Personnel- Dossier Feldgrau

by Tyler Hanson

  Quentin stared down at the documents on the table. They were black-and-white scans of medical records. Specifically, OBGYN records. “M, are you saying she was pregnant?”

  The man pointed a wrinkled finger at the folder. “You tell me.”

  “But M,” Quentin said hesitantly, “this is not in the Princess’s name. This is a Jane Doe. It could be anyone. Even if it was her, am I supposed to believe that the pregnancy was worth her life?”

  M shook his head. “It’s not about what. It’s about who. The things I’ve heard from my friends in Haiti and Dubai point toward a scandal—a relationship with someone in the Bush family.”

  Quentin chuckled, incredulous. “Really? Who?”

  The old man shrugged. “No one knows. There’s no evidence, of course. Some mention a phone conversation between the Princess and a private American contact, but there’s been no way to verify it.”

  Quentin leaned back in his chair and sighed, his tone biting and irritated. “M, have I come here to waste my time? This is important to me; to the people.”

  M jumped from his seat and slammed his hands on the table, rattling the coffee cups. “I KNOW IT’S IMPORTANT! THEY CAME AND THEY TOOK MY SECURITY FOOTAGE! THEY FEIGNED NEGLIGENCE FROM A KIND AND RESPONSIBLE MAN! THEY DANCE AROUND THE EVIDENCE, IGNORING THE MISSING PAINT AND THE FLASH, LAUGHING AT US—“

  Quentin raised a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, what flash? I haven’t heard of this.”

  M seemed to calm, looking around at the nearby guests who stared at him. One couple rose to leave the café, but M waved them back down into their seats, offering nonverbal reassurance of his composure.

  “Q, I’m surprised you haven’t,” M said. “The moment her car entered the tunnel—right before it crashed—there was a bright flash of light. Some are saying it caused the crash, others say it was just a paparazzo or maintenance worker.”

  “Can you help me confirm this?” Quentin asked. “I have contacts in the DPSD whom I trust very much. I’d like for them to reach out to your collaborators to identify the whereabouts of any paid paparazzi working the night of the crash.”

  M began to speak, but something caught his eye. He looked over Quentin’s shoulder, and his next words were difficult to understand through the quiver in his voice. “Can we walk?”

  His eyes connected with Quentin’s, betraying sudden terror. Quentin spun around in his chair, but the only people he saw were some of the outdoor café’s patrons and the average passers-by on the sidewalk. He turned back to M.

  “Of course,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

  __________

  The two continued their conversation in whispers as they moved down the bustling sidewalks and quiet back alleys. M agreed to help arrange connections between their contacts, isolating suspects who may have been the cause of the bright flash. Quentin further explained his rationale: If they can identify a responsible party, they can better explain and unravel the true nature of the Princess’s death.

  M also shared his theories about those involved. He felt MI6 had some stake in preventing the child from being born, due to the political issues raised if the Bush family was involved. M had also heard references to the word Quentin referenced by other sources, though M swore it was “Lemara,” not “Lomaria.” Dusk arrived before M said he needed to leave.

  “Q, you should be careful,” M said, offering one last piece of advice. “I’ve been able to distance myself from this for now, but my contacts are having strange, dangerous experiences. They’re reporting being watched; being followed. They tell me of things in their home being moved around when they aren’t looking, even if they’re in the next room. Some have seen shadows of people, standing at the end of their bed or over their babies’ cribs. None have been hurt yet. None that I know of.”

  M leaned closer. “I may have seen such a man today—at the café. If they know I’m involved, they’ll be looking at you, too. If they’re the same ones responsible for the Princess—just be careful, Q.”

  Quentin offered the man a handshake. “I will.”

  M turned away, waved goodbye, and traveled up the sidewalk. Quentin checked his watch and looked in the direction of his house. He was about half a kilometer from home, so a cab wouldn’t be necessary.

  It was a nice night.

