Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 1

- one week earlier  — 

* * *

Tuesday, October 23rd, 1945
3:45 p.m.
Café Le Cygne
5eme Arrondissement
Paris

"Oh, no," I said; and I started to laugh. I re-read the line in the newspaper article, just to make sure. "Oh, no."

"What?" from Rhys. He looked up from his own newspaper, and glanced sideways at me. I met his eyes.

"'Collaboration horizontale'? Is that really the term they're using for it  —  ?" I grinned over at him.

A small, very French-style shrug from him, and the beginnings of a small smile.

"Well  …  yes. Yes." Another little shrug, as he reached for his cigaret pack. "The joke's intentional."

The two of us, at a little sidewalk table, at a little, ordinary café, in the Latin Quarter. Not one of the famous ones, not the Café de Flore, or Les Deux Magots. Just an ordinary one, next to a tiny Tabac shop. The two of us sitting comfortably with our newspapers, our very ordinary glasses of red wine, and an ashtray.

Me, feeling a little drunk, just then. And it had nothing to do with the wine.

"It wasn't very humorous for the women who were accused of it," Rhys went on, looking away a little. His expression changed, and he shrugged again. He shook out another cigaret, and lit it.

"Hmmm," I went, sympathetically. But I didn't ask the obvious question.

And because I didn't ask it, or maybe for some other reason, Rhys looked over at me, with those piercing green eyes of his, and a soft smile that about melted me. And I knew how he was feeling, we've always known each other's feelings, it's part of our partnership; and I grinned back at him, happily. My heart just filled with the sight of him, the sound of him, the presence of him.

God, I thought to myself; that we had come to this ...

Back down to our newspapers, before anyone could notice. The owner in his black apron, bustling out to check on his patrons. The men and women walking by on the sidewalk, briskly; almost no cars or trucks on the street to speak of, and the cool air a whole lot cleaner than the only other time I'd been to Paris before, with Rhys.

I tried to concentrate. I'd never been very good at French; and I was pretty sure I was going to need to get much better at it, sooner rather than later.

And something caught my eye. I read a few words, and blinked at them; then I checked the article I'd just finished, and found the same phrase. And I started to laugh, quietly, all over again.

Rhys looked over at me, the question in his eyes. He didn't even have to say anything.

"'  …  the glorious Soviet Union, with Comrade Stalin at its head  …  '", I quoted, in translation. "And then, here, 'The glorious Soviet Union, with Comrade Stalin at its head', in a different article on a different page." I smiled over at him. "Are they getting paid by the number of times they run it?"

Another slight shrug, and another smile; a wry one, this time.

"They're getting told, to run it. And someone will be checking to make sure they do."

Just then, a thin man wearing a beret walking down the sidewalk looked at us, and stared, for just a moment. I looked back.

A pause. Rhys noticed him, too.

"Well, I can understand that," I went on. "I guess  …  but, you know, it's France. It's Paris, for Christ's sake. I just would have thought they'd be a little more sophisticated about things, here."

The beret-wearing man looked away, and walked on.

Another pause.

"Hmm," from Rhys. A kind of verbal shrug.

It wasn't the first time we'd been stared at, on my leave. We made an unusual pair, I knew. Me, a young American officer in uniform  —  which wasn't at all uncommon, Paris was flooded with American soldiers  —  but, one who was sitting quietly and companionably with Rhys, who was every inch a young French civilian. He was dressed in a French suit, the thick, dark hair on his bare head was cut a little long in the local style, he was all but chain-smoking French cigarets in a completely French way  …  there was even something in the way he held his newspaper. Something, too, about his gestures, his shrugs. Everything about him marked him as a native.

I was reading 'L'Humanité', the biggest Communist daily newspaper in Paris. Rhys was reading 'Stars and Stripes'.

Well, we each had our good reasons.

"I mean," I went on, "Sartre is a Communist now. Jean-Paul Sartre. A famous philosopher, a playwright, a novelist. What does he think about prose like this  —  ?"

Rhys gave me another wry look.

"He would probably say that it's necessary for the sake of the masses in France, and for the sake of the masses in The Glorious Soviet Union, With Comrade Stalin At Its Head. At least he would, in certain company."

I puffed out a little laugh.

