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kitsune_writes) wrote2005-10-26 11:16 pm
kitsune_writes) wrote2005-10-26 11:16 pm
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WWII Chapter 1 Commentary
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pippinmctaggart.
This story is, literally, a dream to write. Last year, I’d been having a real creative drought and then, one morning, I awoke from a dream and managed to stumble out to my living room and describe it to AG. From there, I wrote it and two variations of it out in my notebook and started to assign characterizations. I found I was concentrating mostly on this version (I think because I was in a Monaboyd-ish sort of mood at the time and feeling Euro-centric) and set aside the other, more Americanized, versions for later. I knew it was going to be espionage and special forces centered, so I did research and plotted out a mostly plausible storyline. Then came the hardest part--I had to decide how, where, and with whom to begin the story.
27 April 1942 Berlin, Germany
'Monaghan working for Tommy. Detain and question.'
Dominic Monaghan rubbed his tired eyes and took a deep breath before looking back down at his handwritten note. His eyebrows drew together as he considered his situation. He'd always been so careful - they'd always been so careful - how had he been discovered? He exhaled and leaned back in his uncomfortable metal chair. So few people even knew of him, and it had been planned that way. He'd been doing code work for the Nazis for nearly six years. Why did this have to happen now, when the fighting was getting fiercer and the traps better planned and more deadly; when his information was so much more important on a daily basis? He shook his head. There was nothing to be done for it now and he had more immediate troubles to consider. Essentially, he had just decrypted his death sentence. If there were any way he could simply get rid of the transmission, he'd do it, but it had come over the secret channel and had been logged the moment it had been printed on paper. Point in fact, he was damn lucky it had come through on that channel and he'd been on call or he would likely already be detained and on his way to Gestapo headquarters.
I wanted to start hot, you know? I figured catch everyone at the beginning, and then worry about the rest as it comes. So I decided not to give any backstory here, but to jump immediately into the fire with Dom. Kind of to have that same, ‘what the HELL just happened here?’ moment that he does.
He looked back down at the paper on the table - if he fudged the message a bit, he could buy himself a few hours to get away. He stood up and began to pace, turning the code over in his mind, thinking of the best way to rephrase the translation. After a few turns, he sat back down and carefully placed his single piece of carbon paper between two clean sheets of paper. He officially de-coded the transmission, leaving it worded the same but substituting the name of a local SD officer, Manfred Reinhardt, Ahh, Reinhardt, you bastard. ;P for his own. He smirked as he checked the bottom piece of paper to be sure the translation had gone through. Reinhardt abused detainees and subordinates alike so Dominic had no doubt that once this message was sent over the wire, the officer's own co-workers would show him the same zeal he had shown in the past during the interrogation process. And, oh did they. LoL You might almost feel sorry for the poor bastards for later, when he gets out of the room. More importantly, they would waste time trying to get Reinhardt to admit his guilt; time Dominic desperately needed to get himself out of Berlin.
He tore his original note into strips and ate the paper while gathering up his translating materials. Then, he scratched his fingernails over the surface of the table where he'd decoded his original note. Satisfied that anything that might have pressed into the soft material that covered the table was rendered unreadable, he stood up, crossed the room to the huge metal door and banged on it. He listened to the guards outside turning the heavy locking mechanism and then the door slowly swung open, allowing him to leave the room. I based this on the U.S. Supreme Headquarters SouthWest Pacific decryption room from Brisbane, Australia during WWII. Of course it was used to decode Japanese transmissions and not German, but the idea of “the Vault” is true to life. They don't call this the vault for nothing, he thought as he nodded to the guards on his way towards what he always referred to as the 'Receiving Room.' In the Receiving Room, he turned in his translation and carbon paper and signed out of the building. His gaze caught on his earlier signature. An hour ago, he'd been Dominic Monaghan, Nazi sympathizer and top secret cryptographer. Soon he would be exposed as Dominic Monaghan, English spy.
This room and the bit below at the gate were based on the U.S. decryption building from Melbourne, Australia, where they were notably more lax with security than at Brisbane.
Driving toward the gate, he could only hope his growing unease did not show on his face. The sergeant at the desk hadn't even looked at him past acknowledging he was there as he signed out. His pulse began to race as he got close to the gate; Had he been discovered yet? He slowed, preparing to stop, but the guards, used to his coming and going without specific orders, lifted the gate and waved him through. As he released the breath he'd been unconsiously holding, it crystallized in the chill air. He forced himself not to speed or do anything else that might attract attention. One mile away from the base, he pulled over and ran shaking hands through his sweat-dampened hair. Too close, Monaghan, WAY too close, he thought as he forced himself to start up the vehicle again. He had an unknown amount of time to destroy his equipment and disappear, and he had too much to do to waste precious minutes sitting by the roadside inviting passersby to question him.
