The Wolves Of Berlin free porn video

"You never kill anyone you want to in a war.”

-Ernest Hemingway, "For Whom the Bell Tolls"

***


June 1, 1944, Paris:
1,440 days under occupation.


The streetlamp flickered, but did not go out. A pair of uniforms lurked on the sidewalk up ahead. Riquet's feet wavered, but if they saw him run away they’d surely chase, so he kept walking, readying his identity card and mentally referring to a list of excuses for being out late. He plucked at his priest's collar; it was useful on these occasions. Even the Germans knew that too many priests in the jails rubbed the locals the wrong way. "Good evening," he said.

"Good evening, Father," said one the policeman, an older man who had the look of one who might have retired already. "You’re out late. I'm sure you know when curfew is."

Riquet shrugged and looked at his feet, as if grasping for an answer. Being too quick with an alibi was suspicious. "I want to lie, but I shouldn’t," he said. "The truth is, I was meeting a man selling false ration cards." He affected his best pained expression. "I know it's against the law, but so many more people are coming to our church hungry these days. What am I to do?"

It was a good story, as far as it went. Black market food sales were technically a crime, but most flics had stopped bothering to arrest anyone for it. Many were dealers themselves. Still, they were obligated to make a token objection. "Buying from a black market dealer after hours?" said the younger officer. "And you, a priest?"

Riquet wrung his hands. "It’s a sin. But God gave us a world in which we must sin to survive."

The policemen conferred with a glance and the younger one stuck out his hand. "Turn over the contraband and go straight home."

Riquet fished a card out. Some belts would have to be tightened, but better they walk away with these than with the incriminating material hidden in his other pockets. "God bless--" he said, but before he could say anything more a terrified, bloodied man ran up and grabbed him.

The stranger burst from a nearby alley like a wild-eyed apparition, his black-and-grey SS uniform soaked with blood. When he saw Riquet he threw his arms around him and tried to hug the priest's body, as if to shelter under it. "Mir helfn!" he screamed: Help me.

Riquet reeled and the policemen stared, dumbfounded. He tried to pry the bloody man loose without shoving him away and his hands were soon smeared with gore." It's all right," Riquet told him. "You’re safe. We will find a doctor and--"

Then they heard it: a howl, like that of a dog, but louder and deeper. A huge shape emerged from the alley, something dark and bulky on four legs. It paused at the sight of the men, lowering its head and growling. The German screamed and collapsed. Riquet froze. The young policeman tried to run away but then froze too, huddled in the street with his arms over his head. The older one stood his ground and even had his hand on the butt of his pistol, but he didn’t seem able to draw it.

The beast's paws scraped the paving stones. It bent its head toward the unconscious German and the flickering streetlight reflected off its fangs. Its yellow eyes held them all in the grip of a spell. Riquet looked at the fallen German. He could run away and leave the man here. This was war, after all. But this man has not been shot by Communists or blown up by a package bomb. This thing menacing him was unholy. Even under occupation, Riquet had obligations beyond war, beyond Germany and France. Stepping over the fallen SS man, Riquet held up his rosary and said: "Go away."

He meant to shout the words, but all that came out was a whisper. The beast threw its head back and howled again, a sound that made Riquet feel as if he were shaking to pieces. Lights flashed on in the windows overhead. The beast took two steps forward and seemed about to charge. Without thinking, Riquet reached into a secret pocket and brought out the other crucifix, the special one he'd carried for 20 years, all the while hoping he would never need it again. Raising it, he said, rather louder:

"GO AWAY!"

The monster stopped. It lips drew back over its fangs. Confused voices cried out and a brave few stuck their heads from their windows. Riquet felt a single drop of sweat run down his face. His fingers trembled and he expected death at any moment, but he didn’t run. And then…

The monster vanished. Once it was out of sight the cold fear that had stopped Riquet's heart disappeared too. Sagging, he put the crucifix away. He had thought, for a moment, that it wouldn’t work, that the gigantic wolf would rush him, and then...

But it had worked. He was alive. He had stared down the monster. This time.

He almost tripped over the fallen German as he turned around. With regret tinged by ambivalence, he realized there'd been no need to protect the man after all: he was already dead. It almost seemed like he‘d been struck down by the beat‘s howl. Maybe he had been. Riquet rolled the corpse over and flinched, both because of the awful expression on the dead man's face and also because he recognized him: Max Heiliger, the banking magnate, until tonight one of the richest and most powerful men in occupied Paris. His injuries suggested he'd been attacked from behind.

"Don't touch him," said a voice. Riquet had forgotten the policemen. The young one had run away, but the older was still there. He had not let go of his gun. Riquet gently moved the man's fingers from the weapon.

"You stayed," Riquet said. "Few people have the courage. You’ve never seen anything like that before, have you?"

The policeman looked at him. "Have you?"

"A long time ago. I hoped I never would again."

"What was it?"

"Something worse than a war. Now, let me leave."

The policeman blinked.

"You'll have to go tell the Germans about this murder," Riquet said. "I can't be here when they come."

"You're a witness."

"They'll turn me over to the Gestapo. I saved your life. So please: Let me go."

Riquet didn’t plead. He merely asked. After a moment the policeman nodded. "Wait!" he said when Riquet had turned around. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the priest's bloody hands. "There. Now go."

Riquet went.

When he sat down to pray that night, he found the words wouldn’t come. He'd grown used to war, over the years, and he no longer feared for his own life. But tonight, for the first time, he feared for his soul. Tomorrow would be worse: he’d have to ask for help from the one person he'd hoped never to call on. It would be a dreadful burden to put on one so young. But those were the times they lived in: The old, the good, and the wise were all gone. Those who were left had to fight on as best they all could.

***

June 2:
1,441 days under occupation.

At first Bethanie thought it was a policeman at the door, which would have been bad enough. Then she realized that the uniform was not that of the Paris police but instead of the Militia and she almost grabbed the gun out of her laundry basket and shot him right there on the doorstep. Instead she swallowed her rage and said, as politely as she could, "Good morning. How can I help you?"

"Official business. Let me in."

She held the door open. The steamy air of the laundry poured out, only a little hotter than the morning outside. The Militia man removed his cap. He was young, full-cheeked, and mustached. His uniform did not fit him very well. The Militia: Vichy's answer to the Gestapo. The sight of a Frenchman wearing a traitor's uniform made Bethanie sick. And they even had the nerve to call themselves the “Free Guard." Pigs.

