Herr Fenstermacher used the cover off the storm to slip quietly along the rain soaked streets. It was past ten o’clock and he had to be back across the border by morning. His task was not a pleasant one but he’d successfully completed similar operations many times before. He’d risen fast through the ranks and gained a reputation for getting things done. In many ways the war had been kind to him.
Using the key he had been supplied with, he let himself in the back door and crept silently down the hall. Withdrawing his revolver, he entered the 2nd room on the right.
As expected, she was alone. However, to his surprise he noticed as she slept that she was heavily pregnant. A moment of doubt swiftly crossed his mind and then was banished completely. He shot her twice at close range in the head. Immediately, he turned to the painting on the wall, tore it down and deftly entered the combination to the safe in the wall. Removing the contents, he rushed for the door and the safety of the streets. No one can know if he heard the first cry of a infant child as he fled.
450km away Private George Lawrence Price was shot in the heart and at 10:58pm was declared dead. He was the final casualty of The Great War which finished 2 mins later.
Sergeant Jansen was looking for a reason to not go home. Maria would be waiting, but he wasn’t yet ready to face her. He had to try and understand why he had done what he did before he could ever hope for her to understand it.
It was 3am, the only bar that he knew that would still be open was a smokey, sleazy little speakeasy round the corner. But as one of the city’s most prominent policemen, he knew he wouldn’t be welcome there. Most of the scum he’d find as drinking companions he’d probably slammed against a wall at some point in the last month.
With no other option, he stayed at his desk. It was gonna be a long night. He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Russian vodka. He filled a small glass with it and knocked it back straight. It tasted like shit, but it easied te pain. A little.
His phone rang, snapping him from his stupor.
“Ja?” he answered, grimly. He listened, the ash from his cigarette defying gravity by no dropping onto his files in front of him.
“Ja. Go on, ja.”
“Well is there no-one else? What about De Vries? Eh? Oh he did, did he? Hmm. Ja, OK. I’m coming.”
He scraped his chair backwards across the hard floor, and pulled on his jacket. He walked through the darkly lit office and into the back reception.
“Valerie, I’m actually pretty busy you know. I shouldn’t even be here, and….”
He stared at Constable De Jong.
Jansen’s eyes widened and he took a step back.
“What’s that?”
“A baby Sergeant Jansen. Just like I told you, sir.”
“You said a child. You never mentioned a baby.”
“Well, yes. He’s a baby. A newborn.”
“And he was on the front step?”
“Yes sir.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not a thing. Just this blanket he was wrapped in.”
The small quivering child in Constable De Jong’s arms was scarcely visible to Jansen, he could make out his feint blue wrinkled skin. De Jong sighed, and stared into the boy’s piercing blue eyes. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Sergeant. I’ve been holding him for all of five minutes…. and I think I’ve fallen in love with him. Isn’t he gorgeous.?”
Jansen scratched his chin with his knuckles.
“We’d ahh.. we’d better call the hospital. He doesn’t look like he’ll make it until morning at this rate.”
Jansen hurriedly grabbed the phone and started to dial. He began explaining how the small infant had come into his charge.
“Ja, ja. OK, I’ll bring him in. Name? Jansen. Oh the boy’s name? Valerie, are you sure there was no note with the boy?”
“No sir. Nothing.”
“Hmm. No. No name. You need a name? Damn it man, are you deaf – I just told you, there is no name. You need a name? Hmmm. OK. OK. Let me think. I don’t know… Valerie, can you think…oh nevermind. Val. Just put down Val.
I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
The air was heavy with the hopes of a few thousand hearts. The crowd waited for his words.
“And finally…., whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you.”
The air fizzed with raptuous applause. The people were one. It was a good day for America.
The newly inaugered President John F. Kennedy walked into his back office, his heart thumping.
“Thanks boys, you did good. Now leave me in private, and send in my guest.”
One of the blank secret service agents responded: “Your wife sir?”
President Kennedy thumped his head.
“Aww, shoot. Can you tell Jackie I’ll be half an hour. In fact make that an hour. I have someone else to see after.”
“Yes sir.”
His men left and the door to his office closedd momentarily. Kennedy looked out at the sea of faces below. Could it be this easy? It felt like the world belonged to him. But he knew he would need good friends to hold onto it. Luckily he had good friends.
The best.
The tall oak doors creaked open.
“Congratulations John.”
Kennedy spun round and rushed to meet his guest. He embraced Val Dood and took a step back to admire him. Val wore a blue navy bomber jacket, a pair of khaki pants, boots, topped off with a pair of mirror sunglasses. He stood about 6ft 7in,with blonde cropped hair.
“Jesus Val, it’s darn good to see you. I feel… a day like this…I just feel like I could fuck something right now. You know what I mean?”
Val gave an uncharacteristic smile.
“I do John. I do.”
Kennedy’s demeanour hardened. It was down to business.
“Val, I have a million things to do today, but you’re my first priority. Now I know what the answer is gonna be, but I’m gonna ask the question anyway.”
“No John. It’s a no.
“But you don’t know what I’m gonna ask.”
“John, you’re trying to sell me the same schtick I’ve been hearing all my life. Now I know that you believe it. And God dammit that’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked you John. You can change this country. You can change the world.”
“But Val I need good men. I need YOU.”
Val pulled two cigarettes from his inside pocket. He lit both, deftly, and passed one to Kennedy who accepted reluctantly. Val took a long drag on his.
“John, you’ve worked long and hard for this day.”
“We both have Val.”
“Maybe. But I got other agendas. I’m not an upfront kind of guy. I don’t belong in no tribe. I dance to my own tune. It’s always been that way. And it always will be.”
Kennedy bowed his head, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, sighed and turned towards the window again.
“You love this country, don’t you?”
“All I love is freedom John. You know that.”
“But you weren’t born here, were you? You know something Val, I’ve known you what… 10 years? And in all that time – I don’t think I’ve ever really got to know you at all.”
“There’s nothing to know John, apart from what you see in front of you.”
Val stared at his friend. He could sense Kennedy’s unease by the angle of his shoulders.
“What’s wrong John?”
Kennedy turned back to face Val.
“I’m scared. I don’t know if I can handle this job. It just feels… unreal. You know, I have some major shit to deal with. The Russkies. Castro…”
“They’re not you only enemies John. You need to look within.”
Kennedy became more animated and raised his cigarette.
“Y’see. Y’see? That’s why I need you. You always call it right.”
“And I’ll be right here John. Right here. When you need me, I’ll be here. Watching and waiting.”
Kennedy said nothing. Val patted his shoulder and then turned to leave.
Kennedy stared forlorn at this desk. He called out to Val, who was halfway out of the door.
“Marilyn says hi!”
Val stopped. Turned to face Kennedy again.
“Stay away from that one John. She’s a mixed up kid, bad news.”
“What did happen between you guys anyway Val?”
Val paused.
“Goodbye Mr President.”
He closed the door. Somehow he knew it wouldn’t end well for Marilyn. He was perceptive like that. Sometimes he despised his gifts. Sometimes he wished he was just like all the rest of the ignorant sheep, but he couldn’t switch off his instincts.
And it it hurt him to think just how much he thought Kennedy was headed the same way. Here was a chance for world to turn itself around finally after the horrors of the wars. If he could just keep his head.
She clumsily pulled her silk Italian knickers back up, over her long tanned well toned and expertly waxed legs.
“Wow” she exhaled, “That’s just what I needed.” She dropped onto the toilet cover seat, sweat beads pouring down over her reddened breasts. She began buttoning up her blouse, save the one at the top which Val had spat out of the stall.
Val buckled his belt pulled up his zip.
“That’s the last time Jackie. No more. Things are changing.”
Jackie held up her cigarette holder to Val, who responded by placing a Chesterfield in it and lighting it with his Zippo.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m not kidding. John is a friend and now he’s the President. It’s too dangerous and I won’t do it to him anymore. I shouldn’t even be here.”
Jackie laughed and threw her head back.
“Now Val. We both know no-one can make you do something against your will now, don’t we. Don’t worry, I don’t think this is a particularly good idea either. But if you’re saying guilt is part of the reason you want to stop – and I don’t believe it is, for the record – then save yourself the worry. You know he’s seeing that little film star slut you had a thing with after he sees you today, don’t you?”
Val was stone.
“Just give me the envelope Jackie, I don’t have time for your games.”
Jackie continued to smile, convinced she had rattled him slightly. She reached into her mink purse and produced a small pink envelop, which was sealed. She kissed the front side leaving a large red lipstick mark on it.
“You understand what you have to do. Don’t you?”
Val snatched the envelope from her, turned awkwardly in the crapped cubicle and unlocked the toilet door.
“Jackie. A word of warning. NEVER, under any circumstances, do you question my professionalism. I. Am. The. Best.”
As he left, slamming the outer toilet door behind him Jackie sighed and couldn’t thing of a single reason to disagree.
Castro surfaced with yet another fish in his hands, this one even bigger than the last. Castro grinned as he swam for the shore, releasing the fish and aiming for where Val and Maria sat in the languid evening sun.
Castro had all the cards, all 1,113 of them in fact and he knew it. The damn invasion was a joke, Kennedy had shown his true colours on that one and now where were they? In the fucking soup, that’s where. He’d already been here three months trying to make this deal.
“Go for a walk Maria, I’ll see you tonight, this is men’s business.”
Maria looked up at him, a flash of anger in her big brown eyes as she walked up the beach to the villa. She had never looked so beautiful and his gaze followed her tight bronzed ass until she disappeared out of site.
“So Mr Dood, it appears I have something you want”
“Please, call me Val, El Presidente. We want the hostages back, preferably by Christmas.”