It took him another fifteen minutes to reach his flat. He made himself climb the stairs slowly, in case any of his neighbors were watching. Once inside, he locked the door behind him, threw his jacket on the table and went into his spare bedroom. He looked at the picture of his mother on the wall. He missed her terribly, she and the rest of his family. They were in England and he hadn't seen nor spoken directly to any of them, in almost three years. His oldest brother Erich, who had been an officer in the Wehrmacht until he'd been captured by the British in North Africa in 1941, was the last one he'd had much contact with since the war had started. A teensy bit of familial background there. Pretty much so you can see just how AU I’ve made this thing. Heh. Dominic sighed and took the picture down, pressing the wall behind so that the edge of a door moved out. He pulled the door the rest of the way open then reached into the hole, pulling out a short wave radio, before closing the door and putting the picture back up on the wall. He sat on the bed and sent an uncoded message over a certain frequency. He knew he was taking a chance but the message was only going out once and he didn't have the time to encode it. Most British operatives in the field in 1942 still operated with a code that changed by day of the week, time of the day or page of a book. I was going with the thought here that 1) Dom flat out didn’t have the time and that 2) he was figuring that if someone had managed to find out about him when so very few people knew in the first place that they might very well be privy to his codesheet. After transmitting, Dom dismantled the radio carefully, reducing it to the smallest pieces he could and putting them in different places around his flat. He hoped they sent the usual Gestapo thugs to search the place as they would undoubtedly miss the evidence. So true. Most of the men the Gestapo employed were literally thugs. They would go in and tear a place apart without the slightest inclination to look for something subtle like a small pile of parts or a battery out of place.
Thirty minutes later he stood by his front door taking a last glance around his flat. It looked as though its tenant was gone for work or a short vacation - just enough clutter to look lived-in and as if waiting for someone to return home. Satisfied, he closed and locked his door behind him for the last time. He had only his briefcase as he slowly walked down the stairs and got back into the jeep. Any neighbors who might have seen him would have assumed he had been called back to work, but the case was filled with a change of clothes, money and false documents. I wanted to convey a sense of what people had to deal with during the Nazi regime here. I tried not to make it too central because it shouldn’t be, but, in my opinion, no story about this time period can be written without at least the smallest mention of the neighborhood watches. It’s not like that’s an official name but that’s what they were. Everyone had at least one neighbor who had the ear of some police or paramilitary organization and turned in others with glee – especially if that person had something they wanted. With a trembling hand, he started the jeep and began his escape.
I deliberately used trembling hand here. I mean, Dom’s feckin’ scared. He’s excellent at what he does, but at this point, he has no idea how this happened to him and how, exactly, he’s going to get out of it. He just knows he has to go.
Hours and miles from the city, Dom ran out of petrol. He steered the jeep off to the side, careful to leave it in full view of the road. He grabbed his briefcase and ran towards the cover of the trees several hundred yards away. With any luck, it would be quite some time before someone came across the abandoned vehicle and called it in. As he reached the trees, he looked back at the road. There were no lights coming, but that didn't mean anything, really. You only used full headlights at night if you wanted to be target practice for the British. He shook his head with a wry smile at his predicament, because how funny/ironic that he could be killed by either side at this point and no one would know the difference but quickly turned serious again. He was wasting time. Sighing, Dom crossed into the tree line and disappeared into the night.
This was the tightest thing I’ve ever written in my life. When I’d thought about making it into an original fiction short story and sending out a teaser for publishers, this was what I was going to send. Nothing else in this story has come close, I don’t think. lol
*********
Radio Communications Room, MI5 Building, London
The radio beeped, signalling an incoming message. The radio operator and transcriptionist on duty copied down the message, realizing the frequency was different from the other tranmissions received here. He knew only one person used this frequency - Dominic Monaghan. The transcriber wasn't supposed to have this information but he'd set his mind to finding out why messages came through on this frequency that no one else used. He'd done some successful snooping through the files, and asked seemingly innocuous questions of his superiors. He was careful to not only listen to the answers, but also to observe the body language that accompanied them - what was unsaid was often more important than what was said in the intelligence business. People forget this, but it’s true. To be a successful agent in the field you have to learn to lie with your body and eyes as well as your mouth. Most agents never venture out into the field, and so never get that level of training. Looks like someone decided to take advantage. He was careful to make sure that he was never in a position to have to answer a direct question regarding Monaghan. It wouldn't do to be caught - he wouldn't be able to pass on information then. When he was done, he looked at what was on his paper. "Pipes leaking. Must stay elsewhere." His eyes widened at the implications, then slowly closed as if he were in pain. Sucks to be him. Or Dom. ;P He sat, defeated for a moment before composing himself and calling Major Hugo Weaving, the officer in charge.
Weaving came down almost immediately. ‘Yes, Mr. Transsscriber?’ He took the paper, read it, then thanked the transcriber and limped quickly from the room, taking the message with him. The man watched him go, then sighed heavily and looked at the clock. His shift was almost over. He would wait until he was off to make his phone calls. There were people who needed to know what had just happened.
*********
Ministry of Defence, London
Brigadier Ian McKellen glanced up from his papers when he heard the buzz of his phone. He picked it up and his secretary, Mrs. Woodrich, informed him that Major Weaving, the officer in charge of the Factory, was on the line for him. The Factory was an informal code for the actual office of MI5, the intelligence agency McKellen ran for the Crown. "Put him through, please." Then a moment later, "McKellen."