"Seriously, though," he went on; looking away, for a moment. "You know, you can't really blame them. Everybody had to make some accommodations, with the Germans, and especially with Vichy, during the Occupation. You had to, just to eat, to survive. To pay the rent."

"Yes  —  ?" from me. Cautiously. This was getting into sensitive territory. Things we'd agreed to not talk about, yet.

"Yes. And everyone knows it." He puffed, quickly, at his cigaret, and didn't put it down. "And that's what makes the Party so popular, today. Being a Communist is as far from being Vichy as you can get. It's so, safe." His expression was ironic.

"Oh," I said. Expressively.

Another quick, warm, smile from Rhys.

"Besides that, there's us. Les Américains. Do you know what they call us  —  ?"

"Nothing very good, I'll bet."

"Well, that's true enough. But the popular one right now is, L'Autre Occupation. The Other Occupation. And I can't blame them for that, either. In many ways, it's true. We haven't treated the French, at least here in Paris, all that well  …  "

We. Us.

I couldn't help myself, I grinned over at him again, hugely. And Rhys gave a little shrug, again  …  and he answered my smile with another one of his own. Knowing what I was thinking, and feeling.

Of course, there was no real question. For all that Rhys looked and acted French, just then, he wasn't; he was an American, like me, and an American military officer, just like me. Both of us unemployed American military officers, waiting for our tickets home.

But while I was Army Air Force, and Rhys was in the Army, he'd been anything but regular U.S. Army.

He had, in fact, been assigned to the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services; the secret spy service, that everyone vaguely knew about, and no one really knew. And wherever he'd been, and whatever he'd done  —  I knew it had been rough. He had two new scars that I'd seen, and more still that didn't show  … 

Well. He wasn't alone, in that.

But the point, to me, was that wherever he'd served, Rhys had gotten out of the habit of speaking English. Again. He'd gotten used to thinking in French, again; I knew all the signs, from back when we first met. And it made me love him, all the more.

But I was glad to hear, the 'we'. And the 'us'.

* * *

I was ashamed of my body, at the beginning of my leave to Paris.

That was new.

I'd always been proud of my body, before, and I'd been especially proud of the affect it had on Rhys. I'd liked to tease Rhys with my body, often enough; with an unexpected flash of skin here, or an innocent but calculated pose, there. Sometimes he'd caught on, sometimes he hadn't, but I could always get a rise out of him, a literal rise, and I loved doing it.

But I'd spent almost six months in a German prisoner-of-war camp; the food was always scarce, and towards the end, when the Red Cross packages stopped getting through, things got serious.

When we were liberated by the Soviets, in April  —  the Germans were marching us West, under armed guard  —  well. We hadn't been close to starving; we were starving. The real thing.

I'd weighed less than one hundred pounds, at the Army field hospital near Hamburg. A doctor there had told me, that one more night out in the open might have been my last.

I believed him. We'd lost men, in the two days after we evacuated the camp. We'd lost more, when the Soviet tankers had tried sharing their food with some of us. It's a cruel irony, that solid food can kill a starving person, fast; their bodies can't cope with it.

You don't just bounce back, from near-starvation. I didn't.

I'd spent more than two months in Army hospitals in England, as the doctors took care of a depressingly-long list of my ailments. After that, I'd gone to a sanitarium, really just an old English country house requisitioned for officers like me, to 'regain my health'. This process had consisted of a lot of resting, some light exercise, and trying to persuade my body to please, please, get used to real food, again. Please?

And then came this leave.

So. I was not exactly strapping, when I stepped out of the C-47 at Le Bourget in Paris, with my heavy B-4 bag dangling painfully from my hand. I was better; but I was still gaunt, and I knew it. And I was ashamed of my body, and I was sorry, for Rhys' sake.

And then, I saw his face. His eyes.

We know each other, Rhys and I, better than anyone else in the world. We know each other, better than anyone else in the world, ever will.

What I saw in his eyes was a reflection, just a reflection, of what my beloved must have gone through while we were apart.

I threw my self-consciousness, and my shame, aside, as I held his eyes with mine; and I gave him back a look filled with all the love I had within me; and then, I smiled.

* * *

Rhys paid for our wine, with a few coins in the little tin plate; and then we left.