“Call me Fidel, Val. You know, Cuba is a poor country, it does not need to be but it is. The reason for this is the American pig dogs. They will not trade with us. Why Val? Because we are an example. An example to any country in the world that wants to be free. Tiny Cuba has taken on the might of the most powerful nation on earth and won. Now they will destroy us with economics, for if they don’t, other nations will rise up and they will demand freedom too.”
“Look Fidel, I’m not saying what happened was fair. I’m not going to try and defend it, I respect you too much for that. But we need the hostages. You can name your price on this one.”
“Ok Val, you are lucky, we should have all of those icho de puta’s shot but the Cuban people must come first. We need food and medicine. About $50 million dollars worth to be exact.”
“Christ Fidel, the United States Government can’t be seen to be paying Cuba a $50 million dollar ransom, it will kill John politically, he won’t go for it”
“He’ll have to, and anyway there are many ways to make this payment, it doesn’t need to come directly from the Americans, if you know what I mean Val.”
Val knew what he meant. He had worked for the Kennedy administration doing just that kind of thing during the election, a few thousand here, a backhander there, palms greased, pockets lined, it was dirty all the way. Luckily for John, his father had made a fortune selling bootleg booze back in the day and had bank rolled the whole election.
“You know Val, the Americans sent over about 1,500 heavily armed and well trained fighters to take Cuba. Well I did it with twenty men Val. Twenty. Eighty two of us landed in Cuba and three days later only twenty of us remained. Only twenty men left to defeat the bastard Batista who was backed to the hilt by the Americans. Within two years, we had beaten them. If we had men of your callibre Val, we could have done it in six months.”
Val’s lips tightened into a smile but his eyes were as impassive as Cuba itself. He had made his mind up already and now he just had get it over with. He slid a hand inside his white linen suit’s inside jacket pocket and removed a single envelope containing the faint remnants of lipstick. His mouth suddenly felt dry in the warm salty air.
“Take this Fidel, it might come in handy someday. But don’t open it yet, wait till I’m gone.”
“Are you going Val? You know there’s a place for men like you in this brave new country and what with you and Maria…”
“Sorry Fidel, I just can’t walk that line, wouldn’t work, no way. You put me in a cage and I’ll just keep thinking of ways to bust out. Speaking of Maria, will you let her down gently Fidel? I have to leave first thing tomorrow. She’s a sweet kid but she’s better off without me.”
“She’ll be devastated Val, I think she loves you, I think she’s always loved you.”
“I know.”
Val turned to go, he’d be back in his hotel room within the hour, and an hour after that he’d be so drunk on Havana Club that he could forget all about Castro, Cuba, Maria and this whole sorry fucked up world. No matter how much he drank though, he couldn’t forget about the envelope, what had he done?
It was almost too easy. He could hear the envelope tear as he left. Castro had grabbed the bait greedily, without question. The irony of that fish trick. Cuba’s fate with the Russians was sealed. The defence budget increase now a mere formality.
Val Dood reached his block. Three flights of stairs. Door ajar. The perfume… Maria.
The blue morning sun slotted through the blinds, danced on her tear filmed eyes.
Val Dood slotted the tattered photograph of his mother back into his wallet. Clutched a half glass of whiskey from the bedside table. Slugged it back. Got up. Got dressed.
He tucked a ten dollar bill under the lamp.
Maria reared from the bed.
“You think of me this? No better than fackeeng prostitute!”
She screamed. Scrambled toward the lamp. Frenetic. The crumpled bill rebounded from the closing door.
Val Dood stepped into the sun-bleached street. Struck a match. Lit a cigar. Shrieks resonated from a third floor apartment. Val Dood had a plane to catch…
After disembarking his flight from Havana, Val made his way into the airport restrooms and entered one of the stalls. He opened his case and changed his floral short-sleeve shirt, army shorts and sandals for a smart black suit. After making some adjustments in front of the mirror at the sink he emerged and made his way to the Air France booking desk.
“Bonjour sir. Paris?”
“Oui.”
Her delegate gloved hand accepted Val’s passport and flight tickets. Her face, heavily buried beneath thick layers of make-up displayed no emotion as she gazed at the picture in the passport and tried to determine if she was looking at the same person standing in front of her.
Val’s face remained stony, despite him feeling a little uncomfortable sporting a thing moustache which he he’d darkened with some boot polish.
“Could I ask oo to tek off zur ‘at Monsieur Hewson?”
“Absolutely,” he said, evoking a fake but note-perfect Manhattan accent, and an even more convincing stab at cordiality. He removed his trilby, revealing a dark thick main of synthetic hair.
She smiled. She had fat red lips, like two ripe worms. A rather vulgar, obvious beauty he surmised, but not without its charms.
“Tres bien, sur. And do oo ‘av any luggage to check in today?”
“No, not today dear.”
“Travelling light, eh? I zee you av eh one-way ticket? Staying in Paris are we? However will oo manage?”
Too many questions. Val didn’t much care for this bitch’s intrusiveness.
“Don’t worry about me dear. I always seem to get by on just a few things, and I’m sure I’ll pick up a few more along the way. Now my dear, I have a favour to ask.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
“My business associate Dimitri Depaul is also on board this flight and I think he may have already checked in. It’s a long flight and I’d very much like to sit next to him if I can?”
“Pardon monsieur, but oo know I cannot give details of anyone else on zees flight.”
Val laughed briefly, then returned to a serious demeanour.
“Come come now, girl. I’m not asking about a stranger. This man is my friend. My partner. I’ve known him since Harvard. His wife passed away last year and I haven’t seen him since the funeral, so we have a great deal to catch up on. I promised him I would see him on the flight. You don’t want to make me break a promise now, do you?”
“Monsieur, I…”
“For Pete’s Sake my girl, what on earth do you think is ever the risk? Do you think I’m going to storm the damn plane and fly it into the ruddy Empire State Building or something?”
She giggled nervously. Val smiled, softing his tone. He placed his large muscular hand on her thin gloved fingers.
“No, I didn’t think so. So can you please seat me next to him?”
“D’accord. Zees wil nat be a problem I think Monsieur Hewson.”
She made a few deft movements on her clipboard and a brief phonecall. She then presented Val with his boarding pass.
“Gate 11a. Enjoy oor flight monsieur. Je suis un desolate…”
“Not at all my dear. You’re a charming specimen.”
He leant forward to her ear.
“You don’t need all that shit on your face honey. Dare to bare.”
He winked, kissed her cheek and withdrew, replacing his hat and returning to character. The check-in girl watched him make his way to the gate. Who was this man?
Val stopped on the way to buy a New York Times and then at the airport bar, knocking back a straight double Johnnie Walkers in the process. Before leaving the bar he devoured the contents of the nut bowl. Breakfast.
On boarding the flight, he approached his seat, head bowed, but staring from just under the brim of his hat to fix Dimitri Depaul with his gaze.
Depaul was slight man with a thin face, about the same age as Val. His brown hair was thinking on top and the only distinguishing feature on his bland anonymous face was a pair of tinted glasses. Val smiled. No one would remember this guy.
Val stored his hat, overcoat and briefcase in the top locker and then took his seat. His broad frame swivelled toward Depaul, thrusting his open palm towards him.
“Paul, Paul Hewson. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Val shook Depaul’s hand violently. Depaul appeared a little overawed, but reciprocated.
“Pleased to meet you. Call me Dimitri.”
During the next few hours, the two men began a stilted exchange which metamorphosed into a heated debate – several Johnnie Walkers’ later.
“Paul, Paul. Look man. You’re wrong. Just wrong. There’s nothing very special about this guy Dylan. If you know your musical history then you’ll know that the guy is basically ripping Woody Guthrie off wholesale.”
“Well I haven’t heard much of this Dylan guy. And they’re saying he might be a Commie. But the boy has some tunes. If you think it’s just Woody Guthrie stuff then your naïve beyond belief. I saw him a month back in Greenwich Village and he blew me away. Maybe it was just the company I was with at the time, but still…”
Depaul slapped his thigh.
“Well at least we’ve both heard of him, eh? How many of these suits on board this flight do you think know who Bob Dylan is? Makes you feel young, doesn’t it?”
Val smiled and sank back into his chair, finishing another Johnnie Walker and sucking long and hard on a Chesterfield.
“Yes it does Dimitri. Yes it does.”
Depaul reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a Poloroid. He leant over to Val, a little closer than Val liked but he let it go this time.
“This… this is Julia. And this is Nicholas and this is Anne.”
Val gazed at the photo. All four of them were smiling. Real smiles.
“You have a beautiful family Dimitri.”
“Thank-you. Where’s yours? Do you have a picture of yours?”
Val pressed the call button.
“No. No photo. Nothing.”
The stewardess arrived. Val pointed at Depaul’s glass. Depaul nodded.
“Stick another two in these, doll.”
Into the final hour of the plane’s journey, night fell and the passengers grew quiet, a dull hum as many of them slept or attempted to sleep. Depaul had passed out mid-sentence, and although Val had consumed nearly as much as he had, his adrenalin had extinguished any alcoholic effects he had felt moments before.
He grabbed Depaul by his arms and lifted him off his feet. Depaul murmured something incomprehensible, but his eyes stayed shut. Val knew he had to be quick.
Val was familiar with Boeing jets from his army days and the 707 wasn’t much different. He made his way past the dozing air stewardess and down the gantry towards the baggage hold. He yanked them lock open and climbed inside, dragging Depaul’s limp body with him.
As he started to roll open the hatch, Depaul began to regain consciousness and his eyes opened.
“Where.. where the hell am I? You..Paul? Paul? What are you doing?”
Val worked faster to pull enough of the hold door open. A red light began to blink and he knew that the crew would now be alerted to the fact that the hold was open. That would do.
Val paused briefly and thought that Depaul was not a bad man. Just not a particularly lucky one. In other circumstances maybe they could have even been friends. If Val had any friends.