She set the laundry basket on a counter and commenced sorting its contents. She knew precisely where the gun was, so that she never had to give herself away by looking at it. The Militia man peered around the workroom. "There are so few people here," he said.

"All our men were sent off to work in the German factories."

"Happy volunteers in our labor exchange program," the Militia man said.

"Now we few girls must work twice as hard to replace the missing men. But at least the Germans all have freshly laundered clothes."

She allowed just the right measure of scorn in her tone. As always, she was playing a part: a downtrodden but beaten young woman, someone who resented the status quo but would rebel no more openly than an icy barb or a muttered aside. It was fine if the Germans and the traitors thought her a malcontent as long as they didn’t also think her a saboteur and a spy. The Militia man said his name was Kerman. He did not bother to give rank or any other identification. He sat on an overturned basket and took a notepad and pencil from his breast pocket. "And you are?" he said.

Automatically, Bethanie gave the fake name on her forged ID. Kerman looked at his notepad. "Claire Chevalier? That's strange. It says here that your name is Bethanie Chastel. You're 18 years old, born in Nantess, and your parents were Ernest and Janine Chastel, both deceased. You have one older brother, Paul Chastel, presently incarcerated. You were raised by your paternal aunt, Sophia Chastel, also now incarcerated. In the four years since her arrest there has been no official record of you anywhere and no small speculation that you’re dead, and now I find you working at this laundry service under an assumed name?"

He borrowed a sock from a basket to wipe the sweat off his brow. "Or am I mistaken?"

Bethanie's fingers twitched. She wanted to shoot him more than she wanted to continue breathing. But no; if he was here to arrest her he would have done it already. Plainly he had evidence enough. His game was something else. Blackmail, maybe. If she killed him it would only invite scrutiny from his superiors, who perhaps could not be bought off as easily as he would be. So, against her every instinct, she let him live again. "I don't know any of those people are."

"Is that so?" said Kerman. "On one hand I have your word and on the other the intelligence given by my contacts. Which of those should I find the more compelling?"

"Since I don't know who told you these ridiculous things I can't imagine. But I'm sure they’re all wrong."

The Militia man looked at her. She looked back. The hiss of steam from the machines punctuated their stares. He knew she was lying. She knew he knew. He could do almost anything he wanted and she had no rights at all. And yet...

"It seems I’m in error. I won’t bother you again."

He flipped his notebook closed and left. He didn't even pause to be shown out, but went himself and shut the door behind. He was gone so quickly that Bethanie had to blink to clear the faint outline of his figure from her vision. She held her breath, listening for the thud of boots, and the heavy bang of the door being kicked, and the shouts of policemen and maybe also voices in German, but nothing happened.

Betraying nothing, she busied herself with the laundry. The humidity of the workroom disguised her fear sweat. After 40 minutes she decided she’d waited long enough and, taking her basket (and her pistol), she went to the back of the workroom, passed the machines and the presses and the scattered washerwomen, and found the door. Not a hidden door; not even a locked one. Just a simple door that led down a flight of steps into the cellar. Once on the other side she heard the telltale click of a hammer drawn back in the dark. "A stranger was here," said a voice. "Are you alone?"

"You think I’d lead them here?"

"That isn’t an answer."

"A Militia man was here, but he's gone now. I'm going to talk to Velin."

For a second there was no reply and she thought she might be shot anyway, but then the sentry showed himself: a pale young man with precisely pressed clothes. Fabien.

She followed him into the cellar. As soon as the lower door opened she heard the tumult of the newsroom, including the roar of the press that churned out stack after stack of newsprint day and night. The room swarmed with men and women, a hive of activity just beneath street level, the noise muffled by the hillside and the constant racket of the laundry. Lucienne was working the press with her one arm; she'd lost the other in an accident years ago, but she was still the best and the fastest operator they had. Velin was at the typesetter's desk, the corner of the workroom where they not only laid out each page but also forged counterfeit IDs, ration cards, and other necessary papers. Velin: young, smiling, a pacifist and, unlikely though he was, both their editor in chief and commanding officer.

Standing at his elbow in an ink-stained apron was Dulac: middle-aged, dour, and Velin’s right hand. Tomas, the big, quiet American, lurked around doing small tasks. On the desk between them all was a page with a giant headline: "THE TRUTH ABOUT ALSACE." Each page of newsprint, paper, ink, lead, and everything else, was contraband, smuggled into the city at incredible risk or stolen straight from enemy supplies at an even greater one. The masthead was their group‘s name, the name of the paper, and their battle cry:

COMBAT.

Velin and Dulac were so deep in their argument about the headline that they paid Bethanie no mind even while she stood two feet away. Without waiting for them to finish their argument she said, "A man was here, looking for me. He knew my real name. He was with the Militia."

Everyone shut up. Velin leaned back a little. Dulac hunched forward. Nearby, Tomas stirred. "But he didn't arrest you?" Dulac said.

"You can see that."

"Blackmail then?"

"Maybe, but he didn't mention it. He seemed just to want me to know he knew."

"Did he give you a name?"

"A fake."

"I got a look at him," Fabien said. "I think his uniform was fake too."

Velin had still not said anything. Dulac looked at him. "What do we do?"

"Blackmailing Gustav?" Velin said after a moment. "Gustav" was the only name they knew her by; women agents were often assigned men's names as aliases. Velin shrugged. "For now we do nothing. If he didn't arrest her and he hasn't brought anyone along to raid the place then he's probably hiding something from his superiors, which could be good for us. But if he disappears they might investigate and we don't know what trail he's left that will lead them here. So we wait."

"Shouldn't we at least send Gustav away? She's been compromised." Dulac said.

"He's right," Bethanie said. Velin shook his head.

"That will just endanger whatever other circuit we send her to. For now the damage is done, whatever it may be. So let's all get back to work until we know more." Dulac scowled. Velin clapped him on the shoulder. "Nothing has changed: So Gustav might be arrested? So they might raid us at any moment? We assumed these things and a thousand worse ones when we got up this morning. They’re only a little more likely now.”