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his lavender pea coat, mulling over the information M had shared with him. The idea of an unwanted pregnancy causing political discourse enticed him, but perhaps it enticed him too much. Conspiracy theorists loved to spin dramatic tales. All too often, the simplest explanation for a tragedy was the correct one, but the simplest reason was often too mundane, at least for the public’s tastes.

  In any circumstance, the “why,” while important, was not at the top of Quentin’s priority list. He needed evidence of foul play that, when forced into the public eye, created such a fuss that it dragged the “why” into the light with it.

  The street and sidewalk ahead of Quentin was empty, the darkness of the night broken only by the stars and the occasional street lamp. He passed an empty telephone booth, deep in thought. The contraption was old and rusty, with a mounted telephone and white book highlighted by a glowing yellow light.

  Quentin appreciated the lack of people on his walk home. It wasn’t that he hated people. After all, he didn’t know everything, and people were a valuable resource when acquiring new information. But far too often, he found them bogged down by their emotions and their biases, unable to behave like rational animals. In those moments—in most moments—he would rather remain alone.

  Well, Maddie could stay.

  A flicker in the corner of his eye interrupted his thoughts. He turned around. The telephone booth was malfunctioning, losing its light and regaining it in quick succession. After a few seconds, it turned off altogether, plunging the booth into darkness.

  He stopped watching the booth, opting instead to return to his journey home, but before he turned back toward the street, the light returned, dimmer than before. Quentin looked closer this time.

  A black figure now stood inside.

  Quentin stepped backward, startled by the person’s appearance.

  Did they come to make a phone call? If so, how did I miss their approach?

  The figure stood still with the phone to its ear. Completely still. They didn’t move a muscle, not even seeming to speak into the device. Quentin was relieved to see they weren’t also raving, or brandishing a weapon, or approaching him. He tried to quell the goosebumps along his arms, reoriented himself toward his home, and quickened his pace.

  Quentin’s shoes clacked along the sidewalk, and he could painfully hear his breathing, more labored than before. He looked over his shoulder. The figure now stood in the middle of the street, staring right at him, its posture unmoving. Even under the lamplights, Quentin could only make out the black shape of a person. He could discern no features through the darkness.

  Calmness could wait for another day.

  Burst into a sprint, he made a hard-left turn into the series of alleyways he knew well. He passed by a dumpster and leapt over a puddle next to it, continuing to the end of the alley. As he reached it, he heard someone stomp into the puddle, splashing water into the air and against the dumpster. Quentin turned to the right, willing himself not to look back.

  If it was the same person, they could only have reached the alley so soon by running, too.

  He approached a chest-high wall and vaulted over the obstacle without slowing, using his hands to push his body up and over. Even while Quentin recovered from his landing, he heard shoes skidding to a stop on the other side. He had to continue.

  Quentin entered a small park, and he diverted into a closely-knit nest of trees, making an effort not to disturb the foliage. When he felt he was out of sight, he crouched down, waiting to see who came around the corner of the alley.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing moved.


  Quentin sighed, trying to release the tension from his muscles. His relief was short-lived, as rustling sounded to his right from a different area of the park. It grew louder, more fervent. A black hand appeared from the leaves, gripping a branch to steady itself.

  He didn’t wait to see the rest.

  Quentin sprung from the trees, one of the twigs slicing a small cut on his forehead above his left eye. The sweat from his fear, combined with this physical excursion, rolled and burned into the new wound, but he barely noticed. Instead, he darted further down the street, slipping into the back alleys, only glimpsing the black figure pursuing him for a millisecond from the corner of his eye.

  His heart pounded against his chest, and the blood from his cut tried to trickle down into his eye. He wiped his forehead every few seconds to keep his vision clear.

  A door loomed ahead, held open by a brick. His only other option was to remain in the continuous maze of the alleyways, so Quentin chose the former, pulling open his salvation, kicking away the brick, and slamming the barrier closed. He turned to see a dark kitchen, where one member of the staff stared at him, a trash bag in each hand.