As Depaul fell screaming to his death, Val struggled with the hold door control. The alarm light went off and was milked of its colour. Val noticed two things lying on the floor which Depaul has dropped – his glasses and his photo of his family. He picked them up and put them in his pocket.
Later, as he made his way through Customs at Paris-Orly Airport, he scanned the sea of anxious people who were waiting to greet their loved ones. He scanned back and forth and then settled on one. She was devastatingly beautiful, with mink black hair, tall and dressed like she was doing to a funeral. Maybe she was. He approached her and smiled.
It was snowing outside and she was wearing a black woollen hat, with her hands hidden in a black wollen handwarmer.
“Mr Depaul? My name is Anastasia. I trust you had a pleasant flight?” she asked in a stern English accent.
From beneath Dimitri Depaul’s tinted glasses, he stared deep into the woman’s eyes, looking for the faintest hint of recognition or conversely, realisation. There was none. He was going to go with her now, to the black limo behind her. There, like so many times before, to begin a voyage into the unknown.
He didn’t know, really, who Dimitri Depaul was. He certainly didn’t know who Anastasia was. And he didn’t know why the Americans were paying him $1million dollars to be here in the middle of… what? He even didn’t know that. Not yet anyway.
It was as though some unseen hand, or hands, were guiding his fate, mercilessly tugging him in one direction and then the other, before he would one day reach his inevitable conclusion. But that day was a long way off.
He was in uncharted territory now. The undiscovered country. Perfect. With a man whose past was almost as much of a mystery to him as it was to others, approaching a blank page was the thrill which kept him in this game.
“The flight was a killer. But I’m all the better for meeting you Anastasia. Call me Dimitri.”
As Klaus Jansen sharpened the carving knife before he began slicing, he stared wistfully through the kitchen hatch through to the front room where his wife of five months played with their adopted son on the floor. Of course he wasn’t legally theirs. Legally, six-year-old Val Jansen didn’t even exist. He couldn’t. That was too dangerous to contemplate.
Dangerous enough to force Klaus and Valerie to quit their jobs with the Eindhoven Municipal Constabulary, elope and go on the run for the last five years. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d got by just fine thanks to casual work here and there and the goodwill of friends and strangers. When the heat was rising, they had to move on and thanks to Klaus’s contacts with the Police, they’d always managed to stay one step ahead of their pursuers.
Klaus didn’t exactly know much about them – their names and motives remained a mystery. The only clue he had was the title of a opening page of a singed dossier he’d seen more than five years ago.
‘The Progeny’…
What was it? What did it mean?And what did it have to do with the gorgeous blonde haired, blue-eyed little boy sitting on his knees gleefully opening Christmas presents?
“I hope you two are hungry!”, Klaus bellowed through the hatch to his wife and son. His family lept to their feet, and took their chairs.
“Do you need any help there, Klaus?”, enquired Valerie.
“You can pour us some wine if you like. Celebrate our first Christmas together in our own home. Just the three of us.”
As he began laying the slices of goose onto their three plates, he felt himself relax for the first time in years. Everything had been quiet for the last 18 months. He’d continued to take the same precautions, stay in touch with his reliable contacts, but nothing. No tips, no hints, no rumours. No mention of The Progeny. He hoped that perhaps they could settle in Rotterdam, lead a normal life. Bring up Val to be the fine man Klaus knew he was going to be.
Then there came a rattle at the door. Klaus and Valerie fixed each other with the same ice cold gaze. Valerie made to rise from her seat at the dining table, but Klaus nodded for her to stay where she was.
With the carving knife still in his right hand, tucked behind his back, Klaus made his way slowly to the door. Valerie looked unnerved.
“It’s okay Valerie. It can’t be them. No-one knows we’re here. And besides. It’s Christmas Day. Even they must stop running some days.”
His feint smile did not reassure her. Nevertheless she took young Val’s hands in hers and whispered gently “I wonder who that could be, eh?”, with a faux expentant smile.
Val said nothing but stared at the knife behind his adopted father’s back. He squeezed his adoptive mother’s hands.
“It’s okay mummy. Don’t cry.”
There was another rattle against the door, harder this time. Klaus slowly began to unbolt it. He drew it open to reveal a tall man wearing a black fedora and long dark trenchcoat. The man gazed down at the snow, the brim of his hat masking his face. Slowly he lifted his head to reveal a pockmarked gaunt unshaven face, sporting two dark, dead eyes.
He held Klaus in his gaze for a second, then shot two glances over Klaus’s shoulder at the women and the boy.
After more than five long years, Herr Fenstermacher had found his prey.
Klaus immediately sensed that the only ‘gift’ his Christmas Day visitor was here to deliver was death. He lunged clumsily at Fenstermacher with the knife. Anticipating his move, Fenstermacher stepped aside, Klaus carried forward onto the snow with his own momentum.
Fenstermacher stood over him and put the point of his silencer against the back of Klaus’s head. As he pulled the trigger the white snow turned a dark red, as Klaus’s head came apart. Without hesitating, Fenstermacher turned and entered the house.
Valerie and Val were now cowered in the corner of the room, both weeping and violently shaking.
Valerie picked up vase and hurled it at Fenstermacher, screaming “Bastard!”
Fenstermacher batted the vase aside with his arm and sent a bullet into Valerie’s forehead, the force of which threw her backwards against the wall.
Val stared in disbelief at his dead mother. And then at Fenstermacher. Val clenched his small fists and darted towards the man, his head bowed. His speed caught Fenstermacher offguard, the crown of Val’s head making contact with Fenstermacher’s testicles.
Fenstermacher recoiled, coughing with the sharp burning pain he felt in his balls. ‘Little bastard’, he cursed to himself.
He volleyed a kick towards Val, catching him in the gut, which sent him flying backwards. He raised his gun and pointed it towards Val’s head. Val stared him down, his chest heaving. Fenstermacher hesitated for a moment as his finger teased the trigger.
“Close your eyes!”, he belowed in German.
Val did not.
“Close your fucking eyes, you little shit!”
Val did not.
“So be it. The last of The Progeny must be destroyed.”
Val’s eye were wide open, defiant. He did not know why this man wanted to kill him. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Yet he felt a strange sense of ease. He was not afraid. He felt like he had always been destined to defy.
Then suddenly, as Fenstermacher’s finger quivered on the trigger, his eyes bulged red as the top of his head opened with roar. Fenstermacher dropped forward to the floor, smoke coming out of the remains of his head.
The rest of his head was now smeared across Val’s, a mixture of blood, bone, brain tissue and skin. Val lay motionless on the floor. He could feel the sticky contents of Fenstermacher’s unfortunate head on his face. He wiped his face with his clothes sleeve.
Now standing in front of him was a tall, square-jawed gentleman, brandishing a smoking machine gun. Val thought he looked the captain of a ship he’d seen in book about smugglers.
The man exhaled, smiled and shook his head in disdain. He looked down at Fenstermacher’s corpse, gave it a kick and in a bold American accent remarked “Fucking amateur.”
He then looked at Val, and asked “Do you speak English kid?”
Val did. He was already fluent in six different languages. Self taught.
“Come with me.”
He outstretched his hand. Val remain static. The man reached into his pocket and produced a hankerchief. He lowered to his knees and gently began to wipe the blood and guts from Val’s face.
“And so what do they call you then, son?”
“Val.”
“Val? I like it. Well Val, my name is Matt Dignam. And you’re now in the care of the American Government. Do you understand?”
Val said nothing. Matt smiled.
“It’s okay kid. You’ll be safe with me. I knew your mother.”
“Christmas? No. I don’t much care for Christmas honey.”
Val, as Depaul, stared down for a second and took off his glasses, before regaining his composure. He lifted his head, returned his glasses to his face and stared out the front of limo. It was hard to see in these things, all he could make out was a white blur as the snow fell in front of them.
It was nice and warm inside the plush car. Sitting next to him, Anastasia blushed. She giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. Not the kind you’d find at any school. But the kind you knew could wrap her rich daddy round her delicate little gloved pinkie.
“Of course – I quite forgot. You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
‘Jewish?’, Val thought, ‘Jesus Christ! They didn’t mention that at the briefing. If you could call that clusterfeck a briefing. And in these idiots’ hands the freedom of the Western world rested? Jesus. It wouldn’t have happened in Dignam’s day…’
“Jewish – ahh, yes I am. Although I’m not exactly what you’d call Orthodox.”
That much was true.
“You don’t look that Jewish really.”
“You expect us all to have hook noses and claws?”
Again she giggled. Detention Anastasia!
“I beg your pardon Mr Depaul..”
“Dimitri..”
“Dimitri, I meant to cause no offence.”
Val laughed.
“Don’t worry dear,. I’m merely joking.”
Anastasia’s body relaxed a little. She laughed again, more uncertain this time.
“Ahh..haa. It’s just that you’re very fair. It’s not a criticism. Besides, what do I know?”
“Good question.”
Val turned to face her full on.
“What DO you know?”
Anastasia inched away from him and her face froze over.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where are we going?”
She grew confused.
“We’re going to see him. You know that.”
“Him? Who?”
“Who? You mean you don’t..”
Then she felt a sharp prod to her abdomen. She looked down at the blade and gasped. Val placed his muscular right hand on her thin neck. It pinched her soft white skin slightly, not yet a choke – but a warning. He put his finger on his mouth, widened his eyes and shook his head. He whispered.
“Who are you? Why are you trying to set me up? You working for MI5?”
Horrified, she struggled to free her neck from his grip but could not. Breathlessly, she answered.
“Whaaat? What do you mean? I’m English, yes, but my parents came from Russia. I work for Orlov, just like you.”
“You do, do you? And what do you know about me?”
“What?”
He squeezed tighter on her throat.
“You…uhhh..you’re Dimitri Depaul. Born in Reutov, Russia on August 8th, 1927. You fled to the United States in 1940, after your mother, father and sister were killed by the Nazis.”