And that was it; nobody would question Velin when he made a decision, not even Dulac. This was the world they lived in, and Velin was their only safeguard. It had started with a few hundred printed sheets in one city, and now they had workshops all over France, distributing 250,000 copies a day, printing the truth about the war, the occupation, the Germans, and most of all about Vichy's lies. They answered to the Special Operations Executive in England, but only Velin could contact them. The fascists obeyed orders because they were too stupid and callous not to, but the men and women in the print shop and the thousands of others all over the occupied countries obeyed orders because they wanted to live. Alone, they would falter and drown.

Of course, they might anyway.

Bethanie left the back way and guided her bike into the alley. Only Germans were allowed to drive cars anymore. The metro was out of the question too, since Germans rode for free and the trains were always swarming with soldiers. A bike was the best way. In the basket Bethanie carried her grocery bag. Frenchwomen took grocery bags everywhere these days, as one never knew when a rare opportunity to buy food might present itself. In Bethanie's case, the bag had a false bottom, in which she hid documents. Her gun was there too. She was rarely without it. Even before the war her aunt had put her in the habit of going armed. "You are a Chastel," her aunt told her, "which means you’re never out of danger."

She rarely thought about those warnings now, though. Everyone was in danger these days. Being a Chastel no longer made any difference, or so she told herself. She reviewed her day's appointments. The work was mundane, but vital: passing messages, picking them up, dropping off or retrieving supplies. "Liaisons" these chores were called, small work fit for a girl, but crucial. Information and supplies were their lifeblood. And though she was not ambushing Germans or blowing up railway lines, it was just as dangerous: death or Ravensbruck prison awaited her if caught. The laundry job was her cover. She worked there a few hours in the morning, did her real job in the afternoon, went home at curfew and ate potatoes cooked for six hours over a heater until they were soft enough to chew, then slept a few hours and did it all again the next day. This was the way a French girl went to war.

It was a hot day, and part of the heat came from too many people. Paris was a city of crowds, and a city of lines: lines to find out if there was food, lines to find out if there was fabric, lines to find out if there was word about a family member in prison. It was a city of fatigue and hunger, of blue-uniformed policemen and green-uniformed Germans and beautiful women and worn-looking old men. A city of empty, boarded-up shops, and yellow signs warning: "No Jews." A city where bicycles and pedi-cabs and even horses had replaced cars. A city of orders and propaganda, of fascism against Communism, of midnight shootings and daylight bombings and round-ups and executions. It was an old city, but in the face of a long, hot summer it was being born again, though as what no one could say. Everywhere Bethanie went people were talking about the news, whether it be rumor or Vichy propaganda or even updates from the forbidden BBC:

"The Russians are in Crimea," people said.

"The Allies are moving on Italy," said others.

"The Americans will land in Dover."

"No, in Normandy."

"General de Gaulle is with them."

"No, the British have arrested de Gaulle."

The Germans were in retreat. The Allied invasion was imminent. Everyone knew it, and everyone was afraid. The Germans might destroy the city before surrendering it. And would the Allies impose their own government when they came? Some, like Bethanie, yearned for the coming of General de Gaulle and his Free French Army. But he was a distant savior, one none of them really knew. Rescue from that front seemed like an improbable dream.

Paris was burning: The fire spread, person to person, street to street, anger and fear and even a kind of despair. But not Bethanie. Bethanie was cold. Hot-blooded people, people with bad tempers or who made stupid mistakes, were already in prisons or in their graves. If you wanted to live through this war, you had to be cold. She found the apartment block she wanted and brought her bike in. A bicycle cost as much as a pre-war car now, and she didn't dare leave it outside. She climbed the back stairs, trying her best not to pass too many people but giving a smile to those she did encounter. Her role today was the fun-loving girl out on the town, the silly doll sneaking off from her parents for some laughs with a girlfriend, occupation or no. When she found the apartment she wanted she knocked once. Her heart beat a little faster when she heard footsteps on the other side. Any door she knocked on could be answered by the police or the Gestapo. Any errand could mean betrayal, arrest, and interrogation. Any night could end in a cell, with her hands tied and an SS man standing over her with a sharpened length of wire while she sweated through the ropes and--

A tiny, pale girl answered the door. She was called Hueguette. She spent almost all of her time in this apartment, coding and decoding telegrams. She was probably 15 years old and had not spoken to her family in at least a year; they surely thought she was dead. Bethanie met many Huegettes these days, lost girls in strange place who spent the war hunched over radios and documents. Did the British know that the top secret information they were trusting to civilian agents behind enemy lines was being handled by teenage runaways? Well, there was no one else to do the job.

Bethanie's next stop was the Rotisseri de la Reine Pedauque. Normally, meeting in cafes and cinemas was forbidden, as they were constantly watched, but this time was different. As she came in a ruddy, rotund man with a blond mustache was waiting for her. She squealed and ran into his arms. The other patrons looked at her. Another role to play now: a French girl meeting her German lover. But who were any of them to judge? If they had the time and the money to be eating here it meant they were surely traitors themselves. Bethanie sat down and chattered. She crossed her legs and played with her hair. Her dining partner played his role equally as well. Anyone who looked at them would see a silly girl and a German veteran of the last war, now a wealthy tourist in the great city.

That much at least was true: This man, Antoine, had fought in the war and had lived in Germany for a time, but in reality he was a Frenchman, now posing as a German in an incredibly dangerous game. It was the ultimate cover, but a horrible risk. Antoine had a secret weapon: perched on his collar was a genuine German medal of valor. Twenty years ago he'd saved a German soldier from drowning in a ditch in the middle of a battle. ("I hesitated, of course, but in the end he was human and I was obligated to help him," he said later, a statement Bethanie did not agree with). After the Armistice the Germans sent him the medal as part of their peacetime diplomacy efforts. Now it was the lynchpin in his cover: No German who realized the authenticity of it dared question Antoine. He passed for one of them right under their noses, and he was Bethanie's best contact.

They talked about made-up trivialities. "Mother still refuses to let me wear what I want to the dance hall," she said. "She's such a disappointment."

"You should speak nicely about your mother. Good German girls always speak nicely of their mothers."

"I'm not a good German girl," she said, lowering her eyelashes.

"Not yet. Maybe someday.” He took a bite of meat off his fork.

She ate far too much. What was in front of them cost enough to feed 50 starving Parisians. There was so little food in the city that people had taken to raising chickens and rabbits in their apartments and making vegetable gardens of their lawns. Only the Germans, and those traitors who worked closely with them, could afford to eat like this, and knowing that made the wine taste bitter. The circumstances of Antoine's cover demanded that they eat this food, but she felt it was her duty not too enjoy it too much. Only in the final minutes, as she prepared to leave, did they arrive at the entire point of meeting: "A very old friend of mine is calling at the hotel today," Antoine said.

