Post by Lorpius Prime on May 18, 2008 1:42:38 GMT -5
The Apollo was a commercial passenger airship operated by Imperial Airways. It was one of the largest airship’s in the company’s fleet, and as such was many times the size of the somewhat more luxuriously-appointed Welsh Rover in which Jay Thomson Blake had flown two weeks previously. It was designed to carry over two-hundred passengers and was, in fact, the largest airship by far on the ground at Devon’s Royal Air Station. As they approached the station, Martin Bozeman Holland looked out the windows of Margaret Blake’s carriage and could see half a dozen smaller airships hovering overhead, waiting for the behemoth to depart and clear enough space for them to land.
“I told you we wouldn’t be late,” said the woman across from him from beneath a gaudy wide-brimmed purple hat.
“We are late,” Martin replied, glancing at the pocket watch which he had been referring to nervously for most of the last hour and a half. It was one minute past ten. “They just haven’t left without us. Yet,” he added. Martin was not about to allow himself to relax until they were actually on board.
Margaret waved a dismissive hand and Martin fumed. Perhaps she could be confident that an airliner would wait for the daughter of a wealthy peer Martin had always had to live his life to the schedules and rules of common citizens, and he resented those who flouted them.
For her own part, Margaret would not have ordinarily abused her social status with such irresponsible abandon. But she had not been able to resist tormenting the anxious Colonel with a lengthy preparation routine. She had enjoyed watching him fidget during the entire carriage ride.
The coachman finally drew them to a stop in front of the boarding stairs to the airship’s triple-story gondola. Martin pushed open the door and hopped down at once, taking his one small satchel bag before the coachman could even get down to offer help.
Margaret exited much more slowly, accepting the coachman’s hand as she stepped down. Martin tapped his foot as he watched one the Apollo’s porters hurrying over towards the carriage. There was no practical reason that he could not have just gone ahead and boarded himself, except that it would have felt somehow socially awkward. Since the porter was coming out, he supposed the airship was not going to leave without them anyway, so it wasn’t a problem if he did wait.
The porter bowed and took Margaret’s suitcase away, but Martin noticed that he could not help but point out that they were the last to arrive and the Apollo would be departing just as soon as they got on board. Margaret ignored his smirk.
They followed the porter across the tarmac surface of the station grounds and up steps into the second floor of the gondola where a conductor waited to take their tickets.
“Ah, Miss Blake,” he said with noticeable relief. “You are in suite H at the back here. Allow me to take you there myself. And, um” the conductor blinked and adjusted his cap as he took Martin’s ticket. “Ah, Mr. Holland, you are in seat 27B on the upper level. I’ll have an attendant show you to it.”
Martin turned red as he realized the source of the confusion. Margaret had arranged for passage on the Apollo through her servants; and they had bought her a first-class, private cabin for the journey. Martin, however, had purchased his own ticket, one for an ordinary seat in the regular-fare compartment. The airship had been waiting for its high-paying aristocratic customer to arrive; they had not been overly concerned with whether Martin showed up at all.
The conductor was waving to summon one of the attendants when Margaret stopped him.
“Nonsense,” she said, “Colonel Holland can accompany me.”
“Oh…” the conductor looked between the both of them, then flushed quite as scarlet as Martin had. “I mean, of course. Just this way.” And he turned quickly away to lead them down the hall.
Martin rolled his eyes and, not for the first time, regretted making this trip at all. Margaret was totally unfazed, however, and even grabbed Martin by the hand to pull him along. “Come on, then!” she said, and Martin suspected she was taking an evil delight in the whole matter. Still, he followed, and suppressed the urge to mutter darkly in her wake.
“I think,” said Margaret in between bites of a cold sandwich, “that the crew believes we are engaged in a potentially scandalous rendezvous.”
As Martin well knew, they were engaged in a scandalous rendezvous. But he didn’t mention that, instead taking a moment to light the cigarette he had extracted from the package in his pocket after sitting down.
