about."

"Of course." Nicely recovered, Rogers, Bucky thought to his friend. "But I think Mr. Stark should stay here and co-ordinate the effort from this side of the line. He's too valuable an asset to risk falling into enemy hands."

"Damn right I am." Stark puffed up with pride. "And I suspect that with one or more of Kaufmann's team out in the field, I'll have to stand in." A shifty-eyed look suddenly came over him. "To uh, work on the top secret stuff we're not supposed to talk about."

"You can keep your secrets, Stark," said Steve. He turned to face Carter, and that cold hard knot, what he'd come to think of as the Krausberg knot returned to Bucky's stomach. "How long do you need?"

"Twenty-four hours," she replied. "To pull in all the resources we'll require, submit the plan to Phillips for approval, and make the necessary travel arrangements… twenty-four hours."

"We'll be ready. Won't we, men?"

A round of "Aye!" and "Yes, Captain," and "Wahoo!" filled the room. Bucky merely nodded. If they were going up against HYDRA in their own territory, he knew what kind of mission this would be. A take no prisoners kind. He was going to have a lot of cleaning up to do.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The door bearing the name plaque Agent F. Pollard was at the back of some pokey little house that served as one of the SSR's off-site offices. Phillips didn't believe in centralisation, and since Brooklyn, Peggy couldn't blame him. Too many eggs in one basket were too easily broken. At least if the SSR's main headquarters took a hit, Pollard and the other remote SSR agents could continue their work. No enemy force would ever bring the SSR completely to its knees.

Outside the door, Peggy stopped and straightened her jacket, then smoothed a couple of wrinkles from her skirt. She hadn't seen Francis since their ill-fated dinner, and she'd half expected him to get in touch over Christmas. But it seemed he was being true to his words, and moving on with his life. It was for the best.

She knocked on the door and waited for him to shout 'come in' before entering. When she stepped into the tiny room, he smiled and rose.

"Peggy, this is a surprise." He gestured to the rickety chair opposite his desk. She took it, glad she hadn't brought anyone else with her; even one extra person would not have fit comfortably into the room. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"I need to see Kaufmann."

"Kaufmann and his team are at a critical stage of their research. They wouldn't take kindly to interruptions now."

"It's very important."

"Oh?" He steepled his fingers together beneath his chin as he ran his gaze over her face. "What's this about, Peg? In all the time Kaufmann's been working for us, you've never come and asked to see him. I know you don't trust him."

She took a deep breath before speaking the words that she herself scarcely dared to believe. "It's about Michael, Francis. He's still alive, and being kept as a slave labourer by HYDRA."

Francis reached forward, as if to touch her hand, but pulled back at the last minute. His chair creaked beneath his weight as he leant back. "My God, Peggy… I can't imagine what you're going through."

"And I can't imagine what Michael is going through. That's why I need to speak to Kaufmann. Our rescue plan may hinge on his people."

"Of course. I'll arrange a visit straight away and I'll drive you there myself. Will you give me a couple of minutes to make a phone call? My car's parked in the side street, if you want to wait for me there."

Though he didn't work for the SIS anymore, there was still a lot of the SIS in him. Access to Kaufmann was restricted out of necessity; the men guarding him wouldn't let anyone in who hadn't made an appointment via Francis. Another of Phillips' ideas. Decentralisation of intelligence. If one part of the organisation was compromised, safeguards would ensure the whole thing didn't come crashing down.

She found the car easily enough, and didn't have long to wait. Francis joined her less than a minute later, and gestured for her to get into the vehicle.

They drove to the safehouse in silence, which gave Peggy time to think about the things she'd put aside out of necessity. Images of Michael ran fleetingly through her mind… grinning mischievously as a boy, standing proud in his uniform as a man, and wasting away as a HYDRA prisoner. If she found him… when she found him… would he hate her, for thinking him dead? For giving up on him so easily? For not trying harder to find him?

Three years. Almost three years of his life had been lost because she'd believed it when the Army had told her Michael had died. Had their places been reversed, Michael would not have accepted it. He would not have given up on her. He wouldn't have mourned her, then put her aside and moved on with his life. He would've done more. Just as she should've done.

