Page 51 of Double Shot

“So how do we get in?” Sadie asked.

“With this,” Roan said, holding up the GSTP she had given him just a day ago. “He’s a military antiquarian and sufficiently interesting paraphernalia will net us a meeting with him. It has to be juicy, and all we have to do is attach a sufficiently interesting story to this.”

“But the guy’s a wannabe Nazi, why would he care about a British timepiece?” I asked.

“If you look through the collection, half of it is Nazi junk, and half is stuff that they took as trophies – it’s shot up flags, broken officer’s swords. It’s a collection instances of Nazi victories,” he said. “Which means that this GSTP belonged to a British officer who was killed at Dunkirk. A little research, attach a name to it, and see if he takes the bait. I think the only thing that might interest him more would be an RAF timepiece, but they used a different make and model and he’ll know that from the picture.”

“But he knows me, we’ve had dinner,” I added.

“Aye, you. And I’m sure he knows me, he visited the estate at least once, did some uninspired questioning, and then Kaijin ran him off. There’s no love between those two,” Roan said.

“What about me?” Sadie asked.

“He’s seen you, but in highly stressed conditions, so maybe?” Roan admitted. “I don’t like that option, but there is no angle for violence. You would be safe so long as he doesn’t realize who you are.”

“Disguises?” There was a hint of excitement in her voice.

“Makeup, different outfit, maybe change your hair color,” Roan suggested. I must have growled at that because they both looked at me. “Come off it, mate, it’s hair.”

“I could have it cut into a bob and dyed blonde.” She toyed with her hair like it was a Parisian bob.

“Absolutely not.” I stood up. “No.”

“It’smyhair,” she protested.

“Changing the color is fine, but if there is anything I would forbid, it’s cutting it. I want your hair long.” I had an unexpectedly strong stance on that.

“You going to dress me too?” Her words were sharp.

“No, well maybe, but that’s not the point. You cut that hair off, it will take months, a year, longer, to grow back.” I crossed my arms. “I would rather you carry a submachine gun into that building rather than give yourself a buzz cut.”

“Think that’s a bit much?” Roan asked.

“If it comes down to cutting her hair, I’ll just kill Malmaison myself. I’m ex-US Army. Killing Nazis in their own country is in my blood.”

“Mine too,” Roan said. “Hairstyles can be changed, and the right coif can make her look like a pin-up girl or a bookish military historian.”

“This is like listening to people talk about updating the Mona Lisa, defacing art.” I felt my temperature rising, a possessiveness that felt unnatural even to me.

“Mate, if we promise that her hair isn’t cut, you’ll be okay with whatever disguise we come up with?” he asked. I gave a grudging nod. “So, why don’t you fuck off to that bar on the corner, and I’ll take the lady and come up with a good disguise for her.”

“There was a biergarten across from Malmaison’s gallery. I can surveil the place while you two play dress-up, maybe get us some more intel.” I stood, feeling bristled up like an angry cat.

When I turned from grabbing my jacket and put my hand on the knob to go out, I heard Sadie ask Roan, “What’s gotten into him?” and Roan answer, “Haven’t the foggiest.”

That made three of us.

* * *

The biergarten was rundown,and in need of renovations. The amount of abuse the tables had taken made me wonder if they were left over from when this place had been rebuilt. The pictures inside made it seem like half of this part of town survived the bombing. Malmaison’s building seemed to have come through with its walls intact. There was a picture of it as a burned-out stone shell and wreckage everywhere.

There might be something useful in that, so I snapped a few pictures with my phone, and sent them to Roan. Hell, he might just like them for being old war shit.

I wasn’t much of a fan when it came to beer, but I took one of the oversized mugs the place offered, along with some sort of appetizer plate. German food, with all of its sausage, potato dumplings, and mustard, wasn’t my dream plate either. There was very little traffic going to the gallery, maybe two people, one of whom looked like Malmaison, but it was hard to tell. It wasn’t like he would be stomping around in a military uniform with a swastika on his arm.

He had a woman with him; she was an escort. Not one that I knew, but I knew their demeanor. I imagined, for a moment, him and her in some sweaty gross Nazi roleplay, and then felt disgusted and dirty.

The RTB text came a few hours later while I was taking a lap around the plaza. I couldn’t get back to the room quick enough. I was ready for action, not this snooping and waiting business.

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