“Yes, the unwed daughter of an Exeter life-peer and a mid-level officer of the Security Service. It’ll be all over the London tabloids by morning.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and released the smoke in his standard ritual.
“You really think so?” Margaret leaned forward on one hand and looked dreamily up towards the ceiling.
“No. You’ll find more scandal than that as morning gossip in the average coffee house,” Martin brushed a bit of fuzz off of his paints. “Now, if you were the wife of said life-peer, then you might be on to something.”
Margaret stuck out her lower lip, “Well you’re no fun.”
Martin puffed on the cigarette a few more times before responding. Outside the window of the cabin suite the airship was just passing over the British coast near Sidmouth. Martin leaned his chair back against the wall behind him and turned again to Margaret, who was sitting on her bed across from him finishing the sandwich she’d gotten from the luxury deck’s dining compartment.
“I don’t find the prospect of being featured in a scandal-rag amusing, no.”
The Blake woman swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and shook her head. “And do you find anything amusing, Colonel Holland? I swear, you seem to be the least relaxed person I have ever met. I think you have less fun than my father, which is saying something.”
Martin didn’t know how to answer that immediately, and he put his hands behind his head to think for a moment. It was not a matter that had ever really occurred to him before.
“I enjoy completing a task well,” he said finally, and shrugged. “I suppose you could say I like my job… usually.”
Margaret snorted, “Have I been making your job difficult, then?”
“You could say that,” Martin replied, and it came out in a more serious tone than he intended to betray.
Margaret raised her eyebrow, “Well don’t expect me to apologize! It’s good for you to get away from the toil on occasion, meet new people, see the world.” She nodded out the window.
He couldn’t help but laugh, “I’m quite sure that I’ve seen much more of the world than you have.”
“Oh, have you now?” Margaret stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Colonel Holland is quite the adventurer, is he? Hmmph.”
Martin shook his head, “Most of it’s not worth seeing.”
“Easy to say for someone who’s already seen it!” she retorted. “And I’m sure where we’re going is plenty impressive. Munich’s supposed to be more beautiful than London, and without all the smog and people to dirty it up.”
Martin turned to the window again. In its reflection he could see the tip of his cigarette flare orange as he drew on it again.
“Maybe.”
“You’re being cryptic again,” she said, and Martin could just imagine her rolling her eyes. “Do people in your line of work get trained in that, or do you just have a natural talent for it?”
A minute passed without an answer, and Martin heard her sit down on the bed again. She waited until his cigarette had burned down and he was reaching into his pocket for a second one before speaking again.
“So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Martin touched the fresh cigarette to the embers of his old one.
“You did say Jay Thomson is in Munich, right?”
“I think so,” he replied, with less confidence than even he had expected of himself.
“Well?” she inquired, exasperated. “Do you ever intend to tell me anything more about his situation? How are we going to get him? Is he all right?”
Martin flinched. He had been avoiding thinking about his plan since the moment he’d resigned himself to allowing the young woman to accompany him. It had been difficult to get to sleep the night before, with all his professional instincts and training screaming at him about the stupidity of it all. He simply did not know what he was going to do, did not have the faintest idea. This all made it rather difficult to come up with an appropriate lie to tell Margaret.
“So why lie at all?” he mumbled, before he could suppress that part of his mind.
“Speak up.”
Martin was barely able to stop himself from descending into a transparent coughing fit to cover his error. He was losing control and needed to pull it together, fast. It would be a dismal end to his entire career if he botched this operation out of amateur carelessness.
“I… don’t know,” he admitted, then shrugged before placing his newly lit cigarette between his teeth.
“You don’t know if you intend to tell me anything more?” Martin could hear the doubt creeping into her voice.
He turned his head sharply to catch her eyes. They were brown and shadowed by steeply sloped eyebrows, and that critical gaze did not weaken at all in the face of his own. Slightly unnerved, Martin pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and tapped the ashes into the tray at his left elbow.
“I don’t know how we are going to get your brother. To be honest,” Martin left the cigarette in the ashtray for the moment and leaned forward, “I’m acting well beyond the scope of my orders at the moment.”