Was it a coincidence, that Michael was a prisoner of Schmidt? Did Schmidt even know who toiled away in one of his work-camps, or was he oblivious to the potential pawn in his metaphorical hands?

Anger and guilt welled up inside. She tried to push them away, to hide them beneath brave lies of it will be okay, I'll get him back, I'll bring him home—she even tried biting her lip, using pain as a barrier. But the emotions bubbling inside were too strong, and she was powerless to stop the sob that escaped from her lips, and the tears that spilled from her eyes, blurring the streets and buildings passing by.

A vague white form appeared in front of her. "Don't worry, it's clean," said Francis. Peggy reached out and accepted the handkerchief, using it to dab the tears from her eyes. In truth, she wanted to ball the thing up, stuff it into her mouth, and scream into it. But she couldn't lose her head. She had to stay strong. For Michael.

"Thank you," she said, once she'd recovered enough to speak. She handed the handkerchief back, but he merely shook his head.

"Keep it. Just in case."

On the verge of telling him she was finished with going to pieces, a horrifying new thought hit her; one that brought fresh tears to her eyes. "How am I going to tell my parents? And what if it's too late? What if he's already… How will I tell them that he spent the last years of his life in a work-camp?"

"You mustn't think like that, Peggy," he said, stealing a glance at her face before focusing once more on the busy road. "You can't let fear and doubt control you. You've got to believe that Michael's alive and that you're going to find him. I know you; you deal in what is, not what if. Don't let doubt get the better of you."

"You're right. Thank you, Francis." How lucky she was, to have sensible men in her life. Men like Steve, and Francis, and Michael, who saw her strengths even when she was feeling weak.

The laboratory where Kaufmann's men worked was located in one of Kensington's large town-houses. From the outside, it looked nothing more than what it seemed. Only a select few individuals knew that the building was actually an SOE safehouse where the German scientists lived and worked. Kaufmann had his own residence, a few streets away, but he spent most of his free time—when he wasn't being entertained—'overseeing' his team's efforts.

Peggy was out of the car as soon as it pulled up outside the safehouse. Francis led the way up the steps to the front door, then held it open for her to pass through. Inside the airy hallway, two men waited. Dressed in modest grey suits, they nodded at Francis, and stepped aside to grant him access to the rest of the house.

As they walked down the corridor towards the laboratory that had been installed in what was once a large dining room, Peggy battled her nerves. The plan, such as it was, was reliant on deception and subterfuge once they reached the work camp where Michael and the others were being held. Their chances of success were greatly increased with an actual German to talk them in through the front gates.

Kaufmann was waiting for them outside the lab. Though he'd been exiled in England for nine years, Peggy hadn't once seen him wearing anything other than his German army uniform. It was as if the man didn't know how to be anything other than a soldier, even when he had no physical war to fight in. How sad, to think that the former General had nothing else to live for.

"Agent Pollard," said Kaufmann, affecting a stiff bow. "What an unexpected surprise. Have you come to check up on us? You know that Project Lazarus is still months away from completion."

"Actually, it's Agent Carter who needs to speak with you."

"Oh?"

Peggy stepped forward and put on her best mask of professionalism. She couldn't afford to be seen as emotional now, no matter how justified it was. "General Kaufmann, we need the help of you and your men. We've just received intelligence about a HYDRA facility using captured Allied soldiers as slave labour."

Kaufmann shrugged. "All HYDRA facilities use captured Allied soldiers as slave labour. Schmidt cares nothing for the rules of war, or the rights of captured enemy combatants. He will work the prisoners until they die from exhaustion, then replace them with new prisoners. But you already know this, do you not? The men you freed from Krausberg will have confirmed this for you."

"Of course, but this facility is one we've only just learnt about. It wasn't on the map we took from Krausberg."

Another shrug graced Kaufmann's shoulders. "If you are asking for intelligence, I have none. I was never privy to Schmidt's scheming."

"Actually, we already have intelligence on the facility." That wiped the self-important expression of disdain from Kaufmann's face. "It's a mining camp—Schmidt's after the iron ore."

"Hmm. This makes sense. From what I hear, iron is becoming a rare commodity, and with the difficulties of bringing it safely out of Sweden, it may be that Schmidt has taken matters into his own hands. But I do not see what this has to do with my men and I."