We wandered, actually. We strolled. No orders; no objectives, no schedule. It was bliss. Just, killing time, before having a very early dinner at a little bistro we'd visited once before.

I glanced at him, just quickly, out of the corner of my eye. Still not-quite-believing that he was really there, that we were really together. His profile a little older and a lot thinner, than when we were students at Harvard.

He noticed, of course. I saw the corner of his mouth quirk up just a little, in the beginnings of a smile, in that way that he has.

"You know," he said into the silence between us,  —  "David invited us to dinner at the Embassy, again." A pause, for a few steps. "I think there's no way of avoiding it."

I mock-winced, a little; but I sideways-grinned at him, too.

"Probably not. Just the three of us?"

"You know David. It'll be the Ambassador, and Mrs. Caffery, and whoever else can pull strings to get an invitation. At least it won't be all about us."

"Okay," I said, with another sideways-grin. I looked down. A few more, comfortable, silent paces. Then; "That helps  …  "

*

'David' was David Rockefeller. He was an Army Captain, and the Assistant Military Attaché at the American Embassy in Paris; and so, he was up to his eyeballs in intelligence work. He was, I knew from Rhys, G2; meaning, Army Intelligence.

And, we both knew him from before the war, a little. Through social connections, over the years; through mutual acquaintances, family, friends of friends  …  what Rhys always called, sardonically, 'Society'; the network of privilege and oppression.

We knew each other, even though, at thirty, he was five years older than we were; and miles beyond, and above, our own peer group. He was a Rockefeller, after all. But still, we were on a Christian-name basis with one another.

And Rhys was helping him, here in Paris. Briefing him. Introducing him, to the people he needed to know. Helping him draft his reports, to Washington.

And a big part of me was aware, and afraid, that Rhys' help, his very knowledgable and important help, was what was keeping the two of us from going home, together.

*

We kept on wandering, down the streets and lanes of the Latin Quarter; past brasseries, past shops with faded pictures of the goods they once sold, shoes, chocolates, clothes, that they hoped to sell again, someday  … 

I steered us. I tried not to make it obvious; but I steered us, always in one direction. Smiling to myself, at the joke of it.

And so we burst out from one last lane, onto a glorious, heart-stoppingly-beautiful sight.

Paris. The Seine.

The entire, glorious tableau of it.

Almost in front of us, the Pont de la Tournelle, arching across the water to the Île St.-Louis; gray stone apartment buildings, looming up over the water like cliffs  — 

And to the left, edge on, the Île de la Cité, the very heart of Paris. The leading edge of it sharp, almost like a ship's bow; bridges, multiple bridges, lacing their way from it, to both banks of the Seine; and in the middle, rising up out of the almost-naked trees, the beautiful nave of Notre Dame Cathedral, supported by soaring flying buttresses, topped with a spire, and the towers of the western entrance looming in back of the whole scene  …  Above us, a few thin cirrus clouds were just beginning to glow pink in the late afternoon sunlight.

It was all amazingly-beautiful, almost surreally-beautiful. I swore to myself that I would never get used to it, never take it for granted. Just a few years ago, after all, we hadn't known if we'd ever get back to Paris again, in our lifetimes.

It wasn't why I'd steered us here.

Casually, just very, very casually, I walked us down the quay, to our left, towards the Île de la Cité; our eyes still on Notre Dame, through the almost-naked quayside trees, in the gaps between the booksellers' stalls, as we walked slowly along  — 

The booksellers' stalls. The Bouquenistes. Their green-painted stalls fastened to the tops of the stone walls of the quayside; open, as they were now, they spread out hugely, chocked full of books, books of every description, old books, new books  — 

Paris might be short of almost everything, food, clothing, coal, electricity, everything; but there was clearly no shortage of books.

They were why I'd steered us here. Just for the fun of it; just for the joy of it. And for the love of Rhys, of course.

I would challenge anyone in the world, to try to get Rhys past an open bouqueniste's stall.

Oh, Rhys tried; for my sake, I could feel it, as I smiled to myself at the joke of it all. I could just feel him trying to look anywhere but at the first bookstall we passed, keeping his eyes away, trying to share the view of the Seine with me  — 

At the second stall, I could see his eyes drift over to the books on sale, in shelf after shelf after shelf, until he snapped his attention back to the view of the Cathedral.