One of Margaret’s eyebrows lifted, “What do you mean?” She sounded worried now.
The best lies were those which contained a grain, or even a great deal, of truth. They could also be the most dangerous, Martin knew. But he had committed himself to a course of action, and he saw no other option, so he forged ahead.
“My orders were to stay with your family at your estate, to keep an eye out for anything which might be useful towards your brother’s case, and to keep you safe, of course,” Martin paused to watch Margaret’s head nod cautiously, though her eyes still conceded nothing.
“Those orders were the result of my reassignment. Prior to meeting your father in London, I was actually the agent in charge of the investigation into your brother’s whereabouts.”
He held up a hand as he saw the color begin to rush into her face, “It was the a political decision. One of my agents in Germany bungled his affairs and got himself killed as a result. My superiors needed a scapegoat, and since the agent was gone, the blame landed on me.”
Margaret had turned scarlet, “Someone was killed?! What happened?! Why didn’t you tell me any of this?! Why didn’t you tell my parents any of this?! What else haven’t you told us?”
Martin decided to ignore the questions for the moment and press on, “I accepted my reassignment willingly, I knew my superiors had little choice in the matter. But I have since come to regret the decision as a serious error. I am ashamed to admit that my office’s handling of your brother’s case has become something of a farce. And after the latest news, I could no longer tolerate these mistakes, I have decided to act and resolve the matter personally.”
Margaret didn’t say anything for a moment, but Martin knew it was too much to hope that she accepted his explanation. From the way her fists were shaking, he thought it more likely that she simply wasn’t sure where to begin: whether to ask more questions or pummel him.
“Where…” she said at last, through gritted teeth, “…is… Jay Thomson?”
“To the best of my knowledge, in Munich, as I have said.”
She stood up again, rather more quickly than Martin had been aware she could move, and he had to lean backwards into his chair to avoid the finger she held in front of his face like a dagger.
“Don’t wag me around, Colonel Holland! Is he safe?”
“‘Safe’ is a loaded word, Miss Blake,” he replied, forcing himself to look into the fury on her face rather than at her hand. “Your brother is alive. But he would seem to be the captive of something of an insurgent faction. I don’t believe their immediate intention is to harm him, but he is nevertheless in considerable danger.”
“‘Insurgent faction’?” her tone was incredulous. “Who? Why?”
At least she withdrew her hand slightly, allowing Martin to sit up straight again, “The occupation of Germany is not maintained without considerable resentment among certain segments of the population, Miss Blake, you may be assured of that. As for why, your brother is a reporter for a high-profile newspaper. I am sure they are hoping to publicize their cause.”
She snorted, “Then why haven’t we heard anything about it?”
Martin just held her gaze.
“Oh, forgive me,” Margaret rolled her eyes, “the Security Service didn’t bungle that job, did it then?”
Martin did not add the yet which that statement needed, but waited for her next question.
“Hmmph,” she said again, and folded her arms in front of her chest. “Well, that’s quite a little revelation. I can hardly say it inspires me to confidence in the abilities of your office or you, Colonel Holland. Still…”
It was Martin’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Margaret glared at him for a moment.
“Still, thank you for at least telling me the truth,” she sighed.
“You see why I did not want to share it with you before. And especially not with your mother and father?”
“Afraid they would worry more?”
“It can’t be easy to know your son, or your brother, is a hostage to rebels.”
“Not knowing anything would be worse. It is worse,” she restated firmly. Then she sat back down, still looking at Martin with hard eyes, but at least not accusing ones.
“Then I am sorry,” he said, breathing just a little easier. “It is a difficult situation for me and my people; perhaps we forget how difficult it can be for those we are trying to protect as well.” Martin kept a straight face as he said it; it was easier to suppress the irony now that he felt he was under somewhat less pressure.
Margaret nodded, “Perhaps.”
Neither of them said anything for a while. Martin picked up his cigarette again to continue smoking it. He looked out the window at the ocean from the corner of his eye, still very much aware that Margaret was still staring directly at him.
