Hammer of Angels

by G T Almasi

  Okay, enough about Trick.

  All this smooching makes me lose my breath. I lean on my pillows and admire Patrick for a moment. Past his head, the stars shine through a window overlooking the roof of a small second-floor porch.

  I comm, “Let’s go out on the roof.”

  “Are you nuts? It’s February.”

  I ease out of bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring a blanket—”

  “Well…”

  “—for you, wussy-pants.”

  Patrick’s eyes and mouth open into three perfectly round circles. He’s about to slap my leg when he remembers I’m wounded. His hand wiggles back and forth, unable to find a safe place to spank, so he settles for sticking his tongue out at me.

  I drag my bedspread across the room. Patrick follows me, quietly opens the window, and crawls through first. I hand the blanket to him and gingerly climb outside. We huddle next to each other, and Patrick wraps the cover around us like a fluffy igloo. Biting air stings my cheeks, and I blink past a couple of tears.

  It’s beautiful. The sky is clear and moonless, so the Milky Way is like a frozen fireworks display. I snuggle against Patrick. After a minute my attention shifts to the street in front of Garbo’s house.

  There are two unfamiliar cars parked out front. One must belong to Marie’s guests, and the other belongs to…who? I switch to infrared, and a spike of acid burns across my midsection.

  In the second car is a man watching the house.

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-ANGEL-3108

  DATE: 19 February 1981

  TO: The Office of the Front Desk

  FROM: Darwin-5055 (IO), Scarlet-A59 (L9 Interceptor)

  SUBJECT: Operation ANGEL/Situation Report

  Sir,

  On 14 February in London we snatched Victor Eisenberg, acquired significant intel about Carbon, established a link to Big Bertha’s whereabouts, and escaped an SZ raid. Scarlet and I fled across the Channel to Calais, where we made contact with a CIA stringer named Garbo who graciously took us into her house.

  Scarlet was badly wounded in London, but she has received first-rate medical care and is recovering well. As of five days ago, Raj and Grey were both still in England.

  Please forgive the brevity of this report. As you can imagine, this past week has been rather exhausting.

  Obediently yours,

  Darwin-5055

  27

  NEXT MORNING, FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 6:21 A.M. CET

  CALAIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  It’s finally morning. A chilled gray light seeps through the windows and bleaches away last night’s starry bubble of interdepartmental romance.

  Marie comes upstairs. I tell her what we saw from the roof.

  She stops midstride and frowns. “A man?”

  “His car is gone now. We spotted him at about six o’clock last night. He stayed out there until ten-fifteen.”

  She asks, “Did he see you?”

  “Probably, yeah.”

  Patrick sleepily shuffles into the room, sits on the corner of my bed, and finishes my answer. “We didn’t want to tangle with him while you had guests.”

  Marie resumes walking toward her desk. Her brow remains furrowed. “Ten-fifteen. That was only a few minutes before the Müllers left.”

  My partner yawns. “Maybe he was a friend of your guests.”

  “I doubt it.” Marie settles into her office chair. “A friend would ring the bell.”

  Patrick’s early-morning German is missing some subtlety, so I say, “I think my partner meant to ask if the man might have been following Herr or Frau Müller with some ill intent.”

  “That’s not very likely, given how dull they are.” She laughs and says, “All right, little birds, we will solve the riddle of this mystery man, but empty stomachs make for empty heads. What do you say to some Frühstück?”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Marie lugs in a heavy tray crammed with breakfast food for all of us. Patrick and I picnic on my bed while Marie sets a place for herself at her desk.

  Marie’s husband calls up the stairs on his way out. “Auf weidersehn, schatzi.”

  She replies with the German equivalent of “Bye, sweetheart.”

  My partner and I eat quickly, as usual. Marie has barely gotten her toast covered with butter and jam by the time I’m done with my sausage. I wolf my soft-boiled egg and wash it down with a big glorch of coffee. Patrick chats with Marie while I go to use the bathroom. On my way back, I peek through a window at the street.