This was all news to Val. She was well briefed. They could use someone like her in Washington, Val thought…
“Good. And so WHERE are you taking me?”
“To…to Orlov. Yuri Orlov.”
Val right hand relaxed and he removed it from her neck, slowly. The knife disappeared back up his sleeve. His demeanour changed.
“I’m sorry darling. I had to do that. I can’t trust anyone anymore and I just had to be sure you were who you said you were. You clearly know your stuff.”
Anastasia massaged her neck and shook her head, flicking her long dark mane of her away from her coat, trying to let more air in.
“That’s…alright. I understand. I’ve had worse.”
10 minutes later the black limo pulled up outside a café in Montmartre.Anastasia leant forward to speak to the driver.
“Wait here Claude. We won’t be long.”
Val and Anastasia exited the vehicle and entered the bustling, smoky café. A small, muscular man with short, cropped dark hair and days old stubble rose to his feet. He fixed both Val and Anastasia with a welcoming look, his arms outstretched. He embraced Anastasia, and kissed her on both cheeks.
“My dear, my dear, please sit,” he told her, in raspy Russian accent. He looked at Val.
A momentary panic washed over Val – how well did Orlov know Depaul?
“Dimitri, Dimitri! My dear friend, at last we meet face to face, instead of at the end of a phoneline.”
Val instinctively embraced Orlov, and they both patted each other on the back enthusiastically.
“Yuri, Yuri. Thank-you for meeting me here, I hope you have not found yourself in danger since arriving in Paris?”
Val’s voice changed a little, as he tried to emmulate Depaul’s tone. This change did not go unnoticed to Anastasia, who glanced at him as he spoke.
“Not at all. No-one knows I’m here, except dear Anastasia here.”
Orlov took Anastasia’s hand and kissed it gently. He summoned the waiter over and ordered two coffees. He turned to Anastasia.
“My dear, would you be so kind as to wait in the car?”
Anastasia was offended and showed it.
“But Yuri, there’s no need, I..”
His voice raised slightly, but the tone lowered and he gripped her wrist tightly. He clenched his teeth.
“Men. Are. Speaking. Wait. In. The. Car.”
Anastasia said nothing, shot her chair back and left. Orlov smiled.
“She’s a good kid. I met her on an assignment in London last year. She works only for me, and isn’t fully briefed on our mission. Don’t worry, there are no leaks here. The Americans are none the wiser.”
Val smirked.
“I’m glad to hear it, my friend.”
He decided to test Orlov’s knowledge – and his faith in Depaul.
“Nasty business over in Cuba. What news have you heard this side?”, asked Val, a sly look on his face.
Orlov began to nod, violently.
“That situation is under control. I understand that a deal has been brokered. Cuba will hand over the remaining 1,113 swine in the Bay of Pigs invasion on Christmas Eve, in exchange for $53 million. Khrushchev has no desire to be the destroyer of our world, and I don’t believe that Mr Kennedy does either.”
“I think you’re right there, my friend.”
Val was glad all his work in Cuba was playing out as planned. John seemed to be on top of things now. That, at least, was one less thing to worry about.
“Yes. But the message from the top is that we continue to aide the North Vietnamese. We must ensure the war takes flight, drawing America into the fray, exposing them and distracting them so that next time, we will hold all of the bargaining chips in a nuclear stand-off.”
From under his copy of Le Monde, he pushed across a manila folder, which Val subtly swept from the table and snuck under his breast pocket.
“I think you will find everything you require in there my friend. I would like to talk more to you about it, but you understand…”
“I understand.”
“Good. They expect to see you in Moscow within the next 24 hours.”
“Thank-you Yuri.”
Val stood up. Orlov grabbed his wrist.
“We’re not done yet my friend.”
A momentary jolt of adrenalin made Val light headed and he realised he had better sit down. His muscles tightened with that familiar feeling and he prepared to smash Orlov’s jaw in two. But his fears subsided when Orlov pushed a second file from under his newspaper across to him. Orlov looked more suspicious now, and turned his head from left to right before leaning closer to Val and dropped his whispering voice even further.
“Dimitri, that favour you asked me to look into? I uncovered some stuff. It’s all there. But I must be honest with you. I’ve read this file. My advice to you is to keep well alone. This is none of our business and the Kremlin wouldn’t want you to become distracted from your official duties. I’m advising you as a colleague and a friend Dimitri.”
He stared into Val’s eyes. Val said nothing, oblivious to Orlov’s meaning.
“I know how you feel. I feel the same. The others – they don’t understand how we feel. But never doubt it, though we may have been an ocean apart since you left Russia – we are Jewish brothers. But it’s time to let go. I’m Russian first and foremost… and so are you, Dimitri. Remember that. Good luck, comrade.”
“Yes”, Val said meekly, trying desperately to piece together what Orlov was talking about. Maybe he was just too tired. It had been a long few days.
He hurried through the snow outside and into the warm, waiting limo. He didn’t look at either file – there was time for that later, when he had greater privacy. He had no idea what the second file was about – must have been something private between Orlov and Depaul, he’d probably just toss that one later, he didn’t need any more distractions from his mission.
“Did you get everything you needed Dimitri?” asked Anastasia.
Val hesitated.
“Yes. Yes, I think I did.”
“It’s late and you must be tired. Do you want to go home before you leave for Moscow?”
“Home?”
“Yes. Your apartment, here in Paris. Yuri has given me details. We can escort you there.”
Rest. He looked at Anastasia’s long, milk white legs, imprisoned within her sheer net stockings. A little time in bed might do him some good.
The black limo drove for a nearly a mile across Paris to Le Marais. The driver exited and opened Val’s door.
“Well Dimitri. I rather suppose this is adieu. We can send a car for you in the morning to take you to the train station.”
Val took Anastasia’s hand.
“Would you do me the honour of letting me entertain you for a little while? I do hate being alone in a big city.”
Again, she giggled and smiled. She hid the fact that she knew he was not all he appeared to be. In fact, she had no reason to trust him at all.
“Dimitri, I’d simply love to, but Mr Orlov has other duties for me to attend to.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand. Besides, he’ll be reassured that I am being looked after by one of his best… women.”
That giggle.
“Well in that case Dimitri, I will find it hard to turn you down.”
As they made their way along the snowy path to his apartment block, Val fumbled inside his inner pocket for a door key. He didn’t want to give Anastasia any more cause for suspicion than she already had.
Opening the door, he guessed that his room was 310, as it had the name Ealdup next to it – a crude anagram of Depaul. On turning his key in the door, he inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Inside the flat was basic and typical of that of man living on his own. It felt cold and damp, with a strong musty smell hanging over the room.
“Please take a seat Anastasia, make yourself at home. I’ll fix us some drinks.”
As Anastasia began removing her hat and coat, Val tossed the two files onto a chair, knelt down to start up the bar fire and then walked over to Depaul’s drinks cabinet. There wasn’t much inside, but there was a unopened bottle of red wine. A bottle of 1958 Rioja – ‘Depaul had taste and class’, Val mused. He popped the cork and poured two glasses.
“The last two days have been rather exhausting, but satisfying all the same. I’m so glad you agreed to share your company with me.”
He turned round to see Anastasia standing fully naked, staring brazenly at him. Without flinching, he looked her up and down. She did not disappoint. Her body was younger than he’d assumed her to be – her demeanour and taste in clothes had made her appear older. Her breasts were large and well rounded, larger than they should be given her slight frame. She had fairly wide hips, with long slim legs and her expansive pubic hair had a luscious, chocolate hue.
He necked his glass of red and hers, let the glasses smash on the carpet, wiped his lips and made his approach.
He fucked her long and hard that night. Much like the lion stalks and then devours the poor wildebeast. The stress of his mission had been visited on Anastasia’s willing, soft frame. He might have felt sorry for her afterwards, had it not been for the repetitive cries of ecstasy he’d heard, as she orgasmed over and over again.
When their fevered copulation finally ceased, they both effectively passed out on the bed with exhaustion. But Val woke at 5am, stirred by the sound of a car horn being sounded and he found himself too restless and preoccupied with the events of the last few days to sleep any longer. He looked over at Anastasia’s lily coloured back, and covered her with the duvet, up to her neck.
Quietly he rolled from the bed, lit a Chesterfield, poured himself another glass of red and sat down at the bathroom chair by the window. He switched on the nightlamp and reached for the second file which Orlov had handed him. The one he hadn’t looked at. The one he had no idea what was inside. The one which had no bearing on his mission. So why did he find himself so intrigued to learn its contents?
He began sifting through it. He quickly realised it all seemed to focus on one man – Karl Poppendick. It became clear Poppendick had been part of the Third Reich, there were countless pictures of him in his military uniform and countless documents, which appeared to be a mixture of diary entries, newspaper cuttings and confidential files from the Nazis. There was also a handwritten note which looked fairly fresh from the condition of the ink and the paper it was written on, which had a Paris address written on it.
‘Nazis’, thought Val. He felt the need to spit, violently. He hated these cunts. But he had no desire to postumously realise Depaul’s foolish pastime, which appeared to be nazi hunting. A noble venture, perhaps. But there was no profit in it for Val Dood.
Then he came to the final document. The only one which really mattered. The one which was about to change everything. The one which made Val smash his third glass of the night. The one which meant he would no longer be heading straight for Moscow in the morning.
He stared and stared at the title of the classified German report with disbelief for more than 10 minutes. His eyes fixed on two words he’d long since put to the darkest recesses of his mind.
11th November, 1918 – Eindhoven, The Netherlands.
Herr Fenstermacher used the cover off the storm to slip quietly along the rain soaked streets. It was past ten o’clock and he had to be back across the border by morning. His task was not a pleasant one but he’d successfully completed similar operations many times before. He’d risen fast through the ranks and gained a reputation for getting things done. In many ways the war had been kind to him.