She broke the silence first, “I suppose, however, that this does not solve our first problem. How are we going to recover Jay Thomson? Do you plan to simply march up to these people and demand him back? Do you even know anything about them at all? Or are we just supposed to start looking for ‘insurgent factions’ residing somewhere in Munich?”
“Not much more, I’m afraid.” He paused, but Margaret didn’t interject with anything, so he continued. “I had intended to visit our station in the city. They have been handling this case directly, and I know some of the people there personally. My hope is that they will be better informed.”
“Aren’t these the same people who you say have been dropping the ball so much already?”
“Yes,” Martin nodded and tried to look unhappy. It wasn’t difficult, as he was not at all happy at the moment. "But perhaps they can be… encouraged to improve their performance.” Margaret was beginning to look angry again, and he shrugged, “It is a bad situation, all we can do is make the best of it.”
She visibly swallowed her anger, and nodded. “Still,” she said, apparently not yet completely satisfied, “even if they can help you find Jay Thomson, what are we supposed to do then? I don’t suppose they’re likely to just let him loose if I ask them nicely, are they?”
“Erm, no,” Martin blinked. Despite his initial dread, the conversation was actually proving to be more than a bit useful. He could feel the pieces of his plan beginning to fall into place. “No, I don’t believe you want to go anywhere near these people. If I am able to locate your brother, then I and some of the agents from our Munich station will extract him.”
“I recognize euphemism, Colonel Holland, don’t be coy.”
“It isn’t, quite,” he said. “We will infiltrate his location and rescue your brother, using force if necessary.” He was looking past her now, imagining the operation already, and the explanation he would give when it was all over.
“You’ll just break your way in with guns blazing and then blast your way out? That sounds more than a little dangerous!” she protested.
Martin nodded calmly, “It is, most certainly. But I still wouldn’t worry too much. We are trained in this sort of thing, while the people we operate against are… not,” he finished flatly.
Margaret did not look the least bit comforted, “You’re hardly convincing, Colonel Holland. Especially not after you’ve just finished telling me about how your people have been outwitted at every turn by whoever it is that have Jay Thomson.”
“That is true, I can’t deny it,” oh how Martin wished he could. “I can only assure you that I am quite good at this sort of thing; and I don’t see any other options. None that involve actually recovering your brother, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve considered giving in to their demands, have you?”
Martin could tell she was only half-serious when she said it, but he decided to treat the question as if it was meant in earnest. He clenched his cigarette between his teeth and held out his empty palms, “Have you seen any demands? I have not.”
“I thought you said they were holding him to get into the papers?”
He shook his head, “That is merely a theory. And in any case they may not believe they need outside assistance for that, your brother may be able to do it for them, through his paper.”
Margaret sulked for a moment, then said more than a little grudgingly, “I still don’t like the idea of shooting at people to rescue Jay Thomson.”
Martin forced his face into a grim mask, “Miss Blake, I sympathize with your predicament, I really do. But I feel obligated to remind you that what you think does not actually matter. If you have a suggestion, I may listen, but the Security Service remains the authority in charge of recovering your brother, and we don’t need your permission to act as we see fit.”
She gawked at him, “‘We’, Colonel Holland? I thought you were acting quite independently of your orders from the Security Service?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “But that doesn’t change the nature of your position. I am certainly not subordinate to your orders.”
“Oh no?” Her eyes narrowed, “Given the nature of your position, I imagine I could get you sacked in a moment by reporting you to your superiors.”
Martin took a final puff on his cigarette, then crushed the butt in the ashtray on the little table beside him. He folded his hands together beneath his chin.
“You could,” he acknowledged. “But it would change very little. My superiors will attempt to rescue your brother in exactly the manner that I have outlined. That is how things are done in these operations. The only difference is that the rescue will be handled by someone else, someone you don’t know nearly so well and who I imagine would be significantly less willing to keep you informed. Not to mention it will almost certainly be one of the other agents on this case who have done such a bang-up job just finding your brother thus far. Tell me, Miss Blake,” and once again Martin leaned forward to look directly into her uncertain eyes, “do you really trust them with your brother’s life?”