"We have a plan to infiltrate the facility and rescue the prisoners, but we'll need a German to get us inside."

"And where is this facility?"

"Toruń."

Peggy answered in as neutral a tone as possible, but Kaufmann burst into laughter. "I did not know you had a sense of humour, Agent Carter!" he chuckled. "Poland! As easy to invade Germany itself!"

"This is no laughing matter, General," said Francis. Peggy wanted to both punch him and hug him for managing such a calm tone of voice in the face of Kaufmann's belittling laughter. "We need to put a stop to Schmidt's operations."

"We're at an advantage here," she continued. "One of our soldiers managed to escape from the place, and he's given us detailed intel on the approach, layout and defences. Our chances of success are high."

"You'd have to be insane to even try," said Kaufmann. "Poland is in the heart of German territory. It would not be like your stroll through France."

"I know that." Her words came out through gritted teeth. Kaufmann had, several times, expressed doubts over her abilities. "And we'll come up with a suitable plan. But once we're in there, we'll have an advantage. Nobody, not Schmidt, not Hitler, not the Gestapo, will be expecting an incursion into such heavily fortified German territory. We'll have the element of surprise. All we need is one of your men to pose as a guard escorting captured allied prisoners."

"Impossible." Kaufmann's wave of dismissal was worthy of royalty. "Our work is too important. I cannot afford for any of my people to leave their research."

"Mr. Stark has offered to step in as a replacement," Peggy offered. Kaufmann's face was forming a scowl even before she'd finished speaking.

"Howard Stark is bad for moral. He belittles my men constantly, and purposely gets their names wrong. He is of more help to us when he is not here."

"That could also be arranged."

"It would be safer to attack one of Schmidt's other bases," said Kaufmann. "Why is your mind so set on this one?"

There was no getting around it. She would have to tell him why the liberation of the prisoners of this specific facility was so personal to her. Otherwise, he had no incentive to help. Not that he would necessarily say 'yes' even if she told the truth.

"Because," she said, "the prisoners in question are soldiers of the British Army. And one of them is my brother."

"Ahh. Now I understand. But why did you not tell me this to begin with?"

"Would it have made you more inclined to help us?"

"No, but I would have respected your honesty."

Francis stepped forward, his tone sweeter than the cups of coffee Private Lorraine made for the colonel. "I'm sure if you were to help us out, Lord Kendrick would be grateful. Grateful enough to agree to an evening listening to the London Symphony Orchestra. Perhaps followed by an intimate dinner."

Bribery. How low they had so quickly sunk. But if that's what it took to secure German assistance…

Kaufmann rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a faraway look in his eyes. "Very well. I will speak to my men, and should one of them volunteer, then we have an agreement. But I won't force them to put themselves in harm's way. If non volunteer, then you will have to make alternative arrangements."

"We can agree to that," said Francis, while Peggy's mind screamed that's not good enough! No doubt Kaufmann would only dig his heels in further if she tried to insist. Instead, she attempted her best smile, and said, "I look forward to hearing from you soon."

God help her, if Kaufmann's dithering put Michael's life in jeopardy, he'd be spending the rest of the war inside a very small cell. One with no intimate dinners or London Symphony Orchestra.

Back outside, Peggy breathed in a deep lungful of fresh London air. Not that London air was particularly fresh. But dealing with Kaufmann always left her feeling dirty. She didn't think she'd do very well, if she had Francis' job.

"Do you think he'll say yes?" she asked her old friend.

"Probably. I've never known him say 'no' to Lord Kendrick."

"I hope the 'yes' comes quickly. God knows how Michael and the rest of his men are faring in that stalag."

Francis stopped as if struck by a sudden thought. "You're going on the mission, aren't you?"

"Yes." How well he knew her. Or how lucky his guesses were. "I have to."

"Promise me you'll be careful. I'd say, don't take any unnecessary risks, but this is you we're talking about."

"All the risks I take are very necessary," she countered. It wasn't as if she was some gung-ho soldier with a rifle and no common sense. "But I will be careful."

"Good. I don't wanna have to be the one to tell your parents that we lost their daughter trying to save their son."

She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. "You won't. I'm bringing Michael home, no matter what it takes. We're going to be a family again."