Was there really any other choice here but Sir Ian McKellen? He’s the perfect Intelligence man, imo, and one of the first roles filled in this story.
"We have a situation that requires your presence, sir," came the capable voice of his officer in charge.
"I shall be there within thirty minutes," McKellen answered before ending the call. He stood up and walked out to Mrs. Woodrich, who was waiting for instruction. "I shall be away for, at the very least, one hour. Please rearrange my schedule accordingly."
"Very good, Sir," his secretary replied as he left the office.
*********
The car was waiting for him when he got downstairs. Ten minutes later, McKellen strode into the MI5 offices where he was immediately greeted by his officer in charge. Major Hugo Weaving had attended Sandhurst and had served in the Duke of Wellington's Regiment, and it was evident in his erect stance and his natty clothing. McKellen, who had served in the Grenadier Guard, was of the opinion that Weaving would have gone far in the military indeed, if he hadn't been so terribly wounded in the Great War. There was no room in the British Army for officers who had damaged backs and limbs, even ones who had been awarded the Victoria's Cross for valour. The military's loss, however, had been one of McKellen's greatest gains as he had recruited the injured and dejected man between the wars. It took almost two years for Weaving to heal enough to actually work, but once there, he had proven a natural for intelligence work and had quickly risen through the ranks of MI5. In 1932, when McKellen had been appointed the new head of MI5, he'd made Weaving his assistant and second in command. They'd worked together long and closely enough that McKellen knew by the look on Weaving's face that the situation was not good. He followed the younger man into the meeting room.
Some great background for Weaving, and his association with McKellen. I love the fact that I could draw on that later in this chapter and in the story and have it work well because of the regard they have for each other.
"About an hour ago, we received an uncoded transmission on Monaghan's frequency," Weaving said as he opened the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying and singled one out, handing it to McKellen.
"Pipes leaking. Must stay elsewhere," Ian read aloud, "What does that..." He slammed a fist on the table. "Damn it, Weaving, how the bloody hell did he get ferreted out?"
"I don't know, sir. Obviously we have a mole, but..."
Furry mammals run amok.
"But no idea who or where or anything else at all helpful," Ian broke in.
"I'm sorry to have let you down on this, sir," he replied looking away.
"Nonsense," Ian said, waving his hand dismissively. "You've managed to keep Monaghan under wraps until now - an impressive feat considering the length of time he has been activated. You haven't let me down. All to the contrary, Weaving."
"Thank you, sir," he said, still not meeting McKellen's eyes.
"Who else has seen this message?"
"Just myself and the transcriptionist, sir."
Ian nodded. "Who did the transcription?"
"Matthew," Hugo replied.
"Matthew?" Ian looked hard at his subordinate. "Matthew Monaghan?"
Weaving's eyes widened. "I didn't even think...but he couldn't know, could he? He's certainly not authorized for it."
McKellen sighed. Matthew Monaghan was as bright, curious, and charming as his younger brother, Dominic. If he wanted information, he would use any means at his disposal to get it. "Nothing to be done about it now. His shift is over, yes?" He closed his eyes briefly at Weaving's nod, knowing he would be receiving a visit this afternoon. "Very well. If this message is to be believed, Dominic will no longer be transmitting anyway. I want you to gather all evidence of him, anything you can find, and bring it to me. This office is now removed from the Monaghan case."
Weaving nodded and followed McKellen as he stood up and left the room.
I didn’t tell who the transcriptionist was for the obvious reasons, and I think it turned out rather well, actually. ;-)
*********
Ministry of Defence, London
McKellen glanced up from his perusal of an incredibly boring report on the continued surveillance of alleged German spies operating in and around Parliament House when he heard raised voices in the waiting room. Longest first sentence EVAH! I left it in, exactly as first worded, because it became, literally, a running joke. Within moments, his door flew open admitting Lord Bernard Hill, who had managed to successfully elude Mrs. Woodrich's attempts to corral him. He was surprised, but hid it well. He'd expected Matthew here making demands, not one of Ian's oldest friends.
"I'm sorry, sir, he wouldn't stop," said Mrs. Woodrich, glaring at the intruder.
"One cannot expect to stop thundering cattle on a rampage, can one, Mrs. Woodrich? Thank you just the same for trying." Ian offered a ghost of a smile as he waved her out of the room.
"What are you intending on doing about Monaghan?" Hill demanded as soon as the door closed behind her.
Ah, Bernard. Another perfect role choice, imo. And it works even better when we get more information below.
McKellen sighed. Matthew must have known he wouldn't have gotten anywhere himself in garnering more information on Dominic so he'd called in reinforcements. "Really, Bernard, you cannot come into my office and upset my staff like this." I smile everytime I read this because I can just see Ian saying it.
"Bloody Hell, Ian!" Bernard raged as he crossed the room and slammed his fists down on McKellen's desk, leaning over him. "You owe me an answer on this!"
McKellen's eyebrow rose as he steadily regarded his friend.