She was shaking just very slightly with what Martin thought was anger again, but he saw her eyes begin to glisten just before she blinked and shook her head in a reluctant but clear negative.
“Then will you trust me?”
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-
“I told you we wouldn’t be late,” said the woman across from him from beneath a gaudy wide-brimmed purple hat.
“We are late,” Martin replied, glancing at the pocket watch which he had been referring to nervously for most of the last hour and a half. It was one minute past ten. “They just haven’t left without us. Yet,” he added. Martin was not about to allow himself to relax until they were actually on board.
Margaret waved a dismissive hand and Martin fumed. Perhaps she could be confident that an airliner would wait for the daughter of a wealthy peer Martin had always had to live his life to the schedules and rules of common citizens, and he resented those who flouted them.
For her own part, Margaret would not have ordinarily abused her social status with such irresponsible abandon. But she had not been able to resist tormenting the anxious Colonel with a lengthy preparation routine. She had enjoyed watching him fidget during the entire carriage ride.
The coachman finally drew them to a stop in front of the boarding stairs to the airship’s triple-story gondola. Martin pushed open the door and hopped down at once, taking his one small satchel bag before the coachman could even get down to offer help.
Margaret exited much more slowly, accepting the coachman’s hand as she stepped down. Martin tapped his foot as he watched one the Apollo’s porters hurrying over towards the carriage. There was no practical reason that he could not have just gone ahead and boarded himself, except that it would have felt somehow socially awkward. Since the porter was coming out, he supposed the airship was not going to leave without them anyway, so it wasn’t a problem if he did wait.
The porter bowed and took Margaret’s suitcase away, but Martin noticed that he could not help but point out that they were the last to arrive and the Apollo would be departing just as soon as they got on board. Margaret ignored his smirk.
They followed the porter across the tarmac surface of the station grounds and up steps into the second floor of the gondola where a conductor waited to take their tickets.
“Ah, Miss Blake,” he said with noticeable relief. “You are in suite H at the back here. Allow me to take you there myself. And, um” the conductor blinked and adjusted his cap as he took Martin’s ticket. “Ah, Mr. Holland, you are in seat 27B on the upper level. I’ll have an attendant show you to it.”
Martin turned red as he realized the source of the confusion. Margaret had arranged for passage on the Apollo through her servants; and they had bought her a first-class, private cabin for the journey. Martin, however, had purchased his own ticket, one for an ordinary seat in the regular-fare compartment. The airship had been waiting for its high-paying aristocratic customer to arrive; they had not been overly concerned with whether Martin showed up at all.
The conductor was waving to summon one of the attendants when Margaret stopped him.
“Nonsense,” she said, “Colonel Holland can accompany me.”
“Oh…” the conductor looked between the both of them, then flushed quite as scarlet as Martin had. “I mean, of course. Just this way.” And he turned quickly away to lead them down the hall.
Martin rolled his eyes and, not for the first time, regretted making this trip at all. Margaret was totally unfazed, however, and even grabbed Martin by the hand to pull him along. “Come on, then!” she said, and Martin suspected she was taking an evil delight in the whole matter. Still, he followed, and suppressed the urge to mutter darkly in her wake.
* * *
“I think,” said Margaret in between bites of a cold sandwich, “that the crew believes we are engaged in a potentially scandalous rendezvous.”
As Martin well knew, they were engaged in a scandalous rendezvous. But he didn’t mention that, instead taking a moment to light the cigarette he had extracted from the package in his pocket after sitting down.
“Yes, the unwed daughter of an Exeter life-peer and a mid-level officer of the Security Service. It’ll be all over the London tabloids by morning.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and released the smoke in his standard ritual.
“You really think so?” Margaret leaned forward on one hand and looked dreamily up towards the ceiling.
“No. You’ll find more scandal than that as morning gossip in the average coffee house,” Martin brushed a bit of fuzz off of his paints. “Now, if you were the wife of said life-peer, then you might be on to something.”
