The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter, Part 5 of 7

Mickey Malloy is one nail in the coffin away from figuring out who the Head Hunter is. Meanwhile in Canada, Doriane and Yvonne uncover more evidence and the realization that Mick, Sinclair, and Ifa are in more danger than they ever imagined.

This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.

This is Part 5 of The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter. If you hadn’t had a chance to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 or Part 4 yet, stop now and check them out first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use, Creeps

TUESDAY EVENING, MAY 5, 1942
FULLER'S TEN TO TWO
FRENCH QUARTER, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

“So how how 'bout you? Any trouble?” Mick asked. He was cradling the phone in the crook of his neck as he juggled a full plate and a beer.

“No civilian injuries or arrests yet,” Ifa replied. “The police here are dangerous, but predictable, and slow.”

“That's southern cops for you. If they get you, they're mean,” Mick assured him. “Trust me.”

“I have fought genocidal commandos in the deep bush,” Ifa explained. “These up-jumped goose-steppers will remain one step behind.”

“Good,” Mick said. “Just remember, the folks you're working with are civilians, not trained commandos.”

“They are already slowing,” Ifa confirmed. “The last families were on the road only thirty minutes before the first officers arrived.”

“You just keep moving,” Mick advised.

“I will continue, but I must say, none of this would have been possible on my own. There were already people assisting these communities before I arrived.”

“How's that then?” Mick asked around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

“There were already networks set up to bypass local authorities, complete with transport, sanctuaries, and provisions,” Ifa replied.

“Sound like churches,” Mick said.

“Churches made up many of the waypoints, but the pastors deferred to men who claim to work for Agrarian Mutual Bank.”

“Never heard of it,” Mick said.

“They passed out money to families to incentivize cooperation like its value was negligible. Large amounts of liquid currency. Each banker is heavily armed, as well, their weapons military-grade and brand new.”

“Damn,” Mick muttered.

“I have been recording what I can about them. Most of their representatives come and go, but the communities trust all of them implicitly.”

“Sounds like you need to keep your ears open,” Mick said. “Be nice to know what players are on the board here.”

“As I said, the people in these towns would be incarcerated or worse without the bankers' intervention. Still, evacuating whole towns and islands ahead of an invasion can only be an effective strategy for so long. You cannot hide hundreds of people forever.”

“Well, I think I'm pulling on a thread that the cops don't want to see,” Mick told him. “Just keep shuffling those people around, and if you think you can trust them, link up with these bankers. Find out their story.”

“Agreed,” Ifa said.

“Check in tomorrow, if you can,” Mick said.

“The bankers always have telephone access, but I do not know if that applies to me,” Ifa replied. Mick paused at that. Some of those islands and towns didn't see electricity for miles, much less phones. Mick should have heard about an outfit with pockets deep enough to set that up. This wasn't just some concerned community bank passing out cash and packing heat. He suddenly grew concerned for Ifa.

“Which badge are you using?”

“None, I disposed of it. I did not think a federal agent's presence would be appreciated here.”

“Good thinking,” Mick said. “Be safe, talk tomorrow.”

Mick hung the phone on its cradle and took the opportunity to wolf down a couple more bites of cooling cheeseburger. He looked up to see Bobby standing outside the little phone booth, arms crossed over his apron. Mick shifted his plate and glass around again and cracked the door open.

“Yes?” he asked around a mouthful of food.

“Mister India, this is the only phone we got in the whole place, and other folks need to use it, too.”

Mick looked past the kid to see a couple gentlemen lined up checking their watches. He sighed, then shuffled his meal around again until he was holding the pint glass and balancing his plate on top. He dug into his pants pocket until he found his faux Bureau of Investigation badge and tapped the glass with it. The waiting men suddenly found other things to do. Bobby's eyes went wide.

“Oh boy!” he exclaimed, grinning. “A real live G-man!”

“That's right,” Mick said.

“You got a gun?” Bobby asked.

“Not supposed to say,” Mick replied. “I got one more call to make, is that okay?”

“Sure thing,” Bobby said. “Those jokers won't bother you again.”

“Thanks for the assist, kid.”

Bobby practically skipped back behind the bar. Mick chuckled, jammed another handful of fries down his trap, then picked the phone back up.

