You are Daniel Ward, spy extraordinaire.
A natural linguist and an experienced journalist, you could have had a shining career in the media, journeying around the world – unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be. You were a well-travelled sort, visiting foreign locations and reporting news; a rather romantic lifestyle, some would say – and being rather promiscuous, you took advantage of it in whatever way you could. You were happy, and “well stocked”… until you were arrested on the spot entering a US airport on the way home on rape charges. You faced extradition.
Stuck in a small holding cell until the officials could figure out what to do with you, your salvation came when a squad of men, dressed in black suits, approached you with an offer that sounded too good to be true – work for the Secret Service – the OSS – and come out clean when the war is over. Dreading what would come if you didn’t join them, you accepted with gusto, and became a “face” – a spy specialising in infiltration. Though you have managed to upset several superiors with your dislike for authority and idealism, they remain true to their word – you are, after all, too good of a spy to pass on.
You’ve received word of a new mission, and a rendezvous at the Congressional Country Club – the room number, written down in a small planner that you carry around, you brandish to the receptionist. “How do I get to this office? It’s Dr. Lyndon’s.”
“Ah. Just go up those stairs there, and make two right turns, a left turn, then a right turn. It’s the door at the end of the hallway.”
“Thank you.” You pause to take out your fountain pen and a paper tissue; you squirt a generous blob of ink onto the planner paper, then rub it in until it almost begins to tear. You pocket the pen and close the planner – its pages warped by multitudes of ink drops and rubbed thin.
You walk through a multitude of vast chambers lit by golden lamps and shimmering chandeliers. The massive French windows, built into the walls in nearly every room, remain shuttered and blinded for now as the weather worsens. The deep, muffled thrum of rain tapping against the glass echoes around the rooms and soothes your ears.
Eventually, you reach a door at the end of the hallway – a metal plate embedded in the wood reads A[SIZE=7PT]NDREW[/SIZE] L[SIZE=7PT]YNDON[/SIZE], MD. You knock on the door. “Dr. Lyndon? It’s Daniel Ward.”
“Come in. You’re late, but I suppose that can’t be helped,” someone speaks from beyond the door, slightly muffled.
You open the door and come in. “Well, I’m sorry, but this was very short-notice.”
The door opens to reveal a stately office; dark wooden furniture, grand both in size and execution, populate the room. At its centre dominates an opulent desk, newly lacquered and glowing with a rich warmth; from beneath its mirror-like surface, the wood blazes and flares out in shades of brilliant crimson and scarlet, throwing glittering embers that sparkle and smoulder against the dim light – seated around them are your fellow agents, both dressed sharply; Brett Parker, and the Professor, Walter Quigley, slightly wet. Though two large windows are built into the far wall, they remain shut for shelter and the room is lit instead by a multitude of ornate brass lights affixed to nearly every corner of the room and bathing it in a fiery golden light. Behind the desk reclines an older man dressed in a charcoal-grey suit and tie – tufts of grey are visible amidst his jet-black hair and beard, and his nose, thin and long, supports a pair of small glasses with a thin, golden frame. Dr. Lyndon; the one and only.
“I’m aware, but notifying you all further in advance was impossible. Now please, have a seat.” He remains quiet for a few moments as you pull up a chair, and hands you a folder from the binder.
“I’ll give you all a few moments to examine the folders.”
You open and take a look at the contents of your own folder. Inside, you find a large, folded black-and-white map of a camp of some sort, with outlines of tents that had been set up and labels indicating names and uses for them; and another map, this time of Europe, printed on the other side – someone had marked the map with a red dot to show the camp’s location. Against the black and grey shades of matte ink, the lone red dot stands in stark contrast against its Spartan surroundings; catching the dusty beams of light from above, it still gleams slightly and seems almost to be a drop of blood, spilled in accident – or in anger, perhaps – onto the page.
“Our mission,” Dr. Lyndon begins, “codenamed MAFIAA, is to infiltrate a temporary Nazi military camp that has been found in the location shown on the map provided. We’re not sure what the camp is for, but our intelligence has informed us they are searching for some kind of old weapon or artefact, and that it is critical to the Nazis’ war plan; recovery, while not being the priority, would be appreciated. The layout map and the photos show how the camp currently looks – as you can see, it’s not very well fortified or secure, but blends in well with the forest scenery and defends itself primarily through stealth. This is a double-edged sword; though you will not find it difficult to eavesdrop or infiltrate the camp, you must also be aware that you yourselves will have very little privacy.