Bethanie's heart jumped. That meant an Allied agent would be coming into Paris. "Today" of course meant tomorrow night, and "the hotel" meant the anonymous street corner they had agreed upon the last time they met. Nothing else was certain: Not whether the man would be British, American, or Free French, not what his specialty was, not whether he had a particular mission or was sent in to support their efforts here, and certainly not how he was being smuggled into the heart of the occupied city in the first place. All Antoine could say was that a man would be coming here, and he was asking her help retrieving him.

"I would very much like to meet him sometime," she said, linking arms with Antoine as they strolled out of the cafe. They parted in opposite directions.

Bethanie had one more meeting. The shadows were long by the time she reached the church. Churches always made her nervous, another Chastel trait. She wheeled her bike inside, relieved to find that the place empty except for her contact: the Jesuit, as he was known, a middle-aged priest. Everyone, it seemed, knew the Jesuit. In the very first days of the occupation he'd made a name for himself smuggling refugees out of country. How he had remained free and alive so many years was anyone‘s guess. God had blessed him, maybe. When she arrived he was sweeping broken glass off the floor. One of the church windows had shattered. "A bomb," he explained. "Not here. Outside."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Not in here." Rather than throw the broken glass away he poured it into a box. "Every part of the church is holy," he explained. "I couldn’t part with a fragment of it any more than I could part with one of my hands."

He went to the confessional. Bethanie followed, though it made her more nervous still. Churches were good for meetings because there were multiple exits. Trapping herself in a tiny box with one door ran contrary to everything that kept a smart agent alive. Besides, it reminded her too much of a coffin. But there was nowhere else so private, and if she couldn’t trust the Jesuit of all people then the movement had been doomed from the start. So she closed herself in and settled on the kneeler (another thing she didn't care for; a Chastel shouldn’t kneel to anyone, her aunt always said) and muttered the appropriate words, but before she could say anything more the Jesuit whispered through the screen: "You're in danger."

It was an odd thing to say. Of course she was in danger. They all were. That was the whole idea. But the Jesuit's voice communicated a particular sense of urgency. "Why?" she said.

"I know who you are," he said. "I know that your name is Chastel."

Bethanie twitched. Twice in one day someone knew her real name! Had the Jesuit, of all people, set her up? Was Kerman waiting with a cadre of police right outside the vestibule? The urge to reach for her gun welled up again, but she pushed it down, exhaling slowly. "What if it is?"

"Your ancestor Jean Chastel killed the werewolf of Gevaudan almost 300 years ago. On his deathbed he swore an oath that his descendants would never rest until all monsters were wiped from the face of the earth."

"A family legend."

"It's not a legend. Your aunt showed you that it's true."

Bethanie turned her head. "Did you know my aunt?" Then she bit her tongue. "No, don't tell me that. Just tell me why this is important now."

"There is a werewolf in Paris."

The back of Bethanie's neck prickled. "You're sure?"

"I saw it with my own eyes. It killed Max Heiliger. I drove it off with wolfsbane hidden in a crucifix."

Bethanie sat back in the vestibule, ordering her thoughts. She felt that her entire life up until now she‘d been sealed inside an egg and now, without warning, it had broken open. "So you want me to kill it?”

"No," said the Jesuit, "I want you to run away."

Bethanie scoffed. "What about my family Oath?"

"The Oath is the reason you have to leave. You’re the last Chastel. If you die, that will be the end. Your responsibility it to preserve the bloodline."

Bethanie wanted to reach through the partition and grab the priest. "You want me to run off and have babies rather than fight?"

"Yes."

Bethanie laughed.

"You don't know how dangerous a thing this is," said the Jesuit.

"All the more reason to kill it."

"And what if it's one of our own?"

Bethanie paused.

"It killed Heiliger," the Jesuit said. "Perhaps that was a coincidence, but perhaps not. It could be one of your own compatriots."

"It could even be you."

"Now you're using your head," said the Jesuit. "Could you kill me, if you had to?"

"I could kill anyone if I had to."

The Jesuit sounded sad. "This isn’t the life you should have. I can help get you out of France. The best thing for all of us is for you to forget the war and just live." When Bethanie said nothing the priest sighed. "I didn’t think you’d listen to reason. Still, I had a responsibility to try. Here."

She heard a rustle as a bulky enveloped passed through the gap. When she opened it, six bullets tumbled into her palm. "Made from silver smelted from holy icon of Saint Columba of Rieti," the Jesuit said. "They should be quite effective."

"Yes, but..."

"What is it?"

"These are the wrong kind: My Beretta takes .35s. These are too big. Do you know how hard it is to find another gun in Paris these days, how much it costs?"

There was a pause. Bethanie realized, gradually, that the priest was embarrassed.

"I didn‘t think. The man who made them, I just told him to...I can't get more. Even getting those meant--"

"Never mind," Bethanie side. She put the bullets back into the envelope and slid it into her bag. "How will I know when I've found the person I'm looking for?"

"Only God knows that. Although if I were you, I‘d worry that he‘ll find you first."

The partition slid shut. Bethanie tasted something metallic at the back of her throat. She swallowed it.

The sun was disappearing when she left. The meeting had taken longer than it should have. She peddled like mad, but there was no point; she would never make it back to her flat before dark. Curfew violations were serious these days. In the old days you could trust a sympathetic policeman to let you off with a warning (especially if you pretended to cry, or if you were pretty, or if they mistook you for a German because you were blonde), but these days the traitors were getting eager to lock anyone up for any reason just to prove to the Germans how hard they were working for them.

Bethanie turned down a different alley. She couldn't make it home, but she could just barely make it to the laundry. There was always someone sleeping in the shop. Some even lived there for weeks at a time. On the way, she thought about what the Jesuit had told her. She'd always known about the Oath and the Beast of Gevaudan. Every generation of Chastels had their own chapter in the family's never-ending crusade against the devil's wolves. Even Bethanie's old aunt had lived up to the Oath when her time came. But Bethanie had never thought her time would really come. This war was her whole life. She didn't have room for another.