He had the operator connect him to Baltimore. It rang twice and clicked half a dozen times before a genial young man answered.

“Baltimore Central Diocese, Paul speaking.”

“Paul, it's Malloy. Blue, eight-five-ninety-nine.”

“I'm sorry, Mister Malloy is out of the building right now. Is there any way I can help you?” the cloyingly cheerful official asked. Mick had met Paul during the move up to Baltimore. He was the perfect combination of observant, manipulative, and patient. He also knew how to turn Mickey's screws, and Mick couldn't tell whether it was intentional or not.

“Paul, this is Malloy,” Mick grated.

“Mister Malloy? From Jacksonville?”

Mick sighed.

“You know I'm from Tampa.”

“I could have sworn you said...”

“Fine. Jacksonville,” Mick grunted. He listened as the Office's voice-printing systems replayed his own voice back to him, repeating 'Jacksonville' over and over, modulating its tones until it perfectly matched with his sample.

“Deputy Inspector Malloy, perfect match,” Paul chirped.

“Let me talk to - !” Mick started.

“Do you have the daily color, sir?” Paul interjected.

“Blue, I said. Now - !”

“And your serial number?”

Mick sighed.

“Eight. Five. Nine. Nine.”

“Perfect! How can I help you today?”

“Can you connect me to Marjorie Queen, please?” Mick asked.

“Of course! Dialing now. I'll stay on the line while we wait.”

“You don't have to - !”

“So I understand you're in Charleston,” Paul said.

“Yeah.”

“I hear it's beautiful. The palm trees and the rivers and the boats.”

“Haven't gotten to do much sight-seeing,” Mick grunted. He could hear the phone trilling in the background. Marge was probably napping.

“You really should! Lighthouses, marshes, birds, it sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah, I bet it's great when there aren't loose brains spread across the sidewalk.”

“Don't be crass, Michael,” Marge croaked. “Thank you, Paul.”

“You're very welcome, Miss Marge. Have a great day. Good talking to you, Michael.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Mick grumbled. The line clicked as Paul hung up.

“How are you?” Marge asked.

“Just peachy,” he told her. “How is Baltimore treating you?”

“Oh, the same as always I suppose,” Marge replied. “I think I've been avoiding many of the places I used to frequent. Lonnie, Harold, and I vacationed here, you know.”

“I know,” Mick said. Marge's husband and son had both passed, both before their time. He felt bad about having left her alone up there.

“Your new friends are very nice, you know. You should meet Walter when you are done in Charleston. So sweet, and his mother cooks the most delicious tamales.”

“That sounds good,” Mick said. He was glad she was making friends. They'd moved her up to Baltimore for her own safety. Mick wasn't convinced that Lobo Losa would actually collect on that life insurance policy he'd taken out on her. In fact, Losa's gang had gone quiet since the Empress thing. Still, Mick wanted to play it safe. What he was convinced of was that Eizhürst and his Abwehr button men knew Mickey Malloy to be the man behind the mask. Short of sending Marge to one of the Office's asset retention towns, having her posted up in their fortified headquarters, surrounded by officials, would be the best place for her.

“Speaking of Charleston, what do you think of the hotel?” she asked.

Mick looked around. Fuller's was a dump, there wasn't any way around that. It had seen better days. The hotel upstairs was just as run-down, but it was comfortable, and he had yet to spot a palmetto bug inside.

“It's nice, thanks for making the reservation,” Mick said.

“Lonnie and I certainly enjoyed our stays there,” Marge reminisced.

“I'm glad. Maybe I'll bring you with me on my next arms deal investigation here.”

“Michael! Traveling alone with you, what would people think?”

“Marge, you lived one door down from me, the only other tenant, in a building I owned, for twelve years.”

“It can't have been that long,” she replied.

“Are they putting you to work up there?” Mick asked.

“To the bone, Michael, you would not believe how much paperwork passes through this building,” she said. “They've made me Logistical Operations Coordinator for Paper Media, East Coast.”

“That is a mouthful,” Mick said.

“You're telling me, buster. I have to maintain our paper inventory and source more whenever it gets low. I'm on the phone all day now!”

“That sounds tough.”

“It is exhausting. I miss our office.”