“Our goal is to infiltrate the camp by masquerading as Nazi agents. Once inside, we are to systematically eliminate the other Nazi agents present in the camp and gather as much intelligence as possible about the Nazis’ military plan, operations, the goal of this Nazi military camp, and anything else we might find. We'll be escorted to the edge of the camp tomorrow midnight, then left there to our own machinations.”
“Hah! That doesn’t sound hard at all!” Parker, who had come forward to the edge of his seat as he spoke, now leans back into the chair again and crosses his arms.
“Well,” the Doctor replies, “the circumstances of this mission actually make it a fair deal more difficult than the previous ones–”
“Oh, well, there’s always, a catch, isn’t there?”
The Doctor sighs. “Gentlemen, this is a mission that is profoundly different from what we have seen before. It will truly test our limits. It may push us beyond that.”
“We could arrange for some help if we need it – it’s not like we’re doing this on our own.”
He continues, ignoring the comment. “The reasons are thus: First, we have no backup or reinforcements, no support or communication with Headquarters, and failure – or escape – is not an option.”
Parker kicks a garbage bin. “The bastards!”
“Second, the camp is populated not by standard soldiers, but an elite, hitherto-unknown unit designated Division 0 – these are all soldiers that surpass the entire SS in skill and ruthlessness. We must expect heavy and brutal resistance. They will not hesitate to kill and torture.”
The Professor shuts his eyes and leans his head against the back of the chair.
”Third, since the camp contains very little besides canvas tents, we cannot expect to survive if we are discovered or happen upon a firefight. Lastly, if the mission does fail and we are forced to escape, we cannot expect any friendly rescuers or transports to help us navigate what are essentially the heartlands of hostile territory.”
Dr. Lyndon pauses, looking away. ”We’ll be disowned and exiled, and our families will receive no support. Even if we are successful, we will have to travel through the warzone ourselves, as the agency doesn’t want to help any more than is absolutely necessary – I'm sorry, gentlemen, but this may very well be our last mission.”
Professor Quigley sighs deeply; silvery smoke comes out in a great, pale cloud as if from a dying dragon, now too frail to breathe fire. You lean back, eyes shut, massaging your temples. Parker, now standing, shuffles forward to the window. The false smile, having been finished off by your words, is now replaced by a dark, pained frown. He opens the window and, resting his elbows on the windowsill, leans out until he almost seems to be losing his balance, letting the cold evening rain drizzle on his head and soak into his clothes. Finally, after a long, dragged-out moment of silence, he turns his head to you.
“Why are they doing this to us?”
“I don’t know.” The Doctor sounded pained. Brief answers were unlike him.
Raindrops, drumming quietly against the ground. Nothing is said for another long while. “What do we do?”
“What do you mean – what can we do? We can do what they've told us to do… Or get shot, or put back in prison. Or get detained. They’re ruthless. You know that.”
“Yes, I know, it's just... I didn't accept that parole offer just to get killed on a suicide mission.”
“Sadly, we've already been assigned the mission. We can't do anything about that.” You open your eyes at last to look around and reply. You see Parker, no out by the window, staring into the grey distance – seemingly unconcerned by the rain falling onto his head. “I suppose... All that's left now is to have a little faith. It seems they've already put theirs on us.”
Parker jerks around, spraying droplets across the room. “Fuck your faith! Fuck theirs, too! I don't want to die!” He brings out a handkerchief from his pocket and dries himself off before throwing it to the ground and flinging the Doctor’s desk lamp across the room with a loud clatter and crash, then remaining motionless, staring at the handkerchief with a grimace. Then, after a long while, he creaks back into life, and staggers, wearily, back to his chair, and slumps into it.
“We’re not going to survive this, are we.” Not a question, but a statement. His voice seems flat.
“I’m… I’m sorry.” The Doctor averts his eyes.
He reclines in the armchair, looking out at the overcast skies beyond the window. “...I need a drink,” he says at last.
The Doctor takes out a dust-covered whiskey bottle and a tumbler, screws off the cap and pours some into the glass, offering it to him. You frown again. He almost never offers his fine whiskey to anyone – always said it was only for truly special occasions.
“Here. Have some of mine.”
Parker takes it and mumbles a few words of thanks.
“I know that discussing the mission isn't something we want to do right now, but there are cover stories in each of your briefing folders. It would be a good idea if each of us would retire to the dormitories in the second basement floor for the remainder of today and tomorrow – we have been, sadly, placed on a temporary curfew until we leave for the mission – and stay in our rooms to read over our cover stories and relax in safety. The administrators have already relieved you, Professor, and you, Mr. Ward, of your duties for the next few weeks for the mission.”
You stand up. “I suppose we have no choice, then. I’ll be at the cafeteria if anyone needs me.” Walking toward the door, Quigley gets up to leave with you; you may as well go now to prepare.