Hill sighed and pushed himself upright before walking to McKellen's window and looking out over Horse Guards Avenue. He stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back, for several long seconds before he hung his head. He turned back around, his eyes pleading. "Have you nothing you can tell me?" A powerful (and emotional) man who loves someone and wants them safe, but can do nothing. He’s not used to that at all. Poor Bern.
Ian opened his mouth to answer, but the phone on his desk beeped. He picked up the handset. "Yes, Mrs. Woodrich? Ah, Lord Rhys-Davies. No, send him in please. Thank you."
The door to his office opened and Lord John Rhys-Davies came in, closing the door quietly behind him.
Y’all knew it was coming, yes? How could I not make JRD a Lord? He’s got such regal bearing and that voice. ::nods emphatically::
Ian actually smiled. "First Bernard, now you John. Matthew was busy this afternoon."
"He seems to be the only person in MI5 who is willing to talk about Dominic," Hill snapped.
McKellen's smile disappeared as he turned to face Hill. "Has it ever occurred to you, Bernard, that it might have been for Dominic's safety? Perhaps I should add that as it is a matter of State, it is none of your bloody business?" You tell, em, Ian. He’s just an old hothead who can’t see the big picture right now. ;p
"Not my business?" he spluttered, "my godson, my nephew, is none of my business?" See, they always told you not to mix family and pleas…I mean, business and famil- no wait, ehm…
John crossed the room and grabbed Hill's shoulder, his eyes and voice sympathetic. "You know that's not what Ian meant, Bern. If you'd let him talk instead of badgering him, maybe we could get some answers." Hill's flashing eyes met John's calm ones and after a long moment, he nodded, letting himself be led to one of the chairs across from Ian. Once Bernard was settled and quiet, John looked at Ian - really looked at his old friend, and didn't like what he saw. Hill was the fiery one, and likely he'd already been so wound up when he'd arrived that he hadn't seen the shadows, the haunted look in his friend's eyes. Ian tried to hide these things from most people and was usually successful. John, however, was quite perceptive, and being friends with Ian for so many years gave him even more of an advantage. "What can you tell us?" he asked, his deep voice calm and even.
"There's not much to tell," Ian replied. "We know there's a leak, but only because Dominic told us. We know he's trying to get out of Berlin. That's all we have."
John nodded. "Matthew told us that already. I'd hoped to hear that a team would be sent in. Perhaps..."
"Where do I send the team, John?" Ian asked, shrugging helplessly. "How do I let Dominic know a team is coming?"
This is where it got sticky for me. See, most times, in reality, a team would never be sent. Dom would be left to his own devices and the hopes and prayers of his family and friends. At the very least, in order to send a team of special forces men, a sign of life from the person they were to pick up would be required and usually within fifty miles of the proposed pick-up site. No good leader would deliberately risk the lives of other talented men for one, not even in a case like this. So, I had to try and come up with a semi-plausible reason. I think I did okay, though. ;-)
John's mouth fell open. He turned to see Bernard staring at Ian, face pale and drawn. Both were quiet as the deeper meaning of McKellen's words sunk in.
"Is there no hope, Ian?" Bernard asked. Movie ref. yaye. lol
"What would you have me do, Bern?"
Hill pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. "I don't know! Something, though. Dominic deserves better than this!"
McKellen sighed. "Yes, he does. But he also knew what dangers he was likely to encounter. He'll have contingency plans and they won't involve getting rescued by the Crown."
"Are you sure of that?" John asked quietly.
Ian gave an undignified snort. "This is Dominic Bernard Patrick Luke Monaghan, John."
John and Bernard both laughed, hearing the four-year-old Dom of their memories reciting his extra long name in his delighted, childish tones. 'MY name is DOMinic-BERnard-PATrick-LUKE!' He'd always loved it when people had asked him what his name was, and sometimes he would dance around in accompaniment to its rhythm. It had never failed to draw chuckles from whomever was present, just as the memory of it now drew smiles from all three men.
My comic relief. I even made up the dance. And, if I ever drink enough, I WILL demonstrate. lol
"True," John replied, still smiling, "Dommie always had a back-up plan. Always."
Bernard straightened suddenly. "Would he have access to a radio, do you think?"
Ian cocked his head. "Not one he could use to send a message but..." he trailed off, thinking furiously. "It's possible we could broadcast a message vague enough not to be deciphered by the Germans. Then, at least, I would be able to put out a location from where a team could extract him. We would have no way of knowing if he'd gotten the message though..."
"But the team could have a set amount of time to wait for him before they have to leave, yes?" Bernard said quickly, before Ian could talk himself out of the rescue.
"Yes," Ian replied, looking hard at his friend. "I'll mount your bloody rescue mission, Bernard. I just hope it doesn't mean the deaths of the men going in."
"I do, too," Bernard said softly.
"Will you let us know once you've settled the details?" John asked as he touched Bernard's arm, indicating they should leave.
"Yes, but by all that's holy, find out who else Matthew has told about this and keep them quiet! Someone out there wants Dominic dead," McKellen said.
The two men nodded and left. Once the door closed behind them, Ian picked up the phone and dialed. "Weaving, get me Serkis."