  “Je t’aide?” she asked, as if unsure whether an offended or frightened tone was more appropriate.

  Quentin just raised a finger to his lips, pointing back at the door.

  Silence.

  As they both waited, he grew nervous; she grew irritated. “Monsieur, nous sommes fermés—“

  “SHHH.”

  More silence.

  Quentin raised his hands in an exaggerated shrug. “I apologize; I have had a very strange night. If I may ask, do you have another way out of here?”

  The employee looked him up-and-down, relaxing in response to his polite demeanor. “Yes, I can unlock the entrance for you,” she replied. “Is everything okay? Should I call the Sûreté?”

  Quentin looked back at the door. “No, I—I don’t believe they can do much for me here.”

  Paris, France

  September 6, 1997-A

  Quentin sat in the center of his living room floor, facing his front door. He still wore the dirty and disheveled clothes from the chase two days earlier. Dark stubble covered his jawline, but the circles under his eyes were twice as dark. Maddie laid next to him, panting. She seemed stressed by his demeanor.

  Gripped in his hands, pointed toward his front door, was a small pistol.

  As soon as he’d returned home that night, Quentin rushed to the gun safe in his bedroom and retrieved the weapon. Though the DPSD provided formal training, his career as an analyst did little to prepare him for practical gunplay. Nevertheless, its presence comforted him. He hoped it would be useful against the Shadow Person, should his investigation bring them together again.

  Maddie’s whimpering broke him from his thirty-six-hour trance.

  “Maddie I’m—I’m so sorry,” Quentin said. “You’re right. I can’t stay here forever.”

  Quentin climbed to his feet, his joints creaking. Staggered, he set the gun on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. He poured food into Maddie’s bowl, and set to work cleaning up the “accidents” she’d left on the floor due to his negligence. She finished eating in no time, so he took her for a walk to make sure she had the opportunity to use the restroom comfortably.

  Once Maddie’s needs were met, Quentin stripped his outfit and clambered into the shower. Cleaned and re-dressed in a new outfit, he tucked the pistol into his waistband against his back. He offered a quirky half-smile to his companion. “Let me make it up to you.”

  __________

  The Dutch Shepherd trotted along the sidewalk, happy and carefree. Quentin held tight to her leash, keeping up with her eager pace. When they neared their destination, she sniffed the air, her question-mark tail wagging with renewed fury. Despite the stress of the last two nights, Quentin found himself tickled by her excitement. The pair stepped into the market.

  Le Marché des Enfants Rouges.

  The locale was an open market dating back three and a half centuries, holding an eclectic mix of fresh products from various nations. The market bustled with customers today, who cooed at Maddie, enthralled by her charm, and she ate up their attention. The patrons focused on Maddie; Quentin nabbed a fresh loaf of wheat bread and a bunch of bananas for Maddie. He also hunted down truffle pasta, a container of burrata, and some minced kefta.

  He looked up from the Moroccan area of the market, feeling a chill rolling up his spine. Ahead, in the shuffle of the crowd, was a solitary, motionless figure.

  The Shadow Person.

  The black silhouette peered at Quentin, standing far enough away to avoid notice from the other patrons as they shopped. The figure stood in the threshold of a hallway that disappeared into a small warehouse, and as Quentin laid eyes on it, the figure turned down that hallway, out of sight.

  “Come, Maddie,” Quentin said, his voice an octave lower now.

  He left his basket of groceries at the Moroccan stall and slipped the pistol from his pants into the pocket of his pea coat. Maddie stuck close to his legs as they weaved through the food displays and into the hallway.

  “Sit, Maddie,” he commanded. She planted herself a meter into the hallway, staying close to its entrance.

  Quentin passed her and walked up to a door, pistol now drawn and steady. His shoulder pressed into it, and it swiveled open into darkness. He activated a penlight with his other hand and shined it around, but all it revealed were wooden crates of produce.