Using the key he had been supplied with, he let himself in the back door and crept silently down the hall. Withdrawing his revolver, he entered the 2nd room on the right.
As expected, she was alone. However, to his surprise he noticed as she slept that she was heavily pregnant. A moment of doubt swiftly crossed his mind and then was banished completely. He shot her twice at close range in the head. Immediately, he turned to the painting on the wall, tore it down and deftly entered the combination to the safe in the wall. Removing the contents, he rushed for the door and the safety of the streets. No one can know if he heard the first cry of a infant child as he fled.
450km away Private George Lawrence Price was shot in the heart and at 10:58pm was declared dead. He was the final casualty of The Great War which finished 2 mins later.
Sergeant Jansen was looking for a reason to not go home. Maria would be waiting, but he wasn’t yet ready to face her. He had to try and understand why he had done what he did before he could ever hope for her to understand it.
It was 3am, the only bar that he knew that would still be open was a smokey, sleazy little speakeasy round the corner. But as one of the city’s most prominent policemen, he knew he wouldn’t be welcome there. Most of the scum he’d find as drinking companions he’d probably slammed against a wall at some point in the last month.
With no other option, he stayed at his desk. It was gonna be a long night. He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Russian vodka. He filled a small glass with it and knocked it back straight. It tasted like shit, but it easied te pain. A little.
His phone rang, snapping him from his stupor.
“Ja?” he answered, grimly. He listened, the ash from his cigarette defying gravity by no dropping onto his files in front of him.
“Ja. Go on, ja.”
“Well is there no-one else? What about De Vries? Eh? Oh he did, did he? Hmm. Ja, OK. I’m coming.”
He scraped his chair backwards across the hard floor, and pulled on his jacket. He walked through the darkly lit office and into the back reception.
“Valerie, I’m actually pretty busy you know. I shouldn’t even be here, and….”
He stared at Constable De Jong.
Jansen’s eyes widened and he took a step back.
“What’s that?”
“A baby Sergeant Jansen. Just like I told you, sir.”
“You said a child. You never mentioned a baby.”
“Well, yes. He’s a baby. A newborn.”
“And he was on the front step?”
“Yes sir.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not a thing. Just this blanket he was wrapped in.”
The small quivering child in Constable De Jong’s arms was scarcely visible to Jansen, he could make out his feint blue wrinkled skin. De Jong sighed, and stared into the boy’s piercing blue eyes. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Sergeant. I’ve been holding him for all of five minutes…. and I think I’ve fallen in love with him. Isn’t he gorgeous.?”
Jansen scratched his chin with his knuckles.
“We’d ahh.. we’d better call the hospital. He doesn’t look like he’ll make it until morning at this rate.”
Jansen hurriedly grabbed the phone and started to dial. He began explaining how the small infant had come into his charge.
“Ja, ja. OK, I’ll bring him in. Name? Jansen. Oh the boy’s name? Valerie, are you sure there was no note with the boy?”
“No sir. Nothing.”
“Hmm. No. No name. You need a name? Damn it man, are you deaf – I just told you, there is no name. You need a name? Hmmm. OK. OK. Let me think. I don’t know… Valerie, can you think…oh nevermind. Val. Just put down Val.
I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
January 20, 1961 – Washington
The air was heavy with the hopes of a few thousand hearts. The crowd waited for his words.
“And finally…., whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you.”
The air fizzed with raptuous applause. The people were one. It was a good day for America.
The newly inaugered President John F. Kennedy walked into his back office, his heart thumping.
“Thanks boys, you did good. Now leave me in private, and send in my guest.”
One of the blank secret service agents responded: “Your wife sir?”
President Kennedy thumped his head.
“Aww, shoot. Can you tell Jackie I’ll be half an hour. In fact make that an hour. I have someone else to see after.”
“Yes sir.”
His men left and the door to his office closedd momentarily. Kennedy looked out at the sea of faces below. Could it be this easy? It felt like the world belonged to him. But he knew he would need good friends to hold onto it. Luckily he had good friends.
The best.
The tall oak doors creaked open.
“Congratulations John.”
Kennedy spun round and rushed to meet his guest. He embraced Val Dood and took a step back to admire him. Val wore a blue navy bomber jacket, a pair of khaki pants, boots, topped off with a pair of mirror sunglasses. He stood about 6ft 7in,with blonde cropped hair.
“Jesus Val, it’s darn good to see you. I feel… a day like this…I just feel like I could fuck something right now. You know what I mean?”
Val gave an uncharacteristic smile.
“I do John. I do.”
Kennedy’s demeanour hardened. It was down to business.
“Val, I have a million things to do today, but you’re my first priority. Now I know what the answer is gonna be, but I’m gonna ask the question anyway.”
“No John. It’s a no.
“But you don’t know what I’m gonna ask.”
“John, you’re trying to sell me the same schtick I’ve been hearing all my life. Now I know that you believe it. And God dammit that’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked you John. You can change this country. You can change the world.”
“But Val I need good men. I need YOU.”
Val pulled two cigarettes from his inside pocket. He lit both, deftly, and passed one to Kennedy who accepted reluctantly. Val took a long drag on his.
“John, you’ve worked long and hard for this day.”
“We both have Val.”
“Maybe. But I got other agendas. I’m not an upfront kind of guy. I don’t belong in no tribe. I dance to my own tune. It’s always been that way. And it always will be.”
Kennedy bowed his head, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, sighed and turned towards the window again.
“You love this country, don’t you?”
“All I love is freedom John. You know that.”
“But you weren’t born here, were you? You know something Val, I’ve known you what… 10 years? And in all that time – I don’t think I’ve ever really got to know you at all.”
“There’s nothing to know John, apart from what you see in front of you.”
Val stared at his friend. He could sense Kennedy’s unease by the angle of his shoulders.
“What’s wrong John?”
Kennedy turned back to face Val.
“I’m scared. I don’t know if I can handle this job. It just feels… unreal. You know, I have some major shit to deal with. The Russkies. Castro…”
“They’re not you only enemies John. You need to look within.”
Kennedy became more animated and raised his cigarette.
“Y’see. Y’see? That’s why I need you. You always call it right.”
“And I’ll be right here John. Right here. When you need me, I’ll be here. Watching and waiting.”
Kennedy said nothing. Val patted his shoulder and then turned to leave.
Kennedy stared forlorn at this desk. He called out to Val, who was halfway out of the door.
“Marilyn says hi!”
Val stopped. Turned to face Kennedy again.
“Stay away from that one John. She’s a mixed up kid, bad news.”
“What did happen between you guys anyway Val?”
Val paused.
“Goodbye Mr President.”
He closed the door. Somehow he knew it wouldn’t end well for Marilyn. He was perceptive like that. Sometimes he despised his gifts. Sometimes he wished he was just like all the rest of the ignorant sheep, but he couldn’t switch off his instincts.
And it it hurt him to think just how much he thought Kennedy was headed the same way. Here was a chance for world to turn itself around finally after the horrors of the wars. If he could just keep his head.
15 Minutes earlier….
She clumsily pulled her silk Italian knickers back up, over her long tanned well toned and expertly waxed legs.
“Wow” she exhaled, “That’s just what I needed.” She dropped onto the toilet cover seat, sweat beads pouring down over her reddened breasts. She began buttoning up her blouse, save the one at the top which Val had spat out of the stall.
Val buckled his belt pulled up his zip.
“That’s the last time Jackie. No more. Things are changing.”
Jackie held up her cigarette holder to Val, who responded by placing a Chesterfield in it and lighting it with his Zippo.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m not kidding. John is a friend and now he’s the President. It’s too dangerous and I won’t do it to him anymore. I shouldn’t even be here.”
Jackie laughed and threw her head back.
“Now Val. We both know no-one can make you do something against your will now, don’t we. Don’t worry, I don’t think this is a particularly good idea either. But if you’re saying guilt is part of the reason you want to stop – and I don’t believe it is, for the record – then save yourself the worry. You know he’s seeing that little film star slut you had a thing with after he sees you today, don’t you?”
Val was stone.
“Just give me the envelope Jackie, I don’t have time for your games.”
Jackie continued to smile, convinced she had rattled him slightly. She reached into her mink purse and produced a small pink envelop, which was sealed. She kissed the front side leaving a large red lipstick mark on it.
“You understand what you have to do. Don’t you?”
Val snatched the envelope from her, turned awkwardly in the crapped cubicle and unlocked the toilet door.
“Jackie. A word of warning. NEVER, under any circumstances, do you question my professionalism. I. Am. The. Best.”
As he left, slamming the outer toilet door behind him Jackie sighed and couldn’t thing of a single reason to disagree.
December 20, 1962 – Ciudad de La Habana, Cuba
“How the hell does he do that?”
Castro surfaced with yet another fish in his hands, this one even bigger than the last. Castro grinned as he swam for the shore, releasing the fish and aiming for where Val and Maria sat in the languid evening sun.
Castro had all the cards, all 1,113 of them in fact and he knew it. The damn invasion was a joke, Kennedy had shown his true colours on that one and now where were they? In the fucking soup, that’s where. He’d already been here three months trying to make this deal.
“Go for a walk Maria, I’ll see you tonight, this is men’s business.”
Maria looked up at him, a flash of anger in her big brown eyes as she walked up the beach to the villa. She had never looked so beautiful and his gaze followed her tight bronzed ass until she disappeared out of site.
“So Mr Dood, it appears I have something you want”
“Please, call me Val, El Presidente. We want the hostages back, preferably by Christmas.”
“Call me Fidel, Val. You know, Cuba is a poor country, it does not need to be but it is. The reason for this is the American pig dogs. They will not trade with us. Why Val? Because we are an example. An example to any country in the world that wants to be free. Tiny Cuba has taken on the might of the most powerful nation on earth and won. Now they will destroy us with economics, for if they don’t, other nations will rise up and they will demand freedom too.”