And that’s chapter one. Although I will say one thing about Andy Serkis. He was supposed to be a minor character. =P
pippinmctaggart. This story is, literally, a dream to write. Last year, I’d been having a real creative drought and then, one morning, I awoke from a dream and managed to stumble out to my living room and describe it to AG. From there, I wrote it and two variations of it out in my notebook and started to assign characterizations. I found I was concentrating mostly on this version (I think because I was in a Monaboyd-ish sort of mood at the time and feeling Euro-centric) and set aside the other, more Americanized, versions for later. I knew it was going to be espionage and special forces centered, so I did research and plotted out a mostly plausible storyline. Then came the hardest part--I had to decide how, where, and with whom to begin the story.
27 April 1942 Berlin, Germany
'Monaghan working for Tommy. Detain and question.'
Dominic Monaghan rubbed his tired eyes and took a deep breath before looking back down at his handwritten note. His eyebrows drew together as he considered his situation. He'd always been so careful - they'd always been so careful - how had he been discovered? He exhaled and leaned back in his uncomfortable metal chair. So few people even knew of him, and it had been planned that way. He'd been doing code work for the Nazis for nearly six years. Why did this have to happen now, when the fighting was getting fiercer and the traps better planned and more deadly; when his information was so much more important on a daily basis? He shook his head. There was nothing to be done for it now and he had more immediate troubles to consider. Essentially, he had just decrypted his death sentence. If there were any way he could simply get rid of the transmission, he'd do it, but it had come over the secret channel and had been logged the moment it had been printed on paper. Point in fact, he was damn lucky it had come through on that channel and he'd been on call or he would likely already be detained and on his way to Gestapo headquarters.
I wanted to start hot, you know? I figured catch everyone at the beginning, and then worry about the rest as it comes. So I decided not to give any backstory here, but to jump immediately into the fire with Dom. Kind of to have that same, ‘what the HELL just happened here?’ moment that he does.
He looked back down at the paper on the table - if he fudged the message a bit, he could buy himself a few hours to get away. He stood up and began to pace, turning the code over in his mind, thinking of the best way to rephrase the translation. After a few turns, he sat back down and carefully placed his single piece of carbon paper between two clean sheets of paper. He officially de-coded the transmission, leaving it worded the same but substituting the name of a local SD officer, Manfred Reinhardt, Ahh, Reinhardt, you bastard. ;P for his own. He smirked as he checked the bottom piece of paper to be sure the translation had gone through. Reinhardt abused detainees and subordinates alike so Dominic had no doubt that once this message was sent over the wire, the officer's own co-workers would show him the same zeal he had shown in the past during the interrogation process. And, oh did they. LoL You might almost feel sorry for the poor bastards for later, when he gets out of the room. More importantly, they would waste time trying to get Reinhardt to admit his guilt; time Dominic desperately needed to get himself out of Berlin.
He tore his original note into strips and ate the paper while gathering up his translating materials. Then, he scratched his fingernails over the surface of the table where he'd decoded his original note. Satisfied that anything that might have pressed into the soft material that covered the table was rendered unreadable, he stood up, crossed the room to the huge metal door and banged on it. He listened to the guards outside turning the heavy locking mechanism and then the door slowly swung open, allowing him to leave the room. I based this on the U.S. Supreme Headquarters SouthWest Pacific decryption room from Brisbane, Australia during WWII. Of course it was used to decode Japanese transmissions and not German, but the idea of “the Vault” is true to life. They don't call this the vault for nothing, he thought as he nodded to the guards on his way towards what he always referred to as the 'Receiving Room.' In the Receiving Room, he turned in his translation and carbon paper and signed out of the building. His gaze caught on his earlier signature. An hour ago, he'd been Dominic Monaghan, Nazi sympathizer and top secret cryptographer. Soon he would be exposed as Dominic Monaghan, English spy.
This room and the bit below at the gate were based on the U.S. decryption building from Melbourne, Australia, where they were notably more lax with security than at Brisbane.
Driving toward the gate, he could only hope his growing unease did not show on his face. The sergeant at the desk hadn't even looked at him past acknowledging he was there as he signed out. His pulse began to race as he got close to the gate; Had he been discovered yet? He slowed, preparing to stop, but the guards, used to his coming and going without specific orders, lifted the gate and waved him through. As he released the breath he'd been unconsiously holding, it crystallized in the chill air. He forced himself not to speed or do anything else that might attract attention. One mile away from the base, he pulled over and ran shaking hands through his sweat-dampened hair. Too close, Monaghan, WAY too close, he thought as he forced himself to start up the vehicle again. He had an unknown amount of time to destroy his equipment and disappear, and he had too much to do to waste precious minutes sitting by the roadside inviting passersby to question him.
