Swords Made of Letters

Swords Made of Letters - A new project, something fresh, which happens to be a novel. :yes:

It's a novel, which I will write bit by bit, a novel set in December 1938, just before the war. It starts with a Prologue set in Eastern Europe, but the main action will be in Western Europe - right on the borders, and right in that period just before the war. You will hopefully enjoy a window into that tumultuous period which I will try and evoke as richly and as accurately as possible. You will recognise some parts, such as the stories from Night Train and Clouds of Smoke, which are part of the novel. The entire novel will focus on the period before the war so expect some interesting twists and turns throughout the way!

1938 was a very turbulent period, the project aims to capture that completely.

Please enjoy it, read it, share it and feedback as always is very much appreciated. :bow:

You can also find the novel on Wattpad, if you're a frequent visitor of the website - https://www.wattpad.com/story/210140...ade-of-letters

Happy reading!



Book Chapter - Index


Chapter I - Night Train - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053747987

Chapter II - Swords Made of Letters - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053749358

Chapter III - The White Club - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053751113

Chapter IV - Letters from Across

Chapter V - Others

Chapter VI - Night Train II - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053755963

Chapter VII - Elbe - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053756516

Chapter VIII - Clouds of Smoke - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053756629

Chapter IX - Police Stations - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053756958

Chapter X - Crackles and Roars - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053757670

Chapter XI - House of Cards - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053772298

Chapter XII - Paris Briefing - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053772412

Chapter XIII - Secret Briefing - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053772746

Chapter XIV - Carry It Out, Officer - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053772886

Chapter XV - A Den of Spies - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053777005

Chapter XVI - Shadow of Aachen - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053780104

Chapter XVII - Heavy Scents - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053780267

Chapter XVIII - Battle Plans - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053787310

Chapter XIX - Silence of the Forest - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053788668

Chapter XX - Dossiers and Letters - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053788902

Chapter XXI - First Escape - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053798542

Chapter XXII - Sabotage - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053801993

Cahppter XXIII - Surprise, Surprise - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053802046

Chapter XXIV - Evaluations of No Laughing Matter - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053802134

Chapter XXV - A Walk in the Park - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053802951

Chapter XXVI - Quellenhof Ball - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053803630

Chapter XXVII - A Bureau - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053803833

Chapter XXVIII - Linking the Puzzle - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053804037

Chapter XXIX - Report your Findings - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053804277

Chapter XXX - Papers, Plans and Projections - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053804818

Chapter XXXI - Rolling Towards the line of Battle - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806173

Chapter XXXII - Take Up Your Arms- https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806316

Chapter XXXIII - Overzealous - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806344

Chapter XXXIV - Shadows - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806365

Chapter XXXV - Masquerade for Me, Please - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806390

Chapter XXXVI - Enchante, Monsieur - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806429

Chapter XXVII - Need a Hand? - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806546

Chapter XXXVIII - No News is Good News - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806569

Chapter XXXIX - Escape - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806714

Chapter XL - Where do We Stand? - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806736

Chapter XLI - Drive, And Keep Driving - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053806905

Chapter XLII - You? - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053807131

Chapter XLIII - Ciphers, Rotors, Jumbled & Foreign - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053807165

Chapter XLIV - Foreshadowing - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053807270

Chapter XLV - Pensive on a New Year - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053807594

Epilogue I - Rescue - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053808359

Epilogue II - Reminiscing - https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...post2053809687





Swords Made of Letters

---

Prologue - Part I

12:45 AM, 2nd of December 1938
Athenee Palace Hotel
Bucharest
Romania


They never listened to her.

And she told them countless times. Time and time again she told the shift manager, but they never listened to her. The cheap detergent the hotel kept buying caused Helen's skin to crack whenever she had to wash the dishes and cutlery for the patrons who came to the English Bar. They never listened and her skin always looked more than her twenty eight years of age. And it was the same endless story tonight as well. The water gushed from the tap onto the white dishes inscribed with the AP initials of the hotel, breaking off the relative silence of the bar.

Tucked in the corner of the lobby, the English bar was made as a retreat for the patrons of the hotel, and the ladies who would often wait for them. Cosy, with dim lights and somehow reeking of a combination of musk and heavy tobacco, the bar was heavily populated at all times. But tonight it was empty. The 1st of December always brought empty cosy bars - and rather houses full of people partying a national holiday. The holiday left Helen alone in the bar with four men huddled at a low table in the opposite corner of the room, chatting and laughing between hushed tones. They never raised their voice, they never raised their eyesight to her and they spoke as little as possible when she went to take their order. She found that odd but Helen had seen her fair share of oddities so she only delivered their order and went about her business.

But even so, it was too quiet. It was as if the men were never there.

She gave them a quick glance and returned to her duties, satisfied they were there and not causing any trouble. But the four men, all dressed in black uniforms with odd white patches on the side, were different than any other guests she had encountered. No other guest kept their silence, and neither of them would speak in hushed tones or laugh as quietly as possible. Helen's back arched slightly at the implications. She was warned about foreign elements within the country and perhaps they were some of those elements. Helen sighed. The water kept gushing from the tap until she slammed it shut and waited for the dishes to dry. As the sudden silence beckoned, a couple of words trailed off before the guests realised they were no longer covered by the sound of the water.

Helen recognised the language.

Three weeks before, a rather charming Englishman came up to her while she was at the bar and paid her a generous tip. The man specifically asked for her to report whenever she heard this language, and she was promised a hefty reward every time she would call him. Somewhere in her pocket she had his room number - the man after all was a legate at the embassy and lived often in the hotel - but she decided to listen to the conversation in order to get an even heftier reward. Helen picked up three glasses and opened the tap again, letting the water slide gently in the glasses as she pretended to clean them. Her ears were honed on their conversation, picking up bits and bobs from the words that she understood of that language. Despite her being a bartender, Helen spoke five languages, courtesy of a very ambitious mother. She finished her washing about two minutes later, gently easing the tap until she could hear and decipher some parts of phrases the men spoke between them. Helen had no more dishes or glasses, and there were no other patrons, so she glided gently out of the bar and left for the lobby to excuse herself from a potentially awkward situation.

She returned to the bar four minutes later, only to find it empty.

On the table the men left a considerable amount of money, including a hefty tip, despite them not knowing exactly the price of the food and drinks they ordered because Helen never even got them the check. She shrugged, counted the money and returned to the bar. She glanced around, looking from the place at the bar out into the lobby, but the men were not there either. SOmewhat confused, Helen smirked and counted the money. She kept what was hers and put everything into the books. Satisified, she closed the ledger and beckoned to the receptionist. It was the end of the shift and she wanted to go home. With the tip in her pocket and five minutes later her uniform exchanged for more confortable clothing, she bid goodbye to the coworker taking her place and exited the hotel.

The night was cold and cloudy - it was December after all - forcing Helen to button her overcoat up to the last top button. With the silk scarf huddled around her neck, she turned left from the Athenee Palace hotel and reached for the side streets behind the imposing Atheneum. In her desire to reach her house she did not notice the three men casually resting against a black Mercedes limousine parked beside the hotel. Helen beckoned even faster, oblivious to the men eyeing her behind, hoping to reach her house before it started raining. As she turned into the street behind the conservatory, a hand gently slid between her and her torso, pinning her to a halt.


"Good evening, Mrs. Helen."


----

Keep a close eye on this thread, regular updates will come as the story develops and unfolds. :book:

Website coming soon - www.swordsmadeofletters.com ! :yes:



As always, feedback appreciated!

:bow:

Part II of the Prologue. :bow:



---

Firm, but gentle, the man drew up in front of her and gave her a rather disconcerting smile. His white teeth were bared, smiling almost ironically to her, his eyes a mixture of contempt and curiosity. Helen glanced at him, her hands trembling beneath her coat, unsure what to make of him. She realised he was one of the guests, but what did she do?

"Good evening, Mrs. Helen," the man repeated. "I believe you and I are going for a walk."

Helen stammered. "What... why... who are you?"

"Oh I believe you will recognise me. The man from the bar earlier. I was with three friends, remember?" The man gave her a pout of his lips, putting her off guard. "Of course you do remember me darling. I was there just twenty minutes ago, you can't forget me even if you tried. Let's go for a walk darling, fresh air is good for the soul."

Despite her initial resistance, there was no use for Helen to try and resist. The man grabbed her arm, violently this time, and dragged her behind him. There was no use for Helen to even try to resist. There was nobody on the street at this hour, and worse, she was about half his size. He dragged her all the way from behind the Atheneum to the car at the side of the hotel where the men from the bar were waiting inside. Without any words spoken, Helen found herself thrown inside the car, in the middle of backseat, surrounded by four men in black uniforms, buzz cuts and stern glances. All of them wore caps, concealing their facial features but only to an extent, enough for her to not discern who was which compared to the men that she saw earlier in the bar. Without any other words, her assailant tapped the driver on the shoulder and the black limousine sputtered forwards into the closest intersection in front of the hotel. The junction formed a three way connection between the main Victory Boulevard, the hotel and the Royal Palace just opposite of the hotel. Despite the junction being a frequented area, the driver didn't bother to look.

Helen only remembered the crash.

A grey limousine smashed into the front portion of their car, turning it sideways and releasing thousands of bits of mangled metal into the air. Violent impact as it was, the driver of the grey limousine saw the black limousine driven by Helen's assailants moments before the crash and slammed onto the brakes, easing up on the impact that could have had serious repercussions. As things stood, only the cars were damaged and everyone escaped rather unscathed. Helen smacked her head into the shoulder of her assailant during the impact, but apart from that, she was fine. The side passenger from her car was quite injured, bleeding profusely from his right arm. Her right side backseat colleague was unscathed and the driver seemed fine, along with her assailant. Helen expected the men to check on their injuries, but that did not happen. All three of them, minus the side passenger, exited the car and drew up to the destroyed grey limousine stopped only a couple of metres away from their own.

In a matter of moments, Helen watched through the broken windshield as the simple conversation turned into a violent brawl.

Angered by the lack of respect from the uniformed men and the clear arrogance, the four men from the limousine, dressed in grey matching suits and Panama hats, rose up from the wreck of the car and attacked the three men, quickly neutralising them. Not content with the job, one of them took out a Thompson submachinegun from the wreck of their car and pointed it at the black limousine. Before Helen realised what the barrel meant, a quick salvo of twenty bullets broke through the car, ripping the windshield to pieces. The bullets tore through the the seats, the dashboard, the steering wheel and even through the back window. Helen ducked as fast as she could, hitting her head in the process in the side of the door. Neither bullet hit her, as the barrel was aimed too high, but it was enough to cause her a shock beneath the backseat of that limousine. They found her two minutes later, breathing heavily.

One of the men opened the back door, his gaze connected rather quickly with her own. Helen saw he had a moustache that resembled a Frenchman from the Jazz Age, and that was the only thing she discerned between him and that Panama hat he wore on top. He gave her his hand, which she reached out for, dragging her out of the car in a rather gentle manner.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, giving Helen a quick scan.

She shook her head. "No, no, nothing touched me."

"Sorry about your friends."

Helen chuckled. "They kidnapped me, they are not my friends."

The man gave quick glances to his comrades. "Do you know who they are?"

"No idea. Clients of my bar before."

"Your bar?"

"I work in the English Bar at the Athenee."

"They were here before?"

"Yes. Half an hour ago."

To her credit, Helen could still stand on her own, which prompted the man to leave her to her own legs. Helen saw as the man clicked from his fingers twice and pointed to the knocked out assailants.

"Check their uniforms, I hope we haven't beaten some of our own army guys."

Helen watched as the man with the Thompson, almost identical to the man who plucked her out of the car, roamed around the men with his gun pointed towards them.

"They don't look our men to me, boss," said the Thompson wielder.

"Search them."

The Thompson gunner nodded and gave one of the assailants a quick pat down, unearthing two documents of identification and a small notebook with weird symbols on it.

"Anything?" asked the chief.

"Something you should see." The Thompson gunner handed the documents and the notebook. "Recognise these?"

Helen watched as the chief slightly recoiled, twitching his right hand in discomfort. "Let's leave. We have to see the boss." He turned to Helen. "And you are coming with us."

It took them the better part of twenty minutes to find a car that would take them to the house of their mafia boss, but that was to be expected at 1 AM after a national holiday. The car took them through the side streets, as the moustached man ordered, streets which Helen did not recognise at all. They eventually arrived to a white coloured house, or beige, Helen did not manage to discern, a two storied villa in fact built in American Art Deco style with small round windows on the top floor and large open windows on the bottom floor. They got out from the car and entered the courtyard, which prompted the moustached man to turn to Helen.

"All right, a quick rundown. We're at the house of Mita Zilieru' (Mita the Builder), he's an important mafia boss around these places. Just tell him what you know and what happened and be thankful you got saved, okay?"

They did not wait for Helen's answer. Without other words, they entered the house. A superb chandelier illuminated the entrance hallway, marbled on the floor and with a spectacular round mahogany staircase running to the upper floor. The place was decked in expensive wood, giving it a rather distinct feel. Music rang out from both sides of the house and party goers casually danced in front of the guests, up the stairs, down the stairs, sideways... it was clear that a party was going on. Helen watched in awe, and bemusement, the whole spectacle. Her mood quickly sombered when she met the gaze of the chief who motioned her to go to the left of the hallway.

They entered a large dining hall where about eight men and women dined and laughed but with what Helen presumed was Mita himself at the top of the table eating from a white bowl of soup. With his hair cut short, a rather piercing gaze and a quite sturdy build, dressed in a blue vest and blue pants, Mita looked the mafia boss part but his average height did not. He motioned them to come closer, which the moustached man did with reverence. He saluted Mita and presented him Helen. With the introductions done and dusted, the chief, or Mita's lieutenant, started to stammer. Mita gave him a curious glance.

"All right, what happened?"

Mita's lieutenant gave him the documents. "Four men in a black limousine simply came into our driving lane. We smashed into their car and then they wanted a fight so we gave it to them."

Mita stopped eating from his soup. He gave an initial chuckle at the story but his party mood quickly soured as he glanced at the documents with weird symbols. He held up the little notebook that showed the symbols.

"Are you guys maniacs? You beat down a couple of those fanatics? Are you insane? Do you have any idea in what kind of problems are we in now?"

"Boss, look, we had no idea. I thought it was from Capistrano or some other guy."

Mita rose up from the table gave his lieutenant a slap. "After all these years you still can't identify what those other guys wear? Why are you even my man if you can't distinguish purple from blue?" Mita shook his head. "Where did you leave them?"

"In the middle of the road."

"IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD?" Mita slammed a hand down the table. "If something happens in the next couple of days, I will hang you out to dry."

"Boss, look, I tri..."

Mita's lieutenant did not have time to finish. Loud crackles erupted from outside the house, crackles that turned into screeching sounds as bullets ripped the windows of the house and tore through the wooden decking on the bottom floor. The firefight lasted no more than ten seconds but that was enough to destroy at least the front part of the house, most of the windows and two crystal chandeliers. Shards of glass were littered all over the floor

"Call Capistrano. And Colonel Tomescu from the police. We need help. I'm a mafia boss but I need the police now."


---

:bow:

It has been a long time since someone has shared a writing on the Org. I'll have to read it when I am back from work.

Looking forward to your feedback, Vuk. :bow:

Part III - Prologue. :bow:

Last part of the prologue before the action starts.


***
3:45 AM
2nd of December, 1938
Bucharest
Romania


"Stop here."

At the end of the railroad tracks, the unfinished train station was just a block of empty cement surrounded by tall, old buildings that dubbed as ammo warehouses during the Great War and as storage places now. And just as the rest of their surroundings, the warehouses were empty, devoid of any stored items or any people for that matter. Light fog hovered around the tracks, the unfinished block of cement and the buildings around them. That, and probably the occasional smoke that wafted from the trains down the tracks and onto their headlights.

Mita motioned to his driver to stop the limousine.

There were three of them in the car, but they were backed up by four other cars behind them. Mita, his driver and poor Helen who had no choice but to join Mita in his car. He tried to make her at ease, cracking jokes and telling stories about the Great War and the fabulous period of ten-fifteen years ago, but to little avail. Helen barely cracked a smile, uptight and attentive, glancing sideways every other second to her surroundings. With a sweeping flick of his hand, Mita motioned for Helen to go to the front seat while he exited the car. The four cars behind his own formed almost an arrow, a formation of cars they didn't plan but looked good anyways to Mita's eyes. He smiled and patted himself. His chief lieutenant with the moustache exited from one of the cars and nodded.

"Boss, Capistrano is coming now."

"When does now mean now?" replied Mita, his eyebrow slightly arched and his hands in his pants.

"Five minutes, at most."

"He better."

Three cars drove up to their formation less than a minute later, black limousines just as theirs. The colour was imperceptible but that mattered little to Mita. He just wanted to see Capistrano and his smug face. In a chorus of laughter, Capistrano exited from one of the cars and gently trotted over between the limousines owned by Mita. True to his colourful demeanour, Capistrano was dressed in a white suit but without a tie, something that Mita noticed. Before either of them spoke, Mita pointed to his neck.

"No tie, Johnny?"

Capistrano waved him off. "Spare me, Mita." He ran his fingers through his French moustache. "This better not be some stupid joke or a ploy from your part or else you will pay. What's all this about, waking me up from my sleep after the party? I partied with the camarilla close to the bosses."

Mita only nodded. "Wait and see, Johnny. I've got Colonel Tomescu come up to us right now."

"Wait wait wait. Hold up. You called Colonel Tomescu? For what?" Capistrano drew close to Mita. "Are you trying to frame me?"

"I wish I was Johnny. Nothing would make me happier than see you in a jail cell for the rest of your life while I take your houses, your men and all of that gold you stashed in German banks. Something else is up, and it involves something I just mentioned."

Capistrano frowned. "My gold?"

"None related to you. I'll tell you when Tomescu comes."

"Then?"

"Wait."

"I can't wait with Tomescu. He's the second in command of the Bucharest police. You better tell him something good or else we're both going to have issues you little builder."

"I mean it, Mister Capistrano. Wait for Tomescu."

"I brought my men here, just in case."

"You'll need them. But not now."

Twenty odd minutes they waited in the light fog, the smoke and the ocassional screech from the train leaving the main station of the city. Despite Mita's rather jovial mood, he was in no mood to crack jokes with Capistrano, his local mafia nemesis. They never met in public unless it was by accident, but Mita's request made Capistrano rather weary and all the more the tone of the messenger. Both of them came from different backgrounds - one being a lowly street urchin, the other being part of a rich merchant Italian family - but they both converged on the city at the eastern border of Europe to make it their own playground. Neither of them spoke during those twenty minutes, neither them, nor their men. They all waited, bouncing from one foot to another, for Colonel Tomescu. Some of the men had brought their Thompson guns but neither chief bothered with that.

Colonel Tomescu came rather unassumingly.

A simple police limousine, reserved for colonels and commisars, followed by an escort car, drew up to the seven limousines parked on the unfinished train station block. There were now nine cars with their headlights brightly illuminating the area, which should have raised some concern from the local police had they not been severely drunk from the parties that were still raging. As the main police limousine drew up, the driver and the two bodyguards exited the car to open the door to Colonel Tomescu. The colonel came out of the car, a tall, imposing figure dressed in the usual police uniform he wore daily. He gave a curt salute to the men and nodded almost imperceptibly to both Mita and Capistrano.

"You took me from my party with the chiefs of the police. You, Mita, and I see you have John Capistrano with you. In all other circumstances I'd have you both arrested for life right now but I'm curiously intrigued by your encounter."

Capistrano pointed to Tomescu. "Encounter?"

"Yes, Johnny, my men had an unfortunate encounter with four men in the middle of the city," replied Mita.

"What's so special about that encounter to warrant such a meeting, Mr. Michael?" countered Capistrano.

Mita took out the little notebook from the pocket of his pants.

"Domnilor." (Sirs)

With economic movements, and a quick side glance to Capistrano, Colonel Tomescu took the notebook and opened it on the first page. The runic symbols were clear enough for him and for Capistrano to understand.

"Where did you find this?"

"My men did. In fact, they didn't find them. They were found. And they found a woman with them too."

Tomescu looked askance. "A woman?"

Mita nodded his head to the car. "She's inside my car."

With a quick flick of his hand, Mita invited them all to the car. Mita, Colonel Tomescu and Capistrano entered the car together, with Mita in the middle, Tomescu to his right and Capistrano to his left. Helen turned from the front seat to face the three men. Colonel Tomescu was the only one who took his hat off, revealing a rather stern looking police chief, with a straight nose, piercing eyes and thin lips. He bowed curtly to Helen and invited her to speak.

"Four men, Sirs. Four men. They spoke German. I speak a bit of that, which allowed me to understand a bit of what they were saying. Something about infiltrating over here and entering into the local market, something about finding more information and something about getting inside the mayor's cabinet. I do not know why they talked like that. They talked only in hushed tones, and whenever I looked at them they stopped talking and only stared at each other. When I took their order it was the exact same. I gave them no attention, they even paid me a generous tip, but when I left the hotel to go home they attacked me right behind the Atheneum and dragged me back to their car. No words back in the car either. And all it took was that crash for them to burst and react like this."

Silence. There was only silence, an awkward silence which left Capistrano tugging at the lapels of his white jacket and Mita scratching his temple.

"Well gentlemen," said Tomescu, adjusting his colonel's cap back on his head "it seems we have a war on our hands.

Silence was all that followed.

---

Feedback welcome!

Chapter I.

You might already recognise this as the opening of Night Train - it is in fact that, because Night Train and Clouds of Smoke are parts of the novel, but with subtle differences and obviously continued.

:bow:

---
9^th of December 1938
Gare du Colmar
Alsace
France
6:35 PM



Cold as it were
Cold as it came
The dashing of war
Was nobody's gain


It echoed inside his mind for years, those faint words. He heard stories of the Great War from everyone older than him, but given that he was a small child back then, he had no personal recollection of the war. Except for that poem. He heard it from a war veteran on the streets of Amiens in the north of France, injured and ignored, begging on the street where his uncles lived. Alexandre came up to him and gave him some money to which the veteran only gave a faint smile and the utterance of that poem he kept remembering. That was in 1920. He was five years old. All he could do was grow up and do his bit to avoid another one.

Eighteen years have passed since then. And another war loomed.

Horns blared in the distance, twice then, thrice even, shattering the utter silence that engulfed the little train station where he waited. The shrill of the train made his spine tingle, forcing him upright and making him forget for a fleeting moment the bitter cold that crept under his woolen overcoat, somehow inadequate against the galloping winter. It was a cold December evening, and he was all alone on a small train station platform on the border with Germany. France was tingling with worry, the newspapers were rolling out in record numbers, global diplomacy was failing and here he was on the border with a hostile country. He sighed. Small snowflakes gently fell on the train tracks in front of him, illuminated by a half-moon that made joyful light pockets around his leather boots. Everything else however was a dark, lifeless maze. Around him there were six lampposts, each one of them holding a small oil lamp, but only two of them were lit. But none of that mattered to him now. The train was coming.

The horns blared again. The train was getting closer. His fingers dug deeper inside the side pocket of his overcoat and reached for a cigarette. He brought the cigarette to his mouth and fumbled about for an entire minute until the wind died down to allow him to light up the heavy Turkish blend. Flurries of snow wafted around the station with increasing intensity but even the cold mattered little by now. He was curious. And his curiosity would be quenched once that curious train would stop in the station.

Moments later, he caught glimpse of the steel behemoth. In the darkness of that December evening, there was not much to distinguish from a nondescript black locomotive that chugged along on the railway lines. But the red stripes on the side of the locomotive were evident, causing him to frown a bit. Red stripes usually indicated trains that would stop in big cities, not local train stations. And Colmar was far from being a city. At most it was a local town, a border outpost. Despite his sudden worry, the train stopped in the station as planned, dropping off one single passenger who waved meekly as he approached.

“Good evening, Alexandre.”

The man from the train shook Alexandre's hand firmly. Dressed in a similar woolen overcoat, he wore a generic brown fedora on his head and twisted the collar of his overcoat upwards to protect himself from the rushing flurries that swept through the station. Somewhat shorter than his station guest, he bowed his head slightly, indicating Alexandre as his superior, even if on paper he was the one of higher rank. The Frenchman gave a curt nod.

“I see you have changed trains, Klaus,” replied Alexandre.

“Sort of. There was a murder on the train from Strasbourg to Colmar, so they sent over one of the trains that was supposed to take the Geneva – Paris route.”

“A murder?”

“Nothing related to our concerns. A triangle of love, as is rather the norm these days.”

"Hah, a triangle of love. The gutter press loves those kinds of stories."

"Indeed they do."

“So you came with the red stripes?”

Klaus nodded. “Quite. I got here in record time, I did not expect to arrive at 6:40.”

Alexandre gave a quick glance to his white gold wristwatch. The sleek line of the bezel stood out in the darkness, the two thin hands showing fifteen minutes to 7. He slid his hand back into his pocket and nudged his fellow companion onwards. The two men walked away from the station in silence in the crackles of the snow crunching beneath their boots, echoing even louder in the almost complete silence of the small town. Colmar was a quiet place, with rows of timber-framed houses huddled around a small bridge over the river Lauch. Small pockets of lights indicated that most of the inhabitants were inside their houses with the snow rumbling through the streets. Most of the population had sympathies with the French republic, but there was more than just a vocal minority who would be more than happy to see the Nazi Party install the swastikas on the roof of the town hall. Alexandre knew that, Klaus as well, but neither of them spoke of this openly.

They trodded through the beaten path from the station down to the centre of the village, whisking themselves to the snow-capped bridge over the Lauch.

“It's been one month, Klaus.”

Klaus nodded, more to himself rather than in acknowledgment.

“One month since that ugly night.”

Alexandre nodded. “That night, what was it you called it, Kristallnacht?” he said, accentuating the German word with a particular Parisian twist. Klaus smiled to himself but nodded in agreement. “Yes, that night. A shame, and a cause of worry.”

“The outlook is grim, Monsieur Reythier, it's grim.” He glanced to his French companion, but the man only stared at him back. “But I suppose you already know that.”

The Frenchman nodded. “Kristallnacht scared a number of locals away. Colmar is now turning into a ghost town, and it's not good for our cause. No matter how we put it, we cannot convince the locals to stay around these places unless they're committed to our cause or committed to their families.”

“This place sits right on the border, I would expect them not to stay around.”

“Some do.” Alexandre sighed. “Why have I been called here?”

Klaus stopped. For a moment he stood silent, unsure on what to say. He fumbled his hands in the air, trying to force his words to come out, to express at least some semblance of a coherent idea, but nothing came out of it. He felt Alexandre's stare on him. Klaus sighed and pointed towards a row of houses, even if they were not what he wanted to convey.

“We caught two Germans trying to infiltrate themselves around these places. They went right under our noses, and worse even, we caught them with a Frenchman who lived in the villages down the south of the Maginot line.”

“That's all they've done?”

Klaus shook his head. “The plan was rather well conceived. They posed as tourists from the Far East, even if they looked as every bit from here as possible, and tried to ask around about the Maginot line. One of the local farmers even took them to a deserted area of the line that we have not even bothered to repair or even take care of.”

“Spies?”

“More than that. Something is going on around these places, and I don't like it.”

"More than spies?"

"Not full fledged infiltrators, but close. At the very least they are doing terrain reconnaissance around these areas. Not a welcome idea to Paris, and definitely not to our military brass."

Alexandre rolled his eyes. “And what am I supposed to do?”

“Interrogate them, that is all.”

Alexandre suddenly looked downwards. Interrogation was something he hated, but given that Klaus was his superior and his close friend, he could not say no. By now they reached the curiously deserted centre of the town. The narrow Lauch river ran right in its midst, but given that this was mid-December, the river was frozen solid. Alexandre glanced over the bridge, down the length of the Lauch, watching the snow fall down on the slanted roofs of the houses built about a century ago. Snow crunched and crackled underneath their leather boots as they walked in silence between the houses huddled around the riverbank. It was bitterly cold, the snow had picked up in intensity and even they struggled to utter any other word except for a prolonged sigh as they weathered through the streets.

They snaked their way down the length of the riverbank in silence until they reached a small plaza. The junction connected four smaller side streets, but Klaus led Alexandre into a timber-framed two story house right on the edge of the riverbank. A small light above the door waned and flickered as the wind blew. Klaus twisted the handle and pushed the door aside, closing it behind them with the wind howling one last time in their ears. A small flight of stairs led them to the first floor, which was nothing more than a room adjoined by four separate doors in the dim light of another flickering light. Klaus pointed to the first door on the right.

“After you, Alexandre.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow for a moment but said nothing. He quickly twisted the door handle and entered the room, a rectangle shaped meeting area with two windows overlooking the plaza below and a large table with eight chairs occupying most of the space. In the back corner two wooden bookcases were filled with papers and binders full of documents, which Alexandre speculated those were the local police records.

Two men stood at the table, both of them lazily puffing from their cigarettes, their eyes fixed on this tall newcomer and his more known companion. At first, they did not pay much attention to the newcomer but Klaus ordered them to stand up and salute in military fashion. The men rose from their seats and did so as they were ordered, receiving a curteous nod from Alexandre in return. The Frenchman threw his overcoat on the table and glanced around.

“Where are they?”

“Locked in the prison below, Monsieur,” replied one of the policemen.

“Bring them. Let us have a personal chat with them.”

The two policemen nodded in approval and left the room, leaving Alexandre Reythier, lieutenant of the French intelligence agencies, alone with Klaus. They spoke nothing before the policemen returned with two young adults, no more than twenty years old each, dirty and ragged, dressed in brown tattered clothes and reeking of body odour. The two policemen threw the prisoners onto the desk with alarming brutality, chaining them down to the small wooden chairs underneath. Not content with the chain, they pinned them down to the edge of the table and took out their pistols, sticking them against the prisoners' necks. Reythier said nothing, and neither did Klaus, since neither of them had any idea of how dangerous these two prisoners were.

Reythier took up a chair and sat down, eyeing both of the blonde boys.

“Apparently, both of you tried to gather information about the Maginot line. Can I ask why were you so curious about it?” asked Reythier in perfect German.

Neither of the boys said anything. Their eyes were fixed on Reythier, but he only returned an elegant smile with the corner of his mouth. He turned his head to Klaus and nodded, to which the German-born Frenchman produced from his overcoat a small notebook. Alexandre took the notebook and opened it on the table, hunching closer to his prisoners.

“Two weeks, that's all it took you. Two weeks in which you bought rifles, war grenades, stabbed two innocent farmers and proceeded to investigate the south part of the Maginot line. And on top of that...” Reythier paused, extracting two files from the back of the notebook. “You two are apparently part of the Nazi youth. Top recruits.”

Reythier expected no reaction. He got none from them, except two dismissive shrugs and a roll of the eyes. Alexandre flipped the notebook around.

“All of this gets you prison for life. Or, in the worst case, a quick hanging in the woods just down the river.”

The remark hit a soft spot. One of the boys, a short-haired blonde with scratch marks all over his face, hissed towards Reythier.

“Herr Hitler will save us.”

Reythier laughed. “Your own superiors won't even know you're missing by the time the local judge orders your execution. So, in case you want to live, help us. I believe you can help us answer the question of what were you doing around the Maginot.”

“We were doing nothing. We are tourists, nothing more!”

Reythier sighed. He nodded off to one of the policemen, who saluted and left the room, leaving Klaus to attend to one of the prisoners. Alexandre closed he notebook, rose from the table and headed for the window behind him. The window's handles were black, rotten bits of wood, forcing him to twist the mechanism by itself, before the window finally budged from its position. Cold winter air swept inside the room with an almost destructive force. The unsecured papers on the shelves and on the table quickly flew through the room. It didn't bother Klaus, or Reythier for that matter, who lighted up another one of his Turkish cigarettes at the edge of the window. It was only a short puff before he heard the crackle of the gun echo in the Colmar silence.

Before Reythier reacted, and before Klaus even understood what happened, the door swung wide open and stopped violently against the edge of the wall. A lone gunman, dressed in a beige overcoat, held up a large calibre revolver and barged inside the room. With quick movements he shot the last policeman square in the head, before he aimed for Klaus who ducked underneath the table. The gunman shot at Klaus but missed his target, shooting off the last bullets in the two prisoners who did not even turn their heads to face the gunman. In a rather late reply, Reythier took out his own pistol and fired two quick shots towards the gunman. The bullets hit the assailnt in the chest and the neck, severing the carotid artery, before he collapsed in a pool of blood by the edge of the door.

The whole encounter lasted less than twenty seconds. And Alexandre quickly realised that the two policemen were now dead. And so was the assailant. But so were the two prisoners.

Only Alexandre and Klaus survived.


-----

Feedback and comments welcome. :bow:

Website coming soon! :bow:

Furthermore - it's also on Wattpad, for those who want to read it. -> https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/1102...ade-of-letters

Chapter II - Swords Made of Letters

Please enjoy this next chapter of the series.

:bow:

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9th of December, 1938
Interrogation Room Nr. 2
Colmar, Alsace
6:50 PM


There was nothing they could pursue.

From the little window of the adjacent room, Alexandre watched as small snowflakes gently dropped from the white winter sky, drifting through the air until they latched on the cobbled streets that were teeming with snow. Those words came back to him, the words of that war poem, but between them the words of those two youngsters flashed inside his mind. Their declaration of allegiance, so open and so brazen, left Alexandre brooding. There was no remorse. And there was no remorse from their killer either in that room. It had been swift and calculated and somehow the assassin knew about the room. Alexandre and Klaus left the room intact, waiting until the local Colmar police would come. Klaus went outside by himself for some air but Reythier stood behind and waited by the window of this little chamber opposite of the interrogation room. Beneath his heavy overcoat the service pistol was in the pocket of his pants, easy to access should the need arise again. With two spies interested in the Maginot line, and a killer who killed them both, there was nothing else they had. They were blank.

Just like the snowflakes gently drifting through the streets of Colmar.

Alexandre turned round from the window and glanced around the little chamber. There was nothing in it, apart from a little desk with three chairs, two on one side and one on another. There were two other chairs in the back of the room but everything else was a simple yellowy wallpaper and the window he watched the snow from. He glided out of the room, down the small flight of stairs and reached for the door. He hesitated for a moment, keeping his hand in the middle of the air. With one quick movement he spun sideways and glanced back to the stairs and towards the two rooms. The room with the window led to a small backstreet. But the interrogation room had the window right into a major street of this little town. They had been noticed from outside. And someone knew that this building was used for police interrogation.

Reythier smirked. He spun on his heels, back towards the door and exited into the gentle snowstorm of Colmar.

Huddling inside his overcoat, with a small cloud of steam rising from his hands as he clutched two mugs of hot tea, Reythier watched as Klaus slowly approached him. He gave is mug-carrying friend a smile and pointed towards the building.

"Go inside, I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Klaus frowned. "Where are you going in this storm? The constable is away, he won't be here for a while. He's been notified and he is coming to us as soon as he can."

"Yes, I realised that. I'm going for some fresh air, keep the tea warm for me."