  “Hey!” called a voice from the hallway. “Don’t go back there!”

  Quentin stuffed his pistol back into his pea coat pocket and exited to see an irritated market worker flagging him down. Maddie sat at the worker’s feet, looking up at him with her mouth open and her tongue dangling to the side.

  Quentin walked back to retrieve Maddie. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered to the man.

  He located their basket and paid for their food. As they left, Maddie stopped and whined, looking into the bustle of the market.

  “I know it’s your favorite place,” Quentin said with a grin. “We’ll come back soon, okay?”

  Maddie’s whining grew louder, but she turned to follow her guardian anyway, glancing back into the market one more time.

  __________

  As they returned home and walked through the door, Quentin’s house phone was ringing. He placed his bag on the floor, released Maddie’s leash, and sprinted to its spot on the kitchen counter.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Q?” he heard through the line. “This is R.”

  “What is it?”

  “We cross-referenced the paparazzi you requested with M’s informants. Only one had unknown whereabouts on that night: a street photographer under ITV’s employ. Particularly, one reporting to Nicholas Owen.”

  “So, Owen has the images?” Quentin queried, leaning against his kitchen counter.

  “Not that we can tell,” R replied. “All records, both physical and digital, indicate this photographer’s been dark for the past week.”

  Quentin frowned. “Can you send me their information?”

  “We’ll meet in person, Q. The DPSD team has been under . . . some kind of surveillance. We’re worried about interception.”

  “You’re seeing the Shadow Person too, aren’t you?”

  “Enculer, Q, you can’t just say this shit on an open line!” R exclaimed. “Yes, this specter has been trailing most of the analysts. To be more specific, the ones who have been helping you with this private Diana investigation. We’re thinking it’s MI6. Or the Russians.”

  “Of course, R. We’ll talk about this more in person.”

  “Also . . .”

  Quentin waited, but R remained silent. “Yes?”

  “Well, we’re worried about you, Q. You know you can have . . . obsessive tendencies. You’ve missed a week of work, and we don’t have many vacation days. Don’t let this ruin your life.”

  Another pause.

  �
��See you soon, R.”

  Proxy’s Report

  01.13: “Investigation”

  Canonbury, England

  September 7, 1997-A

  Quentin walked up the front steps of the apartment registered to “F,” the ITV photographer. He had tried to set up a meeting with the man once he retrieved contact details from R, but to no avail. Left with no other choice, Quentin pressured R into keeping an eye on Maddie. He’d then caught a red-eye flight to England to confront the photographer in person.

  Quentin’s knuckles rapping on F’s front door broke the still night. He heard no response until a lock pulled on the other side, and a doorknob twisted. A sliver of light shone through

  “Are you MI6?” said a young man’s voice, in English.

  Quentin smiled through the crack in the entrance. “No, mon amie,” he said. “Officially I’m with French intelligence, at the DPSD. But I did not come here on their time. I came here to pursue a personal endeavor.” The man kept the door partially open, but he didn’t respond. “If the last week of your life was anything like mine,” Quentin added, “I know you’re wary of strangers. Have you been seeing the Shadow Person, too?”

  That comment seemed to attract the attention of F, whose eyes widened. “Oh my God . . . it’s not just me?”

  “No.” Quentin leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I have seen it too, as have many of my colleagues. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to ask you some questions that are better answered behind closed doors.”

  F hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth. “I have a friend who checks up on me every so often to make sure I’m still okay. If something happens, you won’t get away with it.”

  “Don’t worry.” Quentin doubted the man’s bluff, but he’d oblige his worries. “I just came to speak with you.”

  The door opened the rest of the way into a small, carpeted living room. To the left of the entrance was a coat closet, while the right side of the space was partitioned into a kitchen. Ahead of him was a short hallway with two doors, likely leading to a bedroom and a bathroom.