“Me, too,” Mick said. “We'll get back there one of these days.”

“Let me know, I'll start packing.”

A tap on the phone booth's glass door made Mick jump. Beer splashed on his pants.

“Shit!” he yelped.

“Michael!” Marge chided.

“Sorry, sorry, I spilled,” He said. He turned around, annoyed, expecting to find Bobby bothering him again. Instead, he looked up at a pair of lumbering goons, bulldozers in denim.

“Hey, Marge, I'm glad you're doing well,” he said. “I got to go, but I'll call tomorrow, if that's okay.”

“That would be lovely,” Marge said. “Take an evening off, Michael. Meet someone. Go dancing or something.”

“Looks like my card is already full,” Mick said. “Good night, Marge.”

“Good night,” she replied. Mick hung up the phone, took the last bite of frigid burger, then emerged from the booth.

“Phone's all yours, boys,” he said around the mouthful.

“We ain't here to make calls,” the bigger one said. He had a five o-clock shadow and dirt on his hands and looked like he could chew the door off a sedan.

“Well,” Mick considered. He swallowed the last of his food then shrugged and pointed at the phone, saying: “I'm afraid that's about all that thing's good for.”

“They said he had a smart mouth,” the other goon grunted. They both had thick local accents and receding black hair, with pug noses and wide necks. If Mick had to guess, they were first cousins at the most distant.

“Heard you been putting some miles in on that mouth,” the first one said.

“That's the job, pal,” Mick said. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders and his neck. These guys weren't original, or even very good, at the thug act. But, they were there. He'd been knocking on the right doors. Whoever was cutting people up really didn't like that he was talking to Calhoun.

“You been working the wrong rooms,” the big one said.

“Boys, I have had a long day, and all you're doing is convincing me that it is just getting started,” Mick said. “I get it, believe me, you think you need - !”

Mick's attempt to stave off a beating was interrupted when a fist the size of a pot roast collided with his cauliflower ear. He stumbled but caught himself in time for another fist to bury itself in his gut. He wheezed, but stayed standing.

“Not so tough now, are you?” the big goon taunted.

“He's only got something to say when he's the big man, don't he?” the other one grunted.

Mick's hands went up on their own, assuming a boxer's guard from muscle memory. The incoming hits came with furious frequency, but Mick reacted autonomously. He twisted around, avoiding a heavy boot to the knee by taking it in the calf, batting aside a right cross with his elbow, ripping out of a grapple.

“Maybe hounding broads gets him going,” the big goon asked. Under the hail of blows, Mickey smirked. He'd poked the right bear.

The first opening in the flurry saw Mickey lash out with a quick jab that sunk that goon's nose into his face. He stumbled backward, clutching at the red trickle and tripping ass over tea kettle on a stool. He hit the floor hard enough to distract his buddy.

“Hal!” the upright goon yelped.

“Hey,” Mick said. The goon looked back at him just in time to get his clock cleaned. Mick stepped past, locked his leg behind the big man's knee, then threw him with one of those fancy judo throws he'd learned at his abbreviated Office training a month back.

The goon landed next to his friend, groaning and holding his battered back.

“Want me to call the cops, Agent India?” Bobby chirped from behind the bar. All of the hits that had connected flared to life at once across Mickey's frame. His hands throbbed, his stomach felt like it had been hollowed out by an ice cream scoop, he could feel his heartbeat in his mashed ear. Mick limped over to where the goons and landed and pulled his 'cuffs out of his pocket. He locked the flipped goon's wrist to the bleeding one's ankle, then lurched over and collapsed into a bar stool.

“Hold off on that,” Mick groaned. He fished a fiver out of his pocket and slapped it on the bar. Bobby’s eyes went wide.

“Give me some rye,” he groaned. The tumbler was before him in seconds, sloshing with bourbon. He slammed it and stared at the ceiling for a minute. The reassuring warmth spread through his tenderized body.

“Okay, Bobby, you can keep that change if you don't call the fuzz for, I don't know, give me twenty minutes. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bobby said. “What about Carl and Hal?”

“You know them?” Mick asked.

“Yeah, my dad doesn't let them drink here any more. He says 'no Beaufort's got any excuse to walk out on a tab these days.'”