Without a second glance, Reythier adjusted his hat and left Klaus to his tea, steam columns and a strong desire to enter the building to escape the cold. He turned left, going around the interrogation building and up a little hill that junctioned with another main street of Colmar in a T shaped intersection. From the top of this small hill Alexandre turned on his heels and glanced at the police building. He was right. It wasn't that hard to spot the building, and worse, the window was low enough for someone on the hill to look directly into it and glimpse some random figures. As the interrogation room had no curtains, something he just realised right now, Alexandre could only frown in disbelief. He did not even had to look at the other streets or even the buildings around it. The attacker could have easily seen what was going on within the room.

Dismayed, Alexandre could only alternate between a nervous laugh and a clenched fist. His eyes drifted from the hill further upwards to the street that ended with a row of timber-framed houses on the top of it. In fact, most of the houses in Colmar were timber-framed and despite their similar shapes, they somehow managed to look different because of their exterior decoration. The interrogation building had no decoration except the timber-framing. But all the other houses near it had some sort of exterior decoration. Alexandre raised an eyebrow.

He returned less than ten minutes later back into the room on the left, the chamber now invaded by the aromatic scent of green tea. Klaus glanced at him from the edge of the table, holding the mug tight in his hand to capture the warmth of the tea into his palms.

"You said fifteen minutes."

"Yes, well, that took much earlier than expected." Alexandre pointed to the little hill junction. "All it takes is to just look closely and maybe jump a bit."

"What are you talking about?"

"It took me less than five minutes to understand how it happened. The window of the interrogation room is so low that it can be seen from an angle on the little hill behind this building. You cannot see it if you're standing directly underneath it but from the junction it's clearly visible." Alexandre waved his finger. "And why are there no blinds for this thing? The attacker saw everything."

"Are you sure?"

"All it took for me was to walk up and turn around."

"And you saw this how?"

"I did not even have to try, Klaus. It was there for me to see. Look at it in a slanted angle, just twist your body sideways, and you will see at least a portion of the interrogation room."

"Did you look from the other sides?"

"There was no point. I saw everything from the hill. All he had to do was walk around and see us.

Klaus sighed, his hands still clutched on the mug. "Was it on purpose?"

Alexandre drew up to the table and raised the mug of warm tea.

"I think we were set up on purpose."

----

:bow:

Chapter III - The White Club

You will recognise this as the beginning of Clouds of Smoke, which was initially a short story. This weaves in into the novel, as you will see below and in the future. :yes:


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9th of December 1938, 19:00
The White Club
Mayfair, London
United Kingdom


"Tea, Sir?"

The waiter came up to their table with a fresh pot of mint tea, boiling inside a white china set decorated with blue motifs, a gentle refreshing smell swirling around their noses. The waiter presented the pot as if it was some sort of trophz, turning it slightly inwards to show the boiling concoction.

"Yes, please. Pour some more in my cup but bring me a glass of Scottish whisky first. With ice. And make sure the ice reaches the top of the glass."

The waiter nodded. "Certainly, Sir."

"Thank you Williams."

"I will be back in ten minutes, Sir."

"Jolly. I want that whisky cold as it can get."

The waiter bowed and walked away from the table.

With mixed curiosity, Horace watched as the young waiter sauntered away, walking gently to the backrooms reserved for the staff, leaving him with Lord Beckett in a wafting smell of expensive tobacco, a slight fog caused by that particular blend of tobacco and a number of smartly dressed men relaxing in the red velvet chairs strewn across the smoking lounge. White Club was no stranger to these men - nor to Lord Beckett - and neither of them were strangers to each other. The ritzy club in Mayfair with its white stucco facade was built for men like Lord Beckett, rich, powerful and with a certain affinity for expensive tastes. Sitting on the other side of the round wooden table from Horace, Beckett, lazily puffing from his tobacco, joined the smoking lounge dressed in a dark three piece suit with his customary top hat, which he always left to the concierge rather than to the helpers manning the clients' clothing. His double chin peeked slightly over the edge of his collar, amplifying the gentle moustache he always kept in a rather French style. Bulging occasionally out of his shirt, Beckett was a man of fine tastes, always matching his dark olive eyes with the occasional green handkerchief.

Horace gave Beckett a customary scan and noticed the absence of his wedding ring, something that struck him as odd. He never commented on what his benefactor was doing, but he couldn't dismiss the sense that marriage started to bother Beckett. And quite significantly.

The waiter returned faster than in the mentioned time, bringing Beckett a crystal glass filled to the brim with five ice cubes, placed on the edges of the each other until the top cube touched the inside edge of the glass. Beckett gave Horace a curt smile, picked up the whisky from the waiter's hands and rose it towards his companion.

"For your devoted service to my interests, Horace. And to your duty as a man of the services to the country."

Horace nodded slightly. "Duly noted, Sir."

Beckett sipped the cold, smoked whisky with gusto. He smiled to Horace, a wry smile, his eyes slightly narrowed and the wrinkles turned at the edges.

"Any news for me?"

Horace looked at Beckett, straight into his eyes. "Grave news, Sir."

Beckett's eyes widened. "Something happened to her?"

"Her, Sir?"

"Yes, Mathilda!"

Horace smirked. "No, Sir, not her."

Beckett dropped the whisky glass on the table. "Spare me of anything else, Horace. Tell me about her!" Beckett pointed his finger. "You're following her, as I've told you, I hope."

"Sir..." hesitated Horace. "She is not of our concern."

"Yes she is!" countered Beckett.

"Sir, I beg to differ. Please, pardon my insolence but she is not out concern right now. Your mistress is second in importance to the news."

Beckett waved him off. "Horace, I am not hearing you."

"Sir, not her."

"I don't hear, Horace," replied Beckett, slapping Horace's knee to draw his attention. "Listen to me. Anything else can wait. Tell me about her."

"Sir, we have grave reports of foreign spies acting on our territory."

"I don't care, Horace."

Horace groaned. "Sir, please."

"Horace I do not care! I don't care! Tell me about Mathilda!"

Horace drew to Beckett's face. "Sir, the spies..."

"One more word Horace and I will have you stripped of your rank." Beckett reached for his whisky glass. "In fact," said Beckett between sips "get out of here and go watch over her. I want to know what she is doing. Anything else can wait."

"Sir."

"Horace, now."

"I refuse, Sir."

Beckett placed down his whiskey glass, his eyebrows slightly raised. "You... refuse, Horace?"

"Sir, I do. She is of no importance right now."

"Horace, please do spare me next time of your opinions. Only her counts." Beckett adjusted his jacket, visibly irritated. "Now, if you still want to earn that money you need for your family, you do my bidding. What's your take?"

Horace smirked and looked sideways, realising he had no other choice. With one curt nod, and with his eyes fixed on Beckett, he rose from the velvet chair and exited the smoke filled room for gentlemen. From the walnut doors of the smoking room on the first floor he raced down a flight of marble stairs, saluted the concierge with a nod and exited into the cold Mayfair evening.

And as he had expected, he was not alone outside the famous White Club.

Three steps resounded from a black Cadillac parked just outside the ritzy club, revealing a burly man dressed in a grey three piece suit and a hat to match. The burly man drew up to him, took off his hat as a sign of respect and shook Horace's hand.

"What did Beckett say?" asked Ryan, Horace's subordinate at the intelligence services. A joyful Irishman, Ryan O'Hara was the local strongman, assigned to do Horace's duties whenever he could not. And the more particular ones too.

"Ryan, if I lie to you right now, what would you do?"

Ryan laughed. "Alright then. So I guess he said nothing."

Horace turned to his Irishman and looked him straight in the eyes. "He said nothing, but I will. I'm sick of this and I want to resolve it now. I'm going to have a chat with that woman and I'll find a way to get rid of her nicely."

"Rid of her?"

"Nothing will happen to her, I just don't want to see her any more."

"And if she tells Beckett?" Horace stood silent, raising his eyebrow slightly. "All right, in that case, all good to go."

"Get your men here. I will have a talk with her but I want you guys to be ready."

"For?"

"For anything that happens."

Ryan shrugged his shoulders. "Really Horace? Anything can happen. The war can start in five minutes and I can view this as something of a foreshadowing of yours. Mathilda can shoot you in the leg and then you tell me you expected this. Or maybe Beckett wants to find himself another mistress, who knows!"

Horace smirked, looking around the empty street. "Get your boys ready, and stay inside. Tell the concierge you are waiting for an important call."

"And you are off to?"

"To Mathilda. Just by the Court Road my friend."

Ryan placed a hand on Horace. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Having a chat."

"Armed with 2 pistols? That's what you call a chat?"

Horace tilted his head sideways. "Smart man. Observing fine details now I see."

"I work in intelligence. My duty is to protect you, Horace."

Horace balked. "You have fifteen men waiting for your orders."

Ryan laughed. "You give the orders, not me."

"Good. Then we have a plan. You stay inside and wait for my call. If all goes well, no need for you and the men. If not, you're going to have to rescue me off a building on Court Road that is literally full of foreign agents spying for different countries."

Ryan shook his head. "And why shouldn't we come with you?"

Horace loaded his engraved .45 Colt, hiding it underneath his suit jacket. "I'd rather deal with this alone. And I don't want Beckett anywhere else than this place."

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions, Ryan."

"Beckett and staying here." Ryan paused. "If I didn't know you better, I would say you're planning to throw Beckett under the bus to the intelligence teams."

Horace smiled. "You know Ryan, sometimes you're not that bad."

Ryan grinned, taking out a cheap cigar from his back pocket. "This is Beckett's, but it's those cheap ones he gives as gifts. Still good." Ryan lighted the cigar, puffed from it with gusto and then smiled. "Not a bad one."

"Keep an eye on him. I'll be back in one hour."

"I'll be smoking these cheap things here."

"Throw them away," said Horace, walking towards his car.

----

Feedback welcome.

:bow:

Chapter IV - Letters from Across

:bow:

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7:05 PM
9th of December 1938
Colmar, Alsace
France


"Look what I found."

Reythier rose his eyes from the ground, his glances lost somewhere as he smoked a cigar just outside the interrogation building. Outside Colmar the light slowly began to fade, leaving way for the illuminated lampposts of the town. For more than twenty minutes he stood outside, glancing aimlessly at the ground. His only discernible memory were his black boots which made a distinctive chromatic difference in contrast with the whiteness of the snow flurries. Reythier exhaled his puff of cigar smoke and glanced towards Klaus who offered him two envelopes.

"What are they?" asked Reythier.

"Letters. I found them on the two men."

Reythier took them and glanced at the envelopes. One thing stood out right from the beginning.

"Sealed with wax?"

Klaus nodded. "Quite odd."

"That's something a Prussian Junker would do a hundred years ago, not those two right now. Why are they sealed with wax?"

"I have no clue."

Reythier held up the envelopes. "I'm opening them as part of the investigation. When the constable of Colmar comes, make sure you note that down and you explain it to him."

Reythier slid his thumb finger underneath the lid of the envelope, running his index finger over the smooth texture of the red wax. The envelopes were yellowy, identical in shape and size, with no discernible heraldic symbol stamped on it, which made it even odder. Wax seals held heraldic symbols as a matter of identification and guarantee; these ones were almost blank. There was no writing on the envelopes but the red wax seemed of very fine quality. Reythier gently applied pressure with his fingers on the wax seal until it broke diagonally, revealing a battered, even yellower piece of paper inscribed with blue ink. He gave Klaus a curious glance and unfolded the first letter in the light of a lamppost.


Dear cousin,

Such good news from you makes my heart jump. I'm still back at home, waiting for my turn. I miss the times when we used to play together without a care in the world, like that school camp we went together to. You managed to get out and live your life, I still have to complete the last part in order for me to finally do the same. My parents are eagerly awaiting for me and hopefully we will get to meet each other again very soon so we can talk now like men.

Speaking of that, I heard you obtained your qualifications! I am very very glad for you - make sure you put them to good use so when you come back home we celebrate together in the tavern, drinking a good beer. I heard Helga is still waiting for you, so do not disappoint her. And keep your eyes open, we don't want anyone else to steal you from her!

When you have some time, please call me, I am more than eager to hear what you have been doing lately.

Yours,
Alex


Reythier did not make much of it, so he opened the second envelope in the light of the lamppost, drawing even closer as by now night was in full swing. To his dismay, the second envelope was almost identical to the first but with some notable changes. There was no cousin; it was nephew. Helga was replaced by Hilda and Alex now became Helmuth. Reythier slid the letters back in the envelopes and gave them to Klaus.

"They're coded."

Klaus frowned. "What?"

"Coded. Encrypted. They don't show the real meaning. And it has two meanings, one which you can understand and another one which you have to find out."

Klaus took the letters. "They're very similar, almost identical. I don't see how the have different meanings."

"Klaus, think of it from a different perspective. Who keeps letters from their cousin and their uncle in the hidden pocket of their pants?"

"They do."

"Yes, but it's not uncle or cousin. Usually you keep letters from your girlfriend, wife or mother. Not your cousin."

"I'm not following."

Reythier placed his finger on the envelope. "Uncle is the commanding officer, cousin is the platoon sergeant. The nephew is the leader of the group, the cousin is the follower. A private in name. And it's all part of a military group, and we have no idea which one it is, why are they doing this and how come it all ended up like this. We've got too many questions and not enough answers." Reythier glanced at his watch. "Where's that constable?"

"Five minutes."

"Good."

"I don't understand. How did you figure this out?" asked Klaus.

"Read it throughly. Matter of fact, read the second letter out loud."


Dear nephew,

I have no words, no words but joy at such news, my dear nephew. Such good news from you makes my heart jump. I'm still back at home, waiting to hear about everyone's good deeds. I miss the times when the whole family used to gather and eat together without a care in the world. You managed to get out and live your life, I still have to complete the last part in order for me to finally do the same. Everyone is eagerly awaiting for news and hopefully we will get to meet each other again very soon so we can talk now like men.

Speaking of that, I heard you obtained your qualifications! I am very very glad for you - make sure you put them to good use so when you come back home we celebrate together in the tavern, drinking a good beer. I heard Hilda is still waiting for you, so do not disappoint her. And keep your eyes open, we don't want anyone else to steal you from her!

When you have some time, please call me, I am more than eager to hear what you have been doing lately.

Yours,
Helmuth



Klaus held it up.

"So, explain to me."

"The nephew is one of the men. The joy is that he completed his training and the CO is waiting for the news about their mission. Remembering old times is about the training back at base camp, and as for keeping your eyes open, it's a gentle reminder to not get caught. As for the last bit, inform the base immediately after mission completion."

Klaus smirked. "You think this is it?"

"It has a second meaning too. But until we get to Paris, we have no idea what it is. And the problem is we might have a surprise on our hands before we get to Paris."

Reythier pointed to the building, ushering both Klaus and himself inside as the snow flurries intensified.


----

:bow:

Chapter V - Orders

:bow:

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9th of December 1938, 9:00 PM
Obergruppen Aachen HQ
Aachen
Germany

It reeked of tobacco smoke.

Tobacco smoke, cheap tobacco smoke, wafted around the whole office and no matter how much they dared to leave the windows open, the tobacco smoke was better than the bitter cold outside. Most of them smoked in the office, a rather large space that housed more than ten men who served primarily as the links and bureaucrats of the group. Neither of them was known to the public and it was best served that way. Not even the higher in command knew of these men, except for a select few, because these were the ones who were supposed to not have any single link to any government whatsoever. It would have been bad public relations if they were to be found. Not that it mattered by now. Neither of the men in the office were supposed to be known. They all had to follow orders. Be they his, or be they someone that trusted in him.

Richard Elbe was the heaviest smoker in the room. And the leader of them all.

Leaning against a black wooden desk, with two bare chairs beside them, Elbe scanned with his grey eyes the constant flurry of activity that went on around the office. The men under his command, none of them older than twenty four, were tasked to link with the field agents and provide information as quick as possible. Elbe's group was a paramilitary hidden group of young men who acted as the eyes of the government. Few knew about them and none of them even held local passports. Elbe was a registered Frenchman, hailing from Alsace, with Norman ancestry. At least that's what he trained himself to say whenever someone asked him where he was from. There were no brown shirts, white shirts or black shirts in the office which he held. In this industry, everyone was free to wear whatever they wished so long they did not omit a small round rune attached to the collars of their shirts. Elbe in contrast had three. He was the general and the chief of the unit and it had to be mentioned as such.

He stumped the cigarette in one of the small glass ashtrays. That was his sixteenth for the day, enough for him to get to his ratio of almost a pack a day. The cigarettes made him no calmer. The news of the capture of his two men made him agitated, so much so that the messenger on duty felt the need to apologise for giving such news. When the messenger came to his office, he expected smiles and thunderous applause. All he got instead was a meek apology and a rather fast exit from the messenger who had to report on the news that the two men had been captured by the French counterintelligence. And of all places, in Colmar, a small border town with only four policemen. Elbe walked away from the table and climbed a small flight of black stairs to a small heightened platform that was actually built as part of the attic. The platform was half open, allowing him to view the two long tables that made up the battlestations for his men as he called them.

Ten radios, endless sheets of paper and a constant flurry of activity and telephone calls. That was the Obergruppen HQ like. They had an important task to do and Elbe was there to supervise it.

He tapped his knuckles against the railing of the platform.

"Walther and Karl, in my office!"

Elbe's office was totally different from the spartan like interior of the hallway. It resembled a magical wooden attic fit for a children's fairy tale book. With a mahogany table in it's midst and two windows behind it, the attic was bathed in a warm glow from two small lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating dozens of bookcases on each side, children's toys strewn on the floor in the corner and small cushions piled up just beside the office table. Elbe found it like that when they bought it from a local owner. He kept it the way it was because it reminded him of his childhood in the Schwarzwald. Elbe sat down on his chair, folded his arms and waited. And waited. And waited so for ten minutes, idle and silent, until Walther and Karl came.

Two brothers, two identical brothers with matching white shirts, both of them fairly tall and well built, came inside the office. Both of them smiled, something which Elbe picked up but said nothing. They saluted in the typical fashion to Elbe.

"Those two are your men. What in the world happened?" asked Elbe, his voice as calm as the river running in the midst of Aachen.

Walther, to Karl's right, gave his brother a quick glance. "They got captured. We don't know how."

"Did you not do the proper training?" asked Elbe, in the same eerily calm voice.

"We did."

"Then?"

"They failed."

"So you want to ditch them, that's what you're saying?"

"We've already taken care of it," countered Karl.

"How?"

"We sent another one of our men to make sure they say nothing."

"So we are going to lose, or probably did already, two men. Because they were incompetent or you were incompetent?"

Both brothers shifted nervously, glancing at each other without saying a word.

"Well?"

"Herr Elbe, we trained them. We instructed them. We do not know why they acted like this," replied Walther.

Elbe rose from his chair, rather methodically, his leather boots emitting a familiar clacking sound against the wooden floor of the attic.

"I hope they will not say anything. Because the next time there will be a price to pay. And the next time you will dearly hope the French counterintelligence is going to catch you."

Both brothers bowed their heads.

"One last thing. I want every single detail of the capture investigated and known." Elbe turned around to face his office. "And the next field mission is on you. Both."

-------

:bow:

Chapter VI
(part 2 of the Night Train)

:book:

***
Colmar, Alsace
9th of December, 1938
9:15 PM

Klaus slowly lowered the receptor, visibly dismayed as he gave Reythier a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“I phoned to Paris, told them what happened. They couldn't give me much help but they told me to look out for anything suspicious.”

Reythier shrugged. He heard that before. Two hours before they were close to solving the problem of the Nazi spies, now they were both injured, almost murdered by a lone gunman and with no leads to follow. A whole team of local policemen and two experts joined in from Strasbourg to examine the crime scene but it would take a bit more time before they could tell them more information than they knew already. Worst of all, they were easily spotted.

Reythier stood on a chair in the room adjacent to the interrogation room they used before, standing at the desk of the local constable. Klaus stood by the edge of the whisky coloured table, phone receptor still in hand, looking at Reythier as if to ask what to do or where to phone next. Reythier motioned with his hand and Klaus dropped the receptor back in its place. He watched as Klaus took a beige wooden chair and drew up near him.

“So, what now, Alexandre?”

Reythier raised his eyebrows, twisting his hand to his colleague. “You tell me Klaus. You came here and brought me in this mess in a small town by the edge of a perilous border. Why did you come here in the first place? Just for the interrogation?”

Klaus shook his head. “No. And yes.”

“No and yes? That makes no sense.” Klaus hesitated. "Or maybe it does." Reythier straightened his posture, suddenly curious. “There's more to this. You were expecting something from those Nazi boys.”

Klaus nodded. “I did. Let me call the constable.”

Klaus stood up and returned a couple of minutes later with the local constable of Colmar, the chief of the police of this little snowy town, visibly shaken and greeting rather meekly Reythier whom he met a couple of hours earlier. Sporting a sleek moustache, the man's greying hairs were overtaking his little remaining hair, somehow accentuating the deep wrinkles on his forehead. Border constables are not exactly having an easy time, Reythier thought. The constable was dressed in the typical dark uniform but he kept his pistol unholstered this time, visible and always at hand in case any more gunmen would have a swift swipe at Reythier and Klaus. The police officer took a wooden chair from the corner of the room and placed himself on the other side of the table, facing Reythier directly.

“Bonsoir again, Monsieur Reythier. I believe you wanted to speak to me.”

Reythier switched his position and smiled to the constable. “Oui, c'est vrai, monsieur Pernod. I asked to speak to you and I will be short about it. Have you experienced this before?”

Constable Pernod shook his head. “No, clearly not like this. But I have heard many stories and read more than a dozen reports about random people asking about our troops, our defences, our police even. Someone even asked whether the mayor of Colmar has a gun in his house.”

Reythier gave Klaus a quick look, underneath his eyebrows. “When did this happen, Monsieur Pernod?”

Constable Pernod dabbed for a few moments. “First report arrived on my table about four months ago. Ever since they have been increasing weekly, but nothing serious has ever happened until this very incident.”

“Four months. Did you know about those two young men?”

Pernod nodded. “I did. Two months ago one of my policemen came to inform me about them two posing as tourists, asking around about the Maginot line and other military objectives. One of the local farmers became suspicious and related that to one of my men.”

“Who then reported to you.”

“Correct. We counter-spied them, watched their movements, but nothing ever happened.”

“Until they stabbed those two farmers.”

“We knew it was them immediately. It happened just outside a deserted guard post. So I gathered my men and we arrested them quite quickly.”

“And brought them to us,” added Klaus, to which Pernod nodded.

Reythier nodded, but nodded out of reflex more than anything. The constable knew nothing more, and that was evident. They were no closer than they were a couple of hours ago. Reythier looked at Pernod.

“Constable, have you had any trouble with your men lately?”

“Yes, I have, but minor incidents. Why would you ask, Monsieur Reythier?”

Reythier did not immediately answer. He glanced around the room, scanning every inch of the desks, until he noticed a sheaf of blank papers in the corner just beside him. Sliding a piece of paper to the constable, he took out a fountain pen and wrote in the very corner of the paper: Do you suspect any of your men?

Much to Reythier's dismay, Pernod nodded.

The constable coughed. He coughed again, and again, and then stopped, pointing with his fingers towards the sheaf of papers. Three times. Three men he suspected, three men of aiding these foreign spies who were liquidated by a member of their own and nearly killed Reythier and Klaus as well. Reyhier looked at his undercover companion who motioned quickly with his fingers, signaling that Pernod should leave. The constable understood the motion, bowed slightly and stood up.

“Monsieur Reythier, I will send you more information once I have it.”

“Merci, Monsieur. Let us know as quick as you can.”

The man nodded in agreement, shook their hands and left the room to return to his policemen, leaving Klaus and Reythier alone in the room with their thoughts, suspicions and an awkward silence. Reythier leaned back on his chair and tapped the edge of the desk, lost in thought, using the fountain pen in a rhythmic movement that somehow did not annoy neither of them. He switched his gaze from the white gold nib to Klaus, whose rugged features and a slight six o'clock shadow were amplified by the lost look he wore for the past hours. Out of them, it was Klaus who was the shocked one, but Reythier had his moments when he needed his friend to slap him back into the real world. The Frenchman rose from his chair.

“I'm lost. What now?” asked Reythier.

Klaus kept rubbing his forehead. “Pernod was fidgeting too much.”

“Excuse moi?”

Klaus looked up at Reythier and nodded. “Yes. He was fidgeting quite a lot, he seemed nervous, his right foot was always jumping up and down. You could not see it, it was hidden by the desk, but I kept my eyes on his movements. For a police constable he was far too nervous.”

“You think he is hiding something?”

“I think there's more to it than the three suspicious policemen under his watch. And three...” Klaus stood up and held up 3 fingers. “Three policemen is three too many for this little place. How many does he have in the first place? 3 policemen out of 12, that's a quarter of his force. If 3 policemen are aiding these guys, then we should be lucky we escaped alive.”

“Keep in mind two of them have been killed.”

Klaus shook his head. “Those were our men. Counter-intelligence. I told them to disguise as local Colmar policemen.”

Reythier pointed to the door. “Did Pernod know about it?”

Klaus shook his head. “No. I kept him in the dark. I only asked for the room and for his silence on the matter.”

Reythier said nothing more. A number of moments later, a young policeman, no more than twenty years of age, pale skinned and rather shy in approaching them, knocked on the opened door. He bowed curtly, removed his cap and handed Klaus a crumpled note.

“Monsieur Pernod sends his regards.”

“Our salute to him. Thank you!” replied Reythier.

The policeman bowed again and left, leaving the two men alone. Klaus looked at Reythier, then back at the crumpled note. Reythier watched as his companion opened the note, revealing a small scribble in black ink.

“Follow the Night Train. What night train, what's this all about?”

Reythier took the paper from Klaus's hand. “Train, train, are there any trains coming back to Colmar this evening?”

“I have no clue. Let me check on that.”

Klaus phoned the train station and waited for a couple of minutes until a groggy foreman answered him. He slammed the phone receptor thirty seconds later.

“There's two more trains coming to Colmar. The next one is in 15 minutes and it's a regional train, stopping in Metz. The second one is coming back from Lyon, the red striped train I came with.”

“When is it coming?”

“In 35 minutes.”

“Arm your pistol, get two more cartridges with you and let's go. We'll wait at the station.”

-----

:bow:

Chapter VII. :bow:

Elbe's character is slowly being shown, and he has some unexpected links too.


----
9th of December 1938, 10:00 PM
Obergruppen Aachen HQ
Aachen
Germany

Tap, tap, tap.

Tapped again, and again, and again. Synchronised, coordinated, honed at the military academy which he quite despised but was obliged to attend. Elbe's glazed leather jackboots tapped repetitively against the wooden planks of the child like office of his. The echo of the taps reverberated inside the headquarters, over the heads of the radiomen and link men hurriedly working to dispatch orders and coordinate the spying and sabotage groups. The flurry of activity rose a humdrum of noises, creaks and occasional shouts up towards his office but it made no difference to him. Just as the taps of his jackboots barely made an impact on the men below. Elbe was lost in his labyrinthine mind and the headquarters was bustling with the coming and going of men. In both cases, they were working for the same goal.

The Motherland.

Elbe had mixed feelings about his duty, however. Born in a Prussian junker family but with a French mother, this whole duty to the motherland seemed both honourable and quite off putting at the same time. He avoided combat, gradually rising through the ranks of the paramilitaries due to this father's connections and an exceptional organising skill. The military superiors who knew about the Obergruppen knew this; so did Elbe, who took advantage of every inch, connection and link afforded to him. Four months ago he met one of the leading figures of the brown shirts working for the party and for the country. That meeting left him with a sour taste but he laboured onwards with his task. His only hope was for this war to be quick.

Oh yes, war.

Elbe smiled to himself. This incoming war, because a war it will be, has already made it difficult. Spying on your country, your family, your adoptive country, in his case being France, your friends and even your mistresses. Elbe suddenly reminded of Mathilda, his brother's wife. She was in love with him, and then with his brother, and now she was working to extract secrets from a British MP. Elbe smirked, only to himself, alone in the office. He had plenty of these movements as he waited for information, orders and... letters.

Lost in his myriad of thoughts, Elbe did not hear the knocks on the door.

"Herr Elbe?"

Elbe shook his head and turned around. Karl, dressed in a customary Heer uniform but with notable missing pieces due to their unofficial status, brought him a white envelope. Elbe however noticed the rank patch on the side, which Karl never wore. He took took the envelope and held it up.

"What's this?"

Karl raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips twisting sideways. He tilted his head slightly leftwards, as if avoiding Elbe's gaze.

"Well?" said Elbe.

"Orders, Herr Elbe."

"Orders?"

"From the headquarters."

"We are our own headquarters."

"Headquarters, Sir."

"Obergruppen is an HQ, Karl."

Karl shifted awkwardly. "From Munich, Herr Elbe."

Elbe lowered his gaze to the envelope. "Take care of the duty in Colmar, Karl."

Karl nodded in acceptance and left Elbe's office.

A white envelope. Elbe tapped it against his left palm, looking at the symbol on the top right corner and the symbol that held the two lips of the envelope together. He turned on his heels and sat down at his desk, bringing the yellow lamp closer to the envelope that now turned brown in the light. With calm movements, he slid his index finger underneath the seal and opened the envelope. A cursive, black ink writing flowed neatly on the white paper.

Herr Elbe,

You are kindly expected in Munich. With the exception of your closest of men, do not inform anyone of this.

We expect your presence upon the fourth day after the deliverance of this letter.

Our warmest wishes,
Oberkommandant

They never signed these letters of envelopes. Nobody had any names on them. For the best part, it could have simply been a forgery to deceive him but the symbol on the right hand corner indicated the special unit from which this envelope was sent from. Elbe rose from the desk and headed to the fireplace where the logs crackled playfully in the hearth. With one swift movement, he threw the envelope in the fire.

And just as the fire engulfed the envelope, he noticed another note which somehow he missed. Elbe quickly plucked the envelope from the fire, scattered the ashes on the sides and unfurled the fire-crumpled note that was somehow hidden in a flap inside the envelope. A simple word stood written in big letters, stamped underneath it.

SABOTAGE.

Elbe nodded. "That's it, I guess."

Turning again on his heels, he threw the envelope again in the fire, took his cap and left the office.

Chapter VIII :bow:

Horace's story arc slowly blends in. It's part 2 of Clouds of Smoke.

----
8:45 PM
Court Road, London
United Kingdom

For more than twenty minutes, Horace Benningham kept his eyes fixed on the entrance of that red-bricked block of flats, a typical English working class building down by the infamous Court Road. In it's heyday, Court Road was the average working class neighbourhood. But as the country grew, so did the neighbourhood. It was no longer the quiet neighbourhood it once was, particularly in the restive Friday and Saturday nights. Now that the threat of war was looming, spies from all places gathered around in quiet London neighbourhoods to do their work. From the intersection with the Circus, which was behind Horace, the whole street was lined with small houses or small blocks of flats, no more than three stories high, with exterior railings that dubbed as stairways for whenever it was needed. It took him no more than a fifteen minute drive from the White Club, a casual stroll in his nimble Citroen Traction Avant he got as a gift from Lord Beckett. He was after all looking for Mathilda
now.

Horace narrowed his eyes and scanned the cars down the street. By chance, one of Ryan's men gave him a vital piece of info, simple happenstance as the man walked by just as Horace was about to leave. Mathilda was no longer alone in the apartment she owned on the second floor. Horace smirked. He made a mental note of that detail and holstered the Colt pistol underneath his suit jacket. He got out of the black Traction Avant and gently closed the door, careful to make as little sound
as possible, just as a gust of wind slapped his face. Taking one last glance around the empty street, Horace casually strolled down to the block. The four storied building had a simple wooden door entrance with horrid cast iron railings by the stairs, about as ungainly as an abandoned house. Horace slid inside, his polished patent leather shoes touching the red carpeting that blanketed the stairs.

"Good, no noise," he whispered to himself.

He gently went up the stairs and slid to the edge of the dark brown door where he knew Beckett's mistress lived. He was about to knock on the door when he heard the shouts booming from inside.

"I knew it! You're seeing someone else, aren't you? I knew it! How much did it take for that to happen, how much time? 6 months? How long have we been married? Not a lot it seems, and it looks like you've been marrying me just so you can have someone to impress!"

Horace narrowed his eyes. He had no idea who the man was, but he was sure this was Mathilda's apartment so the idea of her being married added to the difficulty of the whole Mathilda affair. He didn't have much time to think it over when he heard the woman scream in terror as she struck some sort of object, causing a chorus of other sounds of breaking objects to follow suit. The man screamed at her again, echoing throughout the stairwell of the block.

Horace breathed. He had to act before someone noticed him.

Using a small silver clip attached to his jacket pocket, he slid it inside the golden lock of the apartment door and fumbled his way until the lock clicked with an audible sound. Horace gently opened the door, sliding sideways inside the apartment, closing the door behind him just as stealthily as he opened it. The apartment in itself was not large by any means. A small hallway from the door, if it even was a hallway, led directly into a large room that dubbed as a bedroom on the left side and a living room on the right side, with a small bathroom just beside by the door. The room was split into two sides by a sliding door.

And at the bottom of that sliding door, with her back against the wall, stood Mathilda, gazing in horror at the man that towered above her with his arms pointed at her.

"Six months we've been married, six months, and all you did was use me!" yelled the man, clenching his fists as close to her face as possible. Horace couldn't see anything but his back and the uniform the man wore.

Beckett's man would have wanted the man to stay attentive to Mathilda, yelling at her as hard as he could, but it was Beckett's mistress who gave him away as she noticed his presence. The husband turned, almost by instinct when he noticed Mathilda's expression change, glimpsing Horace's silhouette as the Englishman approached him. For a couple of brief moments, they analysed each other, weighing their options as they faced a stand off in Mathilda's living room. Horace faced a rather tall, handsome husband, dressed in a black military unifom with golden tresses on the right shoulder and a small airplane insignia on the left hand side of his chest. But what drew his attention was the symbol on his left arm, the symbol embroidered on the uniform. The man was a foreign spy. And Mathilda most probably fed him the secrets Lord Beckett gave to her while drunk.

Before Horace had a chance to react, the man leaped at him and smashed him against the living room wall with such force that the Englishman thought his bones had broken into fine pieces. The man did not stop, smashing a fist into his ribcage and a subsequent jawbone punch that nearly knocked Horace out. Horace crashed sideways onto a small padded chair, struggling to regain his composure. Before he managed to do the man took him by the suit and threw him accross the living room, sending him crashing into a wooden table. Horace's crash destroyed the table into the pieces, collapsing him on the ground right at Mathilda's feet.

But the angered husband was not done.

The man leapt at Horace and lunged for his neck, an ill timed move which Horace easily deflected with a parry and a strike to his opponents' jawbone. Before the man could parry back, Horace reached for his pistol and slid it out of the leather holster, drawing it enough for it to threaten his opponent. Angered, the man leapt once more at Horace, ignoring the obvious threat of the Colt pistol directed at him. He lunged straight for Horace's arms, trying to block the pistol, only to make matters worse as the men struggled on the floor.

Two shots rang out from the Colt M1911.

----

:bow:

Chapter IX.

:bow:

------

Colmar, Alsace
9th of December, 1938
9:35 PM


10 minutes later, they left the police station and headed off back into the cold, the snow and the crackling sounds of white powder crumpling underneath their leather boots. Reythier said no word of their early departure, moving on without a word away from the police headquarters with Klaus trotting alongside him in silence. As they passed the petite boulangerie by the edge of the bridge over the Lauch, Klaus took a quick look behind him and patted Reythier slightly on his left arm.