The laundry was dark, though she suspected that, down in the cellar, Velin would still be working. He never seemed to sleep, but he never seemed to tire either, or at least did not show it, for the sake of morale. Lucienne might be there too, cleaning the press with her one good arm. She wondered about those two sometimes. They spent too much time together. Those sorts of attachments endangered everyone.

Bethanie was careful to make no friends in the circuit. Because she was the youngest the others tried to look after her, and Lucienne in particular seemed to want to act a mother, but Bethanie never allowed it. A good agent should have compatriots, but not friends. Good agents loved their circuit, but not their circuit members. Good agents were willing to lay down their lives for each other, but were just as willing to let each other die for the good of the mission. The more you knew about each other, the more you could be made to give up under torture. In the hands of the enemy, a friend was a weapon.

She thought about this as she kicked together a bed of cleaned clothes. She dumped her boots and slung her jacket over the back of a chair, but other than that she slept fully dressed, as was her custom. In the old days, being too obviously unwashed made you stand out, but now all but the richest Parisians looked as ragged as Bethanie. She liked it better this way. Soft living made soft people. She wanted to be hard as well as cold. Her new enemy would be cold and hard too, she knew. That was their way: hunters and hiders, in equal turns. The priest said the wolf killed Max Heiliger. She was a fan of its work already. Maybe, with any luck, it would kill a few more Germans before she had to kill it. Maybe--

Someone struck a match. Bethanie jumped up and grabbed the man in the dark corner, digging her bare feet against the floor in hopes of finding enough traction to throw him. She was small, but she'd been taught to fight since she was old enough to stand. She could overpower a larger man if she took him by surprise. But in the flickering light of the match she saw that the man was Fabien. He waited for Bethanie to let him go, and then touched the flame to his stub of cigar.

"You startled me,” she said.

"You weren't paying enough attention."

"You could have just said something."

"What if I'd been the Militia? Would they say something or just shoot?"

Bethanie was annoyed, but pride was for hot-blooded people, just another way to get killed, so she quenched it. "You're right," she said, and sat back down. Fabien sat down too, his back to the adjoining wall. He passed her the cigar and she accepted it. She felt foolish for not realizing he would be here. Fabien had arrived in Paris only a few weeks before and he had nowhere else to go. They'd been baffled to find him hiding in the back of a truck full of stolen paper. When he identified himself as "Colonel" Fabien of the FTP they were even more puzzled. Everyone knew who he was, of course, but he was supposed to be dead, and he would not account for why he wasn’t or why he'd stowed away in the truck or what his mission in Paris might be. Tomas thought he was a spy and almost shot him on the spot, but one of the lifters had met him before and identified him.

After that he'd simply hung around, filling vaguely defined security roles. He'd hinted that he could not rejoin his previous circuit, but wouldn’t elaborate on why. The political gamesmanship of the Communist factions was known, so no one pressed the question too hard. Now Bethanie watched him, trying to recall everything she knew about the man. He was almost a myth, like the wolves. She gave his cigar back, and then pulled her gun out. Fabien's eyes widened only a tiny degree. She handed it to him.

"I need you to get me another one. Something that will take .44s."

"What do you need it for?"

"I don't ask your business."

Fabien shrugged and accepted the weapon. "Women don't usually carry guns."

"I don't care about what's usual."

"Is this normal for Gaullist women?" His tone was meant to provoke her. Maybe he wanted to test her temper more. "You’re a Gaullist, aren't you? A follower of the great general?" He saluted. "Easy enough for the general to be a war hero off in exile and leave us to do the real fighting."

"I suppose Comrade Stalin is down in the trenches himself? And where was Stalin when the Germans came? A friend who comes too late is as bad as an enemy. De Gaulle was with us from the beginning. What have the Communists ever done for us?"

"Killed Germans," said Fabien. Bethanie grunted. Again, he was right: No one was more ruthless with guerilla attacks than the Communists. She was a great admirer of their work.

"Three years ago you shot one of them on a metro platform," Bethanie said. "Everyone knows about it. Was he your first?"

"Why so interested?"

"I haven't killed anyone. I want to know what the first one is like."

"The Germans killed your family, didn't they?"

"They killed my aunt." And probably her brother too, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

"And your parents?"

"A wolf killed my parents."

"A wolf?"

Bethanie saw his eyebrows rise just a little. She bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say that. A terrible certainty seized her then: It's him, she thought, he's the wolf. Now he knows who I am, and I don't have anything to fight him with, since I gave him my gun and the holy silver bullets wouldn't have worked in it anyway. Any second now he’s going to kill me.

But it didn't happen. Fabien just said, "A wolf," again and sat back.

Bethanie realized her heart was clamoring. For a second she’d been absolutely sure that this was the end, and it had terrified her. She felt ashamed of the fear. She'd thought about dying many times and always assumed she would show the necessary resolve when the time came. But this had been different: The idea of the wolf's teeth sinking into her flesh and then dying the way her parents and grandparents had was too much. A gun barrel in the back of the head; the coarse necklace of a noose around the throat; even the burning white glare of an exploding bomb, these things she’d thought about in idle moments since she was 13. But the jaws of the wolf were something she wasn’t prepared for. It wouldn’t be a good death.

The faint rustle of Fabien turning to go to sleep snapped her out of it. She looked at the outline of his face in the bare illumination, coming to a kind of decision. Standing, she stripped off her blouse and removed her skirt. She sat on Fabien's lap, rousing him with a start, and plucked at his trousers. "Take these off," these said.

Fabien blinked. "How old are you?"

"Don't ask questions about me."

"It's a thing a man likes to know."

"This isn't my first time. Is that good enough?" Truth be known, he wasn't much older than she was, although being a man he assumed a greater degree of authority than he had. He shifted a little beneath her so as shimmy his pants down. He tried to pull her in for a kiss but she pushed his hand away, and he contemplated this for a moment.

"Why do you want this?" he said.

Questions were annoying. "If a German came in and put a gun to my head and told you to surrender, what would you do?"

"I would try to kill him."

"Even if it meant he would kill me?"

"There are worse ways to die."

"Trousers off. Now."

It wasn't a long engagement; both were too exhausted. It wasn't a tender thing either; they were the wrong sort of people. He put his back to the wall and she sat on her knees over him, pushing down and flinching as he went in. As she'd said, it was not her first time, but it wasn't a frequent enough occasion for her to yet be used to the feeling either. She didn't let it bother her. She moved her hips in a circle, letting the hard length push against her insides until a kind of pleasant hum traveled to the base of her tailbone and lit up her nerves. She did it a few more times and even let her eyes close, but then snapped them back open, reminding herself that they would have to be fast about this.

