The rhythmic thundering of combat boots thudded in time with the pounding of Francis’s heart. She pressed her back against the damp stone wall behind her, enshrouding herself in the safety of darkness. Francis closed her eyes. She’d remembered an old night; one spent playing with her cousins in the lush English countryside. Jamie, the eldest, had told her that she must close her eyes in dark hiding places, so that those who are really searching couldn’t see light reflecting upon her eyes. She’d come very far from those trivial days. Such a childish thing to think of, shivering in a dank Hamburg alleyway. Though she supposed it was more of a comfort than a protection now.  

When the sound faded, the breath she’d been holding billowed out of her in a cloud, blowing her fiery hair into the air before her. Nothing was ever truly quiet in the cities of which Francis was sent. There was always something to look out for, to listen in on. Schutzstaffel officers conversing on their commute, diplomats arriving at various locations for reservations, even just regular Germans discussing this morning's paper. For Francis, everything was data, an advantage, a hidden gem. Ever since being assigned to a newer female unit of the Special Operations Executive, taking on risky assignments in the arteries of the Nazi occupation, Francis has become a different woman. Gone were the days of worrying how her pin-curls looked, what places she felt were too soft. Rather, she’d hope her curls instead fit a foreign standard—that she’d blend with the techniques of these German officers’ mothers, and that her now hardened physique was not enough to draw attention to her trained physicality. 

             Her assignment was a challenging one, the task being quite male in nature--at least that is how Director Aldrich had put it. It was not a typical intelligence mission. This was more than just data or insight. This was a man. Thomas Peddler, age 29, a spy for the Gestapo. Acting as a double-agent for the English. Recently, correspondence between Dieter and SS-Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller himself was intercepted, containing official plans rather than the falsified ones he was meant to use. Francis’s job was to find him, and eliminate him.

A leaf skittered over the brick-lain road, hissing at her mockingly. ‘Pay attention’ it warned. As if it too were deep into enemy territory, reminding a friend to stay alert. Her senses concentrated on her surroundings. Not many were out, although around the frequent pub some lingered. The air was thick with the smell of oncoming rain and tobacco. Francis stared ahead determinedly, heading in the direction of the quaint little inn she was currently staying in. 

The hairs on her nape stood suddenly. About twenty feet ahead of her, a tall figure was visible, walking passively in the opposite direction, towards whatever she was leaving behind. Unassuming at first, if not for his large stature and peculiar stride. His body was blanketed by a brown Macintosh coat, hanging over his shoulders like a cape. A vest and slacks beneath, feet in Oxfords. A practical hat. This was a British man. If there was one thing she knew, it was that. At least she hoped. A beat ticked in time with their footsteps.  When the brim of his fedora angled with the motion of his head, she could make out his face more clearly. Two sets of eyes met, as if in some silent standoff. An inspection; to determine trust. His eyes were dark and observant. Large, nearly feminine eyes, wide like a doe’s--yet not fearful. His nose twitched. Francis squared her shoulders, resisting the urge to squint at him suspiciously. Something unexpected then occurred. A corner of rolled paper poked from one of the lapels of his jacket, held by a concealed hand. Quickly, Francis scanned the street around them. Nobody to be concerned of, at least of those facing us. 

Without much time to hesitate, one of Francis’s cold hands moved, polished fingers deftly swiping the paper and shifting it up the cuff of her sleeve. There was too much risk at turning to look back at the man, so she held the note stiffly until she made it to the inn. Francis graciously welcomed the security allowed by her aged room. Smoke-yellowed wallpaper climbed high above the chipped wood vanity and bedframe. A dainty rose-glass gas lantern sat timidly on the bedside table. Plopping onto the chair before the vanity with a huff, she discarded the note onto the surface before her, before getting to work on removing her shoes. 

Francis was faintly aware of the risk she took accepting this piece of paper; how horribly her work could be jeopardized based on its hidden contents. Rising from her shoe-removing-hunch, she stared at the letter. It seemed to stare back, the carefully tight roll of it looking more like a mock-cigarette the longer it sat. Should I just burn it? Not dare to look inside and let it mingle with a struck match in the wash bowl? She thought. No--just get on with it. 

“Fine.” Francis whispered to herself. Resigned, she whisked the paper from its place before her, unrolling it carefully. It read: 

It seems we are in the same business. I have a lead on Peddler.