“We left more than twenty minutes earlier than the train. It takes us at most five more minutes to get there.”

Reythier nodded, walking onwards without a side glance. “I don't believe Pernod.”

“Because of what I told you?”

“That too. But I have my own doubts. The story he told us is far too fantastic for me to even believe it.”

“What if he's right?”

Reythier shot Klaus a dubious glance. “What are you saying?”

“Pernod might be right.”

“The Lauch has higher chances of defrosting in a snowstorm than Pernod being right.” Reythier nodded over to the train station, slowly becoming visible in between the timber frame houses of Colmar. “No chance.”

“Then what are we doing here now?”

“Looking for three men.”

Klaus rose his hands in despair. “So you believe him!”

“Partly. He's got three accomplices, that's true.”

“How did you guess?”

“You'll see.”

“What are we looking for then?”

“Three men casting weird looks around this place. Should be easy to spot them.”

“In a crowd?”

“What crowd? Colmar doesn't even have five thousand people any more because of the threat of the war. What crowd? Who comes here in the middle of the winter? Ten people at most will come from the train. Look closely.”

“And if they're not there?”

“Then you keep looking.”

They arrived at the train station approximately one minute and a half earlier before the train arrived, allowing them to slide away from the station itself and into the waiting room. A dim light illuminated a small room on the side of the little house that dubbed as an office for the chief of the station and a waiting room, separated by a hastily constructed wall that was part white part grey because of improper finishing. A row of chairs were set on the right side as they entered, with their backs against the windows, which forced both Reythier and Klaus to take them and switch them around so they could see the incoming train. Both men stood down and placed their hands inside their pockets, clutching the grips of their pistols as they waited for the earlier train.

One minute later, already overdue even by their estimates, the black locomotive chugged along in the station and dropped off around twenty people who soon went to their business into Colmar. Because of the windows that overlooked the train tracks rather than the station, they could see neither of the passengers, forcing Klaus to protest with a measured gesture of his neck towards the train. Reythier watched his gesture but moved his head slightly downwards in disagreement. Unmoved, but fidgeting slightly, the two men waited for another thirty seconds in total silence until one man dressed in a black fedora and a woolen overcoat entered the waiting room.

“Bonsoir,” said Reythier, smiling slightly and inviting the man to sit down.

The man stopped for a brief moment, his hands still on the edge of the waiting room door.

“Bonsoir.” The man watched them from the edge of the entrance, somewhat confused and unsure of the two well dressed men sitting in the waiting room, chairs overturned towards the incoming train. “Are you waiting for the train?”

“Well, no. I am waiting for someone.”

“Ah. Well, everyone has left. It is just me now.”

Reythier moved his head. “Is it?”

Reythier's measured words somehow made the guest react hastily. Before he could pull out the pistol from the pocket of his overcoat, Reythier lunged at the man from the chair in one single swoop, smashing him against the wall of the waiting room. Immobilised, the man tried to react against the sudden fury of a tall Parisian who dealt two successive blows to his ribcage, shattering two ribs and forcing him to collapse sideways in pain. Overcome with pain and fear, the man could only watch as Reythier dealt a furious jab to his forehead, knocking him out cold right beside the entrance of the waiting room. The man slumped to the ground, inadvertently kicking the window of the waiting room door that was enough to alarm his friends.

Before Reythier had a chance to untangle himself from the battle, two men entered the waiting room from the opposite side, pistols at hand, aiming directly for Reythier's torso and head. But as Reythier had hoped, Klaus took out his own pistol in a clean arching maneouver, firing three successive rounds into the two assailants. Two of the bullets hit the first assailant in the right leg and right arm, forcing him to drop his pistol and collapse against the wall of the waiting room. The last bullet hit the remaining assailant in his left kneecap, throwing his face down against the cold pavement of the waiting room. All of them were still alive, but neither of the assailants were able to put up a fight any more.

Satisfied, Reythier motioned to Klaus who kept his pistol outstretched. The tall Parisian took the knocked out guest and dragged him over to the chairs in the wails of his comrades who were slowly bleeding on the waiting room floor.

“Shouldn't we get an ambulance, Alexandre?” asked Klaus.

Reythier looked at his watch. “Eight minutes. It's already on the way. I left a note for the junior policeman who helped me earlier.”

“Junior policeman? How come you trusted him?”

“Eager to serve the headquarters. The only one who could be trusted.”

Reythier sighed. The assailants were quickly searched and their pistols taken away, a precautionary measure to prevent any mishaps like four hours ago. He looked at the pistols and while two of them were of French origin, the last one, which belonged to the knocked out guest, was made by Walther Firearms. German. He raised the pistol to Klaus.

“Walther PPK. Foreign spies.”

Klaus looked at the two bleeding assailants. “How in the world did you guess, Alexandre?”

“Two details.” Reythier lifted up a finger. “Who knows the interrogation quarters of the police headquarters apart from Pernod or his close men? It's a random house hidden in the middle of a small town named Colmar. You want me to believe these foreign spies knew about it? Those two young men... Pernod knew about them. And the shooter was one of ours. Frenchman. Born in Alsace.”

Klaus muttered under his breath some words. “Second detail?”

“Pernod left the headquarters immediately after we spoke with him, instead of staying with his men to continue his investigation. That made me suspicious, along with what you told me, of him fidgeting during our quick conversation. So I figured out it had some connection with the night trains that come because of the note he gave us. But you would think of the night train that it would be the last one. Not the one before.”

“He tried to throw us off.”

“Correct.”

“Tres bien. I give up now. Tell me how you managed to notice the first one.”

“Pernod's police cap.”

Klaus rose an eyebrow. “His cap?”

“Constables wear a slightly different cap than the rank officers. And Pernod happened to be a reasonably important constable around here, so he had his own fashion touch to it. A blue and white ribbon.”

Klaus frowned. He took a glance around at the injured conspirators and took one of the hats lying on the floor, immediately noticing a small blue and white ribbon attached on the edge of the tip. Small, but noticeable. He showed it to Reythier.

“This?”

“Yes. That ribbon. It's their own mark of identification without having to talk.”

Silence quickly followed. Reythier watched as Klaus stood stumped with the hat in his hand, drawing his fingers slightly over the edge, right over the blue and white ribbon that somehow represented the flag of France. Or at least a portion of it. Reythier's friend held up the hat.

“And, what now? What happens with them?”

“Pernod left, but he will caught soon. I spoke with one of the policemen to deliver a note to the secret services in Lyon. Pernod is just a cog. We're in for bigger problems.”

Klaus threw the hat in one of the conspirator's faces and turned to Reythier.

“I'm worried.”

“You should.” Reythier adjusted his own hat. “Pernod is a little wave, something you feel when a wave touches your leg when you go to the sea in Biarritz or Saint-Tropez. We're in for a large wave, a destructive wave, that will sweep us away. Away, or sideways, either way it will be violent.” Reythier sighed. “Klaus, we're in for a war.”


---

Feedback welcome! :bow:

Chapter X.

Swords Made of Letters will be split into books, and this is the end of Book I.


----

Hurr, crackle, roar.

From the inside, it felt like a lazy afternoon stroll down the boulevard. But once in a while a double tailed exhaust grumbled behind, crackling and roaring on the dainty streets of Munich. Despite the mechanical whirring of the steel orchestra and the heavy weight of the car, the ride was remarkably smooth on the leather bench in the Mercedes limousine. With a soft hum in lower gears the Maybach V12 engine pushed the massive limousine forwards but the cylinders groaned heavily whenever the chauffeur pressed the pedal, unleashing a sudden burst of acceleration that felt distant, almost like in a movie replay on slow motion, on the soft leather seats. Elbe cushioned himself against the backseat, leg over leg, his arms outstretched and his eyes set heavy on the expansive Prinzregentenstrasse of Munich. There were no words between him and the chauffeur, only nods and simple pointing of fingers. That's all he got and he knew that was all he was going to get.

At least the ride was smooth.

He stopped in the Munich Train Station some six hours after he left Aachen, a train event as uneventful as it could get. No one stopped him, no one questioned him. As he exited the station, tucked behind a row of columns and hidden in a corner reserved for military cars stood the chauffeur with his Mercedes-Maybach limousine. The man stood in his military uniform and pointed two gloved fingers towards Elbe, indicating him as the package that needed to be... delivered. The limousine snaked its way from the train station and onto the royal boulevards of Munich carefully expanded by the Party. They left the main streets rather quickly to switch to quieter side roads where the whirring of the V12 was the only thing they were hearing. Forty five minutes after they left the station the car stopped in front of a four storied building on the outskirts of the city. Elbe recognised the neighbourhood because of the junction only metres away. The building sat at the junction between the Autobahns leading to Berlin and those towards Vienna.

Without any words, the chauffeur nodded his head towards the building.

Elbe got out of the limousine and headed to the entrance of the building. Four storied, and not particularly impressive, the building was a combination of eclectic end of 19th century design, adorned with stucco architectural details and large windows. He rose up a flight of stairs and entered the building where two officers immediately saluted him.

"Herr Elbe. Wilkommen. You are expected on the fourth floor."

Fourth floor. At the top of the building. Elbe returned the salute and glided up a massive marble staircase that adorned the middle of an expansive hall that doubled as the entrance but probably was a ballroom in the better days it had seen. First floor, second floor, third floor... fourth floor and silence. The whole floor was split into two parts, with the north-eastern side of the building occupied by eight rooms, four on each side of the corridor while the north-western side had just one single office. Elbe headed to the office on the north-western corner of the building, find the door to the study wide open.

It was expansive, to say the least, as Elbe noticed when he stepped inside the well-furnished study. Long, teak panelled furniture doubled as shelves for hundreds of books, adorning the beige coloured walls. The study was homely, inviting even and Elbe was not the least bit surprised when behind the main desk just underneath a window stood a small fireplace. The hearth was filled with crackling logs, orange leaps of fire jumping joyfully within the small enclosure. It smelled of burning wood but also of tobacco and oud, probably for the perfume of the commander. Which Elbe had not seen.

Lurking behind the door stood Oberkommandant Wilhelm, Prussian junker blood just like him but more devoted to the country and party phase than Elbe would ever be. Elbe turned around on his heels after Wilhelm coughed to get his attention, spotting a man in his late fifties in full military garb and a white moustache that seemed to copy Chancellor Bismarck. Oberkommandant Wilhelm wore glasses whenever he was on headquarter duty, giving him the look of a man who could easily replace Motlke the general in a World War I portrait. Elbe made the salute, which Wilhelm replied to with a customary salute, a nod and an invite to sit down.

"Make yourself at home, Richard. Prussians are always welcome in my home."

Elbe smiled. "I have never been to the headquarters when you were around. Every time it was either someone from the Heer or someone from the other branches, or even your lieutenants."

"I know, Richard, I know." Wilhelm sat down on the brown leather chair behind his mahogany desk. He took a brown cigarette from a gold-plated metallic box on the desk and placed it underneath his nose. "Say Richard, how is everything in Aachen going?"

"Well, Sir. We have some issues accross the border but we are

"Issues?" Wilhelm raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. I lost two men in Colmar because of inexperience."

"Ah." Wilhelm lit up the cigar. "Just that?"

"For the moment. We will see for the rest."

"I understand."

With economical movement, Wilhelm slipped a hand underneath his military jacket and produced a white sealed envelope with the same insignia as the one Elbe saw before in Aachen. Richard took the envelope and opened it, revealing a host of folded maps of the French defenses along the borders, information about strategic points and about informants.

"Your orders are simple Richard. Down the path of the Maginot Line and all of the defences of France down the Rhine, Ruhr and Saarland you will be tasked to find points of weakness. I want the weaknesses exposed and when you can expose them by yourself, do so. Your orders are immediate, you can carry out your own orders and you have full command of your men."

Elbe glanced at Wilhelm's stern expression. "I carry out my own orders?"

"Sabotage the lines. That is all that is required of you."

"Only that?"

"And direct disinformation campaigns." Wilhelm put down his cigar and smiled. "Remember, swords are made of letters too, after all."

-----

New updates coming soon - and until then, feedback welcome! :bow:

Book 2 of Swords Made of Letters. :bow:

Chapter XI - House of Cards

----
10:30 PM
White Club
Mayfair, London
9th of December 1938


Horace placed his hands gently on the teak-paneled bar counter.

"Where's the chief?"

Martin, a rather burly bartender with a thin French moustache, gave Horace a curious glance. The bartender was washing the glasses, cleaning them meticulously with his hands running on every single inch and side of the crystal objects he had been handling for hours by now. He smiled to Horace. Martin knew better than to simply point in a direction or another in such a setting. With a curt smile, he dropped his head slightly downwards and to his left, indicating the little tables that stood by the edge of the staircase that led to this second floor of the White Club. There were eight tables, most of them with two plush chairs each, but only two of them were occupied. And one of them was occupied by Lord Howe, the chief of the intelligence services and Horace's very own superior.

Horace handed a five pound note to Martin and strutted with swagger towards Howe's table. He gave a curt but warm smile and shook Howe's guest' hand. Turning to Howe, he saluted in a military fashion, who was rather amused at the theatrical gesture. Almost bald, but with two piercing emerald green eyes, Howe was of a tall stature and always fitted in three piece pinstriped suits. Blue, as it was often the case, was the colour of the night. That was his own trademark and no one else around the White Club could match it or even imitate it. Howe smiled and rose his whisky glass, a touch of amber-coloured liquid swirling around the clear ice poured by Martin earlier.

"Horace! What a pleasure!"

Horace smiled. "Good evening, Sir. Please excuse my rather direct approach, but may I please request your presence in the Ivory Saloon in approximately five minutes? I say that this is of the utmost importance."

Lord Howe rose a thin eyebrow, placing his whisky glass on the wooden table. He brought his palms together and glanced at Horace.

"May I ask why, Horace? This is private duty after all, we're not at our offices."

"Sir, private duty is of no matter now. This is public duty."

Lord Howe glanced at his guest then back at Horace. "Very well Horace. I trust your judgement, I see you have a sense of urgency. But may I remind you this better be worth the time. I shall see you in five minutes in the Ivory Saloon."

Horace bowed and left Lord Howe with his guest.

***

Ivory Saloon, as it was labelled on the ivory-coloured door, had some connection to the ivory trade back in the old days but the saloon now was all teak wood, some marbling on the supporting colonnades and above all, a massive fireplace in the midst of it to bring warmth and cosiness to the guests. It held an oval table in it's midst with eight chairs around it, two of them at each "top" of the oval. The top of the table near the fireplace was empty but on one side, to Horace's left, stood Lord Howe, flanked by Lord Beckett, while on the other side stood Howe's guest, a bookish man at around forty years in a red suit jacket and two men clad in black suits which Horace presumed worked in the intelligence just as he did. Howe's guest in fact was a member of the House of Lords commissions on internal matters, which made all the more sense, Horace thought. From the other top of the oval, Horace brought his hands together and made a sweeping gesture.

"Sirs, I thank you all for coming. Lord Howe, Lord Beckett, Sirs, I have called upon you all to discuss a matter of grave importance I have recently found out." Horace made a pause for effect. "It concerns Lord Beckett."

Howe turned to Beckett. "What have you done, Beckett?"

Beckett shrugged. "I do not know, Sir. Maybe Horace here will care to enlighten us." Beckett pointed towards Horace as he spoke, shooting an icy glance when he finished his words. Horace nodded in return.

"Yes, Mr. Beckett, I understood that ugly glance. It concerns your mistress, should you be so interested to know about this."

Beckett snorted. "My mistress?"

"Yes, Mr. Beckett, your mistress. The English mistress you have been dallying with in the past months."

Beckett clenched his fist. "My personal matters is none of your concern, Horace."

Horace shook his head. "Sire, it is in fact."

Howe held a hand. "What is this, Horace?"

"Sire, Lord Beckett's mistress is in fact a German lady with a husband who is part of the enemy services, the branch of the airforce. Matter of fact, during your drunk escapades into her arms, all of the info that you have slipped to her without wanting, or perhaps wanting, has been regularly conveyed back to the enemy lines. She married this man because it was imposed on her, but you had no idea and yet somehow all of the information was leaking to our foreign spies. Your dalliances with her are of great concern to us because of the information leak."

Beckett slammed a hand on the table. "Horace, your mouth. Keep it sealed."

Howe swished his hand. He gave Beckett a sharp glance. "Go on, Horace. Beckett seal your mouth or else I will."

Beckett growled underneath his moustache but could not say anything. He waved off to Horace.

"Mr. Beckett has been seeing Miss Mathilda Muller for approximately four months, during which he has requested that I keep an eye on her at all times when I am off duty. I will not avoid the subject of that. Mr. Beckett has been most kind as a benefactor for me to earn more than my regular salary. However, my concerns about Miss Mathilda, despite them not being my business, have not been taken into consideration despite them being no longer a private duty but rather of public interest. I repeatedly told Mr. Beckett to be warned about her, to not say any private information to her, but it seems that it had no effect."

Howe cleared his throat. "How did you find out, Horace?"

"Mr. Beckett ordered me to follow her, but I had had enough, so I went to her apartment to inform her. I had enough of the spying."

"And?" asked Howe.

"As for that, well, during my encounter it turns out her husband was there. He attacked me when he saw me and the fight for my pistol turned into two shots. They hit him, but he survived. Four men came to pick him up twenty minutes later."

Beckett rose to his feet. "You shot Mathilda?"

"Her husband, Sir."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Horace!" shouted Beckett.

"Beckett! Sit!" growled Howe.

Beckett sat down in a chorus of mumblings.

"Where is the husband?" asked Howe.

"In a hospital in London."

"And Mathilda?"

"Outside, in my car, under close guard."

"Where was this?"

"By the Court Road, Sir."

Howe narrowed his eyes. "This happened in the middle of London?"

Horace nodded. "Yes Sir."

"When?"

"Last night, Sire."

"That's all that happened between you and him?"

"Yes Sir. I spoke with Mathilda afterwards, after I had taken her from the apartment and into my car to protect her. It was there that she told me everything, but I still have my doubts."

Howe flicked his hand. "Doubts on what, Horace?"

"She's not telling the whole truth. Mr. Beckett told her some confidential information because apparently her husband has been roaming around the country with access to all sorts of factories and industries that pertain to our own national defence."

Howe ran a hand over his face in despair. He stood like that for a couple of moments until Martin entered the saloon with a piece of paper in his hand. He bowed to Horace and showed him the scribbling.

"The man is fine Sir. He is under close guard."

"Thank you Martin."

The bartender exited, leaving Howe and Beckett fuming but for different reasons. Without any expectation whatsoever, Howe rose from his chair and tapped Beckett on the shoulder.

"Four men heard this story. You better come up with a good defence in Parliament, Beckett." Howe left the table and headed for the door. "Horace, you've got minutes to go downstairs. I will see you at the office and I need all of the details. Including Mathilda."

Horace could only nod in acceptance.


-----

I hope you enjoyed it and as always, feedback welcome!

:bow:

Chapter XII - Paris Briefing

Continuing the story, picking off in Paris.

:bow:

---
12th of December, 1938
7:00 PM
Paris
France


Wisps of steam formed around the edges of his mouth, slowly evaporating in the cold area of a December night in Paris. Reythier wilted ever so slightly, his black leather boots clacking with a specific and rather satisfying sound on the cobblestones of the Parisian street. He always liked to hear that sound, for some odd reason. It made him smile, it made him feel in a position of power. Particularly when he walked towards a mission. That clacking sound was ever so recognisable by his subordinates, preparing their orderly salutes in fashion before he even arrived. One thing he did not like however was the direction his boots were taking him. After all, it took two days. Two days had passed since Colmar and all he got was a summoning to Paris. No other explanation. Reythier left his friend Klaus in charge of the little border town and took a red-striped train to Paris, arriving in a rather quick four hours in the midst of the French capital. After a rather short taxi drive to the 7th Arondissement, Reythier climbed out of the Citroen Traction Avant and headed up the street.

It took him a slow walk of fifteen minutes to arrive at the villa.

Reythier arrived in front of a Parisian villa on the outskirts of the 7th rd Arrondissement, an edifice built in the 1890's with an air of merchant wealth surrounding it. Mildly imposing, with one story and an expansive attic, finished with Greek colonnades and round corners, the villa was used often as a conspirator safe house for those who had links with the Deuxieme Bureau. The Bureau, or what the foreign intelligence services were called in France, called him up for an impromptu meeting. Reythier had no choice but to duly oblige. Careful to conceal his identity before entering, Reythier rose his overcoat lapel, covering his ears. With one swift change of direction he entered the house.

It was warm, and the steam went away in an instant. He took off immediately his black hat just as he was greeted by an uniformed military policemen.

"Good evening, Mr. Reythier. In the saloon please."

The saloon was barely lit, being no more than an oversized kitchen built in one of the round corners of the house. The kitchen counter ran from end to end and all that was in it's midst was a small, four person table. A man stood with his back turned to Reythier, motioning with his hand in a circular motion as he turned around. He was in his sixties, having been born immediately after the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. Rank by rank, he rose up to an important position in the Bureau, coordinating the efforts of the foreign intelligence along the eastern border of France. Of mid height, with greying and balding hair, Reynauld Chartier was the main link for Alexandre Reythier. Chartier came to the table just as Alexandre did.

"Good evening, Alexandre."

Reythier nodded. "Bonsoir, Reynauld."

Reythier was about to take off his coat when Reynauld stopped him.

"Don't. This will be brief."

Reythier fastened back his overcoat and slid his hands in his pockets. "I'm listening."

"You're going to meet someone in another safe house. In fact, it's going to take you a while until you solve that thing in Colmar. So your best bet is to find out from the underground what they know."

"Aren't we the underground?"

"Not quite. There's another layer between us."

"And they are?"

"The streets. The street sometimes knows details that we don't. So go meet the street."

Reythier narrowed his eyes. "I don't get it."

"Beggars. Street handlers. Local workers. The lot who stays on the street and knows every bit of gossip in town." Reynauld took a sip of the coffee. "And even about mistresses."

"You're asking me to meet beggars?"

Reynauld put down his coffee. "Not quite. You need to meet their chief. In the outskirts of Paris."

Reythier growled under his breath. He hated being given straight orders, particularly with no more info attached to them. Respectful, he saluted Reynault and left the house.

Fifty five minutes it took for Reythier to arrive outside a house on the southern side of the city, flanked by small two storied houses and surrounded by a small courtyard with an oversized gate. Reythier pushed the gate aside and entered the courtyard which to his surprise dabbed as a small farm, a smithing workshop... and a gun armoury. With the house to his right side and the workshop to his left embedded in the wall, the back of the courtyard displayed a wooden wall which had over thirty types of small guns, ranging from shotguns to rifles, muskets and even a small pistol. As he delved deeper into the courtyard, a mid-sized, wiry man with a slight moustache approached him. Well built, muscular, dressed in a white shirt and black pants, his green eyes gave Reythier a quick scan.

"You're Reythier?"

Reythier nodded. "Yes. I presume you're Alain Poitou."

Poitou extended his hand. "Good to meet you. Tell your boss Reynauld he owes me a good payment for this. Come inside."

They entered the house, a small, simple building inside that could have been replaced by any other typical French farmhouse. But this one was owned by an underground chief, one who housed thirty weapons inside his home. They sat down in a small, bookish room, flanked by books and the occasional smattering of heavy dust floating around in the air. A small fireplace crackled in the corner, bringing some much needed warmth and relief. On the table however were tens of dossiers, stacked together in a huddled mass that could have tumbled down at any minute. Poitou smiled and

"This. This is what you need."

Raising a thin eyebrow, Reythier took the dossier. "This? What's this?"

Poitou took another smoke from the cigarette. "The man you should be looking out for."

Reythier glanced at the name. Richard Elbe.

"Who's this?" asked Reythier.

"A local commando chief."

"Why are we interested in a local chief?"

Poitou grabbed him by the hand and led him to an extended, detailed map of the French - German border.

"Elbe leads the Aachen commando group, which is here." Poitou pointed to the city. "Not that far off. He coordinates things from there."

"So you're saying he dealt the whole Colmar attack to us?"

Poitou nodded. "That's what you're after, non?"

Reythier smirked. He pulled up a chair, sat down and beckoned for Poitou to do the same.

"Now explain to me why and how did you get this info."


----


:bow:

Good story set in interwar period, edyzmedieval, I wait next chapter

Thank you very much. :bow:

Chapter XII - Secret Briefing

Small step forwards.

---
9:45 PM
Intelligence Villa
Westminster, London
United Kingdom


"Have a seat, Horace."

Stuffy it was, filled with the smell of leftover cigar smoke that embedded into the tapestry, the chairs and even the curtains. On the second floor of a small Victorian villa a couple of streets away from the major landmark of the neighbourhood, the meeting room hoisted a number of plush velvet chairs around an ivory coloured lacquered table. Two windows brought enough light into the room where it was only Horace and Lord Howe. The chief of the intelligence sat down at the top of the table, with Horace standing by the chair on the opposite end, casually slouching into the chair with his hands folded.

"I'm listening Horace. You've made a fuss of it, and you're accusing a member of the Parliament. That's no easy thing."

Horace straightened his posture, drawing his jacket downwards to project a feeling of strength. And to buy more time.

"Lord Howe, I don't do this lightly. And I was supposed to turn this in to my superiors anyhow since I had enough of this."

"What did he ask you to do, Horace?"

"Follow his mistress. He was afraid he was cheating on him."

Howe raised an eyebrow, almost smiling. "His mistress, cheating on him? Doesn't he have a wife?"

"He does, Sire."

Howe smirked. He cleared his throat, making his heavy, throaty voice even stronger. "Dubious. Continue, Horace."

"Lord Beckett has known Miss Mathilda for quite some time already, I believe that it's already been a year." Horace shifted slightly on his legs. "More than a year in fact. We discovered the information leak quite late."

"A shame." Howe brushed his hands against his fists, his eyes straight on his subordinate.

"She was... well known to us. In fact, she is the daughter of a diplomat, which raised some alarms.

"And nobody bothered to tell him that?"

"Nobody listened to us, Lord Howe."

Howe raised his head, his eyes viewing Horace at an odd, titled angle. "Nobody?"

"Beckett gave us no importance."

"Good job, Beckett. Go on."

"I had been following her for almost a year when the first reports came to me."

"A year. Good job, Horace!"

Horace shifted again. "Sire, I tried to warn him."

"Relax, I understand. Go on."

"Bekcett employed me privately and I followed her continuously for some time. Initially it was just a number of nights, then it became my entire off duty."

"And why did you stop?"

"With her, I wanted to tell her that I had enough and that Beckett was following her, so just be careful. Turns out she was married already, so she was cheating on Beckett, but with her own husband."

"Who's the husband?"

Horace tapped his shoulders. "Air force officer, probably a pilot. Maximilian Elbe."

Howe flicked his hand in the air, implying that he wanted more info. "Anything we know about him?"

"Not much as of this moment. I found out what he had been looking for through a report passed down to me by my colleagues in the Internal Security department. Multiple people reported of a tall man lurking around various important objectives for days on end, sometimes seen with a photography camera in hand too."

"What exactly are those objectives?"

"Do you have a map, Sire?"

Howe's assistant brought a large map of the United Kingdom three minutes after the request, which the two men unfurled on the table. Patches and patches of various sizes and colours were applied on certain spots around the map, indicating various levels of importance for the places highlighted by these items. Horace held up four fingers.

"Four different objectives. One just south of London, an armament factory. Second one slightly westwards close to Cornwall is a power station supplying the whole south of the country. Third, eastwards, close to Grimsby, he was spotted around the naval dockyards which he did again in the north close to York."

Howe pointed to the patches. "Right, all of these are of national security importance. How sure are we it's the same guy?"

"Extensive notes taken by our Internal Security, based on what the locals were telling us. He did not use the same car twice but it was easy to recognise him by the third try. They had one man follow him throughout the journey."

"All right, but how do you know him?"

"Mathilda told me who he is."

Howe brushed his palm over his face. "Fair. Did you send her in?"

Horace nodded. "Yes, Sire. She's on her way to the interrogation room in our central headquarters."

"Good." Howe returned to his chair and picked up the jacket he left on the back of the chair. "Horace, I'm off to the headquarters. Return to the scene, find out more information about him and keep an eye on Beckett."

Howe drew up his man, locking his grey eyes on Horace's own.

"I don't trust Beckett. Follow him."

----

:bow:

Thanks for update

Chapter XIII - Carry It Out, Officer

A new chapter, focused on Elbe.


---
14th of December 1938
9:32 PM
South of Stuttgart
Baden-Wurttemberg Region
Germany


A certain sound, formed by the gushing of rain stomping on the pavement, on the earth and on the cars. That sound formed a nighttime orchestra that echoed throughout his mind, like a little blanket put behind his back to shield him from the cold. It was cold outside, a dreary December night in the south of Germany where everyone stood huddled around fireplaces and not outside waiting for official permission to continue. They stopped at a military checkpoint, approximately thirty miles south of the city of Stuttgart, heading for a military retreat deep in the woods of Baden-Wurttemberg. The watchman checked their papers and phoned in at the headquarters for clearance, which Elbe and his driver duly received after another inquisitive glance from the young guardsman. The Mercedes sedan roared onwards, the heavy radial tyres munching through the muddied gravel road that led to the military retreat. The twelve minute road to the retreat through the dense forest was not particularly welcoming as the trees themselves cast heavy shadows over the road, a slight mist and a game of darkness floating above the two yellow electrical eyes of the car.

Twelve minutes onwards and the car braked in a small plaza, each side of the square central point flanked by a certain type of military building. To the west and north were three military barracks, guarded behind by a taller armoury while in the midst of the plaza, slightly off centered towards the east, stood an imposing villa with a watch tower. Eight cars were parked beside the entrance of the villa whilst three armoured personnel carriers stood by the entrances of the barracks. The whole plaza was silent, mist roaming around the tops of the armoury and the villa, the only sound being the drenching of the rain as it flushed through the graveled paths.

Elbe's driver drew up the Mercedes at the entrance, forcing Richard as quickly as possible outside the car and into the villa. The intelligence officer entered the foyer of the villa, immediately greeted by two uniformed men who smiled at him. Maximilian Ober and Richard Muller. Both of them good friends of his, both of them in the army. And both of them his liaison with the miltary. Maximilian, of average height but with a charming smile and golden tresses by his sides, stepped forwards and gave Elbe a heavy hug.

"You gained weight, Richard. Aachen must be good for you," quipped Maximilian.

Elbe faked a brushing of Maximilian's tresses. "Don't get too confident Ober, I'm here to get your position. Aachen is boring."

"Well, not for long it won't be. Up we go, come on!" replied Maximilian.

They hurried to the first floor of the villa and were ushered inside a command room filled with military maps hung on the walls, automatic rifles were dropped on an adjacent table, uniforms were tossed in a corner. The villa was a military compound, a local headquarters, and it showed. Two men stood huddled around the map

"Good evening Richard." said one of the men.

Maximilian glided around Elbe and put himself between the two generals and Elbe.

"Richard, allow me to introduce Herr Gunter and Herr Willich." Gunter, rather tall and his head covered by the army cap nodded whilst Willich, shorter but with a rather fierce expression stood motionless. "They will be your liaison, Richard."

"Herr Gunter, Herr Willich, glad to meet you."

Neither of the two men said anything except but give the smallest of nods. Gunter, with a rather economic flick of his hand, motioned Elbe closer to him and to the map.

"Herr Elbe, as we understand, you command the Aachen group. Correct?"

"Correct, Herr Gunter."

"Good. As we know, Aachen is very close to the border and will be of imperative importance to our future operations that we may decide to conduct. All of them are considered."

"All?"

"Yes, all of them. That includes military options, Herr Elbe."

Elbe scratched his nose, slightly bowing his head. "Understood, Herr Gunter."

"Good. How many men do you have? I have been told you have 26 in total."

"Forty six in total, but twenty of them are auxiliaries."

"Strong enough. Have they carried out missions before?"

"Yes, they have."

"Good, very good. How fast are they? Do you rate them as capable?"

"Yes."

"Then you have a mission."

Gunter took a long cane from the table and pointed westwards of Stuttgart, somewhere along between the Ardennes Forest and the city of Strasbourg, converging around the pocket of Colmar.

"The Maginot Line."

Herr Gunter smiled for the first time to Richard. "Carry on with it, Herr Elbe. Maximilian here will guide you."

"Herr Gunter, please, if I may, I already had a meeting with Oberkommandant Wilhelm. He traced some guidelines for me already."

"Correct, Herr Elbe. Oberkommandant Wilhelm is our superior and he wanted to judge how eager your team is to carry the duty for our fatherland. He judged as you as capable so he sent you to meet with us, to get your actual orders. Now, if you will excuse us, we have to plan other things."

"Yes, Herr Gunter."

"Carry it out, officer. And fast."

Despite knowing very well his job, Elbe left the room with a smirk and a sour taste in his mouth. Gunter's orders were demeaning. A simple pawn he was now. He scurried down the stairs with Maximilian in tow who grabbed him by the arm as he was about to exit the villa. Maximilian looked at him directly in the eye, raising his chin slightly.

"Your reaction is odd."

"My men are more capable than just sabotaging some railway lines, Max."

"Those are the orders, Richard."

Richard brushed aside his friend's arm. "Guard your place, I'm sick of Aachen, get ready to step in my place and me in yours."

"I'm not worried. Just make sure you take Gunter's place instead."

Elbe smiled.

"Happy sabotage, Richard!"

"It will be. I didn't come for another pointless meeting just to get some useless orders."

---

Thanks for another excellent update for this good story

:bow:

Thank you so much!

Chapter XIV - A Den of Spies

Another chapter, this time focused on Reythier.

And also - one year since the first chapter! :book:

----

12th of December, 1938
3rd Arondissement
Strasourg
France
7:50 PM

By the sound of the cracked voice that buzzed through the police phone, Klaus seemed concerned. Often times he was concerned, scurrying from every police and intelligence headquarter with information, but his voice seemed unusually off to Reythier. They had captured a man linked to the Colmar attack they had endured but as expected, the man refused to talk. What really worried Klaus, Alexandre guessed, were the items found on the man. And a name.

Six and a half hours from that phone call he arrived back in the local police headquarters in Strasbourg, driven by a military police officer through the rough country roads. Full of potholes, soiled by water that turned into a muddied abyss and occassional traffic jams by local cow herds, the road was mightily unpleasant. But Reythier had no choice. By now the Office of Counterintelligence had become suspicious so Reythier had to subject himself to the orders of scurrying away from the city centres and into the more desolate side roads. The military police officer drove him to the back of the intelligence headquarters, right into a small courtyard that housed four blackened cars with muffled headlamps. The courtyard was befitting the small conspiratorial house, a grey bricked house with two stories that was rather unassuming just on the edges of the city centre.

Two officers saluted Reythier as he entered, invited immediately into the commander's room.

Just beside a small corner table, smoking from an almost empty pack of cigarettes stood Klaus, hand over crossed legs, staring blankly towards the wall. His fedora cap stood on the table, drizzled with cigarette ash and obscured by a plume of smoke. He only rose his eyes towards Reythier as he entered.

"I feel more like a fireman than a policeman, Klaus," Reythier quipped.

Klaus raised one of his thin eyebrows, his grey eyes slightly narrowed. "Why?"