At the third stall, something he saw caught his full attention; and we stopped.

"I'll be just a minute," he said to me, a little absently  — 

And he was gone.

*

It took considerably more than a minute, naturally. It took many more minutes. I spent them, dividing my attention between the river scene, the beautiful tree-lined quayside, and Rhys. Enjoying myself hugely, the whole time.

At last he came back with a whole stack of books, looking at me a little sheepishly. I just grinned at him.

"Sorry  …  sorry," he said.

"De rien."

Rhys passed me half of the books, automatically, and I took them, just as automatically, not even thinking about it. It's the kind of thing we've been doing since we met, eleven years ago, now. We are a team.

"Here, look at this one," he said; and he showed me the book on top of his stack. I saw the word 'L'Horloge', on the cover, and 'Facile à assembler'. Rhys opened it up, awkwardly, with his free hand.

"See  —  ? It's a clock you build, out of paper. You cut it out, and paste it, gear by gear, and then you assemble it, with nails for the gear shafts. And 'It Really Works!', it says so right on the title page!" This last came out, a little ironically. He looked up at me; and there was a moment's pause. "I thought we could build it, together  —  ?"

His expression, all of a sudden, was luminous.

This hit home, hard, in a good way. In the best possible way. When we were kids, we used to love assembling balsa-wood-and-tissue-paper model airplanes, together, it was wonderful fun. We'd built wonderful memories together, along with the flimsy models.

"Yeah," I said. "Yes." I gave him a long, slow smile; and then, before I could embarrass us any further, in public, I looked down to the open book, in his free hand.

And then I really focused on what I was seeing.

I was immediately horrified. On the one page alone, the printed outlines for cutting out and assembling just two gears  —  two small gears  —  were incredibly intricate, and complex. We'd be assembling gears, real gears, in three dimensions, out of flat paper. And we'd be doing it all by hand; the cutting, the folding, the pasting. And the book was not thin  … 

I used my own free hand to flip a few more pages, awkwardly. It got worse.

I looked up to Rhys.

"There's no possible way we could get something like this done, in the time we have left on my leave! This looks like it'll take  …  weeks, anyway. Months!"

Rhys gave me back a dry expression. "But, yes," he said, sounding French again, just for a moment. He closed the book carefully, and put it back on top of his stack of books, again, and put the stack under his arm. "We could start it here, perhaps; if we want. But I thought we could do most of the work, finish it, when we're home." He paused. "We'll have all the time we need."

Home. With Rhys.

All the time we need  … 

My face showed everything that was going through my heart, just at that moment; I was sure of it.

Rhys smiled his own gentle smile back at me.

"Come on. I have a surprise for you, for dinner  …  "

* * *

The sky fell in on us, the next day.

"Berlin  —  ?" I stopped in my tracks, astonished. Rhys stopped as well, and turned to look at me. "Oh, no. Oh, no, they can't. You? Berlin  —  ?"

Rhys had been called in to the Embassy that morning, by a note from a messenger. When he'd come back, he was grimmer than I could ever remember seeing him before. He looked older.

He'd said nothing back at the flat, he'd just suggested we go for a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens.

That's when I knew it was serious.

He'd warned me when I'd arrived, that the telephone was certainly tapped  —  not that it worked, all that often  —  and that we had to assume there were listening devices in the apartment. It was standard practice for the Sûreté, the French national police, with members of foreign intelligence services.

So, now, the Luxembourg Gardens. And this news. Which was far worse than I'd even feared.

"Come on," he said, softly, and we set out walking again, slowly; our shoes crunching on the gravel pathway.

"They can't make you!"

Rhys has  …  a history, in Berlin; dating from before the war. A terrible one.

He gave me a wordless, ironic, sideways look; at my uniform, I thought, and I closed my mouth. Of course they could make him. He was an officer, under orders.

"It's only for a few days," he went on, at last. Our slow steps crunching along. "I leave on the sleeper tonight, late  —  "

That hit me like a blow.

"  —  and I'll only be in Berlin for a day or so, maybe three. Then I'll take the train back. We'll still have time left, together." Another crunch, crunch, pause. "It really should be, a, well, fairly minor matter."

I knew Rhys better than anyone. He didn't think it was a minor matter.