“Well, hell,” Mick said. He knew that name. His fished another five out of his pocket and laid it on the bar. “Put this toward their tabs.”

Mickey Malloy never stiffed a stoolie, and these Beauforts had given him exactly the confirmation he needed to crack this case wide open. Besides, it was the Office's money, and Mick always prided himself on being a generous person. Especially when someone else was footing the bill.

He smirked and strolled upstairs. He wanted his evening wear, though he didn't expect to need it. If a couple goons and an aged lothario were all he had to deal with, he'd be back in time to grab a nightcap.

TUESDAY EVENING, MAY 5, 1942
LEVEL III DECRYPTION
HYDRA INTERCEPT SITE, CAMP X, ONTARIO

“This is related to the Tier Four individual?” Chief Analyst Fields asked. She was posted up behind her desk, her tower of reports taller than ever. The decryption floor was empty, save for her and Doriane. The rest of the staff had left for the night. The rows of empty desks around them were so quiet that Doriane imagined she could hear the HYDRA towers humming on the other side of the shutters.

“Yes, madame,” Doriane replied. She was tired, but she was sure.

“And you have verified these?”

“As best as I can,” Doriane confirmed.

“So how many replies would that make it?” Fields asked. She was sitting at her desk, hands buried in her curly hair, staring down at Doriane's new report.

“So far, I have narrowed down three additional transmissions,” Doriane replied.

“So the original German response makes four,” Fields said. “What inspired you to continue looking?”

“The German response included the word 'Angebot,'” Doriane said.

“Angebot,” Fields considered. “German for an offer, or sale. Consistent with a weapons transaction.”

“Yes, but Doctor Abebe found the phrasing awkward. His notes on the intercept say that the sender should have used 'Verkauf' or 'Vertag' for a simple transaction. 'Angebot' is more accurately translated to 'bid.'”

“So you think that this might be an auction?”

“And auctions require bidders,” Doriane replied.

“So more than one party would is interested in the same items as the krauts. Good thinking, Dori. How did we miss this?”

“The responses that we were not looking for all had differing emission structure, encryption styles, code words, dates of transmission, and places of origin,” Doriane said. It had taken her weeks combing through the intercepts to find these instances. She'd probably read through ten thousand pages in that time.

“Did you go by signal strength?” Fields asking.

“Yes, madame, matching increasing amplitude with increasing distance from Charleston.”

“Then you narrowed those transmissions by length?”

“Yes, madame. The original German response from Ireland, when decrypted, consisted of only a confirmation and a sign-off.”

“So your needling of the haystacks left three,” Field concluded. Doriane nodded. The Chief Analyst flipped through these additional reports. “Bugger.”

“Yes, madame,” Doriane said.

“You said 'differing emission structure?'”

“Yes, madame. One of the new transmissions evidenced audio artifacts consistent with a Japanese device, while another transmitted enough white noise and distortions that it may have come from a hand-made set.”

“And the third?”

“No audio artifacts at all, near-perfect clarity. Expensive if nothing else. Originating outside of New York City.”

“I see,” Fields said. “I'm calling down to the Western Hemisphere bureau, their man has got to know what he is walking into. Christ. A Japanese device means he might be dealing with yajirushi.”

“Should we inform the printmaster first?”

“Safety of officials is our priority. We have already lost contact with Agent Sinclair. You heard his message. And Doctor Abebe is in the field as well. We make sure they're out of the frying pan first, then explain.”

Doriane sat back and studied her work. She was certain about her conclusions. While she read her own words, Fields picked up the phone and had the operator put her through to Baltimore. After a long minute, someone picked up the line.

“Paul, this is Chief Analyst Yvonne Fields from Decryption Three at the Bell Towers. Three-triple-zed, blue. Marlborough.”

Doriane could hear Fields' own voice repeating back to her. She shook her head in wonder. The Van den Berghe analysis engine that powered the Office's voice-printing system was an absolute wonder. When it confirmed Fields identity, she continued:

“I have critical information that I need to delivered to a pair of deployed officials, Analyst Ifa Abebe and a... let me see...” Fields shuffled the piles around her desk until the found the right sheet. “Deputy Inspector Malloy.”