"I'm responding to issues rather than actively working to solve them. We're two steps behind, all we have is someone we captured by accident and we know some of our policemen were bribed." Reythier stood beside the table. "That's all."

"Who turned against their country, you mean."

"That too."

Klaus held up from the table two sheets of scribbled, yellowy paper. "Recruitment papers from our fellow man. Reinhard Muller is his name, he's downstairs in his cell, he won't talk."

"Why are we so worried about him?"

"He's part of a group called the Aachen cell."

"Why is that so important?"

"All right, let me show you."

Klaus rose from his chair, extinguishing his cigarette in a rather slow movement. He walked towards a large map of the border in the corner of the room, dragging himself along to the edge of the map where the city of Strasbourg stood. Just north, approximately 150 kilometres away, stood the old city of Aix-La-Chapelle. Or as it was called today, Aachen.

"The Aachen group has been in the counter-intelligence objectives for a couple of months now after we have discovered intense activity just over the border near the city. I know it's not far off from the Saarland where they took over recently, but the activity, the sabotage, the intelligence gathering and the men they sent to spy on the Maginot line have got us quite concerned. Simply put, they are the headquarters of all of the sabotage and subterfuge activity in this area and there has to be a way to counter them." Klaus pointed to the papers. "I hope Herr Reinhard will help."

"You're hoping too much."

"He's a good source. Maybe he will talk."

"Why exactly is Aachen group so important? Every other group is just as important."

"They coordinate, as I've told you. They coordinate the whole border with us and I will not be surprised if Colmar, Maginot line and all of their activities are linked."

"It might be the same group, you mean."

Klaus nodded slowly. "That's right."

"I'm going downstairs."

From the warmth of the commander's room, the darkened stairs brought together not only a lack of light but also a cold gust that swept over the stairs and underneath his clothes. The makeshift prison cells downstairs were illuminated by a very dim light, almost casting no shadows against the walls. One of the officers at the entrance opened the prison cell, revealing a slightly more brighter light inside a cramped cell with only a small window to the world. Reythier entered the cell, a damp air that invaded his nostrils and serrated his sensitive airways. A midsized man stood on the floor

"Good evening, Reinhard."

Silence.

"I will be direct and blunt. The Aachen group, do you know of it?"

Silence.

"Nothing?"

Reinhard waved Reythier off. "I know nothing."

"Really? We have your papers."

"They are fake."

"Signed by you?"

"Fake."

"Very well then. Who are you with then? What group?"

"No group."

"Then what were you doing here?"

Reinhard looked at him, his gaunt appearance slightly jarring Reythier. "Farming."

Reythier laughed. "Funny. I will keep that in mind." Reythier rose his finger. "I am going to Aachen. Should I know something?"

Reinhard laughed. "Keep your head down."

Reythier bowed and left the cell, hearing the heavy lock click in the distance as he raced up the stairs. He returned to the warmth of the commander room only to see Klaus propped against the main table, looking in the distance at the map. Reythier tapped his friend on the back.

"I'm off to Aachen."

Klaus frowned. "What? Why?"

"No more reacting. We have to act on our knowledge, thin as it is."

"You're going alone?"

Reythier nodded. "Alone."


---

:bow:

The little story is more than 1 year old so perhaps some of you might have feedback, which I encourage you to share. :bow:

Can even be in a Private Message!

Chapter XV - What Would You Do?

A new chapter, focusing on Reythier's perspective - more and more concerned with the illegal activity and espionage. :book:

:bow:

-----
4:40 PM
14th of December 1938
Lauterbourg border post
French border with Germany


Click, clack, click, clack. The lacquered leather boots thumped on the concrete pavement flush with water, bringing the border guard closer to the Citroen limousine stationed before the barrier. A considerable amount of rain had brought copious amounts of mud onto the barely paved road, evident on the muddied tyres of the car and the drops of mud on the guard's boots. Clad in a black uniform, the guard approached the car apprehensively, unsure of the lone visitor that had bothered his writing of letters to his girlfriend. No cars ever passed through the Lauterbourg border post, unless they were official cars, and even then they were quite rare. Firm, the guard posted himself by the side of the Citroen as the driver rolled down the window.

"Good evening. Welcome to the German border. Your papers please."

There was no room for discussion, and there was no need for it either. The driver turned to his passenger in the back, giving him a slight wink. Reythier took out his fake documentation, freshly inked and stamped but properly aged, which he duly handed over to the driver who gave it to the guard.

With two fingers, the guard motioned for the driver's papers as well, but he found those rather uninteresting, focusing on the other set. The guard slid slightly sideways, poking through the rear window to catch a glimpse of Retyhier looking at him directly from underneath a sturdy grey hat.

"Herr Langstross. What is the purpose of your visit?"

"Visiting."

"Visiting? For what purposes? Are you a tourist?"

Reythier, disguised as Wilhelm Langstross, shook his head. "My extended family is from Aachen, I would like to visit them, hence why I'm making this trip."

The guard looked askance at him. "Family in Aachen. And yet you are French."

"I am a German living in France."

"I hope you are." The guard eyed Reythier. "Stay here, I will return."

Reythier watched through the rain drops lazily zig zagging on the window as the guard retreated in a small wooden border post. His face was obscured underneath the officer cap but he could see the edges of a telephone receptor pressed against the side of the face. Reythier breathed slowly, monitoring his breath without wishing so, his eyes fixed on the receptor and whatever gestures he could discern from the guard. He shifted on his seat, his breath in check, attentive to the surroundings. It lasted no more than 40 seconds until the guard returned with the yellowy identification papers which he handed back through the window. For a moment he wanted to say something, still slightly unsure, but Reythier extended his hand and the guard duly shook him.

"I hope you will return to the Fatherland soon, Herr Langstross."

Reythier smiled. "What do you think I am doing now?"

The guard smiled. He drew back from the car and raised the border barrier, allowing the rumbling Citroen to slowly pace away from France and into the heartland of the German forests. Reythier turned on the bench of the car and watched as the guard lowered the barried and slowly entered back his border post.

"I hope he doesn't call on his friends too soon," said the driver. A stocky Belgian, Johann could pass by as a Frenchman, as a German or as a Dutch, it did not matter. What did matter to the Deuxieme Bureau was his allegiance to France and his willingness to help.

"Don't bet on it. He's probably phoning them as we race down to Aachen. Just keep it steady and away from the main roads."

"You've got a plan?"

"No, not really. We'll see when we get there."

From the border post in Lautebourg, the journey with the sturdy Citroen on the side roads transformed their lacquered car into a muddied mess, a mixture of earth and wet mud caking around the edges of the bodywork. The black paint slowly turned into a dark brown which to their advantage blocked out the French number plates attached to the back of the car. They stopped at various inns and guest houses, mingling in with the local crowds to gouge the war fervour of the country and their support for their politicians. Much to their disappointment, their curiosity was not satisfied so they soldiered on until they reached Aachen by the end of the day.

Aachen was sheltered by the dark rain of earlier, a slight mist lowering itself on the towers of the Aachen Cathedral. It was just as cold as they had expected, a not-so-bitter outlook that enabled them to stand outside for a quick cigarette by edge of a sheltered guest house in one of the suburbs. They stopped for a quick dinner, which finished even quicker than expected as the innkeep had no desire for guests than night. Reythier and Johann stood outside by the car, huddled in their overcoats, their speech mist covered by the cigarette smoke.

"I have no plan Johann. I only want to get a feel of this place, and find my way to their operations."

Johann smirked. "Finding your way to problems, Monsieur."

"What would you do, Johann?"

"You're by the border, Monsieur Reythier."

"Herr Langstross."

Johann nodded. "Apologies, Herr Langstross. Our Belgian and Dutch friends should be of help if we request their help."

"You know them, Johann."

"I do, yes. There is a cafe in downtown Aachen called the Prussian Saloon. In fact, it's not far from the Hotel Quellenhof where our friends have set up their informal espionage base. Let us meet tomorrow at exactly 2:20 PM at the saloon, I will try and come with some friends."

Reythier adjusted his cap.

"See you tomorrow."

------

:bow:

Chapter XVI - Shadow of Aachen

Reythier chapter, yielding a first real encounter with the foreign elements.

----
7:50 PM
14th of December 1938
Cafe Saarland
Aachen
Germany

Reythier knew there was no need for the driver to return to Belgium.

He knew that. It was a pointless duty, away from the Lauterbourg border post or even Aachen, that would have yielded little help for him. But he wanted to take this on alone and the driver would have been an unnecessary hindrance and unwanted attention. By the time the driver was back, he would have finished the encounter that he bet on. With his driver now gone over the border in Belgium, Reythier took his time in a local cafe, wasting a couple of hours until he decided to step out back into the city.

Light rain peppered the empty Aachen streets as nightfall swept over the city, forming a blanket of silence, half darkness interrupted by occasional street lamps and a stray car or two that trudged past without as much as a second glance to the unwelcome foreigner. It was cold, Reythier shriveling slightly after he exited Cafe Saarland. In the darkness of the street he zipped up his overcoat, turned over the lapels and collar to cover his neck and face and started walking through the rain. There was a house he knew, a house of an informant of his, slightly north of the city. He calculated it was about 3 kilometres north, close to the villages of Ofden and Alsdorf, but far away enough from Aachen to not attract any suspicion. The house was a farm, a farm that housed more than livestock. It was a safe house in the middle of the border zone.

And yet, there was a growing unease inside him.

Despite it being a border city, and generally more lively than others, the local authorities imposed an unofficial curfew and anyone found on the streets after 8 PM was bound to be searched should they attract enough attention. Reythier whipped his watch out of his overcoat beneath a lamppost, the thin, elegant hands of the Breguet wristwatch indicating 8:10 PM. Without as much as a flinch he slid his hand back in his pocket and kept on walking, darting past rows of houses keeping the people away from the rain and the bitter cold of December. Reythier stepped up the pace slightly after spotting a policecar but to his relief the car turned away into a side street and melted into the night. He shifted his focus away from the houses and back onto the street, step after step, boot clack after boot clack, his soles splashing into the puddles formed by an ever increasing volume of water. Slowly he left the houses behind and moved into open field, hidden in the nightfall darkness, with only the dim light of the sky guiding him through the road. Above him were clouds but they were relegated only to Aaachen. Moonlight shone lightly in the distance, close to the horizon, casting enough light for him to walk unimpeded.

For more than an hour he walked on an empty road until his eyes adjusted enough to notice the cluster of walls that formed the village of Ofden. The village was quite known because of it's mining importance but even more important were the farms that were built around the entrance. Reythier spotted the square-like courtyard of the little farm at the entrance of the village, a two-storied building surrounded by wooden walls that doubled as stables. He exited the road and trudged through the soft mud peppered by the rain, caking at his boots until the very act of walking became a challenge. A large Opel van stood at the entrance, idling in the rain and watching for any newcomers that might visit. He whittled past the van and the main gate into the courtyard, eyeing the sleeping cows and goats with the corners of his eye. Apart from the tapping rain the farm was completely silent.

Reythier narrowed his eyes. Farms were never silent.

Slowly, with measured steps and one hand on the Colt M1911 pistol he approached the main door. Reythier pushed the door slightly aside, sliding inside the illuminated hall of the farm until he felt a heavy long object smash into his back. The rather weak force of the hit tumbled Reythier to the ground but not hard enough for him to lose control, grappling the Colt even tighter. With one measured view he took two clean shots to the legs of the assailant, sending him tumbling down beside the farm door. Reythier only injured his right leg, he noticed, with a thin line of blood trickling down his boots.

The man he shot was a boy rather, no younger than 17 or eighteen years old, dressed in a brown shirt. He looked at Reythier with cold eyes, furiously grappling still the wooden plank he hit him with. Reythier approached him, Colt held in his hand.

"Who are you?"

The boy hissed. "None of your concern."

Reythier rose his pistol. "Are you sure?"

The boy withered. "What do you want?"

"What happened here? Why did you attack me? I am a visitor of Mr. Alofs."

"Mr. Alofs is no longer here. We took over the farm."

"Who is we?"

The boy pointed to the badge. "SA."

"Ah." Reythier paused. "You took everyone from the farm?"

The boy nodded. "The animals too. Some were left but only for us."

"Where is Mr. Alofs?"

"They took him to Aachen. He's being imprisoned, his boys were taken by us."

"You made them members?"

"They had no choice."

"So I see." Reythier pointed to the gunshot wounds. "Take care of them."

"I need your help."

Reythier narrowed his eyes, a plan forming inside his head. "Where are the medical supplies?"

"Upstairs, in Mr. Alofs' room."

With one eye on the boy and one eye on the stairs, Reythier scurried to the room on the second floor. The whole place had been ransacked, turned upside down and Mr. Alofs personal bedroom had been almost destroyed, the walls hacked into pieces with hammers in a probable search for information. Alofs had been a vital informant and the counterintelligence services had found out. Luckily for Reythier, Alofs never kept any information with him. Everything he had he handed over. Seeing there was no chance of any useful information, Reythier searched for the medical supplies and returned with a couple of tablets and packing gauze only to find out the boy had disappeared. A dark red trail of blood indicated the boy had scurried into the kitchen, most probably dragging himself there. Reythier had to act fast.

With one quick flick he threw the small bottle of tablets into the other corner of the hall, yelling towards the boy in the opposite direction. With small, silent steps he headed over towards the kitchen, managing to hear a couple of whispered words transmitted over a telephone.

"Hurry! One of them is here, he shot me in the leg. Yes, he's wearing a long overcoat and he has a foreign looking pistol. He's probably an American or something. Hurry!"

In three hurried steps Reythier was out of the farm and back into the now heavy rain pouring inside the courtyard of the farm. From what he knew from reports, old man Alofs kept a couple of items necessary for the farm in a small box near the stables. He found the box rather easily, spotting a pair of small silver metal pins. The keys of the Opel van. Reythier ran to the van and much to his relief, the reliable vehicle started on the first key, despite the heavy handed noise it made. The van's engine roared as he ignition sparked the remaining fumes of petrol hidden in the greasy tank. Slowly it hunched on to the road and glided over the empty pavement, inching Reythier closer and closer back to Aachen. And just as he was about to floor the pedal, the unmistakable sounds of a policecar horn roared in the distance. Moment by moment the lights of the car got closer and closer to the van, forcing Reythier to slow down and clutch his pistol as tight as he could.

But to his relief, the police car sped past him, rushing towards the now abandoned farm.

Less than half an hour later he abandoned the truck at a junction near the Cafe Saarland, jumping back into the car of his driver who had waited for him. But instead of a warm welcome, Reythier slouched back into the leather couch of the limousine and pointed the pistol to the driver's eyes.

"Somebody betrayed Mr. Alofs. It came to me that a couple of days ago he was taken by the SA, and someone told them about it. Who could be that someone? It has to be someone who knew, someone who exchanged the secrets that Mr. Alofs supplied to us and in turn who supplied him back with information and most importantly, money. And yet, Mr. Alofs is now gone, arrested by the SA, about to be executed. The farm is gone and the information is gone. Who could have betrayed him and us?"

A silver bullet blew out of the hot barrel of the Colt.

----

Thank you for reading! :bow:

Estemeed reading ladies and gentlemen readers,

Since I want the little book to be more than just a novel, I want to make it slightly interactive. Despite seeing the characters from the perspective of other characters and especially through their actions, it would be a good idea to give some background on them, to understand them better and to hopefully give a better understanding of the whole novel.

The cast of characters will be continuously updated, as the novel advances.

:bow:


Swords Made of Letters


Main Characters

Alexandre Reythier -

A senior officer of the Deuxieme Bureau (French Counterintelligence) and an experienced fighter, son of a decorated World War I veteran, Reythier is the key man for the Deuxieme Bureau as they investigate the increasingly frequent appearances of foreign spies from across all


Horace Benningham

A lowly member of the MI6, the British counterintelligence, whom he joined only 2 years ago when he turned 22, his desire to earn more money ended up with him being an important piece in solving a problematic issue of the MI6. He was privately employed by Sir Ian Beckett, a member of the British Parliament, who sent him to protect his mistress.


Richard Elbe

Early member of the SA, World War I veteran and close to 48 years old, Elbe is in charge of overseeing the spying efforts of Nazi Germany on the border with France and Belgium, initiating attacks.



Secondary Characters

Mathilda Adams Elbe - Beckett's mistress, she would prove to be of huge importance

Klaus Romain - Reythier's superior on paper, Klaus supervises the Deuxieme Bureau along the western border


Episodic Characters

Sir Ian Beckett - a corrupt member of the British Parliament, interested only

Lord Andrew Howe - a high ranking member of the MI6, the British Counterintelligence, second in command to the Chief of MI6 and the one responsible for cover action

Thomas Elbe - Richard's brother, Mathilda's husband and a member of the Luftwaffe

Chapter XVII - Heavy Scents

------

7:45 PM
15th of December, 1938
Special Operations HQ
London
United Kingdom

"Sit, Horace."

It smelt of leathery perfume, a small trace of it wafting through the air as Sir Howe entered his personal office. Horace followed behind his superior, sliding past the door and towards the desk placed in the middle of the ornately furnished office. It was heavy, with opulent leather chairs and a mahogany desk right in the middle, surrounded on all four corners by bookcases. A still burning cigarette stood on the edge of a silver ashtray. Horace went to untie his neck knot when he caught Howe's gaze.

"May I?"

Howe smiled. "Of course. We're part of the Special Operations, we're not the stuffy army boys."

Horace laughed. "Good to know."

He threw his tie on the edge of the plush leather chair and crashed into the soft pillow. Horace saw Howe did the same, albeit more elegantly, on his leather chair. The S.O. chief extended an open palm to Horace.

"I believe you have something to tell me Horace."

"I do, Sir Howe."

"Well then, go ahead. Start with the beginning, since I believe this won't be exactly easy. How did you get into Beckett's pay?"

Horace straightened his posture. "My commanding officer actually suggested I do that. He knew I needed some more money so he proposed to be after four or five months in my duty that I can earn by working with Sir Beckett. I accepted right away, without knowing, but I shouldn't have."

Howe waved his hand. "Not a problem, son. Continue."

"Lord Beckett was cordial in the beginning, earning both my respect and I earned his. The pay was very good since it nearly doubled my yearly salary and the tasks were menial in the beginning. Pick up a letter from there, send it there, take care of my wife. These kinds of issues. Minor."

"And at some point, he changed."

Horace nodded. "About six months in, almost after a year since I joined the S.O., Beckett thought he trusted me enough to make sure I would now protect, follow and learn everything about his mistress."

"Why so much protection?"

Horace hesitated. "He... he fell in love with her, Sir."

Howe raised his eyebrows, suppressing a laugh. "He fell in love?"

"Yes, Sir. He would write poems, sing to her, send her flowers every day. And I had to do all of that."

"Sixty five year old Beckett fell in love for a pretty English teenager? How old is she?"

"Twenty Sir."

Howe laughed. "Twenty and married too. She's a real catch."

"She came from a lowly family but she caught Beckett's attention. And the SA's attention too."

Howe narrowed his eyes. "Good point. How did she end up with the other side?"

Horace rose up from his chair and headed to a window just an arm's length away, giving him a clear view over the Thames River. "I'm not sure, to be honest with you Sir Howe. When I started following her, Mathilda was only interested in Sir Beckett because he could improve her station. And somehow she slipped between the cracks because 4 months after I had started following her she got married. I remember Beckett that day, furious and raging constantly, smashing glasses and drinking three bottles of whisky that night."

"He's a liability, that's what you're saying."

Horace looked meekly at Howe. "Yes Sir, he is."

Howe rose up from his chair and drew up to Horace, both men quite on the same level as they reached 6 feet each. "Do you think he's on the other side?"

"He definitely slipped her some secrets because I heard her talk about some factories and energy services. Probably when drunk."

Howe looked outside the window. "How often does he visit her?"

"Three times, maybe even more a week."

Howe turned to Horace. "What's his wife doing?"

"I suspect she knows but she turns the eye towards that."

"Poor woman." Howe was not really sorry, judging by the flat voice.

"He bought Mathilda a flat. That flat down Court Road, where I was spying Sir, it's Beckett's house."

"He bought a house for his mistress, who's married?"

Horace shrugged. "Yes, Sir."

"Does he know who her husband is?"

"He does, but not the full extent. The man is called Thomas Elbe and he's a rather average officer in the Luftwaffe. Nothing too special. I saw his dossier."

"Anything that stands out?"

"He's a link to the Gestapo and the SA. He's a counterintelligence officer too."

Howe turned to Horace, looking at him straight. "We have a counterintelligence officer running around?"

"He's followed, Sir."

"Little solace."

Howe turned away from the window and returned to his desk, shuffling around his papers until he found a yellowy dossier with a red stamp on it. He rose the dossier and handed it over to a curious Horace.

"Your bedtime reading. That's the dossier of a man called Richard Elbe, whom you might realise who it is. Adding to that, you have the file of a French counterintelligience officer named Alexandre Reythier who will be linking up with us in the very near future. Read it, and get back to me as soon as possible. We've got work Horace."

Horace saluted. "Yes, Sir."

Horace was about to exit the office when Howe signalled.

"Oh, and consider your paid doubled. No more Beckett."

---

Chapter XVIII - Battle Plans

Presenting Richard Elbe's perspective, the chapter focuses on the building tension between the espionage of the two countries... and some twists as well. :yes:

----

9:15 PM
14th of December 1938
Oberkommando HQ
Aachen outskirts
Germany

Inside his office the only sound was the constant humming of the typewriters in the headquarters, the clicks and clacks reverberating all the way to the upper floor into his study.

Elbe paused for a moment. A slow, meticulous and calligraphic movement stopped in mid-word, rendering the informative document only half complete and with a sudden ink blotch on the side. He heard footsteps on the metallic staircase that led to his study and soon enough, Wilhelm, dressed in the customary brown shirt and the tie knot a bit too tight around his neck, gave two rasping knocks on the open door. Without as much as a moment of hesitation he leaped forwards and thrust in front of Elbe's face a yellowy envelope. Rather irritated by the lack of elegance in Wilhelm's movement, Elbe rose his eyes slowly and ripped apart the envelope with a dissatisfied smirk. The hard paper was tough to open, and quite unpleasant to touch even, but it made for sturdy documents. Elbe's eyes glanced over the small note inside.

"What happened now? asked Elbe.

Wilhelm straightened his posture. "The farm has been attacked by someone. One of our men even reported gunshots and we've sent men to investigate."

"The farm? What farm?"

"The farm where we captured the informant three days ago. Just outside Aachen, heading towards the border."

Elbe nodded slowly. "When did this happen?"

"45 minutes ago."

Elbe's eyes narrowed. 45 minutes ago, he thought, this was quite a brazen attempt. They went straight for the informant they had captured a couple of days ago who had been feeding information about the troops to the French intelligence services. The informant refused to talk but the trove of documents they found on him was more than enough to land him in the harshest prison in the land. Elbe rose slowly from his seat and nodded to Wilhelm.

"Get the car ready, get a team of 8 men ready and let's go."

They grabbed their coats and existed the headquarters in haste, linking up quickly with 8 other men and Elbe's personal bodyguards. Three BMW limousines rushed outside the small iron gate and revved into the night, rushing through the streets of Aachen to the other side of the town. It took them only a meagre twenty odd minutes to arrive at the farm, drenched in utter silence and with only a flicker of a flashlight circling around the entrance. Elbe and his men exited their cars and quickly huddled inside the farm for some warmth and light, followed by the three men who investigated the incident. In the corner of the hall of the farm stood the boy Reythier had attacked, smiling slightly to the medic who took care of his rather superficial arm wound.

Elbe saluted the men and paced around the farm, looking around for clues of the fight.

"So? What happened here?"

Alexander, a tall and rather stocky Swabian cleared his throat. "We came here after one of the neighbours informed us of gunshots. According to what the boy told us, a foreign man, tall and with an overcoat and a top hat came inside the farm and started asking questions."

Elbe drew up to the boy.

"What questions?"

The question was not adressed to Alexander or the boy in particular, but it became clear the boy would not be able to answer that too clearly.

ALexaner cleared his throat again. "He was searching for the owner of the farm."

"Herr Alofs?"

"Correct."

"Did he tell him what happened to Alofs?"

"He did."

"Good. That should put him off for the moment."

"The man left immediately after, stealing the Opel Blitz truck that was just outside the farm."

Elbe narrowed his eyes. "He's close then. That truck is far too slow. Let's leave, we have to find him."

Leaving the injured boy behind, Elbe and his men paced back to their cars and returned to the road, heading southwards into the dense forest that covered the area towards the border. The bright headlamps of the three cars did not make much inroad in the thicket of darkness that was made all the worse by the dense forest. The cars trudged forwards, eating up the paved kilometers for a good half an hour at least until one of the men spotted a dark shadow on the side of the road. Elbe's car, the leader of the pack, reduced the speed to a slow trot until the three cars created a formation that directed the headlamps to the blocky shadow at the edge of a small hill. The shadow was the Opel truck, abandoned in soft mud at the base of the hill, hidden from plain view by the trees that made up the thick forest. Their flashlights focused on the cabin of the truck, the door of it wide open but to their dismay the truck was empty. Someone had abandoned it and left by foot.

Elbe cursed.

"Find the tracks. He shouldn't be far away."

Just as they were about to leave, two shots rang out in the distance.

----

Chapter XIX - Silence of the Forest

More intrigue, more questions to be asked by Elbe's team. :yes:

Thank you everyone for reading Swords Made of Letters in 2018! :bow:


----
10:20 PM
14th of December 1938
Ardennes Forest
Near the border of Belgium
Reich Germany

Wisps of steam flowed through the darkness.

Elbe panted slightly, knelt and tilted at the base of a tree. It did not take long for the Opel Blitz truck stolen from the farm to sputter in the silent night, a hoarse engine crackling underneath the cabin, leaving the driver stranded by the edge of the forest with an empty fuel tank. Elbe and his party stopped by the truck at the edge of a hill and quickly scurried away in the darkness of the forest, close enough to the edge of the forest to catch glimpses of the road. Judging by the heavy boot tracks, the driver fled through the forest in pitch black darkness. Elbe sighed and shook his head towards Wilhelm and the rest of the party. The driver knew there was a search party for him. The farm was under surveillance after all.

10:08 showed the clock when the driver left the truck. The man had an almost fifteen minute advantage. Elbe motioned to this men.

"Let's go, back in our cars. We will advance slowly with the car and look down the road."

Wilhelm tapped on Elbe's shoulder. "Are you sure, Herr Elbe? Our headlights are not standard lights, we have our military cars."

"We don't have any other choice, do we Wilhelm?"

"We can go back, Herr Elbe."

"Absolutely not. Time is something we do not have. Find the driver, let's go."

With obscured headlights, and not even very bright ones as well, finding the driver of the Opel truck would have been quite a useless endeavour but they persisted in Elbe's order.

Despite Elbe's order for time, the 2 groups lost precious seconds as they extracted their cars from the soft mud at the base of the hill. Worse, the two gun shots they had heard in the distance only added to their curiosity but they had to wait until they would reach either Aachen or the first police post to get some information. A dim noise hummed around them as they went inside the forest, a low speed cylinder hum amplified in the night by the silence around them, scaring two wandering animals that happened to scamper around the edge of the forest. As was expected, the obscured, military headlights pierced only specific lines in the darkness, creating pockets of light in an otherwise impenetrable darkness that was only engulfed by the cloudy sky above. Wilhelm stood beside Elbe on the backbench of the limousine, clutching an MP-40 submachine gun on the edge of the window. The second group followed suit with small lanterns and their guns clutched tightly around them, the cold barrel aimed at the pitch black forest around them. They were slow, methodical even, stopping at regular intervals to twist the cars sideways to the headlights could illuminate the trees but there was little they could effectively do.

Sighing, Elbe tapped the driver of the lead car to stop. The car stopped and Elbe went to the second car, closely followed by Wilhelm.

"Where is the nearest police post?" asked Elbe.

Wilhelm intervened. "Two kilometres from here. It's a police post at the edge of Aachen."

"So you're saying he's close enough to Aachen?"

"Probably in the city already."

"Follow us. We need to get to the police post, we need information."

Less than ten minutes later, a policeman saluted with the customary hand gesture and welcomed Elbe and Wilhelm inside the post. Elbe nodded and pointed to a map of the Reich in the entry hall.

"Richard Elbe, counterintelligence. We are looking for a potential spy, possibly of French origin, who has made contacts with a local farm north of Aachen to supply them with information. The farmer has been captured but the spy has not. Has anything

The policeman, a rather tall, serious looking man in his early 30's nodded. "Herr Elbe, two gunshots were heard on the outskirts of Aachen. A quick police escort was sent there, we found a man who had been beaten unconscious by the side of the road."

"What was he?"

"German. But that's all we know about him, he was taken to the hospital."

Elbe frowned. "That's all you know?"

"We found some documents on him and a set of his car keys. But he could not talk yet, he is still unconscious."

"Any witnesses?"

"We are questioning 2 men now, they said someone quickly left with a car from the direction they heard the gunshots from."

Elbe glanced at Wilhelm, who narrowed his eyes. "How far away is the border with France from here?" Wilhelm and the policeman approached the map. "It seems it is less than forty five minutes away."

The policeman nodded. "Quite so, yes."

Elbe patted Wilhelm on the shoulder. "Go, we need to reach the border right now."

With a quick signal of the hand, the two limousines revved up their engines and zig-zagged around the cobbled streets of Aachen, empty and desolate at this late hour and on a cold winter day, darting for the exit that led southwards towards the border with France. The low hums of the BMW engines were replaced by high revving cylinders, blasting through the exhaust crackles and guttural noises that broke the customary countryside silence. Elbe's driver feathered the throttle gently on the tighter bends, opening up the valves completely whenever they could to reach the border point before their man would. The second car followed quickly behind, leading a small pack of 8 men to a possible confrontation based on Elbe's hunches.

They reached a small thicker of trees less than twenty odd minutes later, stopping to a halt the groveling of the engines that whirled in neutral gear. Two border guards jumped out of their post and aimed their machine guns directly at the windows of cars.

"Stop! Identify yourself!"

With rather ferm movements, Elbe rose out of the car.

"Halt! Richard Elbe, counterintelligence!"

The two border guards drew closer to the car, their machineguns pointed directly at Elbe's head.

"Elbe, counterintelligence." Rather displeased, Elbe took the badge of his pocket. "Take it and examine it, gentlemen."

Satisfied with the badge, the two border guards saluted Elbe.

"We are sorry, Herr Elbe. We were doing our job."

"And you did very well. Tell me," said Elbe as his men drew closer "has there been anyone who has left through this border post in the past hour?"

Both border guards shook their head. "None, Herr Elbe. We have been alone even before dinner."

Elbe smirked.

"Curious. We were expecting an unwelcome guest to dart for the border and leave, but apparently he did not."

"No Sir, he did not."

Elbe turned to Wilhelm, tapping the wheel arch of the car, rather lost in thought.

"He's still here. Find him."

----

Chapter XXI - Dossiers and letters

In espionage, information is everything. :bow:

-----
10:30 PM
14th of December 1938
Tottenham Court Road
London
Great Britain

The old chair creaked under his weight.

It was rather annoying, he thought to himself, but he couldn't complain about the little apartment he owned. A small desk light flickered intermittently above his head, illuminating the yellow dossier on the desk in front of him, switching from light to darkness until he adjusted the electrical cable. Horace grabbed a small flask on the edge of his apartment desk and took a swig. The cool, exquisite cognac erupted in a flurry of warmth inside his stomach. The cognac woke him up ever so slightly, his eyes now turned to the dossier in front of him. He opened the dossier and dumped the contents on the table, a sheaf of classified documents, unclear photographs, medical analysis documents and old letters sprawled all over his desk. Horace sifted through the documents, classifying them in small heaps until he managed to make some ends of them. Most of them focused on his allies but he had quite the comprehensive report on the men he was about to tackle, courtesy of Lord Howe. He took the main report and the adjoining photographs and started reading.

"Alexandre Gaston Reythier. Quite the long name."

According to the information offered to his colleagues by the Deuxieme Bureau, the French intelligence service, Alexandre Reythier was born on the 8th of July in the year of 1910, shortly before the outbreak of the war. His father had been a WW1 war veteran and soon enough, not for a lack of better opportunities but because of his military inclinations, the young Reythier joined the Saint Cyr academy. He distinguished himself soon enough and the Deuxieme Bureau took him with both hands, employing him in both field work and desk work, something that the intelligence officers noted that he did not like the latter at all. Reythier was now assigned to the Alsace region, right on the border, tasked with gathering information and exchanging it with the allies of the French Republic.

"Fairly straightforward. Should be a good chap to work with," said Horace to himself.

He slid Reythier's documents to one side of the desk, right underneath the pillar of the desk light and glanced at the white dossier with a clear red stamp on it. Highly classified. He snatched the smaller dossier and opened the first page, revealing a full photograph of Richard Elbe, dressed in a ceremonial military uniform of that of a Prussian junker. Odd, thought Horace, the old Prussian junker military class was no longer welcomed in the new commandments. The photograph looked very similar to that of a painting and soon enough he realised the photograph was actually a coloured stencil of a painting, illustrating Elbe in an official portrait. Horace flipped the portrait, noticing a small writing on the corner of the stencil. One of the counterespionage agents of the Deuxieme Bureau had seen the portrait and drew it himself. Horace widened his eyes in surprise.

Leaving the stenciled portrait to one side, Horace glanced over two written reports. Richard Elbe was indeed apparently of the old Prussian military class but he quickly threw in his support with the new leaders as early as 1931, quickly becoming one of the top military commanders around the contested Saarland. With the Saarland recovered and attached back to the Reich, Elbe became the top espionage officer. Fair enough and straightforward, thought Horace. What did catch his attention was the second report which confirmed what he had seen in the last couple of days. Elbe had a brother, a Luftwaffe captain, the brother he had fought with after entering Mathilda's apartment. Not only was Elbe's brother also an espionage agent but he had been infiltrated with important political figures for quite some time, as early as 1933. Five years he had gone unhindered. Five years he had supplied secrets to the Reich, clearly undermining the security of Great Britain. And nobody had discovered it until now, since the report was from 1934 and only had a minor impact.

"1934. 1935. 1936. 1937. 1938. Five years."

Horace shook his head as he contemplated the amount of information that may have leaked. Mathilda was just a pawn in the game and Lord Beckett as well.

"Five years nobody did anything about this. Why?"

Horace cursed. Somebody enabled Elbe's brother. There was a mole in the government, in the Parliament and in the Royal Family. Lord Beckett was only a back-bencher, someone up the chain had enabled him.

Within the dossier there were multiple notes, a couple of random assorted bits of information and surprisingly, a list of people that Elbe interacted with back in 1933. The list was five years old and unsurprisingly, Lord Beckett was on the list over there. The list featured four other people he recognised, two of them members of the House of Parliament, one of them a member of the military branches and a prominent businessman. But there were sixteen other people on the list and four different ambassadors. Elbe's brother was very well connected for some reason. And this was a serious danger.

Horace cursed again. He slid the documents back in the dossiers, grabbed them from his desk and left the apartment down to street.

He did not manage to reach his car.

----

Thank you for reading SMoL in 2018! :bow:

Wonderful readers,

I will be constantly updating the first post, the one at the top, with an index so you can read the chapters much easier. The index will link all of the chapters to be read in individual posts.