This was a risk; it distracted them both, made it harder for either to react to whatever else happened in the room, and made noise that could give them away. It was also something that would deflate the fear and anxiety that had been hovering over her all night, so she wanted to do it and have it done as fast as she could. With that in mind, she held Fabien against the wall and pushed onto him deeper and harder. She held her breath as long as she could (almost until she was dizzy) to avoid telltale noises and when she let it out she made it a long whisper, like the hiss of the machines when they were turned on. There were machines all around them, including the press downstairs, pumping along day in and day out until the job was done. Bethanie wanted to be like them; a machine might heat up if you worked it long enough, but it was always cold underneath.

They didn't kiss, but she did let him put his hands on her body--almost forced him to, in fact. She never touched anyone except Antoine, and that wasn't really a touch at all, just part of her cover. She realized now it created a kind of suspense that was distracting, so it was time to get rid of it. She put Fabien's hard hands into her blouse and let him knead her small breasts, then directed them higher to trace wrap themselves around her bouncing curls. It even hurt a little when he pulled, but pain had its uses too. Pain kept her in the present. Sweat dappled her body, and she liked the feeling; hot at first, but cool when a few seconds passed. Fabien seemed to be uncomfortable, so she pulled him away from the wall and pushed him all the way down, straddling and hunching over him, working back and forth and waiting for the hot, sharp feeling between their bodies to spike. Not long now...

She actually put her hand over his mouth to muffle his reflexive grunt when the moment came. A hot, quivering sensation flushed her insides and she felt his body coil up like a spring and then relax. She bit her lip and counted silently: one, two, three, and then climbed off of him. She counted again until her heart rate and breathing returned to normal. Then she held a hand out: it was steady. She nodded. She had not herself had time to finish, but that was all right. The exertion had cleared her head sufficiently. She cleaned up, and Fabien did too. They slept clothed and back to back, not really touching (she had no desire to) but not entirely separating either (the floor was cold, and body heat relieved it a bit). Fabien nodded off right away, but Bethanie took a long time to sleep. Her mind would not slow down. She knew, rationally, that the strange noises she seemed to hear from outside were only a product of her mind and that even had they been real she wouldn't be able to hear them from here. But they didn't go away.

***

June 3:
1,142 days under occupation.

Normally, six people lived in this apartment, situated above an operational sawmill, but none of them were home now. The ruckus from down below was good cover for people coming in and out and sometimes the family here agreed to hide someone for a few days. Today that noise would cover up something else.

The man was tied to a chair in the kitchen. He was a pudgy, sweating mess of an Englishman. He had mustache, which Bethanie found amusing. Men with beards were assumed to be trying to disguise themselves, so a mustache was considered less obtrusive, but in his case it didn't suit him. She didn’t really know who he was; only that he was apparently a traitor, and they'd been asked to deal with him. That was Tomas' job; Fabien was here too, mainly to give him something to do, and Bethanie was here to do the one thing neither of them could.

When the knots were secure, Tomas turned on the stove, grabbed a pan from the sideboard, and took a packet of sewing needles from his coat pocket. He dropped the needles into the pan and watched the acrid smoke curl up as they heated, then pulled a chair in front of the prisoner. "I've been questioned by your friends in the Gestapo," Tomas said. "I'd like to show you what I learned from them. When I'm done, you'll tell us what you learned from them. Sound fair?"

The man in the chair sweated.

"You should step outside," Tomas said, his comment encompassing both Bethanie and Fabien. Fabien looked like he was about to say something, so Bethanie pushed him out of the kitchen. They went to the tiny bedroom in back and shut the door. She sat by a window with the curtains tacked shut. Fabien lurked around the door and Bethanie soon realized he was straining to listen. In a few moments he was rewarded: There were, distinctly, muffled sobs coming from the kitchen.

"You should let him work," Bethanie said.

Fabien looked at her. "Why did Velin send you?"

"To make sure Tomas did not torture the man while questioning him."

"So why aren't you stopping him?"

"I don't want to. And there’s no stopping Tomas when he decides to do something. What do you care what happens to some traitor anyway?"

"I care about orders."

"Tomas follows the orders that ought to be followed. Besides, it wouldn't be safe to step in."

"Why not?"

There was a challenge in his tone, but Bethanie was not sure whether it was meant for Tomas or for her. She considered what she knew about Tomas before answering: He was an American, but had been raised in France by his French mother until he was 10. He spoke the language perfectly, knew several French towns and cities intimately, and was comfortable with the customs and culture of the country, and so was considered an ideal infiltrating agent. The only other things she knew was that he was a homosexual, and that he had probably killed more people than anyone else she'd ever met.

Three weeks after he parachuted into the country, a young German approached Tomas in a cafe. He behaved very strangely and at first Tomas thought he was about to be arrested, but gradually he recognized the signals the German was dropping. The two became lovers. It was even more dangerous for both of them than they realized: The German never knew that Tomas was an American spy, and Tomas didn’t realize that the German was with the Gestapo. Not until Dulac recognized the German, that is, and told him. That night, he and the German met at Tomas' apartment. They spent the night together, like always. Then, once the German was asleep, Tomas reached into the space between the bed frame and the wall.

Where he had hidden an icepick.

Bethanie told Fabien all of this, the same way Velin had told her. "He told me so that I would know to be careful around Tomas. Now I've told the story to you. Do you feel careful?"

From the kitchen came a sound like a man gargling. Fabien didn’t look impressed; he didn’t flinch or grow pale or react at all. But he did step away from the door.

It was almost two hours until Tomas was done. When the door opened he nodded at Bethanie. "Come now.” Bethanie followed to the kitchen. The Englishman didn't look hurt, but he did look exhausted, as if he had been awake for a week just since the last time she‘d seen him. His pants, shirt, and even the ropes dripped with sweat. Bethanie dribbled a rag under the sink and wet his lips so he could speak. Then she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. He flinched at first, but she went on comforting him in this way until he became used to it. In English, she said:

"Do you want to talk now?"

The Englishman hung his head, but nodded.