It took him another fifteen minutes to reach his flat. He made himself climb the stairs slowly, in case any of his neighbors were watching. Once inside, he locked the door behind him, threw his jacket on the table and went into his spare bedroom. He looked at the picture of his mother on the wall. He missed her terribly, she and the rest of his family. They were in England and he hadn't seen nor spoken directly to any of them, in almost three years. His oldest brother Erich, who had been an officer in the Wehrmacht until he'd been captured by the British in North Africa in 1941, was the last one he'd had much contact with since the war had started. A teensy bit of familial background there. Pretty much so you can see just how AU I’ve made this thing. Heh. Dominic sighed and took the picture down, pressing the wall behind so that the edge of a door moved out. He pulled the door the rest of the way open then reached into the hole, pulling out a short wave radio, before closing the door and putting the picture back up on the wall. He sat on the bed and sent an uncoded message over a certain frequency. He knew he was taking a chance but the message was only going out once and he didn't have the time to encode it. Most British operatives in the field in 1942 still operated with a code that changed by day of the week, time of the day or page of a book. I was going with the thought here that 1) Dom flat out didn’t have the time and that 2) he was figuring that if someone had managed to find out about him when so very few people knew in the first place that they might very well be privy to his codesheet. After transmitting, Dom dismantled the radio carefully, reducing it to the smallest pieces he could and putting them in different places around his flat. He hoped they sent the usual Gestapo thugs to search the place as they would undoubtedly miss the evidence. So true. Most of the men the Gestapo employed were literally thugs. They would go in and tear a place apart without the slightest inclination to look for something subtle like a small pile of parts or a battery out of place.
Thirty minutes later he stood by his front door taking a last glance around his flat. It looked as though its tenant was gone for work or a short vacation - just enough clutter to look lived-in and as if waiting for someone to return home. Satisfied, he closed and locked his door behind him for the last time. He had only his briefcase as he slowly walked down the stairs and got back into the jeep. Any neighbors who might have seen him would have assumed he had been called back to work, but the case was filled with a change of clothes, money and false documents. I wanted to convey a sense of what people had to deal with during the Nazi regime here. I tried not to make it too central because it shouldn’t be, but, in my opinion, no story about this time period can be written without at least the smallest mention of the neighborhood watches. It’s not like that’s an official name but that’s what they were. Everyone had at least one neighbor who had the ear of some police or paramilitary organization and turned in others with glee – especially if that person had something they wanted. With a trembling hand, he started the jeep and began his escape.
I deliberately used trembling hand here. I mean, Dom’s feckin’ scared. He’s excellent at what he does, but at this point, he has no idea how this happened to him and how, exactly, he’s going to get out of it. He just knows he has to go.
Hours and miles from the city, Dom ran out of petrol. He steered the jeep off to the side, careful to leave it in full view of the road. He grabbed his briefcase and ran towards the cover of the trees several hundred yards away. With any luck, it would be quite some time before someone came across the abandoned vehicle and called it in. As he reached the trees, he looked back at the road. There were no lights coming, but that didn't mean anything, really. You only used full headlights at night if you wanted to be target practice for the British. He shook his head with a wry smile at his predicament, because how funny/ironic that he could be killed by either side at this point and no one would know the difference but quickly turned serious again. He was wasting time. Sighing, Dom crossed into the tree line and disappeared into the night.
This was the tightest thing I’ve ever written in my life. When I’d thought about making it into an original fiction short story and sending out a teaser for publishers, this was what I was going to send. Nothing else in this story has come close, I don’t think. lol
*********
Radio Communications Room, MI5 Building, London
The radio beeped, signalling an incoming message. The radio operator and transcriptionist on duty copied down the message, realizing the frequency was different from the other tranmissions received here. He knew only one person used this frequency - Dominic Monaghan. The transcriber wasn't supposed to have this information but he'd set his mind to finding out why messages came through on this frequency that no one else used. He'd done some successful snooping through the files, and asked seemingly innocuous questions of his superiors. He was careful to not only listen to the answers, but also to observe the body language that accompanied them - what was unsaid was often more important than what was said in the intelligence business. People forget this, but it’s true. To be a successful agent in the field you have to learn to lie with your body and eyes as well as your mouth. Most agents never venture out into the field, and so never get that level of training. Looks like someone decided to take advantage. He was careful to make sure that he was never in a position to have to answer a direct question regarding Monaghan. It wouldn't do to be caught - he wouldn't be able to pass on information then. When he was done, he looked at what was on his paper. "Pipes leaking. Must stay elsewhere." His eyes widened at the implications, then slowly closed as if he were in pain. Sucks to be him. Or Dom. ;P He sat, defeated for a moment before composing himself and calling Major Hugo Weaving, the officer in charge.
Weaving came down almost immediately. ‘Yes, Mr. Transsscriber?’ He took the paper, read it, then thanked the transcriber and limped quickly from the room, taking the message with him. The man watched him go, then sighed heavily and looked at the clock. His shift was almost over. He would wait until he was off to make his phone calls. There were people who needed to know what had just happened.
*********
Ministry of Defence, London
Brigadier Ian McKellen glanced up from his papers when he heard the buzz of his phone. He picked it up and his secretary, Mrs. Woodrich, informed him that Major Weaving, the officer in charge of the Factory, was on the line for him. The Factory was an informal code for the actual office of MI5, the intelligence agency McKellen ran for the Crown. "Put him through, please." Then a moment later, "McKellen."