And as always, feedback is more than welcome! :bow:

Chapter XXI - First Escape

------------

10:45 PM
Ardennes Forest
Border with Belgium
Germany


For the moment he escaped.

Reythier was grateful to the old Opel truck as it hurred slowly towards the French border. He was even more grateful for the narrow military headlights it had, allowing him to blend in the night with ease after he darted from the farm. The truck followed a sinewy hillside road, turning left and right in a successive manner, until the heavy truck slowed down to a crawl that made it counterproductive for him to continue. A casual purr went out in the silence of the trees as the engine stopped in a muddy trail by the edge of a small, dense pack of trees that linked to the forests lining up the Belgian - German border in the Ardennes region. Fifteen minutes at most was the advantage he had, maybe not even. Reythier had to move.

The Frenchman dumped the truck and churned his way through the mud, guided by a small, scratched out silver naval compass he kept in his pocket. Shone in the narrow headlights of the derelict truck, the compass indicated south-west, which meant he was slightly off track. Hurtling towards the Belgian border through the trees was only possible by going west so after a quick adjustment, he lapped westwards on the soft earth, angling to reach the relative safety of neutral Belgium. Step by step he inched closer to the border, crackling the dried twigs underneath his leather boots, dodging pieces of cracked wood creeping dangerously close to his eyes. Before leaving his post near Colmar he studied the local geography, making a mental note of the four miles between the border and the farm. Shaving off a mile after driving the truck, he estimated he had about 3 miles left, maybe a bit more.

Reythier panted. He had walked maybe five or six minutes, ticking away another twenty seconds as he put the wristwatch to his ear until he heard the hum of an engine echoing in the distance. Shouts and orders followed. Small echoes darted through the trees right to him but the men were not close enough to be of any danger. With the wristwatch to his ear and the other ear honed in on the sounds, Reythier waited for the tick of another fifteen seconds. The wristwatch mechanism gave off a pleasant, soothing sound, enabling him to focus on the cacophonic bustle in the distance. Fifteen seconds more. The orders grew in length and volume, the engine had been shut down but the men were not gaining any ground on him. Ten more seconds passed until the sounds slowly drifted into the mist of the midnight, leaving Reythier alone with his thoughts and the sound of a solitary owl humming peacefully in the night air. Less than three miles to safety, Reythier thought.

With one last look behind him, he resumed his steady pace through the forest and the crackle of twigs underneath his feet as he advanced towards the border. There was no full moon in this dark December evening, maybe a faint half-moon loitering lazily above the treeline, but it was cloudless and there was enough light to guide him through the thickets. He had no doubt the German search troops would return and start searching for him but a solid head start would make him almost impossible to catch.

"As long as I don't end up in another German town", Reythier said out loud.

Somehow, the sound of his voice made him more comfortable, relaxed even, the words reverberating a slight echo through the forest. He adjusted his step over the thickets and twigs as he advanced, in tune with the imaginary sound of a second hand from his wristwatch turning inside his head. Three miles became two, then one and a half and then the trail broke into a wide-open valley flanked by the same forest edging to the outskirts of a small village. Out in the valley, he pulled out the scratched compass and glanced at the black marker. He deviated slightly, perhaps even south-west towards France, but this should be Belgium, he thought. With measured steps he descended within the town, his nervousness turning into relief as he darted past a police post sporting a sign written in Flemish. He was in Belgium.

Reythier checked into a shoddy, downtrodden local hotel, paying double to the innkeeper to not ask any questions. The man duly obliged, handing him a scratched gilded room key inscribed 412. Cabin 412 was a creaking, wooden mess of a lodging room but at least it had a small fireplace where the orange embers happily danced over a small log. Reythier fell asleep as quick as he came.

The wristwatch mechanism clicked 6:15 AM. But it was not the lack of sleep that bothered Reythier, no, it was the black limousine with a familiar face that stood just outside the hotel that bothered him.

"Get in." said the driver, pointing towards the passenger door.

"What are you doing?" asked Reythier. He stood pinned to his spot, right outside the door of the hotel.

"Trying to make amends. For the record, I have not betrayed Mr. Alofs, who I learned is your contact at the border with Germany, and that has been nothing more than slander to me. It did not take me long to find you if you're asking that as well, Mr. Reythier. "

"You have explanations to give, Mr. Henri. You've been appointed as a source."

"I am willing to drive back to the base in Colmar, Mr. Reythier. Under your orders."

Reythier approached the car. "Everything you know about Mr. Alofs and the rest of the shenanigans that happened at the border, I need to know."

"It started with Richard Elbe, Mr. Reythier."

"Good. Long way to go to Colmar, so I'm all ears."

The old Citroen limousine hummed with a low growl as it departed from the hotel.

Chapter XXII - Sabotage

15th of December 1938
1:45 AM
Colmar Railway Junction
France

-----

Fury was useless at this moment.

For hours on end, Elbe berated his men for the escape of the foreign spy, aiding and abetting a counterespionage mission that had evaded their information networks. Much to his chagrin, only the jammed Opel truck and some muddy footprints were all that was left. Despite their efforts, the tracks stopped within the edges of the forest as the pine foliage protected the soil from snow and water, hardening the earth strong enough to prevent the imprint of any boots that might have wandered through it. It took the better part of twenty minutes until they stopped searching, winding down the night with their portable lamps hoisted from the back of their car. Elbe ordered a swift return to the car and with deft moves he directed the driver to march onwards to the border. A quick salute fifteen minutes later with the guard, they dropped the car at the side of the border post and took off by foot, trailing through the forest in the guidance of a dim moonlight peeping through the cracks left by the empty tree branches. Elbe took point, a leather gloved hand firmly clutching his Walther pistol, followed by the driver, Wilhelm and another soldier whom he forgot his name in less than two minutes after meeting him.

A quick reconnaissance at the border post gave them what they needed. West of the post, as the dimly lit, tattered map in the border soldier's guard tower indicated, was a railway junction that connected the lines between Strasbourg, north towards Metz and slightly westwards to the small town of Colmar. From the border they had a walk of four kilometers to reach the first train tracks and northwards another one and a half to reach a small train station post, reserved only for train engineers, which coordinated the junction they searched for.

Two and a half kilometers in, stooping low to avoid some fallen branches, the ragtag group broke into a small open area within the trees, a forest eye of sorts, lightning them fully as they advanced. Elbe turned his head to his men.

"This should leave us another kilometer or so left to reach the tracks. It's the open area we saw on the map." Elbe panted. "Is the dynamite ready?" asked Elbe, poking forwards with his pistol to indicate the direction.

Wilhelm nodded. "Yes. We have about three packs with us, so it should be enough to destroy the junction and the tracks around it."

Elbe panted. "How long will the train tracks be out?"

"About a week at most."

"Enough to send a message."

Wilhelm nodded. "Should be enough. A week if they repair it normally, but they can do it even in 3 days."

"That's enough for us. Next time we'll have more messages to send."

Wilhelm shook his head. "We should be more men next time, Herr Elbe."

"This will do. Now shut up and move faster."

Wilhelm bowed his head. "Yes, Herr Elbe."

With measured steps, they pushed forwards, small crackles pinging in their ears and in the silence of the forests as the thawed soil cracked under the boot soles. Once they were back in the forest Elbe urged them to up their pace, turning the zigzag between the trees into a slalom race to reach the tracks faster. To Elbe's satisfaction, there had been no one following them, no border guards to avoid, no soldiers to carefully study and perhaps shoot. Nightfall was their cover and their accelerated pace gave them more time to return under the cover of the same moon. But by now, all of them started to pant ever so slightly, the forest an unwieldy friend to rely on, the tree branches and roots tripping, scratching and hitting them whenever the light that broke through was not enough to guide their race forwards. For the better part of two hours, the moonlight guided them until they finally reached a brook between the trees, a brook piercing through the heart of the forest with a long metallic line in it's midst.

Elbe pointed with his pistol.

"There's the railway track. North we go to Metz and Sedan, somewhere we loved to be some years ago, south we go to Strasbourg." Elbe straightened to catch his breath. "Now onwards, we have that junction to reach."

Four men jostled northwards by the side of the railway, their soles now crackling with the sounds of small pebbles instead of thawed soil. The track was flanked by forest and by nothing else, making it another solitary road for the next forty five minutes until the track twisted to the left, leading to a wide opening that connected multiple tracks that bended from all directions. The forest ended there, replaced by a junction of three railway tracks and two side tracks leading to nowhere, housing various empty train carriages. Idle, silent and illuminated only by the moon, the junction was a rather strange place, with a small wooden post placed in the very midst of it that seemed to guard nothing but the junction. The post seemed empty, desolate and upon further inspection, with the door blown off. Elbe motioned to his men.

"Halt. We take the sides, let's not go directly there."

Elbe pointed to the side of the tracks and they approached the post crouched and with their pistols and machineguns drawn, eyeing in every corner for any potential guards. But there seemed to be none so Elbe motioned forwards to Wilhelm and the other soldier. Taking a shovel from the driver, they placed the dynamite in four different points, placed at the links between the tracks, with fuses long enough for them to use without getting hurt. One hundred and sixty seconds was all it took, Elbe calculated. With a thumbs up, they left from their place beside the guard post and dragged the fuse with them.

As they turned to reach back to the forest, six shots rang from the tracks.

----


Thank you for reading Swords Made of Letters in 2019! :bow:

Chapter XXIII - Surprises, Surprises

09:30 AM
15th of December 1938
Colmar Railway Junction
Alsace
France

-----

"Here is the report, Monsieur Reythier."

Hurried, Reythier grabbed the folded dossier from the secret service lieutenant's hands and opened it. Six files were nestled within the rough paper dossier, detailing the four men who sabotaged the railway junction, their movements along the border and the personal effects they had on them. Three of them had escaped back in the forest as soon as the border forces opened fire, back over the border most likely, but the driver tripped soon after the bomb planting, leaving him at the mercy of the soldiers who stopped firing after the other three fled between the trees. Reythier was soon called back to Colmar, spending less than two hours back in Strasbourg after his own mission, and also told to expect a special guest that would arrive in Strasbourg in the next hours. He sifted through the personal files of the four, throwing away the last vestige of the Turkish cigarette into the soft snow around his boots. Most of the files were rather empty, with only a blurry clipped photograph attached to them. Nothing of real value, Reythier thought.

He turned his back to the broken railway lines, unexploded fortunately but clipped in the portions were the bombs had been placed. Reythier walked to the little guard post, broken and desolate as it was, motioning to his companion Klaus who was searching around for any further bits and clues. Klaus shook his head.

"Nothing."

Reythier held up the dossier. "Nothing here either." Reythier sighed. "We don't have any information about them, anything of real value. Some names, some dates of birth, some ideas of who they work with and how they work, but nothing tangible."

"The dynamite they used is standard Heer army explosives, nothing of note. Something you could probably steal from a military warehouse."

"You're saying these are amateurs?" asked Reythier.

Klaus shook his head. "Not quite. But I highly doubt they are some specialised spying or sabotage team sent out to judge our reactions and see where it takes them."

"You know something, Klaus."

"The driver is not even a military designated driver, he's a civilian who joined the Border Force about two weeks ago." Klaus pointed in the distance towards the side of the road that led to the junction. Four limousines and two trucks were posted by the end of the gravel road that led to the railway tracks, six soldiers with their rifles posted around the perimeter to guard both the prisoner and the special interrogators. "They've questioned him briefly. He doesn't know much except their first names, which we have already, and that they went through a border post close to the city of Aachen." Klaus paused. "Something you might know."

Reythier nodded. "Most probably the same group who followed me."

"As expected."

"We're working in the blind here, we need more information otherwise it's just guesswork."

"They left behind some bits of info which probably dropped from their pockets. Two Luger pistols engraved with Polizei markings, a map of the area including the border of Germany and two small bags of explosives which they discarded down the road. Same ordnance, standard military grade."

Reythier despaired. "That's still nothing."

"Correct. Which is why we're meeting, wait a minute let me check my paper, a certain Mr. Horace Benningham from the Foreign Services of the United Kingdom. He's coming down here in Strasbourg later today to meet with us."

"Who's this?"

"Foreign services. Counterintelligence. Apparently they want to follow the same ends as we do."

----

Nestled within the back of a small Alsatian cafe was a private room with two tables, opening up within the courtyard of a traditional timbered-framed house that was oh so common in the Alsace-Lorraine region and also in neighbouring Baden-Wurttemberg region. A dark red, burgundy like colour adorned the wooden structure inside the room, giving off a certain kind of warmth that was needed in this near freezing temperature outside. Reythier and Klaus barged inside as quick as they could, giving a quick salute to Horace Cunningham who had been there for almost an hour, waiting in silence. Dressed in a black overcoat with a black hat, Cunningham wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible, his chiselled features hidden by the of the collar of overcoat turned upwards to disguise him in the crowds. They sat down at the table closest to the windows, the other table hosting a couple of hastily thrown about papers scribbled in pen.

Reythier saluted once again as he stood down, introducing himself and his companion. Horace smiled to them and took out two dossiers which we placed beside him on the table.

"Gentlemen, I will be as brief as I possibly can. I've been instructed by the head of the foreign intelligence service of my nation, Lord Howe, to work with you on a possible investigation that could aid our efforts into discovering what is the Reich doing in our neck of the woods in terms of espionage. I understood that you are interested in a certain man, named Richard Elbe, who also happens to be of a certain point of interest for us in aiding a Parliamentary investigation that is currently under secrecy. In short, Mr. Elbe is of interest to us as we believe he is very active in espionage within the United Kingdom." Horace lifted a dossier from his side of the table and handed it over to Reythier. "You will find all of the information that we have within these two dossiers that we have prepared for you to use."

It all seemed the same to Reythier, the same information they had the English had too, except one detail. Elbe had a brother. Reythier folded the dossier and turned to Horace, placing his finger under the name of Thomas Elbe.

"He has a brother."

Horace nodded. "Indeed." Horace lifted the other dossier. "This is about his brother."

Reythier took the dossier, flipped through the pages and put it down. "How does this impact our work, Mr. Horace?"

"From what intelligence was shared with us, you have an interest in Mr. Richard Elbe who is running a counterespionage and espionage division in the western side of Germany. Our belief is that he operates within an Oberkommando in Aachen, close to the military installations of the city and close enough to the border with Luxembourg and Belgium to roam freely without being noticed. His espionage efforts translate to his brother, who is a military attache to the German embassy in London. Thomas is listed as a Luftwaffe officer but we have received reports of him being sighted at various points of interest in the south of the country, particularly around civil power stations." Horace cleared his throat. "Worse, he is married to an English lady who happens to be the mistress of a Member of Parliament. Unfortunately some of our secrets have leaked over to him."

Reythier suppressed a laugh but kept a wry smile. "One of your members of Parliament is supplying information?"

"Unwillingly and also unwittingly. However, we can now control the flow of information and we can supply planted information which should help us discover their intentions."

Reythier raised an eyebrow. "Is Thomas still in your country?"

"He will be expelled in the next 48 hours, since this is considered a national security threat. From what I understood from his wife, whom we turned into an information source, he will be posted as an attache in the Netherlands."

"That's not really helping our cause."

"Correct." Horace leaned forwards. "We also have other information, pertaining to both Netherlands and Belgium, that the Heer will plan military exercises to replicate the Schlieffen Plan of 1914."

A stunned silence soon fell on the room, Reythier's eyes transfixed on Horace's words, Klaus to his side slowly bowing his head to digest the heavy information that was passed on.

"How fast can we obtain more information on this?" asked Reythier.

"You will need to develop your own network of sources on the western side of Germany. With my government I will be able to extract information from the Belgian foreign services, but we will have to keep watch on Thomas Elbe whilst he is in the Netherlands. My source of information, so in other words his wife, will keep me updated on any developments but any direct action on him is more or less out of the scope for us now that he has moved to the Netherlands."

"Which leaves Richard Elbe for the taking."

"Correct. But you will need to assess him first and to judge his intentions, Mr. Reythier."

Reythier paused for a moment. "Mr. Horace, how long are you here?"

"As long as I am needed, Mr. Reythier. Why?"

"Have you ever visited Germany?"

Horace shook his head. "Never. Why?"

"I think we can arrange a trip. Very soon."

------

:bow:

A small update - for those of you who read on Wattpad often, you can check out the first five chapters of Swords Made of Letters over there as well. More to come, and of course, all of the chapters will be available there as well. :bow:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/210140...ade-of-letters

Chapter XXIV - Evaluations of No Laughing Matter

22:20 PM
15th of December 1938
Oberkommando HQ
Aachen
Reich Germany

-----

They failed.

That was as obvious as one could note but what irked Elbe was the abject failure that the whole operation had been, with a particular highlight being their disjointed plight from the railroad tracks back into the cover of the thick forest. With the exception of the captured driver, all of them escaped and yet they escaped with injuries and a gunshot wound inflicted in the upper right arm of Wilhelm. Poor fellow had to discharged for a while until he recovered which also meant that his trusted man who carried out his orders was not available for a while. Failure, failure, an abject failure, and a dismal retreat to top it all off that gave the enemy an upper hand which he did not expect he would concede so easy. Elbe had tried to rally the two men in the forest, away from the shots of the border guards, but neither of them had the courage to go back and finish the mission. Sticks of dynamite, pistols, even maps were all thrown away and left to the French to peruse at their own discretion. At least the French did not follow them back to the border which gave Elbe and his men some respite. Six hours later he was back at the grey warehouse of the Oberkommando, shutting himself in the commander's room to compose a report which he threw away after three lines.

Elbe stood up from his chair, leaned over and grabbed three maps of the border which he duly imposed over each other to form a three-way map of Western Germany and Eastern France. The map highlighted all of the railway junctions and put a special emphasis on railway connections rather than roads, highlighted by the arrows to and from Paris and some of the military bases around it. Elbe's orders were as clear as they could be - strike at the French key junctions, be they railways, roads, fortifications or cities to impede them in the case of a German attack. Within the officer circles a war with France had become inevitable but when that would be taken up on was anyone's guess. Remilitarised Rheinland was the sole indicator of a possible war but until then it was Elbe's job to coordinate. He sighed as he remembered the morning. Their first attempt was an utter shambles and he had to explain to his superiors what had happened. He had to save his skin first and foremost and only then he could think of some excuses.

"Get Reinhard in here, please."

A slight knock, almost imperceptible even, slid over the metallic door that barred the entrance to his command office. Middle height, wiry, dressed in the same grey uniform as everyone else, Reinhard Brunnenfeld was one of the counter-espionage military advisers, a rather too serious Prussian fellow who grew up in old Konigsberg back when Chancellor Bismarck had just departed the leadership. Elbe motioned to him with two fingers to approach and survey the maps laid out on the table. Brunnenfeld saluted, nodded and gave a glance over the maps, noting the overimposed layout that covered some details but highlighted others.

"Yes, Herr Elbe, what would you need my advice on?"

Elbe studied Reinhard's implacable expression. "I need your help Reinhard. Our mission this morning to enact a first sabotage on the French railway lines was a disaster. We were chased away by the French border guards who fired at us right back to the border. Yes, it was an exploratory mission to see their reaction, but it was a failure. I need to save my skin and propose an alternate battleplan that would cover our strategic mission of taking out the French defences in the case of our planned invasion." Elbe pointed at the sides of the maps. "These maps show all of the links of the railway lines and the roads that lead from Paris to the border with France, border with Luxembourg and border with Belgium."

"No Switzerland?" asked Reinhard.

"Not of interest for us. The Swiss will remain neutral as expected." Elbe pointed to Luxembourg. "This should be a focal point to drive our attack through, at least to mirror the Schlieffen Plan. But what would you do in our espionage and sabotage case, Reinhard? Are the railways crucial to our attack?"

Reinhard cleared his throat. "Small junctions such as the ones near Lille in the north or near Metz near the border post with us should not be considered, Herr Elbe. They are inconsequential to our plans."

"You're asking to strike bigger?" Elbe raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Perhaps that would be of more use." Reinhard pointed at four lines that drew away from Paris. "You see, most of the heavy railways would carry tanks, guns and support equipment and not necessarily troops. Most of the troops would already be stationed by the border once the idea of immediate conflict would be noted down."

"So where's our element of surprise then?"

"Our commanders have tested out various tactics in the Spanish Civil War. General Guderian and his men are advising the usage of fast, mobile tank battalions that would be hard to counter unless it would be by other tanks and artillery."

Elbe pointed to a line in the south of the map. "Maginot line?"

"We have to go around it. And it does not cover the whole defence line of the French army as you can see. A simple strike through the Ardennes forest, a strike through Belgium and one through Luxembourg and we have successfully bypassed them."

Elbe circled the Ardennes forest with a pen. "How do you want tanks to go through here, Reinhard?"

"Roads, Herr Elbe. And plus, we have the element of surprise so they do not have a clear counter to our battalions."

Elbe put his hands on the maps. "We, and I mean our Oberkommando, has to destroy certain railway links to limit the resupply and supply of tanks and artillery."

"Reaction is not useful, Herr Elbe. Take action I would say. My advice would be to form a swarm of small attacks that impact directly the bigger lines." Reinhard pointed to small cities around the border but also well inside the French topography. "Focus on small junctions, with multiple links, while at the same time gathering information from local sources that would give us a very clear understanding of how to proceed when we do attack."

"Such as?"

"Strike near Strasbourg, near Metz, near that city of today of Colmar, near Reims, near Lille. Small attacks but multiple, to disrupt the entire flow."

"Multiple attacks you say." Elbe motioned with his fingers. "How many men do you usually need for a small blocking of a road, let's say? As a military advisor."

"Ten to twenty five men, I would say. With the equipment."

Elbe made some calculations on the side of the map. "In our case, five to eight men per sabotage mission would be enough. But this would mean that a concentrated attack would require fifty to eighty attacks once our invasion is launched."

Reinhard nodded. "Most likely, Herr Elbe. Resources will be required."

"Reinhard, prepare yourself with these maps and conduct a clear battleplan. We would need to liaise with our military commanders to review the invasion plans and to integrate our sabotage movements into them."

"Will do, Herr Elbe. I do have one suggestion though."

"What is that?"

"Any possible invasion is still a year away at the very least." Reinhard flashed a quick, mischievous smile. "But, unburdened by the shackles of the military, you can act from now Sir."

Elbe smiled. "I'll take that into account. Thank you Reinhard."

----

:bow:

Chapter XXV - A Walk in the Park

8:55 PM
16th of December 1938
Amsterdam
Kingdom of the Netherlands


--------

It took him the better part of four hours to finally notice the younger Elbe brother in the small crowd huddled in the streets by the side of the Amsterdam Centraal train station.

By now the night had fallen over the city, quieting down the usual raucous streets of the city by the canals, leaving way to a muted hum of voices, a slew of cars, some trucks and groups of party-goers who insisted on spending their time on the streets by 9 o'clock. Horace spotted a carefully crafted movie poster earlier, advertising a new movie from the United States about Christmas, a poster that drew enough people in the neighborhood around the train station to arouse his attention. His interest served him right as soon after the younger, dashing Elbe brother showed up around the cinema selling movie tickets with a smiling Mathilda by his arm. Dressed in a white dress and walking gently in arm with Elbe, she looked the part in the cosmopolitan Amsterdam. And so did he, but any close examination would show the pin that was not something the locals would be excited about. Horace smiled himself. His eyes were fixed on the couple as they arrived and placed themselves in the line for tickets, probably the last showing of the day for that movie.

For some reason, the Luftwaffe officer, dressed in civilian garb that resembled his somber uniform and sporting a Luftwaffe coat pin, decided to saunter around the cinema rather lazily with Mathilda for a while until they left abruptly. Horace raised his eyebrows as he noticed the couple appear and then disappear from his eyesight in a matter of seconds. Only a couple of minutes after appearing in his line of sight for the first time, the couple dashed through the streets beside the train station and much to his chagrin, Horace had no chance of following them through the streets. Just as fast as they appeared they went back into hiding. Had they spotted Horace?

"Improbable," Horace said to himself. "Or maybe he did. But hard to say."

Luck, however, smiled on him as he stood his ground, reclining against a lamppost underneath a warm and rather dim street light. All but two hours later, an agony of waiting for the Englishman, Elbe's brother returned to the cinema, this time alone, eyeing in a very interested manner the poster of the movie. Why was Elbe so interested in the movie?

That mattered little. Horace eyed the officer, mirroring his steps at a respectable distance from the other side of the street. For about ten minutes the officer hesitated around the poster and then at the ticketing office but in the end decided against it, placing his top hat on his head and returning to the streets. Sliding the Dutch newspaper he pretended to read underneath his armpit, Horace started a small gallop to close the distance to the officer which became closer and closer until they both entered a small block of apartments just three streets away from the train station. Horace entered just as the door closed, taking a couple of moments to adjust his eyes to the difference in light.

Unnerved, he slid the newspaper from under his arm and held it in front of him.

Elbe's brother missed his punch seconds later, and missed by a mile, making him an easy target for an experienced brawler like Horace.

With a quick lunge, the Englishman struck Elbe's knee, collapsing him to the ground in a matter of seconds. A rapid-fire of careful punches immobilised the Luftwaffe officer which allowed Horace to drag him into the apartment on the bottom floor, tie him up to a chair and place him in the middle of an expansive room lined with maps, documents, and geographical instruments.

Horace's eyes darted from corner to corner, spotting a large map of Northern Europe placed on the far wall overlooking the entire room. A mixture of old Barocco furniture and some Art Deco pieces, a jumble of tastes more like it, the room was probably created as Elbe's office. The large map on the wall was rather detailed, highlighted with numerous points darted around the edges of it, explanations scribbled on the side in various coloured pens. The main teak desk was scattered with documents, unopened envelopes, and a Reich engraved envelope opening knife. Horace smiled at the random elegance of the silver knife. His eyes turned from the documents to his prisoner.

"So, care to explain what you were doing in my country, casually walking around power plants and military airfields?" Elbe's brother gazed at him blankly. "One time I can understand, we all make a mistake of walking into a military airfield. But sixteen times? Sixteen? You nearly got arrested twice. And the police reported back to the intelligence four times."

"You've done your job." Emotionless, calculated. Cold. "Good work."

"Thanks. We strive to do our best." Horace turned to him. "Are you gonna tell me or am I going to keep you here until you tell me?"

"As you wish."

"Annoying you are."

"You broke into my house."

Horace raised a finger. "You spied in mine." Horace turned back to the table and the carefully organised wall of information. "What do I see here?"

"What you want."

"Dashing," replied Horace, with a smirk only to himself. "A map of northern Europe, with points placed along the borders, military airfields, defensive military posts. If I didn't know you better, I would say you're aiming to do the same thing as 20 years ago, aren't you Herr Elbe?"

"No, of course not."

Horace nodded. "Sure. That's why I see all of the military sites you spied while you were living in Tottenham with your lady Mathilda. Which reminds me, where is she?"

For the first time, Elbe's brother stood silent, brooding in his chair, his chin pointed downwards and in a complete refusal to divulge any more information."

"Fine, leave her aside, I have no interest in her." Horace knelt beside the chair. "Are we doing the same thing as we've done twenty years ago, are we not?"

"Is that what you think?"

Horace pointed to the wall. "Well, that's what you're planning to do. But why you of all people, a Luftwaffe officer?"

The remark struck a nerve as Elbe rose his eyes from the ground. "You ignore the power the air squadrons have now?"

"I fail to see how you can take over two countries or more with just airplanes. You need people on the ground."

"Yes, yes, of course."

Non-combat again, Horace thought, something is wrong. A wall clock sounded in the background, probably from another room of the apartment, indicating 10:00 PM.

"Herr Elbe, have you been arrested in the Dutch provinces? I would hope not." Horace smiled. "At least not for our precious Mathilda's sake. Let us say this meeting never happened, yes?"

"I have recorded every word you said, Englishman."

Horace feigned disappointment. "You don't know my name? Shameful."

"Does it matter?"

"I would hope it does after you shot yourself in the leg with me near you."

Elbe's brother rose his eyes and shot Horace a penetrating look. "I do not concern myself with petty trivialities like this, Englishman."

"Fine. Stay here, I will make sure my time will be well rewarded."

Angling to finish the job fast, Horace opened every drawer, nook, and wardrobe searching for briefcases. He eventually found three, which were spacious enough for him to carry all of the maps and documents strewn across the office without making it too difficult to carry them. It mattered little for form as he threw the maps inside, the documents, printed or handwritten, all of the notes, pens even and some envelopes marked as secret and stamped with Reich insignia on them. Elbe did not protest but his agitation in his seat suggested otherwise. These were sensitive documents and Horace only cared about them. In the grand scheme, Elbe's brother mattered little. And he wanted to avoid any problems.

A good twenty minutes later, Horace knelt once more near the chair and looked directly at Elbe's brother.

"We'll meet again my friend. Say hello to Mathilda for me."


--------

:bow:

Chapter XXVI - Quellenhof Ball


9:20 PM
16th of December 1938
Aachen
Germany

----

Reythier blew for fun in the night air, small clouds of mist drifting above his head.

Slipping into Aachen was rather easy for him. There were no controls, no restrictions, a free-flowing movement of goods and people that did not seem to announce anything ominous. Only to those who worked in the higher echelons, the reality was different. But to most people, every new day was more or less like the last one. A small cluster of clouds brought the first snowflakes over the city a couple of days before, settling over the meadows around it for a couple of days as the temperatures went lower and lower with the advent of winter. Aachen, much like the rest of Germany and France, was preparing for the kindest period of the year and not for the ominous clouds that seemed to hover around the continent.

Leaning slightly against the edge of a building overlooking the Hotel Quellenhof, hidden in the shadow of a streetlamp that cast a weak, flickering light into the street, Reythier had a clear view over which was used by the Party as the main nightlife attraction particularly at the end of the year. Imposing, with a white facade casting an elegant glow during the day, the Quellenhof was often used by the Party as a makeshift headquarters. Small pockets of light flickered in between the darkness of the December night. Reythier found out the Party was throwing a ball. And most likely Herr Elbe was there. Reythier listed slightly forwards, drawing his wristwatch into the light of the streetlamp in front of him. 9:20 PM. The ball had started at eight, based on what a local guard had told him, and it was due to finish at 10:30 PM. One hour and ten minutes were all that he had. Whilst the Quellenhof was in the midst of the city, the Oberkommando HQ which he sought was hidden somewhere towards the south, at the tail end of an industrial park that was, in fact, a gunpowder and artillery factory. The reports from his intelligence colleagues had been correct; on his way to the Quellenhof he took a quick glance around, the factory was heavily defended.

And yet the Oberkommando headquarters was not.

Fifteen minutes to get there, thirty-five minutes at most to sift through what he could find. He took one last glance at the flickering lights that bathed the ball at the Quellenhof and returned to the back streets in a zig-zag of movements to lose his track to any curious onlookers. He reached his car, an old Horch parked near the garage of a small brick house, shifting it into gear and jogging towards the headquarters which he had seen earlier. He arrived just outside of the compound, a compound of four hangar-like structures that were built by the side of the road with easy access to the main military pathways the army had carved from Aachen towards the Rhineland back in 1936. Reythier left the car.


Much to his chagrin, the compound for the Oberkommando was lightly defended. Five guard posts were constructed at each key point of the entrance but only three guards stood about, all of them concentrated on some jokes one of them said which left the other two in a chorus of laughter that emanated in the night. Without much difficulty, using the shadow of the outposts, Reythier slipped inside the compound and headed towards the closest structure which had a small heraldic symbol plastered by the front door. The Oberkommando HQ.

Just as he had expected, the hangar-like structure was deserted at this hour but in between the lights he could make out the endless rows of intelligence officers' desks in the shadows. He left them behind, carefully sliding to the right side of the hall where a large metal staircase led to Elbe's office. He jumped through the stairs, opening the door that led to the office.

To his surprise, Elbe's office was remarkably spartan.

Nothing of any particular value stood out on his desk, planted in the middle of the office, a small fireplace made out a jumble of wood in the corner. Three chairs stood to his right, one of them occupied with what he presumed was his army officer uniform that he used a couple of days ago. With one ear to the sounds that emanated from the hall below, Reythier stood down on the desk chair and looked around the desk. Jumbles of documents were on the corners, with some documents with official Party stationery were huddled around a group of fountain pens which Elbe probably signed with. The stationary on the documents indicated official correspondence but the content was not of great value to Reythier. Simple advancement in positions,

Slow, methodical, Reythier opened the drawer desks on both sides.

Four maps with military plans, each of them centered around key border points around the French, Belgian and Dutch border indicated specific target areas with a clear delimitation of army divisions and their force details. Underneath every division were plotted small groups which Reythier presumed

"What are we trying to do, Herr Elbe?" he asked himself.

To him, it was a clear analysis of military points but it was easy to get carried away. He remembered the Deuxieme Bureau, the French intelligence services, often plotted the same plans on the borders with the almost the same key points and simulation war game results. Nevertheless, the plans were important. And to him, the small brigades, or divisions, of intelligence teams were crucial to neutralize their actions. Reythier took a couple of seconds to calculate all of the intelligence units operating around the border. Forty-seven units. Reythier jolted his neck sideways, a nervous move to calm himself down. He only had four teams. Elbe had forty-seven.

"Forty seven."

Reythier repeated to himself. But to no avail.

-----

:bow:

Chapter XXVII - A Bureau of Cartographers

8:20 PM
17th of December 1938
A suburb of Paris
France

------

A soft whimper on the wooden table, a pleasant touching sound made by the papers canvassed into the yellowy intelligence dossier. A large red SECRET stamp was affixed on the cover, as was required by law, but whom only a few people ever got to see. On Reythier's orders, most of the highly sensitive material from the last days was destroyed, known only to the people who took part in the actions. Ethical, that was quite debatable but useful it definitely was since no unwelcome questions were ever asked on his return from the border actions he undertook. Page by page, the clumps of information were collated by an army of intelligence gatherers, crypt deciphers and Deuxieme Bureau field agents who pieced together a rather disjointed picture of the foreign army's capabilities, particularly those at the border. There were far too many gaps in the data for Reythier to fully rely on it. And in some cases he suspected the data they gathered was overestimated.

Reythier's return to the conspiratorial house was not something he looked forward to.

A light tap, possibly a knock but Reythier was too tiried to discern, followed his thoughts. Klaus entered the main analysis room, dressed in a grey woolen overcoat and a tophat which he placed without a sound on the edge of the table where a whole raft of maps, scribbled notes and dossiers were thrown together into a jumbled mess.

"I trust you're doing fine," said Klaus with a cordial voice.

"Fine is not the word I would be using, but thank you for the trust, Klaus. I trust you are?"

"None any better since you're doing miserable. What's going on? There's been rumours in the Bureau over here that you and a number of the boys had an unwelcome encounter by the border in Alsace."

Reythier smiled, rather sardonic. "Correct. Nothing escapes this place, it seems."

"That's our job."

"Apparently we're not doing a good one it seems, since we tend to overestimate how many men our close friends have. Or how many they don't have. Or how many they have in the first place, I don't know, all of this is a mess and I can't make heads or tails out of it." Reythier took the top map out of the pile and laid it out. "So, what do we have? A considerable number of border points and a considerable number of intelligence groups. I made a little trip down to the Oberkommando and before you widen your eyes and think I'm crazy, I'm back here, in the Bureau, listening to the gossip."