"You can talk to me. We’ll send the others away." With a gesture she dismissed Tomas and Fabien. Alone with the traitor, she brought him a drink of water and tipped it into his open mouth slowly, so that he didn't choke, then wiped the sweat from his face and neck. "I'm going to loosen these ropes. You still won't be able to stand up or move your arms, so don't try, but it’ll hurt less."

"Thank you," said the Englishman. Bethanie talked as she worked with the knots.

"Where are you from?" she said.

"Northampton."

"You've been in the country a long time."

"I was one of the first men SOE sent in."

"And you haven’t been caught in all that time. It's remarkable. ...except it's not, is it? The reason the Germans never caught you is because you've been working for them. We know that already."

The traitor said nothing. Bethanie sat on the floor and looked him in the eye. She assumed the most sweet and unassuming demeanor she could, as if she were talking to an infant. "Do you have a family?" she said.

"I'm not married."

"Parents?"

"My mother is still alive. She's very old."

"My parents are dead. I was raised by my aunt, but she's dead too. They sent her to Ravensbruck after someone informed on our circuit. I was the only one who got away: I was younger then and small enough to hide in a box when the Gestapo men came. Do you have family in London?"

He didn't answer.

"I was just thinking about the bombings. What if the Germans dropped a bomb right on your mother? It's not as if they mark the homes of triple-agents on the Luftwaffe map's with a message saying, 'Don't go here.'"

"What's your point?"

"It's funny that it's just as possible that the Germans might kill your family as mine." She scooted a little closer. "Is family the reason you're working for them? Do they have someone you know in a camp somewhere? My brother is in a prison camp. We don't know if he's still alive, which almost certainly means he‘s dead."

"I don't know any prisoners."

"Was it money then?"

"No," said the Englishman. He picked his head up for the first time. "I did what I thought was best. SOE didn't know that I was a member of the British Union. We believed in Hitler, and we hated Stalin. I got my orders to infiltrate Special Operations, and I carried them out. That's all."

So that was it: He was just a fascist. The answer was ugly in its simplicity. At least she knew what to do about that. Fascists were all the same, whether they be German, French, or even British. The cure was quick and permanent. She told Tomas what she'd learned. He nodded. "I thought as much," he said. "But we had to know for sure."

"You're sure he's telling the truth?" said Fabien.

"I'm sure that I believe him," said Bethanie. "You'll take care of this?" Tomas nodded again. "I'll go report."

She took pains not to let the mill workers see her leave. The foreman worked for Velin, but there were probably informers in the work crew, particularly since they had all apparently escaped being sent to the German factories. Bethanie biked by a newsvendor. It happened again the previous night: Two more Germans dead, and news of Heiliger's murder had leaked as well. The official papers didn’t carry it, of course, but people found out anyway. The manner of the killings left little doubt that they were committed by the same culprit but, oddly, no circuit had claimed responsibility yet. When she arrived at the laundry, Velin was beside himself.

"If the sidewalks keep filling up with dead SS men even the Vichy papers will have no choice but to talk about it."

Lucienne tossed the ink-stained rag at her feet. "I've never seen you happy about people dying before," she said. "Not even Germans."

Velin's smile flickered. "I’m not happy when anyone dies. Not even Germans."

Bethanie made an impolite noise. Velin ignored it.

"But this is a story for people to talk about. If all of Paris goes around talking about the Wolf then they won't be talking about the Germans, or the occupation, or the shortages, or whatever Vichy is telling them about the war. They won't be afraid. We need this. We need them to feel like we're winning."

Lucienne didn’t look convinced, but she patted his arm with her one hand before going back to work. An olive branch. Velin smiled after her. Bethanie felt a little twinge. They were close, weren't they? Dulac saw her watching and nudged her with an elbow. "Velin is a handsome man.”

"How should I know?"

"You have eyes."

"My eyes are for watching enemies."

"You're watching Velin now."

Bethanie was annoyed, but when Velin passed she gave him a courtesy glance: She supposed he wasn't unhandsome. Men and women followed his orders. And she knew he was brave. Velin was a pacifist, but he carried a gun anyway. He'd been arrested three times and the last time he'd been tortured. After that he got the gun, swearing the Germans would never take him in alive again. Bethanie admired Velin. But she also admired the printing press, and her Beretta. They were all good in a fight. But that was all.

Fabien was a handsome man too. And he was also a good weapon. And unlike Velin, he wouldn’t get softhearted about her. Maybe, if times were different, other things would be different too. But Bethanie had work to do.

She reported to Velin about the traitor. She omitted the parts he was better off not knowing. Then she went to her tiny cubby of an apartment. She didn't come here often and would have preferred to have no residence at all if she could have managed. Outside, Paris was blue twilight and grey shadows, studded with winking yellow lights. Antoine's man was coming into the city. Liaison after dark was particularly dangerous, but not as dangerous as leaving an Allied agent alone in the middle of the city, so she didn't have much choice but to go. She dressed for a night out: a light sweater, a short, pleated skirt, striped stockings and flat shoes, like the cafe girls all wore, very zazou, perfect for a teenager sneaking out after curfew.

She went out on foot so that the noise of her bicycle wouldn’t advertise her coming, though it meant it would take over an hour to get there and escort the agent to his safe house. It was an insane risk, but someone had to do it. If she were arrested or killed, well, it had been bound to happen. And if the werewolf found her...she hugged her sweater tight around her, so she could pretend that her chill was from the night air, even though it was, in fact, a warm evening at the start of a warm summer.

She thought about the death notices the Germans posted, the familiar red flyers with black borders and the names of the condemned in black, along with the litany of charges:

"Shot for sabotage."
"Shot for spying."
"Shot for participation in anti-German demonstrations."
"Three Communists guillotined."
"Reward of a million francs to whoever denounces the perpetrators of the following attack..."

The gun, the noose, the guillotine. She thought, let it be one of these that kills me. Not the wolf.

The night brought her a nasty shock: at the meeting place she found not one man but three, one American, one Englishman, and one Frenchman. They explained to her that they were a "Jed Team" initiating "Operation Sussex." The words meant nothing to her. They wanted to be taken to her superior officer but she explained (as politely as possible under the circumstances) that if all four of them went wandering around much longer they'd be reporting to no one but the police. It was luck that the safe house was near and luck that it had room for more and luck that the two extra men were not assumed to be spies and murdered on the spot. But Bethanie had trouble imagining luck would last her for the next big risk: getting to safety herself.