Was there really any other choice here but Sir Ian McKellen? He’s the perfect Intelligence man, imo, and one of the first roles filled in this story.
"We have a situation that requires your presence, sir," came the capable voice of his officer in charge.
"I shall be there within thirty minutes," McKellen answered before ending the call. He stood up and walked out to Mrs. Woodrich, who was waiting for instruction. "I shall be away for, at the very least, one hour. Please rearrange my schedule accordingly."
"Very good, Sir," his secretary replied as he left the office.
*********
The car was waiting for him when he got downstairs. Ten minutes later, McKellen strode into the MI5 offices where he was immediately greeted by his officer in charge. Major Hugo Weaving had attended Sandhurst and had served in the Duke of Wellington's Regiment, and it was evident in his erect stance and his natty clothing. McKellen, who had served in the Grenadier Guard, was of the opinion that Weaving would have gone far in the military indeed, if he hadn't been so terribly wounded in the Great War. There was no room in the British Army for officers who had damaged backs and limbs, even ones who had been awarded the Victoria's Cross for valour. The military's loss, however, had been one of McKellen's greatest gains as he had recruited the injured and dejected man between the wars. It took almost two years for Weaving to heal enough to actually work, but once there, he had proven a natural for intelligence work and had quickly risen through the ranks of MI5. In 1932, when McKellen had been appointed the new head of MI5, he'd made Weaving his assistant and second in command. They'd worked together long and closely enough that McKellen knew by the look on Weaving's face that the situation was not good. He followed the younger man into the meeting room.
Some great background for Weaving, and his association with McKellen. I love the fact that I could draw on that later in this chapter and in the story and have it work well because of the regard they have for each other.
"About an hour ago, we received an uncoded transmission on Monaghan's frequency," Weaving said as he opened the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying and singled one out, handing it to McKellen.
"Pipes leaking. Must stay elsewhere," Ian read aloud, "What does that..." He slammed a fist on the table. "Damn it, Weaving, how the bloody hell did he get ferreted out?"
"I don't know, sir. Obviously we have a mole, but..."
Furry mammals run amok.
"But no idea who or where or anything else at all helpful," Ian broke in.
"I'm sorry to have let you down on this, sir," he replied looking away.
"Nonsense," Ian said, waving his hand dismissively. "You've managed to keep Monaghan under wraps until now - an impressive feat considering the length of time he has been activated. You haven't let me down. All to the contrary, Weaving."
"Thank you, sir," he said, still not meeting McKellen's eyes.
"Who else has seen this message?"
"Just myself and the transcriptionist, sir."
Ian nodded. "Who did the transcription?"
"Matthew," Hugo replied.
"Matthew?" Ian looked hard at his subordinate. "Matthew Monaghan?"
Weaving's eyes widened. "I didn't even think...but he couldn't know, could he? He's certainly not authorized for it."
McKellen sighed. Matthew Monaghan was as bright, curious, and charming as his younger brother, Dominic. If he wanted information, he would use any means at his disposal to get it. "Nothing to be done about it now. His shift is over, yes?" He closed his eyes briefly at Weaving's nod, knowing he would be receiving a visit this afternoon. "Very well. If this message is to be believed, Dominic will no longer be transmitting anyway. I want you to gather all evidence of him, anything you can find, and bring it to me. This office is now removed from the Monaghan case."
Weaving nodded and followed McKellen as he stood up and left the room.
I didn’t tell who the transcriptionist was for the obvious reasons, and I think it turned out rather well, actually. ;-)
*********
Ministry of Defence, London
McKellen glanced up from his perusal of an incredibly boring report on the continued surveillance of alleged German spies operating in and around Parliament House when he heard raised voices in the waiting room. Longest first sentence EVAH! I left it in, exactly as first worded, because it became, literally, a running joke. Within moments, his door flew open admitting Lord Bernard Hill, who had managed to successfully elude Mrs. Woodrich's attempts to corral him. He was surprised, but hid it well. He'd expected Matthew here making demands, not one of Ian's oldest friends.
"I'm sorry, sir, he wouldn't stop," said Mrs. Woodrich, glaring at the intruder.
"One cannot expect to stop thundering cattle on a rampage, can one, Mrs. Woodrich? Thank you just the same for trying." Ian offered a ghost of a smile as he waved her out of the room.
"What are you intending on doing about Monaghan?" Hill demanded as soon as the door closed behind her.
Ah, Bernard. Another perfect role choice, imo. And it works even better when we get more information below.
McKellen sighed. Matthew must have known he wouldn't have gotten anywhere himself in garnering more information on Dominic so he'd called in reinforcements. "Really, Bernard, you cannot come into my office and upset my staff like this." I smile everytime I read this because I can just see Ian saying it.
"Bloody Hell, Ian!" Bernard raged as he crossed the room and slammed his fists down on McKellen's desk, leaning over him. "You owe me an answer on this!"
McKellen's eyebrow rose as he steadily regarded his friend.