She listened to Paul's response, then thanked him and covered the receiver with her palm.

“He's calling them now,” she told Doriane.

“May I read the analysis for Official Sinclair's final transmission again?”

“Of course,” Fields replied. She flipped through the papers dominating her desk, found the right one, and handed it over. Doriane scanned it quickly.

“He sounded confident that he could evade his pursuers for the length of the voyage,” she concluded. Sinclair's message was all of twenty-eight words. Beyond callsigns and his code phrases, there didn't appear to be any hidden messages. His sentence structures were unremarkable, his cadence normal. If there was anything else to his words, it was the words themselves, and that was not her area of expertise. In fact, the person they would go to for questions like these was in the field as well, with Japanese agents, Abwehr killers, the Silver Legion, and who knows who else closing in.

“We did do a stowaway call to the ship. The Hood's crew swept it looking for a deserter matching Sinclair's description, but discovered no trace of him. When our people boarded after it docked, they could not find a single hair, only a few weathered spider sock prints.”

Doriane's throat tightened. If Sinclair's pursuers had found him, he could have been thrown overboard, or shoved in a trunk, or stuffed inside the boiler. Or he might have reason to not trust the crew to arrest or protect him, and have been evading them as well. Sinclair's file listed him as a master actor and impersonator. He could shed his skin like a snake. There was hope for him, but Doriane wasn't sure what that looked like.

“Yes, I'm still here,” Fields said with a start. She so focused on her papers that she'd forgotten she was on the call to Baltimore. Her eyes went wide. “Neither one?”

Doriane resisted the urge to interrupt. Fields slumped back into her chair.

“I understand,” the chief analyst said. She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose as she listened. “I understand.”

Doriane waited. She didn't dare breathe.

“They're transferring me to the Inspector General,” Fields whispered. She popped up in her chair so abruptly that she nearly tipped backward. She recited her credentials like she was reading them off a sheet: “Chief Analyst Yvonne Fields, Official First Class, HYDRA Intercept Facility, Level Three Decryption, sir.”

She listened to a heated tirade in silence. The sunken feeling in Doriane's stomach grew with each passing second.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Fields said. She took a deep breath, then outlined Doriane's findings to Inspector General Klavin. After a few minutes of parsing through in minutiae of the reports, Klavin cut her off, barking orders so loud that Doriane could hear him from where she sat. Fields could only absorb it, finally able to speak after almost a full minute. “We'll forward everything to your office post haste.”

With that, she hung up the phone. It was as if she deflated before Doriane's eyes. Fields sank to her desk and laid her head atop her piled papers. She sighed, releasing every wisp of air from her lungs with enough force to send some of her notes fluttering to the floor. Unsure of what else to do, Doriane scooped them up and set them next to her supervisor's face.

“Dispatch can't find any of them,” Fields said. Her face was flat on her desk, somewhat muffling her voice. Doriane was sure what she'd heard.

“They cannot what?” she asked.

Fields pushed herself up and flopped back into her chair.

“First Sinclair, now Malloy and Abebe, are all unaccounted for. The Inspector General is going to storm that city.”

“Mon Dieu,” Doriane whispered. “What can we do?”

“We do our jobs,” Fields said. “Our weapons are analyses, our bullets information. We lay down covering fire for those officials going into battle.”

“Yes, madame,” Doriane said.

“I will comb through intercepts originating in the Charleston area that were transmitted in the last forty-eight hours. Perhaps I can find anything about our missing officials. You will continue analyzing our three responses. If these are Japanese or Italian agents, I want to know. Whoever goes in after those missing officials must be prepared.”

“Yes, madame,” Doriane replied.

“Start with a Library liaison,” Fields advised. “Our whole staff is authorized for ADA priority, use it.”

“Yes, madame,” Doriane said. She began going through the first response she'd found, the one originating from a Japanese radio. She scanned the readings on it, jotting quick notes for questions she'd need their representative from the Bureau for Cataloguing and Reference to answer. The Library's curators were notoriously impatient. The HYDRA intercept analysts always complained about being buried in papers, but the Library literally processed and cross-referenced every intercept that Bell Towers deemed important, in addition to every other scrap of intel collected from across the breadth of the war. The curators were a different breed altogether and didn't have time for waffling. She'd need her questions ready.