Margaret stuck out her lower lip, “Well you’re no fun.”
Martin puffed on the cigarette a few more times before responding. Outside the window of the cabin suite the airship was just passing over the British coast near Sidmouth. Martin leaned his chair back against the wall behind him and turned again to Margaret, who was sitting on her bed across from him finishing the sandwich she’d gotten from the luxury deck’s dining compartment.
“I don’t find the prospect of being featured in a scandal-rag amusing, no.”
The Blake woman swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and shook her head. “And do you find anything amusing, Colonel Holland? I swear, you seem to be the least relaxed person I have ever met. I think you have less fun than my father, which is saying something.”
Martin didn’t know how to answer that immediately, and he put his hands behind his head to think for a moment. It was not a matter that had ever really occurred to him before.
“I enjoy completing a task well,” he said finally, and shrugged. “I suppose you could say I like my job… usually.”
Margaret snorted, “Have I been making your job difficult, then?”
“You could say that,” Martin replied, and it came out in a more serious tone than he intended to betray.
Margaret raised her eyebrow, “Well don’t expect me to apologize! It’s good for you to get away from the toil on occasion, meet new people, see the world.” She nodded out the window.
He couldn’t help but laugh, “I’m quite sure that I’ve seen much more of the world than you have.”
“Oh, have you now?” Margaret stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Colonel Holland is quite the adventurer, is he? Hmmph.”
Martin shook his head, “Most of it’s not worth seeing.”
“Easy to say for someone who’s already seen it!” she retorted. “And I’m sure where we’re going is plenty impressive. Munich’s supposed to be more beautiful than London, and without all the smog and people to dirty it up.”
Martin turned to the window again. In its reflection he could see the tip of his cigarette flare orange as he drew on it again.
“Maybe.”
“You’re being cryptic again,” she said, and Martin could just imagine her rolling her eyes. “Do people in your line of work get trained in that, or do you just have a natural talent for it?”
A minute passed without an answer, and Martin heard her sit down on the bed again. She waited until his cigarette had burned down and he was reaching into his pocket for a second one before speaking again.
“So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Martin touched the fresh cigarette to the embers of his old one.
“You did say Jay Thomson is in Munich, right?”
“I think so,” he replied, with less confidence than even he had expected of himself.
“Well?” she inquired, exasperated. “Do you ever intend to tell me anything more about his situation? How are we going to get him? Is he all right?”
Martin flinched. He had been avoiding thinking about his plan since the moment he’d resigned himself to allowing the young woman to accompany him. It had been difficult to get to sleep the night before, with all his professional instincts and training screaming at him about the stupidity of it all. He simply did not know what he was going to do, did not have the faintest idea. This all made it rather difficult to come up with an appropriate lie to tell Margaret.
“So why lie at all?” he mumbled, before he could suppress that part of his mind.
“Speak up.”
Martin was barely able to stop himself from descending into a transparent coughing fit to cover his error. He was losing control and needed to pull it together, fast. It would be a dismal end to his entire career if he botched this operation out of amateur carelessness.
“I… don’t know,” he admitted, then shrugged before placing his newly lit cigarette between his teeth.
“You don’t know if you intend to tell me anything more?” Martin could hear the doubt creeping into her voice.
He turned his head sharply to catch her eyes. They were brown and shadowed by steeply sloped eyebrows, and that critical gaze did not weaken at all in the face of his own. Slightly unnerved, Martin pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and tapped the ashes into the tray at his left elbow.
“I don’t know how we are going to get your brother. To be honest,” Martin left the cigarette in the ashtray for the moment and leaned forward, “I’m acting well beyond the scope of my orders at the moment.”
One of Margaret’s eyebrows lifted, “What do you mean?” She sounded worried now.
The best lies were those which contained a grain, or even a great deal, of truth. They could also be the most dangerous, Martin knew. But he had committed himself to a course of action, and he saw no other option, so he forged ahead.