“Look Fidel, I’m not saying what happened was fair. I’m not going to try and defend it, I respect you too much for that. But we need the hostages. You can name your price on this one.”
“Ok Val, you are lucky, we should have all of those icho de puta’s shot but the Cuban people must come first. We need food and medicine. About $50 million dollars worth to be exact.”
“Christ Fidel, the United States Government can’t be seen to be paying Cuba a $50 million dollar ransom, it will kill John politically, he won’t go for it”
“He’ll have to, and anyway there are many ways to make this payment, it doesn’t need to come directly from the Americans, if you know what I mean Val.”
Val knew what he meant. He had worked for the Kennedy administration doing just that kind of thing during the election, a few thousand here, a backhander there, palms greased, pockets lined, it was dirty all the way. Luckily for John, his father had made a fortune selling bootleg booze back in the day and had bank rolled the whole election.
“You know Val, the Americans sent over about 1,500 heavily armed and well trained fighters to take Cuba. Well I did it with twenty men Val. Twenty. Eighty two of us landed in Cuba and three days later only twenty of us remained. Only twenty men left to defeat the bastard Batista who was backed to the hilt by the Americans. Within two years, we had beaten them. If we had men of your callibre Val, we could have done it in six months.”
Val’s lips tightened into a smile but his eyes were as impassive as Cuba itself. He had made his mind up already and now he just had get it over with. He slid a hand inside his white linen suit’s inside jacket pocket and removed a single envelope containing the faint remnants of lipstick. His mouth suddenly felt dry in the warm salty air.
“Take this Fidel, it might come in handy someday. But don’t open it yet, wait till I’m gone.”
“Are you going Val? You know there’s a place for men like you in this brave new country and what with you and Maria…”
“Sorry Fidel, I just can’t walk that line, wouldn’t work, no way. You put me in a cage and I’ll just keep thinking of ways to bust out. Speaking of Maria, will you let her down gently Fidel? I have to leave first thing tomorrow. She’s a sweet kid but she’s better off without me.”
“She’ll be devastated Val, I think she loves you, I think she’s always loved you.”
“I know.”
Val turned to go, he’d be back in his hotel room within the hour, and an hour after that he’d be so drunk on Havana Club that he could forget all about Castro, Cuba, Maria and this whole sorry fucked up world. No matter how much he drank though, he couldn’t forget about the envelope, what had he done?
It was almost too easy. He could hear the envelope tear as he left. Castro had grabbed the bait greedily, without question. The irony of that fish trick. Cuba’s fate with the Russians was sealed. The defence budget increase now a mere formality.
Val Dood reached his block. Three flights of stairs. Door ajar. The perfume… Maria.
December 21, 1962 – Ciudad de La Habana, Cuba
Val Dood sat on the edge of the bed.
Maria stared at him.
“Why can’t you ever let anyone in?”
The blue morning sun slotted through the blinds, danced on her tear filmed eyes.
Val Dood slotted the tattered photograph of his mother back into his wallet. Clutched a half glass of whiskey from the bedside table. Slugged it back. Got up. Got dressed.
He tucked a ten dollar bill under the lamp.
Maria reared from the bed.
“You think of me this? No better than fackeeng prostitute!”
She screamed. Scrambled toward the lamp. Frenetic. The crumpled bill rebounded from the closing door.
Val Dood stepped into the sun-bleached street. Struck a match. Lit a cigar. Shrieks resonated from a third floor apartment. Val Dood had a plane to catch…
After disembarking his flight from Havana, Val made his way into the airport restrooms and entered one of the stalls. He opened his case and changed his floral short-sleeve shirt, army shorts and sandals for a smart black suit. After making some adjustments in front of the mirror at the sink he emerged and made his way to the Air France booking desk.
“Bonjour sir. Paris?”
“Oui.”
Her delegate gloved hand accepted Val’s passport and flight tickets. Her face, heavily buried beneath thick layers of make-up displayed no emotion as she gazed at the picture in the passport and tried to determine if she was looking at the same person standing in front of her.
Val’s face remained stony, despite him feeling a little uncomfortable sporting a thing moustache which he he’d darkened with some boot polish.
“Could I ask oo to tek off zur ‘at Monsieur Hewson?”
“Absolutely,” he said, evoking a fake but note-perfect Manhattan accent, and an even more convincing stab at cordiality. He removed his trilby, revealing a dark thick main of synthetic hair.
She smiled. She had fat red lips, like two ripe worms. A rather vulgar, obvious beauty he surmised, but not without its charms.
“Tres bien, sur. And do oo ‘av any luggage to check in today?”
“No, not today dear.”
“Travelling light, eh? I zee you av eh one-way ticket? Staying in Paris are we? However will oo manage?”
Too many questions. Val didn’t much care for this bitch’s intrusiveness.
“Don’t worry about me dear. I always seem to get by on just a few things, and I’m sure I’ll pick up a few more along the way. Now my dear, I have a favour to ask.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
“My business associate Dimitri Depaul is also on board this flight and I think he may have already checked in. It’s a long flight and I’d very much like to sit next to him if I can?”
“Pardon monsieur, but oo know I cannot give details of anyone else on zees flight.”
Val laughed briefly, then returned to a serious demeanour.
“Come come now, girl. I’m not asking about a stranger. This man is my friend. My partner. I’ve known him since Harvard. His wife passed away last year and I haven’t seen him since the funeral, so we have a great deal to catch up on. I promised him I would see him on the flight. You don’t want to make me break a promise now, do you?”
“Monsieur, I…”
“For Pete’s Sake my girl, what on earth do you think is ever the risk? Do you think I’m going to storm the damn plane and fly it into the ruddy Empire State Building or something?”
She giggled nervously. Val smiled, softing his tone. He placed his large muscular hand on her thin gloved fingers.
“No, I didn’t think so. So can you please seat me next to him?”
“D’accord. Zees wil nat be a problem I think Monsieur Hewson.”
She made a few deft movements on her clipboard and a brief phonecall. She then presented Val with his boarding pass.
“Gate 11a. Enjoy oor flight monsieur. Je suis un desolate…”
“Not at all my dear. You’re a charming specimen.”
He leant forward to her ear.
“You don’t need all that shit on your face honey. Dare to bare.”
He winked, kissed her cheek and withdrew, replacing his hat and returning to character. The check-in girl watched him make his way to the gate. Who was this man?
Val stopped on the way to buy a New York Times and then at the airport bar, knocking back a straight double Johnnie Walkers in the process. Before leaving the bar he devoured the contents of the nut bowl. Breakfast.
On boarding the flight, he approached his seat, head bowed, but staring from just under the brim of his hat to fix Dimitri Depaul with his gaze.
Depaul was slight man with a thin face, about the same age as Val. His brown hair was thinking on top and the only distinguishing feature on his bland anonymous face was a pair of tinted glasses. Val smiled. No one would remember this guy.
Val stored his hat, overcoat and briefcase in the top locker and then took his seat. His broad frame swivelled toward Depaul, thrusting his open palm towards him.
“Paul, Paul Hewson. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Val shook Depaul’s hand violently. Depaul appeared a little overawed, but reciprocated.
“Pleased to meet you. Call me Dimitri.”
During the next few hours, the two men began a stilted exchange which metamorphosed into a heated debate – several Johnnie Walkers’ later.
“Paul, Paul. Look man. You’re wrong. Just wrong. There’s nothing very special about this guy Dylan. If you know your musical history then you’ll know that the guy is basically ripping Woody Guthrie off wholesale.”
“Well I haven’t heard much of this Dylan guy. And they’re saying he might be a Commie. But the boy has some tunes. If you think it’s just Woody Guthrie stuff then your naïve beyond belief. I saw him a month back in Greenwich Village and he blew me away. Maybe it was just the company I was with at the time, but still…”
Depaul slapped his thigh.
“Well at least we’ve both heard of him, eh? How many of these suits on board this flight do you think know who Bob Dylan is? Makes you feel young, doesn’t it?”
Val smiled and sank back into his chair, finishing another Johnnie Walker and sucking long and hard on a Chesterfield.
“Yes it does Dimitri. Yes it does.”
Depaul reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a Poloroid. He leant over to Val, a little closer than Val liked but he let it go this time.
“This… this is Julia. And this is Nicholas and this is Anne.”
Val gazed at the photo. All four of them were smiling. Real smiles.
“You have a beautiful family Dimitri.”
“Thank-you. Where’s yours? Do you have a picture of yours?”
Val pressed the call button.
“No. No photo. Nothing.”
The stewardess arrived. Val pointed at Depaul’s glass. Depaul nodded.
“Stick another two in these, doll.”
Into the final hour of the plane’s journey, night fell and the passengers grew quiet, a dull hum as many of them slept or attempted to sleep. Depaul had passed out mid-sentence, and although Val had consumed nearly as much as he had, his adrenalin had extinguished any alcoholic effects he had felt moments before.
He grabbed Depaul by his arms and lifted him off his feet. Depaul murmured something incomprehensible, but his eyes stayed shut. Val knew he had to be quick.
Val was familiar with Boeing jets from his army days and the 707 wasn’t much different. He made his way past the dozing air stewardess and down the gantry towards the baggage hold. He yanked them lock open and climbed inside, dragging Depaul’s limp body with him.
As he started to roll open the hatch, Depaul began to regain consciousness and his eyes opened.
“Where.. where the hell am I? You..Paul? Paul? What are you doing?”
Val worked faster to pull enough of the hold door open. A red light began to blink and he knew that the crew would now be alerted to the fact that the hold was open. That would do.
Val paused briefly and thought that Depaul was not a bad man. Just not a particularly lucky one. In other circumstances maybe they could have even been friends. If Val had any friends.