I glanced away, for a second; looking around at the almost barren Gardens, the scaffolding-encrusted Luxembourg Palace  —  it had been used as a Luftwaffe headquarters, during the war  —  then, down at the gravel, under our feet.

"And this isn't really a Foreign Service job. Is it  —  ?"

I had to ask it.

A long pause from Rhys, as we walked. Our feet crunching through the gravel.

"No."

"God damn it all to fuck, Rhys!" I stopped in my tracks, again; making him stop to face me, again. "I don't get it, I just don't get it! How can they make you do this? You aren't in the OSS anymore, there is no OSS, Truman shut it down! I read about it, and you told me so yourself!"

I was angry, now, and I could feel myself getting angrier still. On Rhys' behalf. On our behalf.

Rhys faced me; he looked miserable.

"I'm sorry," he started; softly. "I'm sorry. I should have told you  …  You see, when Truman's order came down, well, some of us were reassigned." He paused, and looked away, slightly. "To something called the Special Services Unit, in the War Department." Another pause. "I thought it was just a bookkeeping entry; a way to keep us paid and fed, until we were brought home." Another, last pause; and he looked down at his feet. "I was wrong."

We stood still, then, for a moment. Me, trying to reconcile myself to the inevitable, the inescapable. The seconds stretched out.

"I can get you to Berlin in three hours," I said, finally. A little shortly. "On an Air Force flight, an Air Transport Command flight."

I could, too. All I had to do, was to show up at Le Bourget and ask. It was how things worked, these days.

He looked up at me, then, with those green eyes; and the unhappiness in his face softened, just a little.

"Well," he started, after a moment. He paused, again. "Well, that would be an inconspicuous way for a very junior Foreign Service officer to arrive in Berlin. Wouldn't it  —  ?" He said it gently, but with just a hint of a twitch, at the corner of his mouth.

We are a team. He could see that I wasn't blaming him, for  —  this.

"No," he went on. "But thank you, for that. But it's all arranged, already, anyway. I have the sleeper tickets, and the hotel reservations. Not at the Adlon, this time." He shrugged.

I winced, at this. I knew it was where he and his father had stayed, the other, disastrous time he'd been in Berlin.

Another pause; and I could see Rhys taking a deep breath. He reached out and touched my shoulder.

"Jack, mon cher  …  there's worse. I am so sorry, for it."

I didn't say anything.

"Come on, let's walk  …  " He turned; and I slowly followed. We started crunching our way down the gravel pathway, side by side, again.

"Do you remember the deal we had, before the war? After I got back from Shanghai?" He kept his voice low.

I stared over at him.

"What  —  ? Oh, no, Rhys. Oh, no, don't tell me  —  "

He held up one hand.

"It's just an idea. It's just a precaution. I don't think for a minute, that we'll have to use him. It's just that, I would be more, well, comfortable, knowing you could get in touch with him, if something were to  —  happen, to me." A pause. "For both our sakes."

A few years before the war, Rhys had met and befriended a British spy, of some sort, through getting mixed up in some political intrigue overseas, by no fault of his own. That person had offered his help to Rhys, if Rhys were ever to get into a jam over  —  well, anything intelligence-related. Espionage-related. The kind of work Rhys had wound up doing, during the war.

The kind of thing he was apparently doing, now.

A short silence, as we crunched along, under the trees.

"Tell me. Now. You have to, if we're even thinking of using your Mister Grey."

Rhys looked deeply uncomfortable, for a few steps.

"I can tell you, that I'm to meet two men in Berlin, and that I am to report back what they pass on to me. And, that it is fairly routine. And, that's about all." Another few crunching footsteps. "Jack, believe me, I would never have wanted you in Paris, if I thought it would  —  "

"Don't." I looked at him. "Just, don't." A short pause.

We are a partnership, indissoluble, even if we had been apart far too long. He knew it, as well as I did.

A few more silent steps.

"Now, what else should I know  —  ?"

Rhys took a deep breath, and let it out. Our footsteps kept on, crunching in the gravel.

"This feels  …  wrong. This assignment, I mean. It feels wrong."

He paused for a moment. I waited, patiently.

He glanced sideways, at me.