It was another dark night. She kept to the alleys. Bethanie was just barely remembered when these streets and cafes and cabarets would have been full of people at this time, but those memories were another world now, leaving dark windows, empty sidewalks, and suspicion behind. The sound of an engine at the mouth of the first alley warned her to stay back. Lights washed the walls a dingy yellow. Another six inches and she'd have been seen. This is never going to work, she told herself. But there was nothing else to do.

Something stirred in the alley behind her. She turned around too fast but found nothing there except darkness and some debris in the wind. Then, another sound, like the first, but closer. She backed away. She could see nothing...but that didn't mean nothing was there. She forced herself to stay calm. Panic was for dead men. She considered her options: Whatever it was, it was behind her, so the only thing to do was keep running. Keep running and don't think about what it might be until it showed itself. But she turned and walked straight into the pair of uniforms. She gasped and backed up, then looked down as if embarrassed. "Pardon me," she said. "I was--"

"It's past curfew. Show us your papers." She couldn’t see either of their faces under their caps. They were blank shadows in the night.

"Of course." Bethanie handed over her card. The German took it without looking at it. "I was just getting back from--"

"You'll have to come with us."

Bethanie widened her eyes and let her voice tremble. "I was only--"

A gloved hand wrapped around her forearm. Bethanie lost her balance, landing at the German's feet. Do I run, she thought? If I do they may shoot me in the back. But if she let them take her in...the memory of Tomas heating needles on the kitchen range firmed her resolve. If the German tried to help her up, she'd knock him down and run. She was strong enough for that, and he wouldn't be expecting it. If he didn't try to help she'd run anyway, though they'd more than likely catch her as she tried to muscle past. She tensed...

It was all over in a second. The German didn’t see it coming, only felt, for an instant, hot breath on this neck, and then the leaping beast's jaws closed on his throat and, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. He didn’t even get to scream. His partner barely had time to register that anything had happened before the huge black shape returned, and then he was gone too. Bethanie saw the second German carried off of his feet, glimpsed the outline of a giant, shaggy creature of some kind, and heard the first impression of a scream before a wet sound cut it off, and then nothing was there at all. She blinked, staring at the empty pavement. There were three drops of blood, but only three.

She backed into the wall. Breathe, she told herself. She sucked in air and held it as a precaution against panic. Though she could see only a little blood in the alley the smell of more--much more--tingled in her nostrils. A spike of adrenaline shot through her, forcing her stubborn legs to move. Which way did it go? Which direction would it come from next? She heard the same noise she'd heard before and knew it for what it was: the footstep of a huge, padded paw. It was out there, and it wanted her to know it was out there. She imagined its enormous nostrils filling with the scent of her fear sweat. Fear made the flesh more savory.

She ran. She no longer knew where she was or what direction she was going in. She had only one destination: away. Was it following her? She didn't look. But when she realized the alley she was in was a dead end her feet skidded. She was about to turn around, certain that slavering jaws were waiting for her, but the sound of a door opening drew her attention. Dingy yellow light silhouetted a man in a cheap suit, who tossed some trash into the alley and followed it up by flicking away a cigarette. Before he could close the door Bethanie screamed, "Wait!" and so surprised was he that he froze long enough for her to throw herself through the door.

She fell onto a thick carpet in a dimly lit room. She heard music and laughter from somewhere, but this anteroom was empty. The man in the suit stared, dumbfounded, as she stood up, ran to the door, shut it and bolted it, then slumped over. Without thinking, she grabbed the handkerchief from the doorman's pocket and wiped her forehead and neck. She expected to hear something big and heavy trying to break the door down, but nothing happened. Maybe it didn't follow me, she thought. Maybe it didn't want to run out into the open. Maybe I'm safe. She tucked the doorman's handkerchief back into his breast pocket and became fully conscious of his presence for the first time. He was still staring, of course, and Bethanie almost laughed, but stopped herself because she suspected that if she started laughing now she might not ever be able to stop. Taking a moment to straighten her clothes, she said:

"Excuse me. I don't blame you if you think I'm some kind of madwoman, but I can explain everything. The truth is--"

The excuse only got halfway out. She couldn’t believe it; it was too impossible. But there, right in front of her, was Kerman, the Militia man from the previous day. He had apparently traded in that uniform for a doorman's, and either he had shaved or his mustache had been a fake, but it was unquestionably the same man. He looked as surprised as she did. "What in the hell are you doing here?" he said.

Before Bethanie could answer there was a peculiar knock. Kerman swore and pushed her behind the red curtain. She tried to object but he said, "They'll kill you if they find you here, so do what I say and don't ask questions." And then he left her blinking in the dim little room. She was in some sort of boudoir, surrounded by eveningwear so garish that it might more properly be called costumery. Then she heard the heavy outside door open and Kerman say in German, "Thank you for coming. Just one moment."

He stuck his head in and made a series of furious gestures. The message was clear: play along. Bethanie, in turn, indicated that she would just hide in here, but he shook his head and assumed an expression that seemed so genuinely panicked that she immediately discarded the plan. "Is there a problem?" said a voice in the entryway, and Kerman stuck his head back out.

"A slight delay. Your usual girl is...not in tonight."

"You should have called ahead."

"We phoned your hotel, but you'd already left. We have a new girl instead. We think you'll like her."

A pause. "Let me see her and then I'll decide."

As soon as I see the opportunity, I’ll run, Bethanie told herself. As soon as I can, I’ll run...

She stepped out. Kerman looked relieved. A man in a grey-green dress uniform waited for her. She did her best curtsy, keeping her eyes down. "Good evening, sir," she said. The officer circled her, inspecting front and back. A listless blond woman with too much jewelry sat nearby, apparently having arrived with the German man. He took Bethanie's hand in his black-gloved fingers and kissed it. "I'm very charmed to meet you. Miss...?"

Bethanie hesitated. Kerman blurted out: "Kitty!" Bethanie could have slapped him.

"Yes, Kitty," she said. "Still very pleased to meet you. Mister...?"

"Not 'mister,'" the German said. He pointed to the red and gold patches at his throat. "General."

***

Bethanie's general, Von Choltitz, was a peculiar specimen: short and stocky, with an oily complexion. Bethanie couldn’t decide whether the monocle he wore was practical or an affectation. The blond woman seemed to be his mistress, and it was Bet