When she finally had her queries in order, she dialed dispatch. The operator transferred her through the Detroit substation and into New Mexico.

“Beasley,” a gruff woman said. She was American, and sounded young but tired, and none-too-pleased to be receiving a call.

“Official Beasley, this is Analyst Second Class Doriane Tremblay,” Doriane said. She was trying to recreate Fields' order, but a loud mechanical whirring through the phone distracted her. She had to speakupto be heard over the din: “What is that racket?”

Suddenly, the whirring stopped with a ding, like a pie was ready.

“Trembley, of HYDRA Decryption Three?” Beasley asked.

“Yes,” Doriane said.

“Got it,” Beasley replied. “You're in luck, Tremblay, ADA is singing today. How can I help?”

“I have some distortion and audio artifact measurements from a suspect transmission that I would like to cross reference with known models,” Doriane said.

“Just a moment,” Beasley replied. The loud whirring started again, then ceased with another ding. That was ADA. Doriane struggled to remember the acronym; the Office was rife with them. ADA was the Apparatus: Difference Assessment, one of their crowning achievements. There were three ADA's, all identical, each a constantly updated repository of all the information catalogued by officials since the Great War. Every scrap of intel was stamped with cross-referential data, and a skilled cataloguer could weave these stamps together and have ADA pull up information on anything in seconds. The warehouse-sized computational and reference engine was a modern wonder. Beasley was stationed at the American ADA, buried under some snow-capped mountain deep in the American southwest. When she had the starting point collated for radio transmission analysis, she said: “Okay, just read off the numbers to me, slowly.”

Doriane followed Beasley's directions. Each number she read was countered by the whirring, and when she was finally done with her amplitudes, variances, disruptions per minute, and distortion ranges, ADA dinged again.

“She's saying you have a Type 94-3 A transceiver there,” Beasley said. “But that's just letters and numbers. There we go. The 94-3 A is a desktop transceiver with a wall plug and a separate antenna. That means that the yajirushi you're looking for have a stable, safe, and powered location.”

“Does anyone else but yajirushi use that type of radio?” Doriane asked. Beasley typed, then ADA dinged again.

“Not in the States, no,” Beasley answered. “These units are reserved for permanent military installations. In this hemisphere, we've only seen 'em in Black Dragon Society bases.”

This transmission was estimated to have originated in Louisiana. She hadn't realized the Japanese military, or their secret society, had footholds in the western hemisphere. Doriane gulped, apparently so loud that Beasley heard it through the phone.

“Yajirushi aren't as tough as everyone says. Just don't let them cut you. Or get at your eyes.”

“Have you encountered one?” Doriane asked. She tried to keep everyone out of her eyes. It was unsettling that the Society's yajirushi were known for doing something worse to them than anyone else could do.

“No, not yet, I wish,” Beasley said.

The thought of coming face-to-face with a suicidal zealot and his poison-edged blades made Doriane's spine tighten. That Beasley would want to run into one disturbed Doriane all the more.

“You had other numbers to run?” Beasley asked.

Doriane recited the readings from the transmitter that she suspected was hand-made. After an extended whir that reached into higher pitches than before, ADA returned zero results.

“Sorry about that,” Beasley said. “She gets frustrated when she comes up empty.”

“That is what I was afraid of,” Doriane said. That transmission had originated somewhere between Detroit and Chicago. They'd intercepted messages from that region before that had been suspected of being weapons-dealing related, but priority had been given elsewhere.

“I have one more,” Doriane said. The pit in her gut seemed bottomless now.

“Try me,” Beasley said.

Doriane read off the readings from the third transmission, subtle as they were. This radio, based somewhere between New York City and Toronto, didn't make so much as a warble, and its sound had come through as crisp as an apple.

ADA churned then dinged.

“An Olezzi Kristaleer, 'thirty-nine or 'forty model,” Beasley read. “Italian-made, costs more than most cars. Not available on the American consumer market. Slight degradation, but well-maintained.”

“It sounds like it may be hard to come by,” Doriane considered.

“Searching for import records now,” Beasley said, reading Doriane's mind. ADA dinged again. Beasley was disappointed: “No one thought to keep track before sanctions stopped Olezzi imports in 'forty-one.”