"I'm being run by a man named Dixon, another Foreign Service officer, in the Embassy. I don't know him; I've never worked with him; I don't know anyone who has worked with him. That counts for a great deal, in this kind of business." Another pause. "Also, he comes from State, from the State Department; not the OSS. I have no idea if he's even been trained, in  —  any of this sort of work."

I felt a chill run through me.

Rhys took another breath.

"My briefing, on conditions in Berlin, who the people on the ground are, and what to expect, was  …  inadequate. Unprofessional." He shrugged. "Although, he didn't even pretend, that he'd prepared the material himself. He said he hadn't."

I made myself stay silent. I liked this less and less by the second.

"And, finally, above everything else  …  Dixon can't give me a single good reason, why I should be the one to be sent." He glanced sideways at me, again. "On the face of it, it makes no sense. We have plenty of our people in Berlin. Former OSS officers. I know it." Another pause. He looked down. "It all feels  —  wrong."

A long silence, then, broken only by the sound of our footsteps, and some children playing by a fountain, in the distance.

"And you have to go." I didn't make it a question.

A sideways-glance from him, with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a happy one. Then, he shrugged.

"Oh, I've tried to tell myself, that I'm making far too much, out of nothing. And I expect that's true. It's not the OSS anymore; there are bound to be new people, new standards, new ways of doing things." He shrugged, again. "And it's not wartime. That, above all else. We're not at war with anyone."

Meaning, we weren't at war with the Soviet Union. At least, yet. But there were major, growing tensions; everybody knew it.

"So, it probably is just a routine assignment. And I expect I'll be back in a week, or perhaps less. I just thought  …  it would be good, to have made some preparations."

It occurred to me, that he was trying to convince me, more than himself. I didn't say anything, for a span of several steps. Then, I breathed out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

Another footstep, and then two.

"How will I know you're okay, in Berlin  —  ?"

Rhys flashed me a look, filled with many things. Love, and gratitude, among them. He reached out and touched my shoulder, again.

"I will cable you once a day. In the morning, if I can. I'll make sure to include something  …  personal, in each wire, so you'll know it's really me sending it."

I hadn't even thought of the possibility, of someone impersonating Rhys in a wire. I felt chilled, all over again.

"If for some reason, you go a day  —  no, make it two consecutive days  —  without hearing from me  …  Well, try to talk to Dixon, first; there's always the chance of something being wrong, of cables being out of service, or something  …  "

We went over the details, then, of how to handle this Dixon person. What to say, what not to say; when to say it.

"  …  But if you really don't get anywhere with Dixon, in the end  —  you know what to do."

A long silence, after that; our footsteps, and the children, the only sounds.

"I do. I will. Rhys  …  " I hesitated a second, and looked over at him. "What if your Mister Grey didn't come through, for us  —  ? I mean, should I talk to David  —  " Any Rockefeller would have friends, in high places  —  "or your father? Or your grandfather  —  ?"

"No." The answer was quick, quiet, and emphatic. "Not David. He'd be in far over his head, with anything like this, he'd be eaten alive." Another few footsteps. "And as far as my family is concerned  —  again, no." He looked at me, seriously, for a moment; then he looked down. "I told you, I don't trust Dixon. And that means, I can't necessarily trust whoever is in his chain of command  …  and I wouldn't want Father, or Grandfather, involved with any of that, in any way, whatsoever. For their sakes. Now, or any time in the future." A pause. "Please."

He said it quietly, and gently, but firmly. I was chilled at all of this, more than ever.

That he couldn't trust his own chain of command. God.

And then, his phrase, 'Now, or any time in the future'  … 

Our Deal, before the war, had been open-ended. It looked as though it was back in place, now.

As usual, he could read my thoughts, easily enough.

"I am sorry, Jack." This, softly.

I shook my head, impatiently. "Don't be. I'm not." I looked over at him. "How sure are you, that your Mister Grey is still available to help, if it's ever necessary  —  ?" I was pushing ahead, getting to the heart of my worries.

A shrug, from Rhys.

"Oh, he would help. Or someone else from his organization; that would be more likely. But if you ever have to use him, someone will show up at the door, fairly quickly. For good reason."

I caught his eye and held it, for a second. He didn't explain. He just smiled, very slightly, and shrugged, again.

More footsteps in the gravel, as we walked along. The Palace came into view again, through the trees.