As Depaul fell screaming to his death, Val struggled with the hold door control. The alarm light went off and was milked of its colour. Val noticed two things lying on the floor which Depaul has dropped – his glasses and his photo of his family. He picked them up and put them in his pocket.
Later, as he made his way through Customs at Paris-Orly Airport, he scanned the sea of anxious people who were waiting to greet their loved ones. He scanned back and forth and then settled on one. She was devastatingly beautiful, with mink black hair, tall and dressed like she was doing to a funeral. Maybe she was. He approached her and smiled.
It was snowing outside and she was wearing a black woollen hat, with her hands hidden in a black wollen handwarmer.
“Mr Depaul? My name is Anastasia. I trust you had a pleasant flight?” she asked in a stern English accent.
From beneath Dimitri Depaul’s tinted glasses, he stared deep into the woman’s eyes, looking for the faintest hint of recognition or conversely, realisation. There was none. He was going to go with her now, to the black limo behind her. There, like so many times before, to begin a voyage into the unknown.
He didn’t know, really, who Dimitri Depaul was. He certainly didn’t know who Anastasia was. And he didn’t know why the Americans were paying him $1million dollars to be here in the middle of… what? He even didn’t know that. Not yet anyway.
It was as though some unseen hand, or hands, were guiding his fate, mercilessly tugging him in one direction and then the other, before he would one day reach his inevitable conclusion. But that day was a long way off.
He was in uncharted territory now. The undiscovered country. Perfect. With a man whose past was almost as much of a mystery to him as it was to others, approaching a blank page was the thrill which kept him in this game.
“The flight was a killer. But I’m all the better for meeting you Anastasia. Call me Dimitri.”
He looked down in the direction of her hands.
“Nice muff.”
(should have pointed out that the above episode starts in Idlewild Airport – the one which is now JFK. Apologies for any confusion. As you were)
25th December, 1924 – Rotterdam, The Netherlands.
Life was good. At last.
As Klaus Jansen sharpened the carving knife before he began slicing, he stared wistfully through the kitchen hatch through to the front room where his wife of five months played with their adopted son on the floor. Of course he wasn’t legally theirs. Legally, six-year-old Val Jansen didn’t even exist. He couldn’t. That was too dangerous to contemplate.
Dangerous enough to force Klaus and Valerie to quit their jobs with the Eindhoven Municipal Constabulary, elope and go on the run for the last five years. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d got by just fine thanks to casual work here and there and the goodwill of friends and strangers. When the heat was rising, they had to move on and thanks to Klaus’s contacts with the Police, they’d always managed to stay one step ahead of their pursuers.
Klaus didn’t exactly know much about them – their names and motives remained a mystery. The only clue he had was the title of a opening page of a singed dossier he’d seen more than five years ago.
‘The Progeny’…
What was it? What did it mean?And what did it have to do with the gorgeous blonde haired, blue-eyed little boy sitting on his knees gleefully opening Christmas presents?
“I hope you two are hungry!”, Klaus bellowed through the hatch to his wife and son. His family lept to their feet, and took their chairs.
“Do you need any help there, Klaus?”, enquired Valerie.
“You can pour us some wine if you like. Celebrate our first Christmas together in our own home. Just the three of us.”
As he began laying the slices of goose onto their three plates, he felt himself relax for the first time in years. Everything had been quiet for the last 18 months. He’d continued to take the same precautions, stay in touch with his reliable contacts, but nothing. No tips, no hints, no rumours. No mention of The Progeny. He hoped that perhaps they could settle in Rotterdam, lead a normal life. Bring up Val to be the fine man Klaus knew he was going to be.
Then there came a rattle at the door. Klaus and Valerie fixed each other with the same ice cold gaze. Valerie made to rise from her seat at the dining table, but Klaus nodded for her to stay where she was.
With the carving knife still in his right hand, tucked behind his back, Klaus made his way slowly to the door. Valerie looked unnerved.
“It’s okay Valerie. It can’t be them. No-one knows we’re here. And besides. It’s Christmas Day. Even they must stop running some days.”
His feint smile did not reassure her. Nevertheless she took young Val’s hands in hers and whispered gently “I wonder who that could be, eh?”, with a faux expentant smile.
Val said nothing but stared at the knife behind his adopted father’s back. He squeezed his adoptive mother’s hands.
“It’s okay mummy. Don’t cry.”
There was another rattle against the door, harder this time. Klaus slowly began to unbolt it. He drew it open to reveal a tall man wearing a black fedora and long dark trenchcoat. The man gazed down at the snow, the brim of his hat masking his face. Slowly he lifted his head to reveal a pockmarked gaunt unshaven face, sporting two dark, dead eyes.
He held Klaus in his gaze for a second, then shot two glances over Klaus’s shoulder at the women and the boy.
After more than five long years, Herr Fenstermacher had found his prey.
Klaus immediately sensed that the only ‘gift’ his Christmas Day visitor was here to deliver was death. He lunged clumsily at Fenstermacher with the knife. Anticipating his move, Fenstermacher stepped aside, Klaus carried forward onto the snow with his own momentum.
Fenstermacher stood over him and put the point of his silencer against the back of Klaus’s head. As he pulled the trigger the white snow turned a dark red, as Klaus’s head came apart. Without hesitating, Fenstermacher turned and entered the house.
Valerie and Val were now cowered in the corner of the room, both weeping and violently shaking.
Valerie picked up vase and hurled it at Fenstermacher, screaming “Bastard!”
Fenstermacher batted the vase aside with his arm and sent a bullet into Valerie’s forehead, the force of which threw her backwards against the wall.
Val stared in disbelief at his dead mother. And then at Fenstermacher. Val clenched his small fists and darted towards the man, his head bowed. His speed caught Fenstermacher offguard, the crown of Val’s head making contact with Fenstermacher’s testicles.
Fenstermacher recoiled, coughing with the sharp burning pain he felt in his balls. ‘Little bastard’, he cursed to himself.
He volleyed a kick towards Val, catching him in the gut, which sent him flying backwards. He raised his gun and pointed it towards Val’s head. Val stared him down, his chest heaving. Fenstermacher hesitated for a moment as his finger teased the trigger.
“Close your eyes!”, he belowed in German.
Val did not.
“Close your fucking eyes, you little shit!”
Val did not.
“So be it. The last of The Progeny must be destroyed.”
Val’s eye were wide open, defiant. He did not know why this man wanted to kill him. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Yet he felt a strange sense of ease. He was not afraid. He felt like he had always been destined to defy.
Then suddenly, as Fenstermacher’s finger quivered on the trigger, his eyes bulged red as the top of his head opened with roar. Fenstermacher dropped forward to the floor, smoke coming out of the remains of his head.
The rest of his head was now smeared across Val’s, a mixture of blood, bone, brain tissue and skin. Val lay motionless on the floor. He could feel the sticky contents of Fenstermacher’s unfortunate head on his face. He wiped his face with his clothes sleeve.
Now standing in front of him was a tall, square-jawed gentleman, brandishing a smoking machine gun. Val thought he looked the captain of a ship he’d seen in book about smugglers.
The man exhaled, smiled and shook his head in disdain. He looked down at Fenstermacher’s corpse, gave it a kick and in a bold American accent remarked “Fucking amateur.”
He then looked at Val, and asked “Do you speak English kid?”
Val did. He was already fluent in six different languages. Self taught.
“Come with me.”
He outstretched his hand. Val remain static. The man reached into his pocket and produced a hankerchief. He lowered to his knees and gently began to wipe the blood and guts from Val’s face.
“And so what do they call you then, son?”
“Val.”
“Val? I like it. Well Val, my name is Matt Dignam. And you’re now in the care of the American Government. Do you understand?”
Val said nothing. Matt smiled.
“It’s okay kid. You’ll be safe with me. I knew your mother.”
December 23, 1962 – Paris, France
“Christmas? No. I don’t much care for Christmas honey.”
Val, as Depaul, stared down for a second and took off his glasses, before regaining his composure. He lifted his head, returned his glasses to his face and stared out the front of limo. It was hard to see in these things, all he could make out was a white blur as the snow fell in front of them.
It was nice and warm inside the plush car. Sitting next to him, Anastasia blushed. She giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. Not the kind you’d find at any school. But the kind you knew could wrap her rich daddy round her delicate little gloved pinkie.
“Of course – I quite forgot. You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
‘Jewish?’, Val thought, ‘Jesus Christ! They didn’t mention that at the briefing. If you could call that clusterfeck a briefing. And in these idiots’ hands the freedom of the Western world rested? Jesus. It wouldn’t have happened in Dignam’s day…’
“Jewish – ahh, yes I am. Although I’m not exactly what you’d call Orthodox.”
That much was true.
“You don’t look that Jewish really.”
“You expect us all to have hook noses and claws?”
Again she giggled. Detention Anastasia!
“I beg your pardon Mr Depaul..”
“Dimitri..”
“Dimitri, I meant to cause no offence.”
Val laughed.
“Don’t worry dear,. I’m merely joking.”
Anastasia’s body relaxed a little. She laughed again, more uncertain this time.
“Ahh..haa. It’s just that you’re very fair. It’s not a criticism. Besides, what do I know?”
“Good question.”
Val turned to face her full on.
“What DO you know?”
Anastasia inched away from him and her face froze over.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where are we going?”
She grew confused.
“We’re going to see him. You know that.”
“Him? Who?”
“Who? You mean you don’t..”
Then she felt a sharp prod to her abdomen. She looked down at the blade and gasped. Val placed his muscular right hand on her thin neck. It pinched her soft white skin slightly, not yet a choke – but a warning. He put his finger on his mouth, widened his eyes and shook his head. He whispered.
“Who are you? Why are you trying to set me up? You working for MI5?”
Horrified, she struggled to free her neck from his grip but could not. Breathlessly, she answered.
“Whaaat? What do you mean? I’m English, yes, but my parents came from Russia. I work for Orlov, just like you.”