  The man is out there again, watching the house from his car. Marie’s desk phone blares like hell’s bells and scares me half to death.

  Our hostess answers the phone. “Allo, Marie Van Daan.” She listens for a few moments, then says to the caller, “How long has it been there?” She covers the mouthpiece and says to us, “It’s my sister, Betti. There’s a strange car outside her house.”

  Not good.

  I sign to Brando that he should come look out the window. He zips over to me and peers outside. “Damn, it’s that same guy again.”

  Marie says into the phone, “Hang on, Betti.” She crosses to the window and glares down at the street, eyes narrowing. She returns to her chair and picks up the phone. “There’s a car here, too. No, it’s not a police car here, either. I think it’s the Purity League again. Yes…okay, I’ll call you in an hour.”

  She hangs up, takes a long sip of coffee, and quietly regards us over the top of her cup as we return to the sofa bed. We both stare our questions at her.

  “Scarlet, Darwin,” she finally says, “I need your help.”

  Marie tells us about the work she and her sister do for the Circle. We already knew some of it, but Marie gives us a much more complete picture. The Van Daan sisters and their husbands are part of the Floating Railroad. This is an underground network that smuggles Jewish slaves from Europe to America. The Floating Railroad has a measure of popular support because there are a lot of Germans who don’t agree with slavery.

  Then there’s the Purity League, which crawled out of Nazism’s cadaver and has proved impossible to exterminate. You can tell how the economy is doing by the reactions they get. During boom times, their vitriolic hatred primarily attracts derision. When a slump hits, more people pay attention to the anti-Semitic diatribes in Der Pure, their self-published newsletter.

  Many Purity League members also belong to the Staatszeiger, so the league has some muscle to go with its lack of brains. Both of these groups are notoriously anti-Semitic, but the SZ is ostensibly limited to enforcing order in the slave camps and catching runaways. The Purity League has no oversight, and since it’s listed as a social club, they avoid the scrutiny an official political party would be subjected to.

  Their charter states that the Purity League is dedicated to preserving pure German culture from subversive influences. Everyone in Europe knows that in neo-Nazi-speak, “pure” means Aryan and “subversive” means Jewish. Their racist agenda attracts extremists from all over Greater Germany. A typical to-do list might read:

  1. Strut around like a jackass.

  2. Intimidate and attack minorities and members of the liberal left, especially abolitionists.

  3. Talk too loud, drink too much, and be too stupid.

  I say to Brando, “Well, I’ve heard enough. When do we stomp these pricks?”

  Marie answers, “You can start tomorrow night. We’re going to a party.”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-DATA-DAVID-231

  Operation DATA-DAVID

  Now in its tenth year, DATA-DAVID continues to deliver quality intelligence about Greater Germany at a bargain-basement price. Our contacts from the Circle of Zion maintain a steady flow of information in exchange for our assistance with their clandestine missions to extract escaped Jewish slaves from Europe. The most ambitious of these undertakings is a lengthy network of safe houses, secret routes, and black-market shipping known as the Floating Railroad.

  DA
TA-DAVID routinely violates German sovereignty and so runs counter to official U.S. policy. In the event of exposure, the diplomatic damage with Germany would be significant but not irreconcilable. Domestically, the widely held belief in slavery’s unethical nature ensures our agents will be shielded from all but token legal repercussions.

  Activists within the Reich, however, will be on their own.

  28

  NEXT EVENING, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 8:31 P.M. CET

  CHATEAU DE COCOVE, NEAR CALAIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  “How’s your champagne?” Brando asks me.

  I tilt my glass of Veuve Clicquot up at the frescoed ceiling, pour its contents down my throat, and hold the empty out to my partner.

  “More,” I say.

  He studies my face for a moment, then takes my wineglass and mingles his way across the crowded ballroom toward the bar, weaving through the schmoozing horde of Greater German glitterati and their attendant flacks and sycophants. My partner looks quite dashing in the charcoal two-piece suit Garbo picked up for him downtown.