"So, you remember how it works  —  ?" asked Rhys, at last.

I recited it out. The Passport Control Officer, of any British Embassy or Consulate. The address. What to say, or not to say, in the note. Leave the envelope unsealed.

"  …  he doesn't still work for Imperial Mining and Metals, does he  —  ?" I asked.

"Not when last I heard." He glanced over at me. "The name will still get the note to him, though. Would still get the note to him, I mean." One corner of his mouth curled up, very slightly.    Not happily. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Hypothetically." I gave him a steady look, as we approached the Medici Fountain, its long pool littered with fallen leaves. Silence, for a few more footsteps. Then; "You know, it's been awhile since I've looked at that photo of him that you took in Shanghai."

I said it, dryly. Rhys had made me keep a wallet photo of his Mister Grey with me, for years, just in case. But all my gear had been shipped back to my family, after I'd been shot down. The trunk had arrived home, before the cable from the War Department got to them; they'd been sure I'd been killed. It was still a sore point for me, and Rhys knew it. He reached over and touched my shoulder again, gently.

"I have another copy, back at the flat," he said, eventually. "As it happens."

"As it happens." More footsteps, in the gravel. Then; "Isn't it a little old, by now  —  ?"

Rhys shrugged. "He hasn't changed, that much."

* * *

Wednesday, October 24th, 1945
10:07 p.m.
Gare de l'Est
Paris

Rhys and I had said goodbye to each other in far too many train stations, far too many times, in our short lives. More times than we ever wanted.

We'd developed a routine for it.

If it was to be goodbye for a short time, we simply shook hands; and the one of us who was leaving, just turned and boarded. If it was to be a longer goodbye, we hugged  —  briefly  —  and then, came the boarding.

But in either case, there was no looking back from the stairs, no hand extended from inside the car through the open window; no anguished gazes, or last words. It was better that way, and much safer for the both of us, too.

None of which ever made it any easier.

It was not easy, now.

"I'll wire you from the hotel as soon as I get in," Rhys said. "But please, don't wait for it. There's no telling when it will get to you, these days. Go out; wander around, enjoy yourself." He shrugged; and then he smiled at me, from beneath the brim of his fedora. "I've arranged for you to get the same meal at our brasserie, anytime you want it."

Rhys was in his overcoat, with his attaché case dangling from his hand. His suitcase had already been loaded into his sleeper compartment. In the light from the station lamps, with his face shadowed by his hat brim, he looked just for a moment very much like his father; or how I remembered his father, anyway. It was a little startling.

"Thanks." I smiled, at the reference to the meal. It was an inside joke. "Thank you  …  "

I looked away for a moment, at the busy platform, the clouds of steam coming from the engine, the passengers and porters bustling around. The night was beautiful, the breeze was fresh, and cool; the stars were out, overhead. The locomotive was making hollow, chuff-chuff noises, to itself.

Usually, at these partings, I was the one to make the jokes, and keep a cheerful face. I did not feel like it, this time.

Less than two weeks together again, and I was already feeling the pain of this parting.

I looked at him, seriously, for a moment.

"Be careful. All right? For me  —  ?"

Further down the train, the unmistakable sound of a door on one of the cars slamming shut, hard. A pause; and then, another. Behind Rhys, A French voice, tinnily amplified; "MESdames et messieurs  …  "

"Of course."

Rhys set down his attaché case, then; and then, we were hugging each other, very briefly, but very tightly  — 

And then, he did something he'd never done with me, before. He swept his hat off, and then gripped my upper arms; and he leaned in, and kissed me on each cheek, one after the other, very quickly, in the French style. Then he put his hat back on, and picked up his attaché case, and looked at me; smiling, a little, at my surprised expression, at the joke of it.

But I know Rhys better than anyone. His green eyes drilled into mine, intent; and I saw they were a little moist.

"I'll see you in a week or so," he said. And then he turned, and climbed up the steps into his sleeper-car.

*

As I said, we have a routine, when seeing each other off at a train station.

We don't do histrionics. We don't wave, or gaze longingly at each other, or press our hands up against the window glass. Nothing of that sort.

But the one of us who stays behind, waits on the platform, patiently, quietly, watching until the red light at the end of the last car is completely out of sight.

As I did, right then.

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