“You do, do you? And what do you know about me?”
“What?”
He squeezed tighter on her throat.
“You…uhhh..you’re Dimitri Depaul. Born in Reutov, Russia on August 8th, 1927. You fled to the United States in 1940, after your mother, father and sister were killed by the Nazis.”
This was all news to Val. She was well briefed. They could use someone like her in Washington, Val thought…
“Good. And so WHERE are you taking me?”
“To…to Orlov. Yuri Orlov.”
Val right hand relaxed and he removed it from her neck, slowly. The knife disappeared back up his sleeve. His demeanour changed.
“I’m sorry darling. I had to do that. I can’t trust anyone anymore and I just had to be sure you were who you said you were. You clearly know your stuff.”
Anastasia massaged her neck and shook her head, flicking her long dark mane of her away from her coat, trying to let more air in.
“That’s…alright. I understand. I’ve had worse.”
10 minutes later the black limo pulled up outside a café in Montmartre.Anastasia leant forward to speak to the driver.
“Wait here Claude. We won’t be long.”
Val and Anastasia exited the vehicle and entered the bustling, smoky café. A small, muscular man with short, cropped dark hair and days old stubble rose to his feet. He fixed both Val and Anastasia with a welcoming look, his arms outstretched. He embraced Anastasia, and kissed her on both cheeks.
“My dear, my dear, please sit,” he told her, in raspy Russian accent. He looked at Val.
A momentary panic washed over Val – how well did Orlov know Depaul?
“Dimitri, Dimitri! My dear friend, at last we meet face to face, instead of at the end of a phoneline.”
Val instinctively embraced Orlov, and they both patted each other on the back enthusiastically.
“Yuri, Yuri. Thank-you for meeting me here, I hope you have not found yourself in danger since arriving in Paris?”
Val’s voice changed a little, as he tried to emmulate Depaul’s tone. This change did not go unnoticed to Anastasia, who glanced at him as he spoke.
“Not at all. No-one knows I’m here, except dear Anastasia here.”
Orlov took Anastasia’s hand and kissed it gently. He summoned the waiter over and ordered two coffees. He turned to Anastasia.
“My dear, would you be so kind as to wait in the car?”
Anastasia was offended and showed it.
“But Yuri, there’s no need, I..”
His voice raised slightly, but the tone lowered and he gripped her wrist tightly. He clenched his teeth.
“Men. Are. Speaking. Wait. In. The. Car.”
Anastasia said nothing, shot her chair back and left. Orlov smiled.
“She’s a good kid. I met her on an assignment in London last year. She works only for me, and isn’t fully briefed on our mission. Don’t worry, there are no leaks here. The Americans are none the wiser.”
Val smirked.
“I’m glad to hear it, my friend.”
He decided to test Orlov’s knowledge – and his faith in Depaul.
“Nasty business over in Cuba. What news have you heard this side?”, asked Val, a sly look on his face.
Orlov began to nod, violently.
“That situation is under control. I understand that a deal has been brokered. Cuba will hand over the remaining 1,113 swine in the Bay of Pigs invasion on Christmas Eve, in exchange for $53 million. Khrushchev has no desire to be the destroyer of our world, and I don’t believe that Mr Kennedy does either.”
“I think you’re right there, my friend.”
Val was glad all his work in Cuba was playing out as planned. John seemed to be on top of things now. That, at least, was one less thing to worry about.
“Yes. But the message from the top is that we continue to aide the North Vietnamese. We must ensure the war takes flight, drawing America into the fray, exposing them and distracting them so that next time, we will hold all of the bargaining chips in a nuclear stand-off.”
From under his copy of Le Monde, he pushed across a manila folder, which Val subtly swept from the table and snuck under his breast pocket.
“I think you will find everything you require in there my friend. I would like to talk more to you about it, but you understand…”
“I understand.”
“Good. They expect to see you in Moscow within the next 24 hours.”
“Thank-you Yuri.”
Val stood up. Orlov grabbed his wrist.
“We’re not done yet my friend.”
A momentary jolt of adrenalin made Val light headed and he realised he had better sit down. His muscles tightened with that familiar feeling and he prepared to smash Orlov’s jaw in two. But his fears subsided when Orlov pushed a second file from under his newspaper across to him. Orlov looked more suspicious now, and turned his head from left to right before leaning closer to Val and dropped his whispering voice even further.
“Dimitri, that favour you asked me to look into? I uncovered some stuff. It’s all there. But I must be honest with you. I’ve read this file. My advice to you is to keep well alone. This is none of our business and the Kremlin wouldn’t want you to become distracted from your official duties. I’m advising you as a colleague and a friend Dimitri.”
He stared into Val’s eyes. Val said nothing, oblivious to Orlov’s meaning.
“I know how you feel. I feel the same. The others – they don’t understand how we feel. But never doubt it, though we may have been an ocean apart since you left Russia – we are Jewish brothers. But it’s time to let go. I’m Russian first and foremost… and so are you, Dimitri. Remember that. Good luck, comrade.”
“Yes”, Val said meekly, trying desperately to piece together what Orlov was talking about. Maybe he was just too tired. It had been a long few days.
He hurried through the snow outside and into the warm, waiting limo. He didn’t look at either file – there was time for that later, when he had greater privacy. He had no idea what the second file was about – must have been something private between Orlov and Depaul, he’d probably just toss that one later, he didn’t need any more distractions from his mission.
“Did you get everything you needed Dimitri?” asked Anastasia.
Val hesitated.
“Yes. Yes, I think I did.”
“It’s late and you must be tired. Do you want to go home before you leave for Moscow?”
“Home?”
“Yes. Your apartment, here in Paris. Yuri has given me details. We can escort you there.”
Rest. He looked at Anastasia’s long, milk white legs, imprisoned within her sheer net stockings. A little time in bed might do him some good.
The black limo drove for a nearly a mile across Paris to Le Marais. The driver exited and opened Val’s door.
“Well Dimitri. I rather suppose this is adieu. We can send a car for you in the morning to take you to the train station.”
Val took Anastasia’s hand.
“Would you do me the honour of letting me entertain you for a little while? I do hate being alone in a big city.”
Again, she giggled and smiled. She hid the fact that she knew he was not all he appeared to be. In fact, she had no reason to trust him at all.
“Dimitri, I’d simply love to, but Mr Orlov has other duties for me to attend to.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand. Besides, he’ll be reassured that I am being looked after by one of his best… women.”
That giggle.
“Well in that case Dimitri, I will find it hard to turn you down.”
As they made their way along the snowy path to his apartment block, Val fumbled inside his inner pocket for a door key. He didn’t want to give Anastasia any more cause for suspicion than she already had.
Opening the door, he guessed that his room was 310, as it had the name Ealdup next to it – a crude anagram of Depaul. On turning his key in the door, he inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Inside the flat was basic and typical of that of man living on his own. It felt cold and damp, with a strong musty smell hanging over the room.
“Please take a seat Anastasia, make yourself at home. I’ll fix us some drinks.”
As Anastasia began removing her hat and coat, Val tossed the two files onto a chair, knelt down to start up the bar fire and then walked over to Depaul’s drinks cabinet. There wasn’t much inside, but there was a unopened bottle of red wine. A bottle of 1958 Rioja – ‘Depaul had taste and class’, Val mused. He popped the cork and poured two glasses.
“The last two days have been rather exhausting, but satisfying all the same. I’m so glad you agreed to share your company with me.”
He turned round to see Anastasia standing fully naked, staring brazenly at him. Without flinching, he looked her up and down. She did not disappoint. Her body was younger than he’d assumed her to be – her demeanour and taste in clothes had made her appear older. Her breasts were large and well rounded, larger than they should be given her slight frame. She had fairly wide hips, with long slim legs and her expansive pubic hair had a luscious, chocolate hue.
He necked his glass of red and hers, let the glasses smash on the carpet, wiped his lips and made his approach.
He fucked her long and hard that night. Much like the lion stalks and then devours the poor wildebeast. The stress of his mission had been visited on Anastasia’s willing, soft frame. He might have felt sorry for her afterwards, had it not been for the repetitive cries of ecstasy he’d heard, as she orgasmed over and over again.
When their fevered copulation finally ceased, they both effectively passed out on the bed with exhaustion. But Val woke at 5am, stirred by the sound of a car horn being sounded and he found himself too restless and preoccupied with the events of the last few days to sleep any longer. He looked over at Anastasia’s lily coloured back, and covered her with the duvet, up to her neck.
Quietly he rolled from the bed, lit a Chesterfield, poured himself another glass of red and sat down at the bathroom chair by the window. He switched on the nightlamp and reached for the second file which Orlov had handed him. The one he hadn’t looked at. The one he had no idea what was inside. The one which had no bearing on his mission. So why did he find himself so intrigued to learn its contents?
He began sifting through it. He quickly realised it all seemed to focus on one man – Karl Poppendick. It became clear Poppendick had been part of the Third Reich, there were countless pictures of him in his military uniform and countless documents, which appeared to be a mixture of diary entries, newspaper cuttings and confidential files from the Nazis. There was also a handwritten note which looked fairly fresh from the condition of the ink and the paper it was written on, which had a Paris address written on it.
‘Nazis’, thought Val. He felt the need to spit, violently. He hated these cunts. But he had no desire to postumously realise Depaul’s foolish pastime, which appeared to be nazi hunting. A noble venture, perhaps. But there was no profit in it for Val Dood.
Then he came to the final document. The only one which really mattered. The one which was about to change everything. The one which made Val smash his third glass of the night. The one which meant he would no longer be heading straight for Moscow in the morning.
He stared and stared at the title of the classified German report with disbelief for more than 10 minutes. His eyes fixed on two words he’d long since put to the darkest recesses of his mind.
‘Die Nachkommen.’
The Progeny.