Klaus narrowed his eyes. "You took a huge risk. France could have been dealt a significant problem if you didn't escape."

"But I did. Now, the problem is rather simple my dear Klaus - our friends have almost fifty intelligence units available to them, most of them manning between ten to thirty operatives, which can be used at any time for intelligence gathering. One of those from a couple of days ago was probably one unit, even if they had only a dozen men around."

"Are you not satisfied with what you found?"

"We have four units. Four groups of men we send out regularly to gather information up and down the border. That's it."

"Not enough?"

"Is it?"

"I don't believe so."

"Then you have your answer." Reythier took a stylus pen and circled some points on the map. "These are choke points, around the border with Belgium at the Ardennes Forests, some here near the Maginot line and some here near Colmar and Strasbourg. In case they all decide to take a little vacation to visit our homelands, we have very little chance of stopping them."

Klaus stood up from the table, tapping the tophat in a rather methodical manner. "Are you sure your information is correct?"

"Why would I doubt it? They're actively working against us, it's obvious by now."

Klaus motioned with his finger. "No, not that." He paused for a moment to reflect. "You have been complaining often in the past about the quality of data that has been collected by our teams, saying that it is often unreliable. What makes you think some documents that you took from a localised intelligence headquarters will reflect on what you've been provided with before?"

Reythier looked at him askance for a moment. "I'm not sure."

"So why believe it?"

"I don't think I have much better information, to be frank with you. That's as much as I can get in this short period of time. And our window is even narrower now."

"What's your action then?" Klaus stood back down. "My dear Alexandre, you've been active, you've been reactive, you've gathered the data, and our team has been working on it as well. And we have Mr. Horace from the British working with us. If all of us are wrong in this case, and we will find out at some point, then something is really wrong."

Reythier stood up, extracting form the pile a couple of papers inscribed with Party insignia. He selected four of them which

"Here's what I got from our friend Elbe and his private room. As I've said, operational units close to fifty, but they are currently training hundreds of potential agents and are actively cultivating cells in our internal society to then use in the case of a conflict. Apparently they compromised one British Member of Parliament, which I hope Horace can enlighten us about, and four members of our own Parliament are in contact with them. What's more is that they have a very comprehensive map of the chokepoints and easily attackable areas for the army to move through, and rather fast, with all of the detailed battle plans drawn up already and ready for execution. Klaus, I'm sorry, but the threat is real and I really don't want to have the Bureau just an office of cartographers."

Klaus looked up. "Fine. The information is there. What's your proposal?"


"Well, here's my problem. I don't know. Right now, well, we wait."

-----

:bow:

Chapter XXVII - Linking The Puzzle

8:45 PM
18th of December 1938
Battersea Embankment
London
Great Britain

-----

"Good evening, Mr. Reythier." The entry guard tipped his black felt tophat, distinctively lacking any military insignia. "Sir Horace is expecting you."

Shuttered behind a number of decrepit looking houses and right by the edge of the Thames River, the intelligence house was, as expected, as nondescript as one could imagine. Despite the rather large surface, surrounded by a red brick wall that blended it with the house, the local headquarters of the MI6 was a square two storied house overlooking the river, ivy branches sprawling on the sides of the building from the roof all the way to the lower levels. Charming it's way, thought Reythier, but rather forgettable. As it should be. Alexandre saluted the guard and entered inside the house, gazing at a spiral mahogany staircase that led to an upper floor, bathed in a warm chandelier light and a soft carpet running from the top down to the last stair. Horace Cunningham, his contact and ocassional working partner, soon joined him and shook hands together.

"I trust you arrived well, Mr. Reythier," said Horace with a sly smile, his shining hair motioned to a side and now sporting a thin moustache.

"A house by the docks, Mr. Horace? How ungentlemanly of you and the intelligence officers."

Horace smiled. "We use it to monitor the traffic up and down the Thames from here. Plus, we have an easy way out of the country and out of the city should we need to."

"You escape by boat?"

"Sometimes. There's a small wharf just a couple of meters away from the entrance, two small motor boats are moored over there. Whenever we need to, we can get it, use it and drive away."

Reythier nodded, rather absent. "Interesting. Did you arrive early after your escapade?"

"Not so. In fact, just a couple of hours ago. With one of those motorboats."

Reythier raise an eyebrow. "Crossing the North Sea in a small dinghy?"

Horace straightened. "Well, you see, Mr. Reythier, it's not really a small boat. It's a commercial yacht that's been modified by us. But anyways, on to more important discussions, so let us go upstairs. Lord Howe, the chief of the bureau from the political side is waiting for us to discuss."

They went up to the second floor, the soft carpet on the staircase lifting Reythier into almost cloud-like steps, taken inch by inch until they reached the war room. Motioned inside by an intelligence officer, probably doubling as a guard, they were greeted by Lord Howe and two military advisors sitting beside him as they analysed a cluuster of maps and documents that Reythier judged were stolen by Horace in Amsterdam. Howe stood up, dressed impeccably in a custom-made three-piece suit with a golden pocket watch adorning his jacket pockets. Wiry, with a crop of grizzled hair, he shook Reythier's hands firmly and smiled to him.

"Bonjour, Mr. Reythier. I am glad you could come here to our little headquarters."

"Likewise, Mr. Howe. I think we have a lot of worrk to do."

Howe nodded, rather impatient. "We do, yes. Horace brought us back some important pieces of intelligence."

Howe's imposing demeanor struck a chord with Reythier. Alexandre placed a hand on the nearest silk-lined chair and glanced at Howe.

"I trust we've forgiven Agincourt and Poitiers?"

Howe looked up at Reythier, rather bewildered, changing his expression to a slight smile. "It's been five hundred years, give or take. I think we can work together by now, our ancestors won't mind."

Reythier smiled. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"I cannot argue against that in good faith, Mr. Reythier. We've fought side by side the in the War, so now it's up to us to fight again to prevent another one."

"Do you think we can prevent another one?"

"No."

Lord Howe's blunt answer took Reythier aback, frowning slightly. "No?"

"No. It's a given." Howe waved his hands around. "But what we can do is to prepare for it, to be best equipped to fight what we see will come ahead." Howe extended his hand. "Please, sit. Let us discuss. Tea?"

Reythier nodded while a butler left the room and returned minutes later with four pots of freshly brewed tea, wisps of steam sauntering around the room all of a sudden. Howe raised his hand.

"Horace, the discussion is yours. I understood Mr. Elbe's brother was rather fazed by your visit."

Horace went to the edge of the table and plucked out a detailed map of the Belgian and Dutch borders, highlighting several border points and blockage points around the common delimitation lines.

"As things stand, there are rather conflicting reports. Most of the information that I've gleaned from Elbe's papers is that they are actively considering another attack through Belgium and Netherlands, but at the same time, the Ardennes Forest is a key target for them. A high number of tank divisions are massed right around Luxembourg, or will be massed, we shall see, and from there they can attack either sideways or frontal through Luxembourg and then right into France. Either way, this is very delicate, as they will be supported by hundreds of aircraft of all types including heavy bombers which they developed in the last three years."

"Some of them are known to us, their airbases, and we can do a measure of a retaliatory attack," countered Howe.

"Yes, and no." Horace pointed out strategic areas around the border with Luxembourg. "These are heavily forested areas, easy to defend and it will cause a lot of aircraft damage. Can happen but ineffective."

"Preemptive strike?"

"Possible. However, despite the plans that I've found in Elbe's apartment, from what sources we have right now there are no tank divisions or even brigades stationed there. There is only one infantry division used mainly as a border guard."

"Is it possible they will amass later?" asked Reythier.

"Possible. Hard to know. So far they indicate no build-up, which we find odd."

Howe raised a hand. "Not so odd. They're focused on the Eastern side first."

"That does not explain the presence of just one division. Invading Czechoslovakia required almost no divisions and shots fired. And neither did Austria."

"Still their focus."

Horace relented. "Correct. But ii might not be all. We have some reports of them preparing for an invasion of Poland."

Reythier motioned forward, glancing from Howe, then to the two silent advisors, then to Horace. "This will trigger our alliance." Reythier's response was rather meek, a matter-of-fact reply to a delicate situation. He didn't like his own response, shifting awkwardly in his seat afterwards.

"It already did. But we failed to act upon it. And in reality... well, I guess there was little we could do."

Reythier pointed to the documents. "What else did you find, Mr. Horace?"

"All kinds of battle plans that were linked to the aviation rather than the army, but they were useful. Some information about intelligence officers operating in our territory which we will use accordingly and these maps, or plans as we call them, about a possible new front in the future war."

Howe raised his hand. "Horace, what happened to Elbe?"

"Nothing."

"Horace."

"I used him as bait, I called up his contacts and just like in London, a whole team showed up to protect him and take him out from the apartment. Whoever he is, he's very well connected, he's not just a simple aviation officer. There was a small list of numbers taped to the back of his desk. A quick call solved that."

Howe frowned. "Not ideal."

"Gentlemen, while taking care of Elbe is our business, what are our next plans in accordance to what we expect?"

Howe stood up. "You want my honest opinion? Nothing. We wait. And in the meantime, we send our men to military training."

----------

Chapter XXVIII - Report Your Findings

9:20 PM
18th of December 1938
Quellenhof Hotel
Aachen
Germany

------

It seemed different, eerie to a point of shudder.

Hairs rose on his arm. The tea he drank was warm enough but the memory of hearing so much laughter and joy from only a night before, only for it to be replaced by heavy silence seemed too much to him. He shuddered, recoiling at the thought, his back arched into the soft silk cover of the chair. The hot ceramic of the tea cup imprinted itself into his palm, a constant source of warmth that gave him comfort in his anxiety. Dressed in his officer's uniform and his patent leather jackboots, Elbe looked like a real military careerman except he was anything but. He worked his entire life in intelligence but his brother's arrest was both a personal and professional failure. Elbe was seated in his superior's office, Oberst Reinhard Muller, the leader of the military intelligence for the Western border.

"Elbe. Welcome, hope the tea is good."

Elbe smiled. "It is, Herr Muller. I trust you are well?"

Muller sat down, shrugging his shoulders. Of middle height, Muller always wore his officer's cap even inside, creating him a grave air whenever he spoke. His bushy eyebrows and dark eyes made him a rather imposing figure and was a well respected leader of the intelligence services, continuing his tradition of organising the Western intelligence front since World War I. He took off his cap, revealing a crop of grizzled hair that was cut on the sides as was the fashion in the late 1930's, brushing his hand through it as he adjusted himself on the chair. Muller produced three papers from his desk, which he placed in front of Elbe who glanced at them with narrowed eyes and a considerable amount of visible worry imprinted on his expression. Muller took on a grave expression.

"Elbe, I need a victory. The Party needs a victory. I need you to recoup your brother's arrest."

"I know, Herr Muller. I know."

"Do you know the outcome of your brother's arrest?"

Elbe shook his head. "Something wrong?"

"Yes, very wrong." Muller's stuffy eyebrows arched in a menacing way, his eyes focused on every inch of Elbe's face. "Your brother's carelessness lead to us losing battle plans, military intelligence, marked maps and official letters, with state insignia, right to the British and most probably the French."

Elbe bowed his head. "Can we recover it?"

Muller waved his hand. "Too late now. Do you even think you can? Of course not. You cannot." Muller pointed a finger towards Elbe. "Solve it, and solve it quickly. We're right now under enormous pressure to hide this from the generals and when I have to go and tell them that the British and the French know of our plans, and eventually the Belgians and the Dutch, we have to scrap everything and do everything again."

With another wave of his hand, Muller pointed to a large map of Europe placed right behind his chair, circling in the air around their position.

"See that? We need to know everything about our place."

Elbe shifted in his seat.

"Herr Muller, with all due respect, my brother was infiltrated in the British Parliament to proide us with information."

"Your double-agent supplied us with nothing interesting!" Muller slammed his fist on the table. "Nothing, absolutely nothing, nothing of value, nothing that was useful to us. Just idiotic Parliament gossip which we could have found anyways from those useless tabloids! That's it!" He leaned back into his chair. "Worse, we have an intelligence leak right now."

"What do you ask of me?"

"We need to know their defensive capabilities, plant information and find a way to counter what they know with what they already have."

Elbe tilted his head. "We have information. The Maginot line, all of the construction plans. Everything."

"Don't fool me Elbe. That's not enough."

"Is it?"

Muller learned forwards, eyeing Elbe again with a menacing gaze. "Are you taking me into contempt, Elbe? Should I send you to work the mines in the Ruhr, because that's what usually we do to incompetents."

"So why is Keitel in the Oberkommando of the Army then? If you talk about incompetents, Herr Muller."

"That's none of your business, Elbe. Solve this debacle your stupid brother made and maybe you'll find yourself in a comfy chair too, and not in your surly hangar that's colder than the Arctic."

Elbe nodded. "I need resources."

"You'll have everything that you need. Go do your intelligence plan and you will get all of the resources that you need. Just do it."

-----

Chapter XXIX - Bring Out the Papers, Plans and Projections

8:10 PM
19th of December 1938
Oberkommando HQ
Aachen
Germany

--------

It was quiet.

A rare moment of calm, a silent night before some holidays, a light breeze of December wind that wafted inside the spartan interior of Elbe's office. The light crackle of the wood burning in the fireplace lighted his spirits ever so slightly, the smoke from cigar breezing through the room. Elbe glanced to the maps strewen accross his wooden desk then to his watch. They were supposed to arrive. A meeting, a subtle meeting between his top lieutenants in a calm December evening, an evening that would plan out the months ahead. He's been given his marching orders from Herr Muller so now he had to give his to his men.

Eight men entered the room exactly 25 seconds later, dressed each in their uniforms. Only one was recognisable, Wilhelm, the rest were given to him now.

"Gentlemen, our orders have been given. Our marching orders to be more exact because we don't have much time to plan ahead. Our recent expeditionary failure has become news in our community so as expected Herr Muller has tasked us to wash away the shame. In other words, we have to act, act fast and create the opportunity that we have missed when we took a little scouting mission through the woods." Elbe paused for effect, rising from the chair. "Now, over here we have the detailed plan of the Maginot, all of the border points that we are looking at and of course other avenues of entering France. Any questions so far?"

None of them registered as much as a sound. Elbe nodded.

"Good. After our infiltration, our next task would be to spread out the teams and act accordingly, planning sabotage cells and local spies in order to infiltrate and execute once the order is given. Any questions?"

Wilhelm, the buzzcut wearing private rose his hand, alebit only to the reach of his waist.

"What order, Herr Elbe?"

"Our army will attack France soon, Wilhelm."

An uneasy silence spread throughout the room, Wilhelm with his hand slightly outstretched still. Elbe glanced at their expressions, most of them blank, emotionless, as they had been trained to me. But most of them shifted from one foot to the other, the creases on their pants making sounds in the silence of Elbe's office.

"Yes, we will attack France. And it's our duty to prepare the infiltration beforehand, to divert their attention. We are the scouts, the eyes ahead, so don't disappoint me or the army." Elbe paused. "Let's move on. We will strike simultaneously before the attack but we will do also a diversionary infiltration very soon, which will be a repeat of what we will do later on when needed. Exact same . Manfred, do you have the plans and projections?"

A medium-height man, with a similar buzzcut to Wilhelm but wiry and very sharp in his movements slid out of his hands a large dossier. He laid out the plans

"Present them to me, Manfred." said Elbe.

Manfred cleared his throat, following with a rough, guttural voice. "There are fourteen points of infiltration along the border and we will use them all as we will advance and do our preparations. Fourteen teams of eight men will infiltrate each point and then proceed to key points such as train stations, post stations, critical junctions on the road and police stations. Any police will be avoided on the street but in case be, do not hesitate to fire."

"And fire you will," said Elbe.

Manfred nodded. "Don't hesitate. We need total control, their Maginot line is very well defended and we need to know every inch of it."

"Same goes for the other points around the border. Two teams will infiltrare Belgium as well at the same time."

"And four others in Netherlands. This is a practice for what is to come, but we will take all of the necessary steps right now," replied Manfred.

"Indeed. Equip yourselves with everything you need, this will be delicate and difficult."

Manfred rose his hand. "One last detail, Herr Elbe. The whole operation will be coordinated by the High Command so keep yourselves professional."

"Any questions?" asked Elbe.

Silence followed, only to be met by a gust of wind that shrieked inside the office.

"Good. Now execute. You have forty eight hours to launch."

----

:bow:

I would like to express my gratitude for everyone who has read at least a part of Swords Made of Letters, more than 12.000 views in 3 years almost. Thank you very much for that. :bow:


With the Chapter 30 coming up we will move into the last part, Book 3 as I called it, focusing on the final confrontation and the eventual impact this will have not only on the region but on the whole of Europe.


Thank you once more. :bow:

Chapter XXX - Spark of Dominoes

19:30 PM
20th of December 1938
Deuxieme Bureau HQ
Paris
France

-------

Sleek, quiet and rather elegant under the night lamp of the cobbled Paris street, the unmarked Citroen limousine slithered without trace towards the Deuxieme.

A slight rasping sound reverberated in the back half of the car. Probably the leather bench, Reythier thought. He glanced to his left at Klaus but was lost in his thoughts, looking aimlessly through the back window of the limousine into the darkness of the cold December evening. They had been taken under express orders from their commander, followed by another car for protection, whisked away to the confine of the headquarters of the Bureau in the north of Paris towards the forests leading to Normandy. Neither of them said a word, rather understanding why the leadership had requested them in the office. Multiple trespassings of the border, illegal all of them, had occured in multiple points and the gravity of such a move was not lost on the intelligence officers. Between Klaus and Reythier stood three folders, each stacked with maps, documents, interrogation papers and other stationery they were obliged to bring for the meeting. Reythier glanced once more at his companion.

"Lost somewhere, Klaus?"

Startled, the man turned towards his friend and coworker. "Sorry, I was not following."

"Lost in thought?"

"No, I'm lost in the meaning of it all."

Reythier looked ahead towards the road. "We're delaying the inevitable. War will erupt."

"So it shall. But are you not worried we are going to be caught with our pants down?"

"Just like the first time? I see no reason why things have changed."

Klaus flashed a wry smile. "Remind me to never go to the casino with you. I'll always lose."

"The casino house always wins, my friend."

Flanked by high side walls and a rather large wrought iron gate, the Deuxieme Bureau was a rather typical Haussmann project that one would see in the downtown of Paris. Except this one was hidden quite well behind the walls and with a small forest hiding the back entrance that housed the cars, armory and everything else that was needed. The two limousines pulled up to the front staircase and the men were whisked rapidly inside, huddled in a large, baroque study dominated by a massive laminated wood desk and five men arguing brightly as they entered. Reythier and Klaus nodded in salute, removing their coats and drawing up to the men who seized them

"Gentlemen," saluted Reythier "I believe you are already planning the victory in our war."

"You're so sure of that Reythier, I ought to give you a medal already. Take your pick, which one do you want?"

Reythier smiled. Commandant Merthon, a grave and often sardonic figure, the leader of the Bureau, motioned with a quick flick of the hand for the two men to approach. Dressed in a burgundy riding outfit and wearing jackboots, the Commander was an odd figure but a sharp military officer.

"Alexandre, please meet the figures you will meet today. Officer Chatillon, commandant Levecq, commandant Henri and officer Houllard. All of them are part of the planning that we are undertaking in these specific moments to counter the intelligence invasion."

"It's already here, Monsieur."

Merthon glanced at him. "Reythier, don't get ahead of yourself."

"Monsieur, we are unprepared."

Merthon raised his eyebrow. "Oh, you would like to tell these gentlemen this thing as well?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then do it." Merthon giggled, incredulous at Reythier's insolence. "Levecq, Houllard, let me know what you make of him."

"All I'm saying is we need more men, resources to be deployed, and a constant watch for every single border point."

Houllard shook his head. "Impossible."

"Why is that, Officer Houllard?" asked Reythier.

"Too many of them," countered Merthon. "Alexandre, instead of alienating your colleagues, share with us your ideas."

Rather unceremonious, but withtout caring, Reythier made way between the men.

"Our situation is as follows. We are right now outnumbered fourteen to one. They have fourteen times the number of intelligence officers we have who do active duty. Should they disable every border post and decide on any invasion or action, we are in a point of no return. Nothing, I repeat, nothing will be able to stop them. Maginot is useless, it's thirty years old. There's no chance of us stopping them without more men. And to make sure we effectively nullify their threat, we need a three point approach. One, constant pat

Merthon glanced at Reythier. "Alexandre, do you think we have all of those resouces?"

"Make them available, Monsieur.

Merthon laughed. "Make them available? Out of thin air?"

"This is no joke."

Merthon turned grave, his eyes fixed on the insolence of his officer. "Do you think we play war games here, because we like it? Want some alcohol, some cognac with those remarks, Reythier?"

"I'm only relaying what I see."

"Get some new glasses, my optician is good enough for me," replied Merthon.

The commander

"You've got these resources. Make do the best of what you can. And as for your estimates, they are wildly off, Reythier."

---------

:bow:

A heartfelt thank you to those who read Swords Made of Letters in the past 3 years, almost 14.000 views. Thank you so much. :bow:

Chapter XXXI - Rolling Towards the Line of Battle

22nd of December 1938
8:20 AM
Dunkirk outskirts
Picardy Region
France

------

Knick, knack, knick, knack.

For some reason, probably due the stress that in the end had got to him, Reythier heard those train wheels way too loud in his mind. It unnerved him, it made him fuss about on his leather train bench, jolting sideways, faffing and pacing through his own cabin up and down relentlessly. It was probably the nerves, he thought, the nerves of knowing too well what the operation meant. The steam locomotive chugged along at a constant pace through the French countryside after it had left Dunkirk with another passenger. Horace had joined the French intelligence team and was now in a different compartment, most likely having lunch with Klaus and the rest of the intelligence officers. Reythier refused their invitation at first but he indicated to Klaus that he would

He paced three times back and forth again, two and a half steps between the table that sat in the middle of the leather benches and the lacquered sliding door that opened to the hallway.

The plan in itself had significant flaws. They recognised as such. But Reythier was more concerned with the impact once the lines would break, leaving the counterintelligence officers of the Reich to roam free in the Eastern part of France without any significant opposition. Reythier slid to the edge of the table and looked at the map again. Four points were of significant interest. One at Colmar, one at Strasbourg, one just north of Metz and one near the joint Belgian-French border where the guard posts were notoriously lax and were even susceptible to attacks since the Belgians took little into consideration the threats from the Reich. They countered off the Belgian point as indefensible so they focused their efforts on the three other choke points scattered around the border. Even so, with an improvement in officers, assigning around sixty field officers to do counter-espionage and to have the local Gendarmerie supporting the border posts was not enough. The Reich's men would not attack a defended guard post. No, of course they wouldn't, thought Reythier. They would simply go around it.

Reythier scratched his head, his hand slipping down to his cheek. A slight stubble grew on his face, unshaven as he was for the past 2 days. Neither of the officers took his suggestions to heart but he shrugged them off. He was not in the business of pleasing people.

A slight knock echoed on the window of the sliding door, forcing him to turn around. A restaurant waiter smiled at him from the other side.

"Monsieur Reythier, I have been instructed my Monsieur Klaus to invite you over to the restaurant compartment. We are serving an easy breakfast right now as the light has now bathed our little train."

Reythier smiled. "Yes, tell them I will join immediately."

"Merci, Monsieur."

Reythier looked back at the map. What if the intelligence was wrong? Judging from the reports they had received in Paris, for every man they had as a counter-espionage agent, the Reich would be able to muster four and some other auxiliary teams that were linked to the paramilitaries. Worse, some of them were already infilftrated. The reality was rather grim; there was little they could do about it but fight back. There were not enough resources mustered to them and worse, the Army Command ignored their warnings. Horace was joined by three other intelligence officers but that was about the most they could hope to get extra. In short, nothing. Reythier wrapped the map inside a cloth napkin and slid out of the compartment, reaching the exquisite dining place of the train minutes later. The waiter from earlier smiled to him and

"Ah, Alexandre, welcome to the table!" said Klaus as he smiled, inviting Reythier to join him and Horace for breakfast.

"I trust I do not interrupt your conversation, gentlemen," replied Reythier.

Horace grinned. "Not at all, Mister Alexandre. Is that how I pronounce your name?" Horace made an attempt to imitate a French accent but it sounded rather like a radio garble, lost in the accents of the vowels. Klaus laughed.

"Close, but not quite Mister Horace," replied Reythier. "So, what shall we eat?"

Arranged on silver platters were bits and bobs of a small French breakfast, duly finished with fresh butter croissants, local jams, some tea for their English guest that was to be in ample supply hidden in white ceramic teapots. Reythier helped himself to some fresh sausage and handed over the folded napkin with the map to Horace, who smiled when he saw the map.

"Never a moment of pause I see. And the map is scribbled from top to bottom."

"I'm worried, Mister Horace," replied Reythier.

Horace raised his eyebrows, drawing a cup of tea to his lips. "I've got three other men who are specialised in counter-intelligence. Post two of them to the headquarters in Strasbourg and another one comes with me for the field assignments. We know and they know a war is coming up so it's best that we know where, when and how they're doing it."

"What's your take then, where are they going to strike?"

"Belgian border or near Metz or Sedan. Somewhere close enough to their base."

"They have bases everywhere."

"Elbe is based in Aachen." countered Horace.

"That makes it at most a four hour drive to Metz without the guard post. And it's been snowing lately." Reythier trailed off. "Which is perfect cover in fact."

Klaus looked up to them. "Do we expect an imminent attack?"

Reythier shrugged from side to side. "Yes, and no. They will infiltrate because we have no resources to counter so the problem is, how do we catch them?"

------

:bow:

Chapter XXXII - Take Up Your Arms

22nd of December 1938
9:55 AM
Oberkommando HQ
Aachen
Germany

-------

It sounded pleasant when the neatly folded paper revealed itself from the envelope. It was nothing of importance, a simple note informing him that more intelligence officers were assigned to his unit in preparation for the next operation that was planned for the next twenty four to forty eight hours. Elbe was not worried. He smirked to himself. He felt nothing, a devoid blankness that was rather uncommon for him, the usual excitement of complex operations wiped away by a rather nasty realisation that war was the upcoming goal and he would have to be either on the frontlines, or behind the frontlines, to direct both officers and actual army troops if he would to be assigned to any of the Army Corps. He crumpled the paper in his fist and threw the note into the trash. For a couple of moments he forgot about the fact that Wilhelm, his eager and rather stern appearance, stood in front of him and rather expectant as well. Elbe glanced at him and shook his head.

"Yes, Wilhelm?"

Wilhelm shifted in his position. "Herr Elbe, I am waiting for your orders."

"My orders?"

Wilhelm slightly raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Herr Elbe, I am here to be assigned my orders about our operation."

"You want them now?"

"If you have them ready, Herr Elbe."

"Not now, Wilhelm, I have to think a bit. Let us get together later with the rest of the officers, this is a delicate situation."

Elbe saw Wilhelm's confused expression but made no effort to address his concerns. His intelligence soldier saluted and left the office, leaving Elbe to slouch in the leather chair with his eyes lost in space, transfixed on the emptiness that was now the area around the open door to his office. In the background the secretaries from the Oberkommando hangar turned headquarters typed furiously, their clattering of thousands of keys reverberating like a melody through his lost thoughts. Would all of this still be here in a couple of years or will it disappear? Is their operation a warning, is it going to be successful?

From his perspective, they held all of the advantages that one could think of. Men, resources, planning, weapons, intelligence, everything was accounted for and the headquarters planned accordingly. The teams were ready to go, raring to go in fact, and all he had to do was issue the orders. In a small drawer within his desk stood four false passports under various names, ready to be used once they would transport themselves to Strasbourg int he next twenty for hours to ostensibly participate in the holiday events as part of the local German community. That was false, and probably the Deuxieme Bureau knew about it, but they had to go

No, that was not it. Elbe extracted from a pile of documents the little note from the northern headquarters. It concerned his brother.

His younger brother had been humiliated by the British intelligence officers, and worse, the news had spread out not just to the Army but also to the public. The Dutch gossip newspapers were reeling over this fantastic spying story, complete with a charming, beautiful wife that had betrayed one of the men, or so they spun the yarn. None of it was true but none of that mattered. While he had to clean out the reputation of the family there was this worrying idea that the French and the British are expecting them. Either his brother was beyond careless in allowing himself to be apprehended again after the British fiasco in London or their counterintelligence was of top quality. The risk was real.

He picked up the phone receptor from his desk and called for his henchmen to joust themselves immediately to the office. The men duly obliged, springing a group of eight men, including a confused Wilhelm, into his crammed office. Elbe stood up, saluted and pointed to a large map on the far wall.

"Gentlemen, so good to see you again, because I will not be seeing you any time soon most of you. We will start our operation, and we start it fast, because we have no time left and I have received indications that our war will start in the East in about six months." Elbe paused for effect. "If any of you are shocked about this, please get a different job. If not, then what I will tell you right now is of the utmost importance."

Elbe stood down on his chair, cupped his hands together and looked at his standing officers.

"Our plan will spring into action right now. Fourteen intelligence teams will go over the border and create intelligence cells, which will gather information for us about every single military aspect in France. We have numbers to overwhelm them and while our initial endeavour was a failure, this time it will not be. We need networks, we need information, we need to overpower them. You will get the resources, the cash, the weapons, the documents and of course the safe houses. We start today, under the cover of the joyful events of the winter holidays."

Elbe stood up.

"As you all know, my brother has been rather humiliated by the enemy. Make no mistake, our enemy is strong. He's not a fool. So be on your step and fight to the end." Elbe paused. "As for me, I will be directing a small troop into Strasbourg tomorrow, under the cover of the events of the German community in Alsace, where I will be living for the next year gathering information and coordinating our teams." He gave all of them an individual salute. "Gentlemen, it is an honour to fight with you. Let's get to work, I will see you on the other side of the border."

-----

:bow:

Chapter XXXIII - Overzealous

22nd of December 1938
4:15 PM
Oberkommando HQ Aachen
Aachen / Alsace border post
Germany - France border

--------------

"Are you ready, Herr Elbe?"

With a swift movement of his arm, Elbe indicated to the three other men to jump into the limousine. Sleek, quiet and most important of all, black, the Mercedes limousine started at the first flick of the ignition key and roared for a couple of moments until it settled into a low, continuous whir of cylinders. Wilhelm and Elbe stood in the back, with the driver Andreas and another bodyguard Manfred sitting in the front. Behind them the trunk of the car kept machineguns, pistols, bags of cash and supplies, along with forged documents, all of them carefully concealed in boxes filled with holiday presents. They dumped their overcoats and jackets on top of the wooden boxes, slammed the lid and locked it tight to keep all of it together. Manfred was the only one who kept a small Luger pistol hidden underneath his shirt. Everyone else was defenceless, in case of an unpleasant moment.

"Are we ready?" asked Elbe, looking around the car. Andreas and Manfred gave a curt nod, Wilhelm however glanced from Elbe then towards the window.

"Are we sure they're not expecting us?" asked Wilhelm, pointing his finger towards the trunk.

"Well, we have to find out I guess. Andreas, let's go. South towards Staufen, take the road leading to Kehl and then towards the border post linking to Strasbourg. We should arrive there by late evening."

There was some preparation beforehand for their trip. There would be no police escorts for them to the border but there was some preparation beforehand for their trip, the comfortable Mercedes encountering very little traffic that would slow them down. Snow flecks sometimes encouraged caution but there was not enough to bother them more than the usual driving safety that Andreas practiced. Focused on saving as much time as possible, Wilhelm phoned in beforehand to the border posts on their side of their border, ensuring a smooth transition to the French border post. By the time they arrived at their own border post, they were the only car around the area and were waved through their own side of the border without any interruption. They spent the next thirty odd seconds driving slowly through no man's land, a stretch of land that was neither French nor German. It was a diplomatic limbo, a stretch of land designed to prevent any border incidents. Andreas had slowed down the Mercedes to a crawl, a mere ten, fifteen kilometers an hour, ensuring that the beam lights were set to the maximum in order to alert beforehand the

"Are you sure it's wise to alert them, Herr Elbe?" asked Andreas in a shaky voice, betraying the uneasiness.

"We come in peace. Well, at least now. Everything else will not be."

"They might expect us and block our access, or worse, arrest us."

"None of that will happen."

"I hope you are right, Herr Elbe."

As they got closer and closer to the French border post, the shadows flickering at the base of the trees became visible in the powerful beams of the Mercedes lights. But the flickering shadows were not just men. The border post had been heavily militarised, with six men manning the border post and three others posted at the very barrier blocking the entry to France. Behind them two small armoured carriers stood guard, their machinegun positions trained towards the road into the country. Wilhelm and Andreas were right, the French were expecting this package of information. Elbe swore under his breath.

"Steady. I see they expect us but I'm not sure they know who we are."

Andreas stopped the Mercedes just in front of the barrier, the men and guns starting to circle around the car. One of the border guards, presumably the leading officer, beckoned Andreas to drop down his window. Andreas saluted respectfully and spoke in heavily accented French, handing the false passports towards the border guard. Glancing around the car, the officer scanned the faces of the four men with a mobile light and then beckoned to Andreas to stay in his car. Outside of the car the soldiers attached to the border post circled around the car, some enjoying the beautiful lines of the limousine, some rather more interested in the people who were inside the car. Neither of them were dressed in any particular way, keeping their suits and overcoats as expected to match the fashion of the day. Their uniforms were long forgotten in the headquarters.

After six, seven minutes, which to Elbe seemed rather short, the officer returned with only one of the passports. He beckoned to Andreas to lower the window again.

"One by one I will ask. Your purpose?"

Andreas made a circling motion. "We're all going to Strasbourg for the cultural events for the holiday, with the German cultural exchanges."

"One by one, Mister Andreas, did I not make myself understood?"

Andreas nodded. He asked each one of them in German and then translated to the border guard who noted their answers on a piece of paper, using the car's bodywork as a writing plank. He nodded to Andreas and returned to his border post.

"What was that all about?" asked Elbe.

Andreas shrugged. "They're examining us. And our soldier friends are very interested in this car."

Five minutes more passed. The officer returned, but this time with Elbe's passport.

"Mister Richard Dietrich. I could not find you in the official register of the event that will occur tomorrow evening in Strasbourg. I have telephoned and asked for their list, and your name does not appear there."

Elbe replied in German to Andreas, despite knowing French rather well. "Tell our friend that a certain Mr. Otto Muller, the host of the event, has invited me on a personal list. Ask him to find the name Otto Muller."

The border officer drew up to Elbe's window and beckoned him to lower it. The intelligence officer obliged, flashing a curt smile to the border guard.

"I trust Mr. Muller is expecting you, Mr. Dietrich?" asked the guard in perfect German.

Elbe paused for a moment, returning a wider smile. "Excellent German, Sir. Yes, Herr Muller is indeed expecting me tomorrow night at the event. Hence why I am with my associates, they will be joining me."

"All four of you will go?"

Elbe hesitated. "Not all of us. Myself and Misters Wilhelm and Manfred will join me. Mr. Andreas will take care of our beautiful car."

The guard smiled. "Beautiful it is. French cars are better however."

"Yes, of course, I am sure some of them are better. No doubt."