“My orders were to stay with your family at your estate, to keep an eye out for anything which might be useful towards your brother’s case, and to keep you safe, of course,” Martin paused to watch Margaret’s head nod cautiously, though her eyes still conceded nothing.
“Those orders were the result of my reassignment. Prior to meeting your father in London, I was actually the agent in charge of the investigation into your brother’s whereabouts.”
He held up a hand as he saw the color begin to rush into her face, “It was the a political decision. One of my agents in Germany bungled his affairs and got himself killed as a result. My superiors needed a scapegoat, and since the agent was gone, the blame landed on me.”
Margaret had turned scarlet, “Someone was killed?! What happened?! Why didn’t you tell me any of this?! Why didn’t you tell my parents any of this?! What else haven’t you told us?”
Martin decided to ignore the questions for the moment and press on, “I accepted my reassignment willingly, I knew my superiors had little choice in the matter. But I have since come to regret the decision as a serious error. I am ashamed to admit that my office’s handling of your brother’s case has become something of a farce. And after the latest news, I could no longer tolerate these mistakes, I have decided to act and resolve the matter personally.”
Margaret didn’t say anything for a moment, but Martin knew it was too much to hope that she accepted his explanation. From the way her fists were shaking, he thought it more likely that she simply wasn’t sure where to begin: whether to ask more questions or pummel him.
“Where…” she said at last, through gritted teeth, “…is… Jay Thomson?”
“To the best of my knowledge, in Munich, as I have said.”
She stood up again, rather more quickly than Martin had been aware she could move, and he had to lean backwards into his chair to avoid the finger she held in front of his face like a dagger.
“Don’t wag me around, Colonel Holland! Is he safe?”
“‘Safe’ is a loaded word, Miss Blake,” he replied, forcing himself to look into the fury on her face rather than at her hand. “Your brother is alive. But he would seem to be the captive of something of an insurgent faction. I don’t believe their immediate intention is to harm him, but he is nevertheless in considerable danger.”
“‘Insurgent faction’?” her tone was incredulous. “Who? Why?”
At least she withdrew her hand slightly, allowing Martin to sit up straight again, “The occupation of Germany is not maintained without considerable resentment among certain segments of the population, Miss Blake, you may be assured of that. As for why, your brother is a reporter for a high-profile newspaper. I am sure they are hoping to publicize their cause.”
She snorted, “Then why haven’t we heard anything about it?”
Martin just held her gaze.
“Oh, forgive me,” Margaret rolled her eyes, “the Security Service didn’t bungle that job, did it then?”
Martin did not add the yet which that statement needed, but waited for her next question.
“Hmmph,” she said again, and folded her arms in front of her chest. “Well, that’s quite a little revelation. I can hardly say it inspires me to confidence in the abilities of your office or you, Colonel Holland. Still…”
It was Martin’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Margaret glared at him for a moment.
“Still, thank you for at least telling me the truth,” she sighed.
“You see why I did not want to share it with you before. And especially not with your mother and father?”
“Afraid they would worry more?”
“It can’t be easy to know your son, or your brother, is a hostage to rebels.”
“Not knowing anything would be worse. It is worse,” she restated firmly. Then she sat back down, still looking at Martin with hard eyes, but at least not accusing ones.
“Then I am sorry,” he said, breathing just a little easier. “It is a difficult situation for me and my people; perhaps we forget how difficult it can be for those we are trying to protect as well.” Martin kept a straight face as he said it; it was easier to suppress the irony now that he felt he was under somewhat less pressure.
Margaret nodded, “Perhaps.”
Neither of them said anything for a while. Martin picked up his cigarette again to continue smoking it. He looked out the window at the ocean from the corner of his eye, still very much aware that Margaret was still staring directly at him.
She broke the silence first, “I suppose, however, that this does not solve our first problem. How are we going to recover Jay Thomson? Do you plan to simply march up to these people and demand him back? Do you even know anything about them at all? Or are we just supposed to start looking for ‘insurgent factions’ residing somewhere in Munich?”