  As he waits at the bar, Brando catches Garbo’s eye across the room. She’s smoothly inserted herself into the cozy flock of females surrounding a tall and very handsome patrician gentleman. The man is entirely composed and charming, but something about the perfection of his teeth reminds me of a shark among goldfish. Maybe it’s the way his smile’s stunning whiteness is echoed by his lush and equally white hair. Anybody that attractive at his age must be up to something really evil.

  My partner returns with a fresh drink for me. He’s got a funny expression on his face. He hands me the glass while his eyes drift down to my shoes.

  Despite a litany of curse-filled predictions from yours truly, my normally booted or sneakered feet did not rebel against slipping into a pair of black stockings and high heels. My sinewy legs curve like wings of nylon-covered marble from my ankles to the hem of my sleeveless dress. It’s a little black number Garbo lent me. The dress hugs my waist and presents my meager cleavage to heaven’s cruel scrutiny. I feel naked, and not only from the dearth of material covering me. This outfit is so tight that I can’t wear my sidearm or even my fighting knife. Plus, I’m freezing, my bandages itch like crazy, and—

  “You look fantastic, Alix,” Patrick comms.

  My lips curl into a smile, and a crest of warmth ripples down my thighs. I lower my eyelids and comm, “Thanks, Brando.” I move my wineglass to the side and briefly pose like a fashion model. Patrick catches himself staring, clears his throat, and forces his eyes to the boozy roomful of elegantly attired power brokers.

  I swig my drink and nearly cough it right up. “Bleah! This champagne is awful!”

  “It’s ginger ale.”

  I scowl at my partner, who has resumed studying the room. He says, “We’re on a job, Scarlet. We can’t have you all…tipsy.”

  “Tipsy? Little old ladies get tipsy. Real women get tanked!”

  “Fine, whatever,” Brando replies. “Just stay focused. I think Garbo has found our target.”

  Part of Marie’s work is knowing who’s who and where’s where. When she heard about our person-of-interest list, including our orders to “investigate Herr Johannes Kruppe,” she volunteered to bring us to this glitzy fund-raiser.

  Marie insisted that we tart up. “Scarlet, you cannot go to Chateau de Cocove dressed like a farmhand. Try this on.” She pulled a wisp of fabric out of her closet and handed it to me. “I’m too old for this dress, and you have a very nice figure.”

  Most of the classes at Camp A-Go-Go were gender-neutral, but some were for girls only. One of those classes taught us how to work jobs in a skirt and high heels. I thought it’d be a total fluff class, but wearing heels while running, jumping, and especially brawling is way harder than it looks.

  My partner and I discreetly watch Garbo ply her feminine and journalistic wiles. She wheedles her way deeper into the gaggle of groupies that no doubt forms around this handsome devil wherever he goes. The man says something to Garbo, and she holds her glass like a microphone and pretends to interview him. Then she tilts it toward him for a response.

  That’s the signal. It’s Kruppe.

  A waiter eases through the group around Herr Handsome and whispers in his ear. Kruppe nods and apologizes to the ladies while he extricates himself from their fawning affection. He walks out of the ballroom and into the kitchen.

  Brando takes my glass. “Follow him.”

  My heels speed-stroll through the crowd. I enter the kitchen and catch a glimpse of Kruppe’s white hair as he passes through a doorway across the room. I follow him through the door and down a wooden staircase to a dimly lit but impeccably maintained stone cellar.

  Tall wine racks line a corridor that stretches back under the ballroom. The long formation of dark glass is interrupted only by entrances to small side chambers, which are also lined with neatly arranged wine bottles. Kruppe continues walking down the passageway. I slip into the first side room—out of sight from the main corridor—and amp up my hearing. The door above opens. Another man’s footsteps come down the stairs.

  I press myself against a tall stack of wooden wine crates and hold my breath. The steps crunch past my alcove to where Kruppe stands waiting.

  “What news?” I recognize Kruppe’s voice from upstairs.

  “Madness,” says the newcomer. “The Gestapo in England is in tatters, and the SZ here is overwhelmed by rebel slaves and the damned abolitionists.”

  “My organization is ready to join yours to save the Fatherland,” Kruppe says.