Hill sighed and pushed himself upright before walking to McKellen's window and looking out over Horse Guards Avenue. He stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back, for several long seconds before he hung his head. He turned back around, his eyes pleading. "Have you nothing you can tell me?" A powerful (and emotional) man who loves someone and wants them safe, but can do nothing. He’s not used to that at all. Poor Bern.
Ian opened his mouth to answer, but the phone on his desk beeped. He picked up the handset. "Yes, Mrs. Woodrich? Ah, Lord Rhys-Davies. No, send him in please. Thank you."
The door to his office opened and Lord John Rhys-Davies came in, closing the door quietly behind him.
Y’all knew it was coming, yes? How could I not make JRD a Lord? He’s got such regal bearing and that voice. ::nods emphatically::
Ian actually smiled. "First Bernard, now you John. Matthew was busy this afternoon."
"He seems to be the only person in MI5 who is willing to talk about Dominic," Hill snapped.
McKellen's smile disappeared as he turned to face Hill. "Has it ever occurred to you, Bernard, that it might have been for Dominic's safety? Perhaps I should add that as it is a matter of State, it is none of your bloody business?" You tell, em, Ian. He’s just an old hothead who can’t see the big picture right now. ;p
"Not my business?" he spluttered, "my godson, my nephew, is none of my business?" See, they always told you not to mix family and pleas…I mean, business and famil- no wait, ehm…
John crossed the room and grabbed Hill's shoulder, his eyes and voice sympathetic. "You know that's not what Ian meant, Bern. If you'd let him talk instead of badgering him, maybe we could get some answers." Hill's flashing eyes met John's calm ones and after a long moment, he nodded, letting himself be led to one of the chairs across from Ian. Once Bernard was settled and quiet, John looked at Ian - really looked at his old friend, and didn't like what he saw. Hill was the fiery one, and likely he'd already been so wound up when he'd arrived that he hadn't seen the shadows, the haunted look in his friend's eyes. Ian tried to hide these things from most people and was usually successful. John, however, was quite perceptive, and being friends with Ian for so many years gave him even more of an advantage. "What can you tell us?" he asked, his deep voice calm and even.
"There's not much to tell," Ian replied. "We know there's a leak, but only because Dominic told us. We know he's trying to get out of Berlin. That's all we have."
John nodded. "Matthew told us that already. I'd hoped to hear that a team would be sent in. Perhaps..."
"Where do I send the team, John?" Ian asked, shrugging helplessly. "How do I let Dominic know a team is coming?"
This is where it got sticky for me. See, most times, in reality, a team would never be sent. Dom would be left to his own devices and the hopes and prayers of his family and friends. At the very least, in order to send a team of special forces men, a sign of life from the person they were to pick up would be required and usually within fifty miles of the proposed pick-up site. No good leader would deliberately risk the lives of other talented men for one, not even in a case like this. So, I had to try and come up with a semi-plausible reason. I think I did okay, though. ;-)
John's mouth fell open. He turned to see Bernard staring at Ian, face pale and drawn. Both were quiet as the deeper meaning of McKellen's words sunk in.
"Is there no hope, Ian?" Bernard asked. Movie ref. yaye. lol
"What would you have me do, Bern?"
Hill pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. "I don't know! Something, though. Dominic deserves better than this!"
McKellen sighed. "Yes, he does. But he also knew what dangers he was likely to encounter. He'll have contingency plans and they won't involve getting rescued by the Crown."
"Are you sure of that?" John asked quietly.
Ian gave an undignified snort. "This is Dominic Bernard Patrick Luke Monaghan, John."
John and Bernard both laughed, hearing the four-year-old Dom of their memories reciting his extra long name in his delighted, childish tones. 'MY name is DOMinic-BERnard-PATrick-LUKE!' He'd always loved it when people had asked him what his name was, and sometimes he would dance around in accompaniment to its rhythm. It had never failed to draw chuckles from whomever was present, just as the memory of it now drew smiles from all three men.
My comic relief. I even made up the dance. And, if I ever drink enough, I WILL demonstrate. lol
"True," John replied, still smiling, "Dommie always had a back-up plan. Always."
Bernard straightened suddenly. "Would he have access to a radio, do you think?"
Ian cocked his head. "Not one he could use to send a message but..." he trailed off, thinking furiously. "It's possible we could broadcast a message vague enough not to be deciphered by the Germans. Then, at least, I would be able to put out a location from where a team could extract him. We would have no way of knowing if he'd gotten the message though..."
"But the team could have a set amount of time to wait for him before they have to leave, yes?" Bernard said quickly, before Ian could talk himself out of the rescue.
"Yes," Ian replied, looking hard at his friend. "I'll mount your bloody rescue mission, Bernard. I just hope it doesn't mean the deaths of the men going in."
"I do, too," Bernard said softly.
"Will you let us know once you've settled the details?" John asked as he touched Bernard's arm, indicating they should leave.
"Yes, but by all that's holy, find out who else Matthew has told about this and keep them quiet! Someone out there wants Dominic dead," McKellen said.
The two men nodded and left. Once the door closed behind them, Ian picked up the phone and dialed. "Weaving, get me Serkis."
And that’s chapter one. Although I will say one thing about Andy Serkis. He was supposed to be a minor character. =P