“Not much more, I’m afraid.” He paused, but Margaret didn’t interject with anything, so he continued. “I had intended to visit our station in the city. They have been handling this case directly, and I know some of the people there personally. My hope is that they will be better informed.”
“Aren’t these the same people who you say have been dropping the ball so much already?”
“Yes,” Martin nodded and tried to look unhappy. It wasn’t difficult, as he was not at all happy at the moment. "But perhaps they can be… encouraged to improve their performance.” Margaret was beginning to look angry again, and he shrugged, “It is a bad situation, all we can do is make the best of it.”
She visibly swallowed her anger, and nodded. “Still,” she said, apparently not yet completely satisfied, “even if they can help you find Jay Thomson, what are we supposed to do then? I don’t suppose they’re likely to just let him loose if I ask them nicely, are they?”
“Erm, no,” Martin blinked. Despite his initial dread, the conversation was actually proving to be more than a bit useful. He could feel the pieces of his plan beginning to fall into place. “No, I don’t believe you want to go anywhere near these people. If I am able to locate your brother, then I and some of the agents from our Munich station will extract him.”
“I recognize euphemism, Colonel Holland, don’t be coy.”
“It isn’t, quite,” he said. “We will infiltrate his location and rescue your brother, using force if necessary.” He was looking past her now, imagining the operation already, and the explanation he would give when it was all over.
“You’ll just break your way in with guns blazing and then blast your way out? That sounds more than a little dangerous!” she protested.
Martin nodded calmly, “It is, most certainly. But I still wouldn’t worry too much. We are trained in this sort of thing, while the people we operate against are… not,” he finished flatly.
Margaret did not look the least bit comforted, “You’re hardly convincing, Colonel Holland. Especially not after you’ve just finished telling me about how your people have been outwitted at every turn by whoever it is that have Jay Thomson.”
“That is true, I can’t deny it,” oh how Martin wished he could. “I can only assure you that I am quite good at this sort of thing; and I don’t see any other options. None that involve actually recovering your brother, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve considered giving in to their demands, have you?”
Martin could tell she was only half-serious when she said it, but he decided to treat the question as if it was meant in earnest. He clenched his cigarette between his teeth and held out his empty palms, “Have you seen any demands? I have not.”
“I thought you said they were holding him to get into the papers?”
He shook his head, “That is merely a theory. And in any case they may not believe they need outside assistance for that, your brother may be able to do it for them, through his paper.”
Margaret sulked for a moment, then said more than a little grudgingly, “I still don’t like the idea of shooting at people to rescue Jay Thomson.”
Martin forced his face into a grim mask, “Miss Blake, I sympathize with your predicament, I really do. But I feel obligated to remind you that what you think does not actually matter. If you have a suggestion, I may listen, but the Security Service remains the authority in charge of recovering your brother, and we don’t need your permission to act as we see fit.”
She gawked at him, “‘We’, Colonel Holland? I thought you were acting quite independently of your orders from the Security Service?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “But that doesn’t change the nature of your position. I am certainly not subordinate to your orders.”
“Oh no?” Her eyes narrowed, “Given the nature of your position, I imagine I could get you sacked in a moment by reporting you to your superiors.”
Martin took a final puff on his cigarette, then crushed the butt in the ashtray on the little table beside him. He folded his hands together beneath his chin.
“You could,” he acknowledged. “But it would change very little. My superiors will attempt to rescue your brother in exactly the manner that I have outlined. That is how things are done in these operations. The only difference is that the rescue will be handled by someone else, someone you don’t know nearly so well and who I imagine would be significantly less willing to keep you informed. Not to mention it will almost certainly be one of the other agents on this case who have done such a bang-up job just finding your brother thus far. Tell me, Miss Blake,” and once again Martin leaned forward to look directly into her uncertain eyes, “do you really trust them with your brother’s life?”
She was shaking just very slightly with what Martin thought was anger again, but he saw her eyes begin to glisten just before she blinked and shook her head in a reluctant but clear negative.
“Then will you trust me?”
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-