Page 4 of Skotos
The OSS had been decommissioned in favor of the new CIA in 1947, but we still struggled to keep the acronyms straight. Our resources were stronger now, with better funding and the weight of a postwar government behind them; still, part of me longed for the “wild west” days under Bill Donovan, the days when ingenuity and a sharp tongue were better weapons than rifles most days.
“Had to be pretty bad to earn a nickname. I take it he’s a Boy Scout leader?”
Will chuckled. “More like Hitler Youth. The more I read about the guy, the more I want to see him ground into sausage.”
“Please don’t ruin sausage for me.”
Will rolled his eyes and sat back. “Tubed meat aside, what do we do next?”
I thought a moment, then nodded, more to myself than to Will. “Let’s send word to our friends in the DGSE1 and go find the bastard.”
Surveillance was always our preference—observe, confirm, report—let the local authorities handle the dirty work. As Americans in France, our job was to assist, not judge or execute.
At least, those were the rules most days.
That night, we followed a man from a smoky jazz club to a pension house with peeling paint that was once beige but now looked more akin to the color of shit after a rainy day. The air inside the club was thick with sweat and brass, cigarette smoke curling through the notes of a trumpet solo that cut like glass. Will leaned near the bar, pretending to enjoy the set while I stayed close to the rear exit watching our man nurse a drink he would never finish.
When he stood and left, wefollowed.
The narrow street was half lit by yellowish gaslight and shrouded in mist. We kept our distance, splitting to either side of the road. The man moved briskly, looking over his shoulder twice. When he stopped to tie his shoe, I ducked into a recessed doorway, my heart ticking in time with the blood pounding in my ears. Will barely broke stride, pretending to fumble with a cigarette and a book of matches.
At one point, the man turned sharply down an alley.
I followed while Will looped around.
The walls closed in, and my footfalls softened against damp cobblestone.
Then—
A crash.
A trash bin knocked over.
I froze, hand on the pistol at my side.
From the far end of the alley, a figure darted—small and fast.
Just a cat.
My breath rushed out.
But the manhadstopped. He stood under a flickering lamp, peering into the dark.
Will emerged casually from the far side. “Lost, monsieur?” he asked in broken French.
The man muttered something and turned. I melted into shadow as he walked into the pension house and locked the door behind him. We waited fiveminutes, just in case, then marked the address and disappeared into the fog like we’d never been there.
Back at our flat, Will collapsed onto the couch with a sigh as I poured two glasses of cheap Burgundy and handed him one.
“Think he’s the one?” he asked.
“I think he’s something,” I replied. “We could end it, slip back tonight, quiet and clean.”
Will shot me a look—measured and cool. “That’s not our call. We observe, confirm, pass it up the line. The French will handle the rest.”
“What if they don’t, Will?” I shrugged, not yet ready to let it go. “What if this one slips away like so many others? You know the French courts are a joke, and the American government classified so much information that prosecutors can’t even do their jobs.”
“I get it, babe, but we’re just two men. We can’t do it all—and we definitely can’t start making rules up as we go.” He sat forward, the wine untouched in his hand. “I say we keep watching. Until Washington or the DGSE says otherwise, we don’t pull the trigger.”