892 Grindel Straß Gasthof

“Peddler-” Francis paused. That address. That is the exact address of the inn she was currently staying in. “-What?” 

Something caught her eye. From the small distance from her seat to the second-floor window in her room, she could make out a figure on the street below. Half concealed in late-night shadow stood the same man from before. Her stomach grey heavy. Quickly standing, she shoved her feet back inside of her boots, and tucked the rolled message into her skirt hem. She retrieved something extra from her bag before leaving, strapping the small sheathed knife to the inside of her forearm, concealed by her coat. 

Francis made quick work of the steep winding stairs, stopping hesitantly for a moment at the exit. How did he know prior to writing that message of her location? She sighed harshly from her nose, nostrils flaring. She would have to face him regardless. Her job was never easy. Pushing the door ajar, Francis slipped out into the night. She could imagine the suspicion the poor inkeep must have of her, so she tried to exit smoothly and silently. Turning to face the street before her, her eyes caught her target. He was relaxed against the corner of a brick store front, a thin line of smoke curling up into the moonlight. For a moment Francis pondered just how many weapons could be concealed in that large coat he wore. The walk between them was short. 

“How did you pin me?” She bit out hushedly, skipping formalities. The man angled his head out of the shadow, squashing the rest of his cigarette against the brick wall behind him. He smirked slightly. 

“We’re spies, ain’t we?” He said. 

Briefly, Francis was stunned. His accent… was certainly not British. This was an American. She was not aware that the Americans were even engaging in the espionage efforts. 

“You’re an American?” She questioned.

“Is that a problem, ma’am?” Francis rolled her eyes in response. He continued. “Yes, I am in fact an American. And to answer your question, well… I’ve known your location for days, toots. You sure you chose the right career path?” He teased. 

Francis furrowed her brows as he spoke, feeling embarrassed that she indeed hadn’t caught him tracking her. “Keep your voice down!” she hissed, before glancing up the road, and adding: “Follow me.”

She disregarded his affirmative reply, deciding he was trustworthy enough. Once one got over his mocking nature, of course. Francis slid up the stairs to the front door of the Inn. Opening the door lightly, she could see that the innkeep was not present. Silently, she allowed both herself and this new American up the steps, and to the abandoned security of her room. 

“Couldn’t even buy me dinner first?” The man joked. 

“Shut up. What is your name?” She jabbed. She wished he would drop the humor, and explain what exactly he wanted. She watched as he stood now a bit awkwardly, looking around the small room. He made his way over to the vanity chair silently, taking a seat. Francis remained standing stiffly in the corner, an arm’s length from the door. 

“I apologize. That was very rude of me. My name is Wilkins. Agent Steve Wilkins.” He seemed sincere enough. 

“Alright. Wilkins. What do you have on Dieter?” She gestured into the air, now holding the rolled message like a pointer. 

Steve tsked. “That bastard. Ya’know his name isn’t even Thomas Peddler? It’s Paul. Paul Dieter. The man was never a Brit to begin with. S’always been a German.” 

Francis blinked. This was new. Not even her director had shared this information with her. Wilkins was proving himself to be a damned good spy. 

“Pretty good, ain’t I?” he started, beginning to stand. “Anyway, I’d better get out there. My goal was just to get your attention. Just being in this building is risk enough for me. Tell ‘ya what, meet me at that cafe on the next street over tomorrow. Noon.”

“But you’ve only just--” Francis was exhausted, and this Agent Wilkins’ hasty relay of information was only furthering her need to rest. “--Fine. The one with the…” She gestured into the air messily, as if the emulate the frilly umbrellas over the outdoor seasing with her hand. 

“That’s the one. We’ll discuss further over some coffee. Although I’m sure you’d probably prefer tea.” He made his way to the door, and turned to her one last time,“See ya there--Say, I never got your name.”

“Francis.” She replied, annoyedly. 

He offered a mock-salute, before slipping out into the hall. Francis stood stunned, whiplashed by the entire interaction. She now has an ally, she supposed, no matter how irritating Wilkins was. Her mind raced with disbelief, seeing just how far ahead the man actually was in his mission, in her mission. With a disgruntled huff, she sank onto the old mattress. Noon, then. That’s when she’d finally begin to figure all of this out. Paul Dieter had a new thing coming to him, thats for sure.