  “Save? From who?”

  “The Jew-loving traitors, of course.”

  The second man sighs, then says, “Johannes, those ‘traitors’ have nearly as many well-placed associates as you do.”

  “My Purity League can take care of them.”

  “We shall see, Herr Kruppe.” The second man rustles something. A piece of paper? “Meet my courier at this time and place. He will give you a mission. If you succeed, I will decide what other Gestapo duties your league of brutes can perform.”

  After a moment, Kruppe says, “Very well.”

  One of the men passes through the corridor and returns upstairs. I hear the remaining person breathing. After a minute he begins to walk toward the stairs.

  Then he stops right outside my hiding place. Savory-smelling aftershave drifts into my nostrils. His feet step toward the alcove. If I were an Infiltrator, I might be able to hide in place with a cloaking Mod, but all I’ve got to disappear into is my skimpy dress. The man takes another step and leans his head into my gloomy side chamber.

  It’s Kruppe. His silvery head turns my way. I zing my hand into one of the racks and whip out a bottle. Before Kruppe fully faces me, I bash his head. Thonk! He exhales sharply and collapses like a rag doll.

  I rub my fingerprints off the bottle and put it back. My toes flip my unconscious victim over, and my hands find the piece of notepaper his contact gave him. It reads:

  7 March, 1800. Thiepval, 11A.

  I return the note to Kruppe’s pocket and skedaddle upstairs. My heels click through the kitchen and clack across the ballroom.

  “Darwin, time to go.”

  “Roger that,” he comms. “I’ll get Garbo and meet you out front. Everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine.” I march into the front foyer. “Hurry up.”

  I fetch my coat and walk outside to the mansion’s limo-lined driveway. My breath steams past my teeth into the night’s wintry air. My legs are still exposed, but for some reason I’m not nearly as cold as I was a little while ago.

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-ANGEL-3277

  Darwin,

  Your report of 21 February was reviewed with great interest. Johannes Kruppe and his Purity League are already an operational hazard and must not become even more so. To this end, you and your partner will help disrupt the League’s organizational effectiveness. Attached is the detailed Job Number. Good luck.

 
A. N. du Remise

  —Senior Info Coordinator, Extreme Operations Division

  29

  NINE DAYS LATER, MONDAY, MARCH 2, 3:01 A.M. CET

  CALAIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  I cram the small, heavy bomb between a pair of commercial-size refrigerators. When it explodes, it’ll probably eject the outermost fridge right through this butcher shop’s front window. The man who runs the place is one of the Purity League’s most active thugs and has nearly caught Betti a couple of times.

  Brando comms, “Got that bubba in place?”

  “Yeah; let’s scram.”

  We return to the taxi outside and get in the backseat. Our driver takes us to our next target. The quiet streetlit buildings of downtown Calais float by our windows.

  Until recently, the Purity League’s provincial character relegated it to being a hazardous nuisance. But now they’re receiving assignments and information directly from the Gestapo, which could make them much more dangerous.

  After we left the party at Chateau de Cocove, Brando commed his boss with descriptions of the stakeouts at Garbo’s house and my close encounter with Kruppe. That same night we received new orders.

  ExOps is mounting a theaterwide Rock ’n Shock Job Number to see if we can terrorize these anti-Semitic pinheads back to their rat holes. We worked all week with local Circle of Zion people to set up our targets and timing. Tonight is the final stage where we bomb three Purity Leaguer–owned businesses here in Calais.

  Marie found an antislavery activist named Josef to chauffeur us around in his taxi. The job has gone smoothly so far. After this assignment, the only thing on our calendar is snooping on Kruppe’s meeting in Thiepval next week.

  We stop in front of a tailor’s storefront a few blocks from the butcher shop. The tailor is the bozo who’s been watching Marie’s house. He doesn’t have much heavy equipment, but he does have a lot of flammable fabric. Instead of the high-explosive device we used at the butcher’s shop, we plant a lava-spewing incendiary bomb in his storeroom. We’re in and out in three minutes flat.