The guard flashed a wry smile, looked one more time at the false passport and returned to his border post. A small wooden house, that clearly could not house all of the military men sttationed at the border, was the border post near the city of Kehl. Five more minutes passed, another five, another fifteen then another thirty minutes until finally the border guard returned with all four passports and handed them over to Andreas.

"It took some time gentlemen. You can never be too safe in these times. Have a good evening, and enjoy your event in Strasbourg!"

With a small, rather mechanical move of the arm, one of the guards rose the barrier and waved the Mercedes inside France. The four men saluted the border guards and set a course for the city of Strasbourg, their nerves rattled and sweating profusely through the suits. Elbe was sullen faced.

He knew the French knew.

-----

:bow:

About 15 chapters left!

Chapter XXXIV - Shadows

22nd of December 1938
7:45 PM
Kehl - France border post
Alsace
France

------------

"Otto Muller, Otto Muller, who are you actually?"

"He doesn't exist. It's a rather Otto M. Waltz that's in fact the host of tomorrow evening's event in Strasbourg," replied Reythier. He gave a curious look to Klaus who stood beside him in the border post, well away from any side glances that might have revealed them from prying eyes in the Mercedes limousine. "Mister Waltz is the one we are looking for, in fact."

"So why did we let them go then?"

Reythier smiled. "My dear Klaus, you do not interrupt the enemy when they make mistakes. Besides, we will have to go to that event, to keep an eye on them."

They made handwritten copies of their false passports, noting down individualities and even side markings on the back pages to make sure they had registered everything about their unwelcome guests. The Mercedes was scanned by a significant number of soldiers but unbeknownst to their guests, two military attaches stood in the personnel carriers with their photographic devices trained on the car, spotting out the four men inside it. Reythier knew of Elbe and his henchman Wilhelm; the other two, Andreas and Manfred, were unknown to him or to their colleagues in the Deuxieme Bureau. Richard Dietrich was elbe, Wilhelm was a certain Hans Seydlitz and the other two most probably were listed under their real names. Odd, Reythier thought, it made no particular sense to

"Something wrong, Alexandre?"

Reythier leaned back in his chair, pensive, holding up two files indicating two different passports. "Why would you travel under false names for two people, while the other two kept their real names?"

"You mean Elbe now being Dietrich?"

"Their driver and bodyguard kept their real passports, but faked.

Klaus was lost for a second. "Real, but faked?"

"Their real names, location, characteristics, all of them were real. But their actual passports were brand new, spotless of any markings."

"It depends what do they plan on doing with those two."

"Scapegoats?"

Klaus frowned. "For what?"

Reythier stood up and drew to the side of the table, glancing at Klaus who was now forced to look upwards also in the light of the only bulb bathing their little guard post.

"What would Elbe be doing at an event of the Alsatian German community in Strasbourg? I mean, yes, community, cultural and everything else that you could possibly imagine without any bad intent. But he's a high ranking intelligence officer, he's deliberately putting himself in jeopardy."

"I doubt it's in jeopardy."

"Why then?"

"Intelligence gathering?"

Reythier laughed. "From a bunch of local Alsatians who are mostly loyal to our government but want to keep their old traditions? Look at Jean-Jacques Waltz, he's German but rather French. And rather adamant about it too."

"He's only one."

"Not the only one, Klaus."

Klaus spread his hands. "Alright. Say you're right. It makes no sense for us, but for them it does. What would it be so important at that event to put himself into our lap?"

"This is what I do not know. And you're going to have to find out."

Klaus leaned back in his chair, the shoddy wooden frame of the thin chair creaking like an old boat wracked by waves. "Me?"

Reythier took out from his overcoat a small envelope which he handed over to his friend. "You're going to the event tomorrow night. Make sure you dress up properly."

It was a surprise, a rather welcome and unwelcome one, as Klaus opened the delicate envelope with a frown, an amazed look and trembling hands. Sure enough, the invite was under his name and it was handwritten by a certain Otto M. Waltz who took deliberate pains to write in as much of a cursive script as possible. This made no sense to Klaus whatsoever. Why would someone invite him? Unless there was a reason.

"Waltz is a false name as well, isn't it?" asked Klaus.

Reythier nodded in silence. "There's no Otto M. Waltz. His name is Friedrich Rohm and he's the leader of the local Alsatian German community. The important part here is that he's been a sympathiser to the other cause and a double agent for almost twenty years now. He's the organiser and he's the main point of contact." Reythier smiled. "I hope you enjoy the dinner Klaus, I heard the food is excellent."

-------

:bow:

Chapter XXXV - Masquerade For Me, Please


23rd of December 1938
8:10 PM
Hotel de Ville
Strasbourg
France


-----

It slipped perfectly on his weathered skin, the soft Egyptian cotton woven into the tuxedo shirt that touched his arms and his back as he slid it on.

Two cufflinks followed, a slow reveal from underneath the striped cuffs, elaborate golden fleur-de-lys imitating the imposing flowers on the medieval banners of France. Klaus felt they were a good touch, something to remind him that he owed his devotion to the country he was born in. And as a reward of that devotion, he got to wear these beautiful jewelry pieces handed down to him by an uncle who was part of the nobility during the time of Napoleon the Third. Not so long ago in fact. A black tuxedo jacket followed, all of it tied together with a discreet silk bow tie that was rather too tucked inside the collar. Satisfied with his look in the mirror, his crop of grizzled hair slightly spiking towards the sky, Klaus left his hotel room all dressed up and left for the Hotel de Ville where the reception banquet was held. One of the military officers was assigned as his guard duty but that was not needed. The hotel was shadowed by multiple teams of officers, with Reythier himself disguised as one of the cellar workers, so all he had to do was inform.

Slightly late, Klaus worked himself up the carpeted stairs of the hotel and into the lobby of the Strasbourg mayory, converted into a New Year event banquet. Stands of flowers overflowed on every corner of the first floor halls and rooms, their delicate touch and smell overwhelming the heavy scents imposed by the local notables from their expensive French perfumes. He knew no one within the banquet but that mattered little. Somehow Mister Rohm knew him, as he spotted a tall, lanky man reach out to him with a wide smile as he entered the banquet hall on the first floor. Rohm shook Klaus's hand, a strong, firm grip, his blue eyes shining brightly as he stared down the French intelligence officer.

"Mr. Langstross, so great to see you!"

Langstross. Reythier gave Klaus his own fake German sounding name for the list. Klaus, Klaus Langstross now, woke up from his reverie and smiled back, baring his teeth. Otto Waltz was his name, don't forget that, thought Klaus.

"Mr. Waltz, is that correct? I believe we have not met yet but I do know you well from the business community. Heard a lot about you!"

Rohm, or Waltz, smiled back. "Indeed, we did not have the pleasure of meeting. But I have heard of you quite a lot, being an important member of the security forces around this area, so it's very important to us to have you for our event. Please, join us, your table is close to the main centre table where me and the rest of the group leaders sit. I trust this is good with you!" yelled Rohm over the sound of the suddenly booming orchestra blanketing the entire hall with loud music.

Klaus judged the event to have close to three hundred invitees, most of whom he guessed were either members of the community, business partners or infiltrated agents. There was no sign of Elbe and his goons yet but he expected to see them rather soon. Waltz hosted him at a table slightly towards the right hand side of the hall, placed well enough to give him a rather good view of most of the invitees but a complete lack of visibility on the back side. That matter little, it was easy for him to turn around. He sat down at his table, smiled and saluted the six other people at the same and waited

"Looking for someone? Mister... Langstross, have I said that correctly?"

For a moment Klaus was startled, woken from his deep thoughts, then smiled to the stocky, bald man seated to his left. "No, no, all is good, I am curious about the other people. I do not know anyone here so naturally I am interested."

The man extended his hand. "Ludwig Benningsen. I'm a lawyer in Strasbourg, good to meet you Mr. Langstross!"

Klaus smiled and shook the man's hand. A lawyer, good, he will know people, Klaus thought. They exchanged words for a couple of minutes until Waltz came into the midst of the hall and beckoned the orchestra to stop their music.

"Ladies and esteemed gentlemen," thundered Waltz, his heavy voice resonating through the banquet hall "welcome to the event of the German community of Alsace. With the dawn of a new year coming upon us, and with this delicate times ahead, I would like to express my appreciation and gratitude for joining us tonight to celebrate our community and our friendship. I will beckon the orchestra to start once more to sing but before that, I would like to make an announcement."

It was in that short pause that Elbe revealed himself, standing with an observing eye in the other corner of the hall, flanked by his men at a table to the right of the leaders'. Wilhelm was there and Manfred the brute was there as well, his bulky stature overpowering everyone at their table. The driver was not there however, conspicuously absent, probably in the car, Klaus thought. He shifted his gaze away from Elbe and back to Waltz.

"Tonight I would like to announce, and cherish of course, the fact that our community has never been more united and never more in spirit with our fatherland, all while respecting the laws, regulations and of course the communities in which we live in. I would like to extend a toast to our fatherland Germany and to the community that we are here today." Waltz rose a glass of champagne. "Thank you everyone, and have a wonderful evening!"

Thunderous applause enraptured the audience, some of them giving the five fingered salute in response. Shadowy, delicate even, but the salute was there. Elbe and his men abstained from any overt celebrations but were visible enough to have a host of men go up to their table and shake hands. It was enough for Klaus. They were spotted. All he had to do was wait now. Klaus took a glass of champagne and pointed it in the direction of every single person at his table, cheering with them and initiating small chat to know them better and to understand who they were. Apart from Herr Benningsen, with the odd name, everyone else was mostly the socialite group of Strasbourg. No significant interest to him.

Klaus glanced back to the orchestra, now picking pace in their sonatas as the waiters immediately appeared with heavy trays of food laden with all sorts of local specialties. Roasted chicken, braised lamb, warm pastries on golden platters as small snacks and of course, endless amounts of wine to grease up the conversation made it a splendid banquet which he would have enjoyed had it not been for his work. Benningsen initiated discussions more than a few times, a rather chatty fellow for Klaus's thoughts, but he tried to make sure he got as much information as possible. After a couple of minutes he held up his hand

"Mr. Benningsen, since you're a well known lawyer around these places, what does Mr. Waltz do for a living? I will confess I have never met him."

Benningsen placed the champagne glass back on the table, rather surprised. "You have not met him yet? Curious. He's very well known in our communities."

"Oh but I do know of him. I have not met him personally."

"Oh, yes, indeed, apologies. Well Mr. Waltz is a commissioned artist in his free time but in his day to day job, he is the head of the clerks. Let us put it as the chief bureaucrat, the man who handles all the papers but has no political power. No one knows of him in Paris but we all know him here."

Infiltrated at the highest level of government, Klaus thought. Not a good sign.

"For a long time?"

"Oh yes, it's already been ten or more years. He's an important member of the administration."

Not an encouraging sign but Klaus nevertheless thanked Ludwig for the bureaucratic gossip. He took a couple of more nibbles and excused himself after five minutes, heading back to the entrance of the Hotel de Ville where he casually leaned himself amid the carpeted stairs to one side. By clockwork, thirty seconds later Reythier appeared, dressed in a waiter's tuxedo with an empty golden tray beckoning up the stairs. He gave a curt salute to Klaus.

"We found him. Towards the main table, to the left of it as you enter."

Reythier heard the words, slipping from his pocket a small envelope to Klaus as he walked past into the building. Klaus opened the envelope.

"Wait for him, talk to him, engage. His driver is ours."

Good, Klaus thought. The driver is ours. He glanced at his golden Doxa watch, the yellow gold hue matching perfectly with his cufflinks. 8:50 PM. Elbe would come out for a smoke in twenty or thirty minutes. He had nothing else to do but wait.

----


:bow:

Chapter XXXVI - Enchante, Monsieur! (Enchanted, Sir!)

23rd of December 1938
9:08 PM
Hotel de Ville
Strasbourg
France

-----

"Careful, Sir, those wooden tables are rather flimsy. I would not lean against them, they're just for show."

The waiter stopped beside Klaus, his eyes widened in concern for the French officer who leaned against a tall wooden table placed by the edge of a door in the main hall. Klaus was eyeing the main door of the hall on the first floor, not particularly paying attention to the eager young waiter who blocked his view. Klaus looked at him rather irritated for a couple of moments until he realised the waited only meant to help him. He took his hand off the table and nodded in agreement.

"Yes, of course, sorry. I apologise."

The waiter nodded and scurried off rapidly, leaving Klaus to his own thoughts. Ten minutes had passed, perhaps more than then, but the main course was not over yet and there was nothing he could do but wait. He watched Reythier juggle along four times from the makeshift kitchen to the hall on the first floor, bringing food, drinks and rapid movement to an otherwise lethargic waiter corps that was not particularly eager to serve the guests. Small groups of ladies, lined up in their exclusive furs jutted down to the small rear garden for an evening breather despite the bitter cold and the occasional gust of wind that swept through the city. Klaus fidgeted from one

He glanced at his watch again. Twelve minutes. He sighed. Klaus placed his hands in his pockets and watched as one of the waiters tried to impress one of the younger ladies. He did not have much luck but he did manage to steal a laugh or two out of her. The sound of her laughs reverberated through the main hall of the building, adding a cheerful note to his otherwise gloomy evening. Klaus looked again at his watch. Fourteen minutes.

"A drink, Sir?"

Klaus turned around, startled at the sudden voice that erupted in the back of his ear. The waiter from before, smiling and reverent, returned with a silver tray laden with three glasses of bubbling champagne. The fizzing drink caught Klaus's eye, tempted as he was to down one to lift his spirits but before he had a chance to respond a slim hand snatched one of the glasses and raised it to his eyes.

"A drink, Sir?"

Elbe. Klaus faked a smile and then snatched one of the other glasses, his fingers clenched tightly against the glass. He was not a field agent, that was clear enough, but Elbe did not seem to notice that.

"Yes, of course. Klaus Langstross, nice to meet you!"

"Enchante, Monsieur. Je suis Richard Deitrich." (Enchanted, Sir. I am Richard Deitrich)

Klaus faked another smile. Elbe knew French, and with a good accent. "Mr. Deitrich. It is good to meet you, an esteemed member of this community."

Elbe smiled. "Ah, people talk, as usual. Mr. Waltz recommended that I have a chat with the new people in our community and he recommended me that I have a chat with you. Allow me to introduce myself. I work for the German Foreign Ministry, as a cultural attache. This is why I am here, helping out the German speaking communities around the border."

"So I've heard. Anyhow Mr. Waltz has thrown a spectacular soiree over here, I am quite glad to be part of this community. Paris has sent me over here to oversee the civil administration and the civil service, so I believe I will be working closely with the community."

"Ours?"

"Yes, of course. I am glad to be invited here."

"You are of course, of our own origin?"

Klaus smiled. "Yes, somehow. I believe it to be so. And I believe this is also why Mr. Waltz invited me here."

Elbe laughed. "Truly. He knows everything, I often suspect him of being a French intelligence officer. Where are you from?"

"I am Alsatian but my family is originally from Staufen. My mother's family at least. We speak everything in our house, including English and some more dialects from the south. My cousins are from the south, they taught me Occitan."

Elbe raised his glass. "I'll drink to that. I never heard about that before." He downed the entire glass, placing it with careful movements back on the table."Do you know many people from this community?"

"I have only met Mister Bennigsen earlier. A nice fellow, a local lawyer I understood. I presume I will be working with him quite a lot."

Elbe smiled, his gaze suddenly turning away from Klaus and towards the hall where a burst of laughter erupted. He folded his hands and drew closer, leaning slightly on the table.

"Mr. Langstross, I know you're with the French intelligence. But I assure you, we're only here with good intentions. We're only here to support our communities, that's all."

"Just that?"

"Just that, I assure you."

"Why would you need to assure me of that? Is there something I should know in my civil service about this community?"

Elbe raised his hands. "Not entirely, I do not think so. But we are here with peaceful intentions, nothing more."

Klaus placed down his champagne glass. With economical hand movements he extracted a small note from his jacket pocket, unfolding it as slow as possible to capture Elbe's attention away from any distractions. He held the little note up to their eye level, the cursive handwriting indicating Andreas's rather swift arrest and the search of their car. As Klaus and Reythier had suspected, the trunk revealed more than they had hoped for.

As if by clockwork, two gunshots rang in the distance.

----

:bow:

Spicy times ahead!

Chapter XXXVII - Need a Hand?

23rd of December 1938
9:35 PM
Hotel de Ville
Strasbourg
France

-------------

"Need a hand?"

Klaus blinked, stunned at Horace's thin smile under his even thinner moustache he faked with glue to blend in as a waiter. He was still dressed as waiter but for some reason small red dots were staining his dress shirt at random areas. Klaus blinked again, realising the heavy ache on his beck and back. It happened too fast for him to comprehend, from the moment Elbe saluted and left him, to the moment where he went to the kitchen to look for Reythier only to be violently kicked in the chest all of a sudden, sending him through a wooden door. He smashed through the door of the pantry and collapsed on a row of empty wooden barrels on a lower level, crashing with a force that almost knocked him out and left him reeling for the better part of a minute. But the assailant never materialised, only for Horace to show up instead.

"Come on, get up," said Horace.

"Someone kicked me in the chest."

Horace nodded. "Yeah, he won't be any danger any more. Come on, up you go," motioned Horace, drawing Klaus to his feet. "Are you all right?"

"I'm injured, my back hurts, I think I got kicked in the chest."

"Yeah, leave that. We've got problems. Hard ones. Reythier is injured, critically, he's been shot by that stupid driver when he tried to escape."

Klaus exhaled. "How bad?"

"Tough to say, he's in a rough spot the old lad. He's being patched by a team of soldiers who were with us but we'll see."

"Driver?"

"Yeah, about him, no need to worry about him any more."

Klaus raised his hands. "We're supposed to capture them, not finish them off."

Horace beckoned to the door. "Tell that to your guys, they have no trigger discipline. The driver's gone, the car smashed to bits and they're moving in on Elbe and his guys. Since Reythier is no longer barking the orders, some officer names Alain is leading the men to surround this area."

"What? That's a mistake, don....."

Klaus's voice trailed off, covered by the loud crack of the door as the wooden planks were thrown aside and trampled. From their lower level, the pantry extended a flight of stone stairs up to an upper level balcony of sorts that prevented people from falling directly into the storeroom. That did not prevent Klaus from barging down the railing and into the barrels below but it made the two men who entered stop for a moment to assess where they entered. Their extended pistols were telling, their eyes scanning the illuminated pantry below, the destroyed wooden barrels and the planks scattered and splintered all over the place. Before they had a chance to react, Horace had taken out his M1911 pistol from underneath his shirt and aimed two perfect bullets, striking the two men at close range and without any chance. Both of them collapsed over the bent railing and onto another set barrels, silent from the .45 rounds planted by Horace's pistol. The rounds blasted through the closed, cavernous walls of the storeroom, forcing screams from the kitchen and Klaus to wince in pain as the vibrations barged through his ears. Horace placed a hand on Klaus, indicating calm, and went over to the two men.

"Wilhelm and Manfred, the ones we looked out for." Horace turned to Klaus. "Elbe's missing, he ran off."

Horace motioned to Klaus, beckoning him upstairs and back into the main foyer of the building. Some inquisitive eyes and ears asked about the loud sounds from the kitchen but before the panic could take hold, they both extracted themselves out of the building and lost themselves in between the darkened streets of Strasbourg. They stopped after a couple of minutes by the edge of a small boulangerie, a cutesy bakery, a row of five small lamps hanging by the side of the walls and into the narrow street. Klaus stretched his back, the vertebrae cracking with an audible sound.

"Does it hurt?" asked Horace.

"Not that much, but it's clear I need to see a doctor. I'm not getting any younger."

"All right, let's think, you know the plans better than I do. What now?"

"Elbe's making a run for it. How is he going to get out of Strasbourg I don't know, but I suspect he will, or either he will be hiding around here."

"So we wait?"

"No, we need to go check on Alexandre. And from there we need to go back to the border, scan the border and see if we can capture him. He knows we're watching, he got the message, but we need to capture him."

Horace nodded. "All right. Off to the army barracks it is then. Lead the way, you're the local."

Nodding in silence, the two men lost their trail in the dark side streets of Strasbourg.

-----

:bow:

Chapter XXXVIII - No News is Good News

23rd of December 1938
11:00 PM
Deuxieme Bureau (Intelligence) Local Headquarters
Strasbourg
France

-------

Klaus nearly barged out of the car by the time it stopped in front of the intelligence building, opening the door with the white-walled wheels of the Citroen limousine still in motion.

With Horace in tow and three other intelligence officers from the Paris teams they entered the small house under the cover of a small, dimly lit lamp that hung below a small arcade that made up the gate. They said their curt salutes and barged inside the house, rushing towards a large room at the back of the ground floor. Hushing noises floated in the error, small groups of men huddled around various corners of the room and around a large wooden table right beneath a crystal chandelier. The crystals were illuminated, bathing the room in a warm cosy evening light, not exactly what was needed for an intelligence bureau. They needed to be alert. Klaus rushed inside with Horace behind him and the three other officers, all of them panting and creating a ruffle of energy that made all of the men in the room

Klaus saluted the men. One of them slid out of one of the six groups of men around the table and invited them to his end of the room. Alain Poitou. Poitou's grave expression was vividly visible in the glow of the crystal lights, his mouth drooped slightly lower, a telling expression of concern. He said nothing to Klaus, nor to the other men behind him.

"Reythier's injured. Gravely. We don't know if he's going survive." Poitou paused. "Come, Klaus, come. We need to talk."

Poitou extended a hand, his fingers pointing to his group of men, drawing up to the far end of the table. Poitou placed his fists on the table and glanced at the men who slowly left their groups and all huddled around the table. Poitou turned to Klaus who stood there expectant, still dressed in his elegant tuxedo, looking directly to him. Poitou grimaced, wincing slightly, his intelligence teams with all of their eyes aimed at him. Close to thirty men were in that room and with a couple of others who were still on the terrain around the city, searching for Elbe and his other teams if they even had others. Poitou straightened his back and wiped the back of his hand on his ears, his men still expectant, waiting for him to bring them up to speed. But the truth was that Poitou had no answers.

"You're looking for answers, gentlemen, and you're looking at me. But to be honest with you, I have no answers. Reythier and his team left the Hotel to interrogate the driver, spotted earlier by one of the military teams. They interrogated him but the man had a revolver hidden underneath his belt and shot the team at close range. All three are in grave condition, most probably right now under surgery at the Strasbourg hospital. That's all we have on him." Poitou paused and glanced at Klaus. The Alsatian had not changed his posture, standing almost perpendicular to the table, his eyes fixed on Poitou. "As for what happened at the Hotel, we know that there were some gunshots heard from the lower areas, but we do not know if they were in contact with the driver."

"The driver is no longer our business. And neither are the two other men with Richard Elbe," intervened Klaus.

Poitou stumbled. He stammered for a few moments, visibly taken aback by the news. "All three of them?"

"Yes. Two of them were handled by our friend from the English services." The eyes shifted from Klaus to Horace, who bowed his head out of pressure and perhaps a ting of shame for not capturing the two men. Klaus returned to Poitou, glancing from him and then to the table of eyes fixed on them. "Richard Elbe is on the run."

"That we know," intervened Poitou. "He's running from us, he might have other men helping him."

"Yes. I've met him at the gala, he came up to me and we had a direct chat." Klaus paused. "He assured me of his best intentions."

"And you believe him?" asked Poitou.

"Are we here to discuss childish jokes and games, Mr. Poitou?" countered Klaus, visibly irritated. "Elbe is on the run."

"Any ideas?"

"To the border," intervened Horace. By the third word his voice had become rather meek, drowned out in the attention given to him.

"To the border, yes," added Klaus. "He's running away from us and we better capture him, or else our entire operation will be a failure. It's important we capture him to prevent them from alerting others."

Poitou placed his fists again on the table. "I guess there's no time to lose, gentlemen. Block all of the border posts around the Alsace-Lorraine region, triple the guards and send 1-2 platoons around the main areas. We need all the eyes and ears we can get."

"That won't be enough. Get a team and go inside the German territory, he won't use a border post. They tried that a couple of days ago, they went through the forests and over the Rhine with small rowing boats. The river is calm, it's a perfect opportunity."

Poitou turned to Klaus, his concerned expression turned to one of shock. "Enter a foreign territory, and risk a war too?"

Klaus sighed. "Do we have any choice?"

---------

Chapter XXXIX - Escape

24th of December 1938
1:15 AM
Rhine Forests
Strasbourg / Kehl border
France

--------

Something did not feel right.

That particular feeling was after he met that grey-haired intelligence officer at the Hotel de Ville. It didn't feel right. No, there was something odd, something hidden, occult, menacing about him. While most intelligence officers are supposed to operate that way, he had a particular feeling about this one. After the heavy sounds rang from outside, he bid a courteous farewell to the man and rushed back to the gala only to find the patrons wholly unconcerned, catting as usual in their high society gossip. Good, he thought. Less panic, less prying eyes. Manfred and Wilhelm rushed to the door by then, seeing them with worried expressions about his long absence from the table. They told him the patrons were expecting him, one was even pitching a business venture, but that could wait right now. Elbe had to think. And fast, if possible, because he was sure what he heard were gunshots. He beckoned for Manfred and Wilhelm to follow the man they spotted earlier whilst he went back to the car to search for Andreas.

But the car was not there.

Worse, the car had been destroyed, blood trails along the pavement and Andreas missing from the car. Something was off at this point. Elbe reached for a cigarette from his pocket but he realised he had left them back at the gala. Better that he did, he realised the car was most probably under watch. Feigning the surprise of a bystander, he walked away from the car and turned into the nearest side street, dark and uninviting in the middle of a cold winter night that blissfully was without snow. He huddled against his overcoat, perched his collar up and walked in a rhythmic cadence to make sure he would identify any other sounds that would rise from the sides, from behind or even from ahead of him. He walked for good minutes alone, the thoughts his only companion until he reached one of the main boulevards in the city. For now, he lost his trail but there was no point in slacking off.

He had to reach the border and he had to do it fast before they realised what had happened. Andreas, Manfred and Wilhelm had their backup plans so he was not worried about them. He was alone, however, so he had to extract himself now.

Soon enough the first break for him appeared as a group of three taxis were a good two hundred meters ahead. Elbe bid good evening to the first driver, who saluted his friends and got inside an older Ford limousine from the first days of the decade. The taxi driver, a burly moustached figure, gave a curt salute.

"Where to, Sir?"

Elbe fumbled for a moment. "Can you drive me north, towards Lauterbourg?"

The taxi driver narrowed his eyes. "North? Lauterbourg? At this hour? That's at the German border."

Elbe pulled out a stack of French francs and dangled it in front of the taxi driver. "Drive. No questions asked. And all of this is yours."

Sensing danger and both opportunity, both of which flashed in front of Elbe's eyes, the driver nodded and fired up the engine. Elbe slid back into the rather comfortable backbench of the limousine and watched as the dim lights of Strasbourg, the pearl on the Rhine, faded away and replaced with darkness pierced by the two front lamps of the car. The plan was rather simple. Get as close to the Lauterbourg border post as possible, where the river Rhine also narrowed, and find the three boats moored in a lower delta particularly for special escapes. If they were still there. The Ford roared through the national roads and after about an hour's drive, they entered into sleepy Lauterbourg, the small village completely asleep and devoid of any people. Only some streets were illuminated which made it both useful and perilous but the moon illuminated the clear skies well enough for him to judge. He threw the stack onto the driver's other front seat, slid away from the car and dove through the side streets, waiting close by until the car had left.

The taxi driver had accelerated as fast as he could in his car, screeching tires and all, until the roar of the engine was only a faint, distant echo.

Satisfied, Elbe huddled again against his overcoat and dove through the empty backstreets of a nondescript Alsatian village. The route he needed to follow diverged soon enough and he entered the forests close to the border zone, the calming sound of the water flowing perceptible to his ears. Through the thickets, with an occasional crack of a broken twig, Elbe advanced until he noticed three dots by the edge of the water when the trees cleared to reveal the river.

The boats were there, moored against the trees. Three of them, as they had planned.

The danger, and excitement, was palpable. He threw his overcoat on the edge of the boat, using it as a carpet to secure his entry into the boat, preventing any slips into the water. But he retreated immediately after in the shadow of the tree, waiting for any hidden lurkers that were out for him. Five seconds, twenty seconds, forty-five seconds. Only the sounds of birds chirping in the distance, and perhaps a sly nocturnal fox in the background, were the only vibrations reaching his ear. He seemed to be in the clear.

Slow, meticulous, Richard entered the boat and cut the rope with his army knife. Using one of the paddles, he pushed against the shore and then against the thick trunk of a tree half-collapsed in the water, breaking free of the French border. Leaving the water to carry him southwards and towards the other shore, he gently guided the little boat into the German border, finding a small nook between the trees of the forests to dock his little boat. Securing the boat on to the shore, he jumped out of the boat and hid immediately in the shadow of a great tree, crouching at it's base and training his ears to the sounds in the distance.

Nothing.

Richard had escaped.


-----

:bow:

Chapter XL - Where Do We Stand?

24th of December 1938
9:15 AM
Deuxieme Bureau (Intelligence) HQ
Strasbourg
France

---------

"Still bad".

Poitou's words rang rather hollow. They knew Reythier was in a difficult situation but there was no change for him in the hospital. The injuries were still in the critical condition and there was no significant improvement in the past six hours. Stable, but nothing to write home about. Klaus stood on a leather sofa inside the main meeting room where they gathered last night, resting against the edge of the bench, his eyes fixed on the casual jump of flames in the fireplace at the other end of the room. Despite the warmth, he was still dressed in his overcoat, he had even slept in it, right there in the sofa. His soft shirt and the more rigid tuxedo were still underneath. Klaus glanced away from the flames and to Poitou, his superior's arm resting against the table with his fingers caressing some documents that were supposed to be sent out.

"We have to put our plans into action, Mr. Poitou." He pointed a finger at the documents. "No use in delaying it."

"I need Reythier to recover to lead the teams. We can wait another day."

Klaus stood upright on the sofa. "Can we? I don't think we have that luxury."

Poitou looked at him but said nothing. A junior officer appeared with two letters in his hands which he handed over to the chief of intelligence and went away from the room. Poitou opened the first one, scanned the note and discarded it but the second one caused a frown, the wrinkles of his sixty two years of age showing quite prominently on his forehead. He ran a hand over his beard, his fingers feeling the rugged beard unshaven over the past two days. Neither Poitou nor Klaus looked in good shape. Neither of them were too bothered by it, either. Poitou held up the note and threw it to the other side.

"What is it?" asked Klaus.

"Cryptologist note. From the cipher teams. The Germans are ramping up their equipment production and apparently a considerable number of the resources are being sent away from our border. But...," Poitou paused, looking directly at Klaus. "...more resources are being dumped in our area for their intelligence teams."

"What about the army?"

"No movement whatsoever. Guarding their posts, nothing specific."

"Then what of the Eastern armies?"

Poitou pointed to the note. "That's the details. They've intercepted Enigma transmissions in Poland and passed on the information to us as well. More divisions are being trained in the eastern part of the country."

"Eastern part. Hmm. What about our intelligence men by our border?"

Poitou sat back in his chair. "A couple of years ago we were contacted by a German intelligence officer who supplied us with Enigma rotors, codebooks, operating procedures, key settings, most of the information that we need. We passed on that work to the Poles as well who used it to intercept the encrypted intelligence messages sent out by both the army and the intelligence officers. Some of it we can understand over here, some the Poles can do it, some the Brits can do it. However we don't have a clear, overall picture. Fact of the matter is, we don't know the entire efficiency of the intelligence teams operating in France or around the border."

"Our initial information and estimates focused around 200 something different teams, each with at least four five men assigned. Plus the entire corps of secretaries and dactilographers behind to send out info."

Poitou shrugged. "Possible." His weathered face looked even more sullen this morning. "We don't know. Could be more, could be less, we could very well overestimate what they've done so far."

"We know they have intercepted a lot of our own intelligence and they are operating here already."

"True, true. That's why we should have captured Elbe when we had the chance."

Klaus stood up. "We missed that." He walked around the room, aimless, casually glancing out of the window from time to time to look at the light snowfall perching in the garden. "He told me he only wants peace."

"Sure, and we build tanks and battleships to bomb for peace as well."

"I know he's bluffing. But it seemed very, how do I say this, very confident of him, to be there in person and to be with his own marching band."

Poitou looked at him from under his eyebrows. "And you find this surprising?"

"Kind of, sort of."

"Do you remember the Colmar incident? It seems so far away but not a lot of time passed. They've attacked you and Reythier in broad daylight. No shame."

"I suppose. What now?"

"We wait one more day, let Reythier recover. In the meantime, you and I are off to Paris for a high level briefing."

-------

:bow:

I want to make a little historical note over here - in this chapter I am referencing Gustave Bertrand and Hans-Thilo Schmidt, but also the Polish codebreakers who helped massively during the war.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustave_Bertrand

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hans-Thilo_Schmidt

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biuro_Szyfr%C3%B3w

Chapter XLI - Drive, And Keep Driving

24th of December 1938
4:20 PM
Oxford Street
London
United Kingdom

--------

Soaking wet it was, and it did not seem to stop any time soon either. But that was London for you, like this since the beginning of time.

He dove foot first into a deep puddle, the water splashing around his ankles and inside his ankled boot, the unpleasant feeling of cold water sticking to your skin jarring his senses as he looked into the distance. He expected a car to draw up any minute now, a long limousine sent by the office. Horace paced back and forth around the largely deserted main street of London city. Another car stopped just in front of him but a lady dressed in a long blue dress climbed out and ran inside a nearby building, visibly shaken by the downpour that sloshed through the streets. The car showed up moments later, a sleek Rolls Royce with a specialised plate and no visible markings. Horace climbed into the back seat and was greeted by a familiar face, the three-piece suit granting the man a very dignified demeanor.

"Lord Howe."

The old fox smiled to him from under his thin white mustache. "Horace, it's good to see you again."

Horace nodded. "Same with me Sire, hope all has been well in London."

"It was. I heard you did some interesting feats down in France in the past couple of days."

"Not really comfortable with those Sire, but I did what had to be done."

"Just two of them?"

Horace nodded. "Just two."

"That will be solved, not to worry. The French are in gratitude to you, I've gotten a dispatch this morning from the French embassy." Howe pulled out a paper from his jacket pocket as the car swayed rather wildly because of an unseen, water-clogged pothole. "Ah, London roads. So, this dispatch I have for you, is a token of gratitude, recommendation of a medal and it will almost guarantee you a good job in the next promotion period Horace. You've done well, very well."

Horace smiled thinly, the concern still evident. "Thank you, Sir."

"I see I do not manage to get you of your mood."

"The mission was difficult, Lord Howe." Horace paused, still unsure of the words to say to his superior. "Our French friends were very gracious, they took it the mission with utmost professionalism but some errors that they've made will cause a significant problem down the line for them and for us if we don't manage to put a lid on it. And fast."

"What problems, Horace?"

"They've missed their chance to get the leader of the intelligence group while he was there. They dabbled, discussed and tinkered with it, but when it came to the actual action, one of their senior officers, Reythier, was critically injured and they also failed to capture the rest of the men. Two of them were my action but the last one, the driver, escaped and was then shot in one of the actions by the military. Point is, any actionable intelligence they may have gathered was lost and with the failure to capture the leader we now risk some significant reprisals. This will be ugly."