“Merde,” Doriane hissed. The first assignments she'd been given were decrypt the communiques of dozens of Italian criminal organizations who'd been contacted by Axis agents in the last year. More than a few had been based in that area, and more than a few had responded positively to those propositions.

“Sorry, Tremblay. Do you have any more for me?” Beasley asked.

“No, thank you, you've been so much help,” Doriane replied.

Beasley hung up the phone without saying anything else. Doriane knew that cataloguers were battered with information requests day and night, and Beasley had probably let Doriane have more ADA time than she was allotted. There had to be a dozen officials stacked up on the phone lines behind her, waiting for intel on anything from an informant's address to the chemical formula for some horrible poison's antidote.

Doriane focussed on the intel she'd gotten. She had confirmed the presence of Black Dragon society agents, as well as possible criminal organizations based up and down the east coast. She began sifting through her own documents, trying to link any recent transmissions between those areas and Charleston to specific groups.

She and Fields buried themselves in the work and had not spoken a word in some time when Arachnae Bellegarde arrived on the deserted decryption floor. Despite her heels, she moved as quiet as a cat. She scanned the empty room, smirking when she realized that neither decoder had looked up from their work.

“Ahem,” the Printmaster General said loudly.

Doriane nearly knocked her chin on the desktop, while Fields jumped up so fast that she finally did send her chair clattering across the floor. They composed themselves as quickly as they could.

“You called Klavin before me?” Bellegarde demanded. “Do you know what kind of headache he can cause?”

“I apologize, ma'am,” Fields said. “We wanted to warn the officials in the field, but Paul kicked us all the way up the chain when he couldn't reach them. After that, we got... engrossed.”

“I understand the instinct. Safety of officials is our top priority. I know Hampton Sinclair personally, and I trust that he has matters in hand. He would not go quietly if they came for him. His demise would be rightfully dramatic. From what I know of Malloy and Abebe, they would cause as much of a stir themselves.”

Fields and Doriane did not know what to say. They were exhausted, and terrified, and they had set all of this in motion. By their tally, three officials were about to be neck deep in a conflux of unknown gun runners, the mafia, Japanese assassins, a racialist militia, and the Nazi Abwehr, each more eager than the next to prove themselves the most vicious killers in the room. If they were still alive.

“That does not mean our people are safe. But my immediate concern is Klavin. He does not work in subtlety. He believes in the 'big stick' mantra, and believes it should be swung and be seen swinging. If it were up to him, the Office would hanging a big red banner across the sky, saying 'we're here, Nazis, don't get smart.' He thinks we should go public, inform the public of all the horrors waiting for them out there. I can understand that: Klavin made his name in hunting bootleggers, and Communists before that. He burns down whole forests to flush out one wolf, and he makes sure the other wolves see him doing it.”

“Ma'am, I - !” Fields started, but Bellegarde held up her hand, silencing the chief analyst.

“Trip and Suje are rounding up your team as we speak. Regardless of my feelings on Klavin, we have three officials missing in the field. The full floor needs to be working on this. Our mission tonight is to comb everything coming into or out of Charleston. If Klavin must lead a crusade, let us at least direct his aim.”

“Are we going to conscript local authorities?” Fields asked.

“I understand Klavin plans to inform them, but not work with them,” Bellegarde replied. “They are busy with local matters, and he pointed out that our Tier Four individual was once their assistant chief of police. On this, he and I agree: divided loyalties are unacceptable when dealing with Nazis. Our resolve must be absolute.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Fields said.

“Now, tell me what you have found,” Bellegarde ordered. She dragged a seat over and sat next to Fields. She remained silent while Doriane and the chief analyst explained everything, nodding as she listened. As the evidence for the presence of each party of fascists and criminals mounted, her face grew a little paler, her mouth a little tighter. She only spoke when the analysts had finally finished.

“I knew they were out there,” she said. “You always know there are enemies, that there are those who cannot be reasoned with, phantoms and monsters in the shadows. But to see them drawn out...”

“It is hard to believe, madame,” Doriane said.

“I thought I understood, logically. But to know how many people there are, so close, so dedicated to hate. I wish it boggled the mind.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.