"Do we know their leader?"

"Yes, Sire. We do. Personally. Closely. Call it what you want."

Howe looked with a grave expression to his intelligence officer. "Horace?"

"Remember Lord Beckett, Sir? You gave me the dossier on the brother of his mistress' husband. What the dossier failed to specify was that Richard Elbe was the chief of the intelligence groups, the leader of spies of the Reich on the Western part of Europe, the ones who directly infiltrated France and our territory as well. Richard Elbe was their leader, an important cog in the whole intelligence and military activity in the West. Capturing him would have meant a significant blow and possibly some very good actionable intel." Horace paused. "But they lost that, Sir. And also his brother was left free by the Dutch."

"I remember that. I told my counterpart they're making a mistake but they didn't want to antagonise the Germans."

"I have no clue where his brother might be, but you can bet that right now Elbe senior is making some significant plans with the military. And that might include his brother whom I've heard became a running joke in the military."

Howe laughed. "That's another one on you, Horace."

"Indeed it is. But this will get ugly."

"What are you saying, Horace?"

Horace hesitated for a moment. "War, Sir. War is coming."

"You think?"

"It's a guarantee. War is coming and it will be quite soon."

The car stopped in front of a large building, the entrance flanked by a number of armed guards who peered through the windows to look at the occupants. One of the soldiers came up to the car and was about to open the door when Howe waved him away. He tapped the front seat and the driver's shoulder.

"Drive, Albert. Keep driving, I will tell you when we can return to the office." Howe turned to Horace. "You know what you're saying Horace? You carry an important weight in our intelligence community now, your words will be taken seriously. This is not to be taken lightly."

"I understand that, Sir." Horace made a circular motion in the air. "Imagine this is France, Sir. According to the intelligence shared with me by the French officers, there are about sixty different intelligence teams, known to the Second Bureau of Intelligence, each of them with at least one or two active operatives. I personally doubted this intel, I've expressed my concern about it with them, saying that it is a gross overestimation but they countered by saying they have information that this is in fact underestimated. Point is, their actual knowledge of the intelligence teams is very doubtful, and while they can easily read military reports and transcripts because the Poles gave them a hand, they don't know exactly about the underground units."

"Are they concentrated in a place?"

"Not quite. Most of them are spread out, but some of Elbe's teams operate mainly around Strasbourg because of the German community over there. They've infiltrated the upper echelons of the public administration."

Lord Howe frowned. "What's your pick?"

"Most of the teams focused on the border, Maginot line, Ardennes, Belgian line. The usual, Sir. I won't rule out another Belgian dash like in the war."

"Again?"

"Maginot is too well defended. Ardennes are complicated, too many trees. Belgium is a flatland perfect for Reich tanks."

"I'll send your intel to the forces, maybe we can have a British Expeditionary Force over there to bolster the French in case needs be."

Horace hesitated. "Sir, the BEF is all good and dandy, but that's a military matter. What happens to the operatives behind the enemy lines?"

"Find them. It's their job, the French intelligence job."

"I object, Sir. They won't be able to find them."

Lord Howe gave him a surprised look. "Alright Horace, then tell me, how are we doing this?"

"Go back in and give them a hand. Root those out, work in the field and help them shore up their defenses. They're sitting ducks and their intel is actionable at best."

"And are you offering yourself to do that, Horace?"

Horace stood silent, rather more than hesitant than before.

"Sir, if needs be, I will do it."

Howe said nothing, his displeasure hidden in a perfect disinterested expression. He gained a very good intelligence officer yesterday, mentioned in dispatches, bringing up the prestige and operational budget for their office. He just lost him today.

"Albert, drive to the office."

------------

:bow:

A note of update from my side - there are about 5-6 chapters left, plus a long Epilogue, which means that we are quite close to the ending. Surprises still left, so be prepared in the next weeks to see how it unfolds!

:bow:

Chapter XLII - You?

24th of December 1938
10:15 PM
Strasbourg HQ
Strasbourg
France

------

Despite the explicit orders of the doctors, Reythier declined to be in the hospital for more than two days until he convalesced.

Slumped over a large four poster bed in the upper floor of a house controlled by the Bureau, well hidden in the western side of the city and away from the border, Reythier beckoned to Klaus to have a seat, his eyes lightning up ever so slightly at the sight of his friend and comrade in arms. A white sling stood over his injured right shoulder, visible over his undershirt. Two bullets were extracted from his right side, bullets fired by Andreas, Elbe's driver, in the tussle that occured after a botched apprehension and arrest.

"How do you feel?" asked Klaus, his eyes darting from the sling to Reythier's wincing expression.

"I feel as if I got hit by a Renault truck without brakes down a hill."

Klaus laughed. "Specific."

"That's all I could think of when it happened." Reythier pointed to his shoulder. "How does it look?"

"Like it got hit by a truck."

Reythier smiled. "Sounds like how I wanted it to be."

"Are you sure that's how you wanted it to be?"

"I couldn't help it. They were there. And one of the officers was too eager to prove himself. So this happened."

"Are you kind enough to explain to me what happened there?"

"Not really." Reythier tried to stand up on the bed but he grimaced in pain, slowly lowering himself to the left side to look at Klaus. "We tried to apprehend Elbe's driver when we saw the car. We had a warrant, one made on the spot by the officer."

"That's illegal."

"I know. But it was too late, the officer took up three men and almost ran to the car. With me in tow to protest but it fell on deaf ears."

"And a tussle occurred?"

"No tussle. A fight. After being initially understanding, the driver faked that he was taking the papers but instead he pulled out a fully loaded pistol and shot two of the men, he shot me twice in the shoulder and tried to shoot the officer but in the fight the pistol got discharged on him."

"All of it in the middle of the street?"

"There were some people, who immediately called the police, so the area was quickly cordoned off from what I understood." Reythier glanced at Klaus. "I heard you nearly got the same treatment."

"Horace saved me. Elbe's party goons were looking for me, after I had a chat with Elbe beforehand."

"Horace knew?"

"Apparently so."

"How did he know and we did not, Klaus? What did we overlook?"

"He told me afterwards that he realised something was wrong when the two left their table and headed straight for me."

A slight knock rasped on the wooden entrance, the creaking, lacquered door pushed aside by one of the guards who doubled as a secretary. The man saluted.

"Sirs, you have a guest. He is here to see you, Mr. Reythier."

Reythier looked at Klaus and vice versa,

"We are not expecting anyone," replied Klaus.

"The Bureau granted this appointment. Can I send him in?"

"Yes. I do wonder who that will be though."

Klaus stood up, nodding to the officer, his eyes glancing from the officer to Reythier who looked just as puzzled. Their puzzlement turned to slight smiles when the wiry figure of Horace appeared through the door, carrying a leather duffle bag and a fedore hat to disguise his appearance.

"Horace. What a surprise," said Klaus.

Horace took off his hat and saluted, shaking hands with Klaus and then with Reythier who smiled back in return.

"Gentlemen. It's good to see you again, Mr. Reythier. I am glad you are faring well, Sir."

Klaus drew closer. "How come you returned, Horace? Why?"

"We've got work Sir. I have here two letters of recommendation to arrest two persons of interest on French soil. Mainly in Paris."

"Who are we to arrest, Horace?"

"Thomas Elbe and his wife Mathilda. They have set up shop in Paris, fronting as members of the social circle and are currently infiltrating themselves into the Parliament."

Klaus swallowed nervously, his somber expression mirrored by Reythier who looked away through the window in the distance.

------

:bow:

Chapter XLIII - Ciphers, Rotors, Jumbled & Foreign

28th of December 1938
15:15 PM
Deuxieme Bureau
Paris
France


------------------

It was dusty, a dry air with a pungent smell of paper mixed with the uneasy smell of paint, a smell you could almost taste as a metallic mixture on your lips, tongue and the back of your mouth.

Hidden in a corner of the Bureau headquarters, the clang of typewriters resonated every millisecond, the clicks of rotors being twisted rasping through the air. Codebreakers were perched over tables in small teams, analysing assiduously all of the codebooks and ciphers that spelled out the enemy intelligence reports. A flurry of activity erupted in these offices in the past three days, since Elbe's escape and the close shave for Reythier, but nothing ever surprising for the tactical teams of the Bureau. Constant connections with their English and Polish collaborators made this area of the Bureau a Babel's tower of sorts, mixing multiple languages to decipher the reports in another foreign language.

Perched over a table in one of the darker corners, Reythier and Klaus stood beside Horace as they waited for Colonel Raymond to join them. They stood silent, their eyes observant on the scurrying of the intelligience officers between the cipher teams and the secretaries typing furiously to relay the orders to the army. The colonel joined them as they rather ogled at an officer trying to talk up a secretary, only to have his advances rebuffed rather rapidly before one of his superiors dragged him by the arm back to the decipher job. Raymond, stern and with a buzz cut underneath his cap, saluted and took his cap off in a ceremonious manner.

"Gentlemen." Raymond saluted again. "Monsieur Reythier, I've heard of your exploits. I am glad you are with us."

Reythier smiled, his shoulder still in a sling. "Always ready to serve our France."

"Good to hear that. Please, come this way, we need to show you some information."

Raymond dragged them to a table in the midst of the sea of analysts' tables, a table flanked by two young officers who seemed to be twin brothers. They saluted and gave Raymond a stack of small sheets. Raymond held them up and dropped them, rather unceremoniously, on the table. Reythier stood rather behind, but Klaus and Horace stood by the edge of the table, expectant.

"Gentlemen, what you have here is our codebreaking expertise. We have been furiously trying to find, intercept and analyse all of the information that the Germans have been relaying to their teams. Army, intelligence, police, whatever goes we need it." Raymond drew his breath, his speaking pace rather rapid even for him. "We try to analyse what is being output from a machine called the Enigma. It's the way of the army to encrypt and jumble their transmissions, but our friends from Poland have been helping us to decipher it. More than that, one of our double agents, Agent Axel, has supplied us with a lot of valuable information and first hand documents, plus components."

Reythier looked at Klaus. "I presume Agent Axel is German?"

"Correct. He provided us with a whole stack of Enigma operating books, ciphers and we managed to even get some components such as rotors."

"How do we stand then?" asked Reythier.

"Relatively good. We can intercept about seventy to eighty percent of the Army communications. It's not enough but more than doable for what we need."

"Do you have a full machine?"

"Unfortunately we don't. Neither do the Poles. Neither do the English."

Klaus shifted on his feet. "How did you decipher it then?"

"Using the codebooks and ciphers provided. Based on the transmissions, jumbled as they are, we managed to understand most of their communications and how the system works. For the most part, it's a relatively simple substitution cypher. It means they substitute some letters with others from the alphabet, and we know how they do it. Most of the time."

"What about when they don't use that?"

"Well, this is where it gets complicated. As I said, most of the information is available to us, and we have some commercial versions of the Enigma machine. But those are different from the military versions." Raymond paused. "And, to be frank, the High Command uses a different machine or a different set, we do not know yet."

"So you can't break that code?"

"Not yet. The British have something up their sleeve to solve that."

Klaus and Reythier glanced at Horace. Raymond nodded to him.

"The Special Operations has a mission planned out to usher the Polish codebreakers out of Poland. We know that an invasion is planned, and the divisions are massing, but we need to get them out to help us in our codebreaking otherwise we have no chance of knowing what the German army will plan any time soon."

Reythier looked at the analytical reports. "But you know what the military does, no?"

"The brass. The local batallions. Brigades. Soldiers. Not the generals."

"And what will this take?"

"Save the codebreakers, get them out, and have them sent through Romania and then to us or to England. We need their expertise." Raymond paused again. "Apparently, they have more components as well and they know more of the system than we do. Since 1932."

Klaus frowned. "You're saying we're behind."

"Not behind, but not ahead either."

Reythier turned to Horace. "I guess you know now why they agreed to send you back, my friend."

-------

A small historical note from my side - the Enigma machine, cryptanalysis (ciphers / rotors / cryptography) and Alan Turing's contribution to cracking the code.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enigma_machine


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crypta..._of_the_Enigma


https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/how-a...he-enigma-code


:bow:

Chapter XLIV - Foreshadowing

30th of December 1938
8:46 PM
Chiefs of Staff HQ
Paris
France

-----

"Gentlemen, they are waiting for you. Join us, please."

Stern, with economical movements to mirror his expression, the staff aide ushered them inside a large, well-adorned room with expansive paintings in golden frames, the former French generals depicted in the canvas towering over the table and the gathering of current French Army generals. Silent, with only the creaking of the wood parquet and the wooden chairs stifling the heavy air, they sat down at the table in the eyes of the commanders, moustaches and all aimed directly at them. Just as economical as he was with them, the aide scurried over to the general at the top of the table, presumably the chairman of this meeting

"Gentlemen, welcome to our headquarters. I trust you have been briefed on why we are expecting you so insistently, so I will spare the diplomacy and ask that we get on to it right away." The general, a dark haired, eagle nosed soldier with enough tresses and medals to adorn an entire room, rose his hands towards the rest of the table. "I believe you know the rest of the commanders, at least by name if not in person. Some of us do know you, so we can skip over the pleasantries. Time is ticking and we have no time to waste."

Reythier shifted in his seat. Horace and Poitou took up the seats on the other side of the table, in front of him, along with one other officer, while to his right stood Klaus and one of the cryptanalysts from the Deuxieme Bureau's basement team. He signaled to the general's aide who then produced eighteen copies of the intelligence dossier that was shared with him and the team earlier.

"Gentlemen, I trust some of you know me, and us, by now. Through the channels of the Deuxieme Bureau we requested this meeting because we felt it is our national duty to warn you of the difficulties that we are facing right now when combating the efforts of our enemy on our own soil. This is not new, this is not news to anyone. But the recent increase in the efforts sustained by the Reich has culminated in an all out assault on me, some of my team members and some other military officers last week during an event in Strasbourg."

"We have heard of that. Carry on, Reythier."

Reythier nodded. "Indeed, Marechal Devin. What is not surprising is the increase. What is surprising is the brazenness on how it was done." Reythier opened the dossier. "As we have seen in the dossier, collated by the teams of cipher analysts, working in tandem with our colleagues from Bletchley Park and our partners in Poland, we have managed to identify some of the implications of these actions."

"Which are?"

"Page four, Marechal. Unfortunately for us, this increased intelligence activity correlates with some troop movements we have intercepted and observed on land in the Reich. Our consulates have been hard at work over this."

"Suggesting?"

"A preparation of an invasion of some sorts." Reythier paused, glancing at the chief of the Army who noticed Reythier stopped. "Messieurs, we have significant evidence to indicate that sooner or later, an invasion will occur in the East. This will impact directly on our alliance with Poland and the United Kingdom."

Marshal Devin stood back in his chair. "East?"

Reythier hesitated. "Well, if you analyse the entire dossier, well, we have some other suspicions. We expect an attack on French soil. Again."

As expected, a heavy silence blanketed the table, the eyes of the generals firmly set upon Reythier's own glancing. The chief of staff, Marshal Devin, looked from beneath his thick eyebrows.

"An attack on us, Reythier?"

"Yes. We expect that to happen."

"Do you realise what that means?"

"Yes, we do."

"When do you expect that to happen?"

Reythier glanced at Klaus instead. "Page fourteen of the dossier." The generals, more out of curiosity than belief, turned to page fourteen where the collated work of the Polish and British cryptanalysts deciphered multiple Oberkommando messages sent from Berlin to Aachen. "Once the campaign in the East is done, and we've seen that Sudetenland is only the beginning, they will follow here."

"Nonsense. Intelligence rubbish as usual, just like in '14," retorted one of the generals, his grizzled grey hair and blue eyes casting a rather spiteful glance to Reythier and his team.

"Sir, we are confident that this will be the case."

"Rubbish, Monsieur Reythier. Absolute rubbish."

"Sir, allow us to disagree. And to explain."

The heavy handed general put his elbows on the table. "Go ahead. Through were? Belgium again? We know that trick. South? Maginot is there and no one is crossing it."

Klaus raised a hand, the gesture almost schoolboy like in nature.

"Allow me gentlemen to take up the mantle here. We've captured a number of intelligence officers, or pawns as we call them, prancing about and sniffing around the Maginot line. We don't know for how long they've been there, but they were there, and it was not a good sight. They were captured, interrogated, but as you know our incident in Colmar destroyed most of what we learned. Point is, the Maginot line will not be attacked."

"How can you be so sure?" retorted the general.

"They know, and we know, the effort will be far too high."

"So that leaves Belgium then."

Klaus glanced at Horace. "Well, not really. There's also the Ardennes."

Some of the generals smirked, a faint laughter echoing from the other side of the table. Marshal Devin drew closer, his elbows now on the table as well.

"Ardennes, Klaus? Ardennes? Really?"

Klaus nodded. "Back in 1936, our French consulates in the Basque region reported flash attacks and bombing runs done by the German airforce on the Republican army positions, often fully entrenched. Their efforts were very well welcomed and we've seen that military theorists are planning to put this to good use in the upcoming operations. Adding to that, there's been a significant upshift in using tank brigades and battalions to pierce through infantry rather than having them as support units."

"And how will tanks go through heavily forested areas, Klaus?"

"Most of them can fell smaller trees, so that's no problem. Building some roads and heavy infantry support through the forest will make them unbeatable, Marechal. We have no counter to that right now, as far as our own intelligence sources go with regards to the equipment of the French army."

Silence fell again over the table, the eyes of the former generals casting a wary, uneasy presence on Reythier's psyche.

"How, well, how sure of this are you, gentlemen? The accusations are beyond grave."

Reythier intervened. "A close 80 to 90 percent trust in the collation of this intelligence, Marechal Devin."

"How can you make it 100%?"

"We have one more critical operation to undertake, with the help of our friends from Special Operations in England. Polish cipher teams have decoded the Enigma machine way before we managed to do it, and we need their help. We can decode only about fifty to sixty percent of Army communications but they can go even up to eighty or ninety percent. Their expertise is extremely important so we need to act on it right away."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Extraction from Poland, Sir."

Devin looked aghast. "And how are you going to bring them here? Through Germany? Norway? The whole of Europe is swarming with enemy intelligence eyes."

"Through Romania, Sir. Extraction through the common border point in nothern Romania, then by boat through Turkey and from there to Marseille."

"How long?"

"Probably next month. End of January."

"Too slow. Faster, Reythier. We can't lose time."

Reythier nodded. "Understood."

Devin glanced at his generals. "As for your dossier, gentlemen, we will analyse it. But until we get to that 100% our actions of defence around Maginot will remain the same. So if it is as you say, get those men out and get on to it."

-----

A little note from my side - with about 3 chapters remaining, I will add a detailed historical note to serve as a background for the whole period, highlighting the huge impact the of the intelligence community. One final Reythier chapter to follow and one final Horace chapter.


And one special Epilogue.


:bow:

Chapter XLV - Pensive on a New Year

1st of January 1939
2:45 AM
Villa on the outskirts of Strasbourg
Strasbourg
France

----------------

Laughter echoed from inside the estate villa, the booming voices jolting outside into the dark, cold January morning. It was New Year's Eve, a welcome reprieve from the edge of the older year of 1938.

A voice sounded right behind him.

"Thoughtful? At a party for New Year's?"

Reythier glanced to his right. His friend Klaus came up to him, champagne glass in hand, dressed in overcoat and tophat to shield himself from the biting freeze. Reythier stood by the edge of the outer lower balcony, his left hip against the small stone railing, his own champagne glass on top of it.

"We party, Klaus, but it's not out partying. We laugh but it's not our laugh. We know, some of them know, but it doesn't make it any better even if we know or don't know."

Klaus sighed. "Where are you getting, Alexandre?"

"You've seen the disdain and the distrust. I don't think we'll get anywhere to where we need to be, and fact of the matter is, neither is the army getting the required importance it deserves. Sooner or later war will come to us and we won't be prepared enough."

"You're not giving them enough credit, Alexandre. The army knows and will act on it."

Reythier laughed, drawing a rather irate glance from his friend and collaborator. "Apologies, Klaus. But you know very well that this won't happen. We've got a parting shot with our friend Horace leaving for Romania in about a week's time, preparing the extraction of our Polish friends who know more about the plans of the Germans. That's all I am betting on right now. We need more intelligence, more information, we need more of everything really and we're only getting small, insufficient resources." He took a swig out of the glass. "At least the champagne is up to our standards."

"Chandon. From Champagne. The owner of the villa and the estate is a good friend of our intelligence boys." Klaus took a sip from his own glass. "He was there at the ball too."

Reythier glanced at him, his eyebrow slightly raised. "What am I supposed to do with that information?"

Klaus glanced behind him, taking a step sideways to Reythier. "Our man is a double agent. Feeds information to the Germans on what we give him, and what they give him he forwards to us. For the moment his position is strong but I'm not sure how long this will go on." Klaus took another sip. "Watch your tongue while we're in this place, we don't know all of it. At least yet."

Reythier turned from Klaus, watching the light snow drizzle over the top of the immense estate that surrounded the villa. Built in the 18th century, the estate was mainly forested but had enough plots of land for agriculture, grazing of crops and raising animals. Above all, the sprawling estate was meant to highlight the power of the owner and the villa was made not for raising herds but for throwing lavish parties for the high society that flocked between medieval Strasbourg and fashionable Paris. Snow blanketed most of what they could see from the lower balcony, creating a superb white spectacle that was perfect for deep, calm thoughts. Because of the snow the night light reflected from it, creating a crepuscular setting even when sunrise seemed hours away. Seeing Reythier rather lost in the mirage of snowflakes, Klaus smiled more to himself, patted his friend on the back and re-entered the villa to rejoin the party.

With himself all alone in the mist of snowflakes, Reythier took out a crumpled piece of paper from his overcoat pocket and analysed it in the light of the balcony lamp.

There was much to be done, outlined the small piece, but the plans were aligned carefully. With Horace now in Romania, and soon to be in Poland for the extraction, they were left with identifying the intelligence cells and neutralising them. In other words, find the spies and make sure they have nothing to report. There was enough information gleaned over from some of the spies they already apprehended but it was not enough. They needed more. They needed it now, not tomorrow, not after a week. Reythier drank again, emptying the glass. That was the sixth glass of the night, the alcohol slowly poisoning his mind. He placed the paper back into his pocket and stared into the distance, the snowflakes dashing around his eyes like in a dance of crystal white flurries.

War was coming. There was nothing to prevent it, but they still had time to change the outcome.

-------

:bow:

This has been essentially the last "main" chapter of Swords Made of Letters. Three years later, the project has been finished. There are still 2 more chapters, 2 Epilogues, one focused on Horace and one focused again on Reythier and Klaus, but those are a bit more different and you will see soon why.

I cannot thank enough all of those who have read the project, I thank you enormously for the reading. I hope you enjoyed it and keep close to read the last 2 parts! Thank you! :bow:

A small, historical note from my side. I would encourage you all to watch The Imitation Game, a powerful movie created in honour of the cryptographer Alan Turing, starring Benedict Cumberbatch.

Turing's work on cryptography, building upon the work done by his colleagues at Bletchley and also the French & Polish cryptographer teams, was a significant boost in World War 2.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHeUNxBvmMg

For the final updates, I have a small roadmap for the future, with parts for the next months:

- Epilogue I (September)
- Epilogue II (October)
- Historical Note (November)
- Final edits & full PDF download (December)

I will compile, edit, arrange & construct a whole book for those who wish to read it and download it on their e-readers, computers, phones... :bow:

Epilogue I - Rescue

24th of January 1939
7:45 PM
Poland - Romania border post
Lower Ruthenia / Northern Bukovina
Poland / Romania

-------

Steam fluttered through the air, or was it smoke from the exhaust, they couldn't tell.

Their car stopped at the border post in no man's land, ushered through by the Polish border guards after a routine check of their papers, the headlights unmasking a thin red and white barrier that blocked their way. It was in fact a double barrier, illuminated by a small floodlight attached to the door of a small border post, one on each side of the border to prevent any ramming or intentional border crossings without a proper check. Horace stopped the car just before the first barrier, glancing at the border post for a couple of moments until a border guard in a dark blue navy uniform stepped outside, pulled his cap on and drew closer to the car. Horace saluted, his Polish interpretor sitting on the passenger's seat in front saluting the guard in formal Romanian. The guard saluted back and asked for the passports, which Horace was happy to oblige.

Rather surprised, the guard backed away for a moment when he felt four passports inside his hand. His eyes darted from Horace and his interpreter to the two men sitting on the backseat couch.

"Four of you?" asked the guard.

The Polish interpreter chimed in before Horace. "Yes, four of us. We have all of the necessary stamps from the Romanian consulate in Warszaw."

"Let me see about that."

The guard made an odd double-check of the passports with his fingers, glanced one last time at the car and returned to his border post. Horace watched as the man nearly collapsed to the ground, between the two barriers, seeming rather drunk and out of shape for a border guard. He stopped the engine fully and motioned to his interpreter to lower his window, despite the chilling cold, wanting to touch on every single sound he could hear out of the secluded cabin that made the border post. They had the stamps, of course, but they also had a significant luggage with them. Two Polish codebreakers were on the backseat, experienced minds in cryptography, each of them ordered by the French and British services to leave the dangers of Poland and establish themselves somewhere safer. And safer meant above the English Channel, in the south of England. Horace was tasked with extracting them, and they got all of the approvals but they had one last issue to take care of. Getting to the port of Constanta to catch the freighter bound for England. And that was due to leave in nine hours, which he was not sure they had.

The interpreter cleared his throat, giving Horace a thin smile and a worried glance.

"You think there might be an issue?" asked the interpreter in English.

"Your guys waved us through. Not sure what his issue is. Should not take this long."

Horace glanced at his watch. Five minutes. Another ten passed, with only muffled sounds reverberating in the utter silence at the border of Poland and Romania. The area around them was rather mountainous, at the edge of the Carpathians, a slight fog descending over the smaller cities and villages in the past four days, sprinkling them with light snow showers every other night. Sure, it was rather majestic to see it so crisp and beautiful but it would make their road so much slower.

Fifteen minutes. Still no sign of the border guard. Jittery, Horace got out of the car, closing the door ever so slightly to not make too loud of a noise to distract them.

Twenty minutes. Silence. And the first sprinkles of snow.

Thirty minutes. The interpreter got out as well, looking behind the car towards the Polish side. No cars, no guards, just slight fog and snow.

Fifty five minutes. The border post door creaked, revealing a rather tall and thin intelligence colonel who saluted Horace with a curt military salute. He drew up to him and handed him the passports, all of them stamped with the right duties including for the port in Constanta.

"Mister Horace?" the colonel asked in English.

"Yes?"

"Apologies for my colleague. He's rather off duty tonight." He paused for a moment to glance at the interpreter. "We've received word from the consulate and from our intelligence post in Bucharest. Apologies for the confusion, we knew of the mission but we had no idea when you would come. All of the stamps and duties have been approved, even for the port in Constanta. Freighter time to departure has been extended by an hour so you should have still about nine hours left to get there. It's a bit of a stretch but you should do it. Take the best of care and don't forget the mission. Have a good evening, gentlemen."

Eight hours later, they were on the freighter. Horace had made it.

-----

A small note from me - while Swords Made of Letters is nearing the end, I would like to announce that a new project is coming soon, far more ambitious.

A Painted Shield of Honour will be out soon. :bow:

Just post the link if it's going to be in a different thread. :bow:

Of course, the future project will be in a separate thread. :bow:

For those of you who are on Wattpad, I've done a slight update to it - you can read the first 20 chapters on Wattpad, soon the whole story will be available there as well for easy reading.


Swords Made of Letters on Wattpad -> https://www.wattpad.com/story/210140...ade-of-letters

:bow:

Swords Made of Letters is now at an end. The last chapter, the second epilogue. Thank you all so much for reading! :bow:


Epilogue II - Reminiscing

28th of November 1949
8:15 PM
Cafe Lafayette
Paris
France


--------

A squeaking sound reverberated through the small room in the back of the cafe, the sound of a badly oiled door moving to break the silence. Klaus dropped the tea cup from his lips, darting his eyes to the door. A tall man, dressed in a typical overcoat and tophat to hide his face drew close to his table. The only table in the tiny room, in fact. Klaus smiled. The man took off his tophat and placed it on the table, sitting down on the small wooden chair without as much as opening a button on his overcoat. Klaus smiled again at the sight of his friend, Alexandre Reythier. It had been more than 10 years since he last saw him, lost in the mirage and destruction of the war and the blistering invasion of France. A lot of time, Klaus thought, but Reythier looked way worse for wear.

"Time hasn't been kind to you, Alexandre."

Reythier smiled, the evident wrinkles on his weathered face sharpening in the dim light of the room. He unbuttoned his overcoat, revealing a wrinkled shirt and a dinner jacket that looked in top shape about twenty or so years ago.

"Not too ideal, yes. But I'm still part of the system, that's why I look older now."

"Every day makes you twice as old, you know that."

"And yet I couldn't get out of it. I never wanted to."

Klaus smiled. "You've got some explaining to do for me."

"That's why we're here?"

"I got out in time. You stayed until the end of the war. And you're in still in it after all this time."

"What's the time?" asked Reythier.

Klaus hesitated for a moment, unsure. He glanced at his silver watch from underneath the cuff of his shirt. "8:20 PM."

"So it's night. It's a night of November 1949. It's been almost 5 years, can you believe that?"

Reythier unveiled a crumpled newspaper from his overcoat, a newspaper dated from 1943 written by the French resistance. The ink was faded enough for Klaus to not distinguish everything that was written on the ront page but it was enough to make out a little article about Reythier and his counter-espionage efforts from Algeria. Klaus had lost touch with his friend after the invasion of France,

"What happened to you, Klaus? I heard some stories but are they true?"

Klaus looked up from his tea cup. "It depends what you heard. But in simple terms, during the invasion I was attached as counter-espionage to one of the frontline units. We got surprised during the initial stage of the invasion and my unit was rather quickly captured. I've been sent out to the Vichy Regime and because I refused to collaborate, I was stuck in a prison near Vichy were all I did was manual work."

"And factory work for the Reich?"

Klaus nodded. "That too. Uneventful, I was safe, but a tragic experience for me. I lost track of my family and I only managed to reconnect with my wife and children who had to flee from Rennes to the countryside. They weren't allowed to see me but they knew at least that I was away in Vichy France."

"At least you're here."

"That's my only blessing." Klaus paused. "Is it true? You fought the entire war?"

"When the invasion broke out they sent me out to French Algeria. I was one of the intelligence officers who had direct liaison with the generals, and the army in general, so I witnessed the entire war from close to the frontlines. Including the disasters.

"Mers El-Kebir?" asked Klaus, referring to the horrendous loss of ships suffered by the French Navy.

Reythier nodded. "I was in port back then, we knew things would go wrong. Just not that bad."

"What happened afterwards?"

"I fought on the African front for a while and then went to the United Kingdom to plan the invasion of Normandy, together with the rest of the teams at Bletchley Park. Remember we worked before the war with a certain Horace."

Klaus nodded. "What happened to him?"

"POW. Missing in action afterwards. They found him in the Dutch Indies in a rather rough shape but he returned home. Retired soon after, I saw him three years ago."

"Normandy then?"

"Normandy, all the way to the Rhine. After the Americans invaded past the Rhine I retreated back to Paris and took care of any units that might have been active for the Reich. Elbe and his ilk were assigned to the war effort, I have no idea what happened to them. They disappeared from our files."

Klaus sighed. "We won, Alexandre."

"Have we? Look at us, we're beyond tired. We're shells of ourselves."

"Indeed we are, indeed we are."

"Do you feel accomplished?"

Reythier laughed. "Accomplished is a word you use, Klaus?"

"For this situation, I would hope so."

"We are never accomplished, Klaus."

Reythier buttoned his overcoat back as it was, standing up to salute his friend in a rather sudden motion.

"Klaus, it was an honour to know you. May history judge us kindly." He took his tophat and left the small tea room, leaving Klaus alone to his thoughts. The sudden exit made sense. Reythier was now one of the most important counter-espionage officers in the country, not being allowed in public as a requirement and necessity. Klaus sighed.

The memory of history was all that was to be left of them.

-------


Thank you everyone. :bow:

Gentlemen & esteemed ladies,

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all so much for reading Swords Made of Letters. Almost 19000 views in over 3 years is superb, I hope you have enjoyed the story and in the future I will have it available for download to read on your eBook readers.

Thank you so much once more for reading this novel. :bow:

Readers,

If you are also on TWC (Total War Center), Swords Made of Letters has been nominated to the Writers Study Yearly Awards.

If you enjoyed the story, you can vote over here for it - https://www.twcenter.net/forums/show...ar-VOTE-THREAD!

:bow:

As Swords Made of Letters has wound down, I would like to do one final update - the historical note, focusing on the turbulent area of just before the war.

With the drums of war starting to grow by late 1935, the Remilitarisation of the Rhineland without any significant opposition from the world powers in March 1936 and the failure of the League of Nations was in many eyes, the turning point towards World War 2. By 1938, when the action of the novel takes place, and when the situation within Europe had become dire, there was a significant subterfurge between all major powers of Europe in order to find out more and more information about what the other parties were doing. A significant pool of resources was allocated towards military intelligence; intelligence both on the front line and behind the front lines played a crucial part in the war.

One can remember Bletchley Park and the entire team of cryptographers trying to make sense of all of the coded information from the Wehrmacht / Kriesgmarine.

If you would like to know more about the specific period of before the war and of course about military intelligence in that particular period, I have some reading suggestions, both focused and more general, to understand the heavy, turbulent time of 1938. And let us not forget - diplomacy still played a very important role.


Military Intelligence

• Third Reich is Listening - Christian Jennings (https://www.amazon.com/Third-Reich-L.../dp/1472829506)
• A Game of Birds & Wolves - Secret Game That Revolutionised The War - Simon Parkin (cracking the Kriesgmarine tactics & codes)
• On Intelligence - Colonel John-Hughes Wilson (excellent all around book)
• Arnhem - Battle for the Bridges - Antony Beevor (very interesting outline in the first 40 pages about how military intelligence failed)
• Secret War (World War 2 Spies, Codes & Guerillas) - Max Hastings
• Alan Turing - The Enigma - Andrew Hodges

Overview of Late 1930's

• Mission to Paris - Alan Furst (a rather similar novel I discovered after writing this novel, set also in 1938, in Paris)
• Road To War (The Lead Up To WW2) - Richard Overy / Alan Wheatcroft
• Appeasing Hitler (Chamberlain, Churchill and the Road to War) - Tim Bouverie
• Istanbul Passage - Joseph Kanon (WW2 spying novel set in Istanbul)

There is a good host of both movies focusing on the days of the war, particularly the spying part, but the leading up to the war is not as covered except in a lot of heavy, diplomatic books as diplomatic activity was most probably at it's peak right up to the war. Particularly in 1937 and 1938.

If you're interested in this subject, look around, there is a whole wealth of material available to read. And also to enjoy, because there are numerous movies about this as well - Imitation Game about Alan Turing springs immediately to mind!

Thank you and keep reading! :bow:

Ladies, gentlemen & readers,

If you're more familiar with Wattpad, you can also read it here - https://www.wattpad.com/story/210140...ade-of-letters

I've done some updates today, some more updates to come by the end of the month. And of course, I will hopefully be able to offer in 2021 the entire novel in full edits, in PDF format, for your reading on e-book readers.

:bow: