Enigma (closed)

[DeadManTyping]

"Enigma"​

Yet another nearby explosion sent a sprinkling of dust down from the air raid shelter's ceiling, causing Peter Carlson to clench his jaws. It wasn't as if he was afraid of losing his life, though at this moment, he very well should have been. The Krauts' target was a Royal Air Force fighter Wing outside of Chelmsford, but a strong wind for which the Luftwaffe's meteorologists had not accounted led to majority of the bombs -- dropped from extremely high altitude -- to land short, here in Maldon.

Peter had been about to scoop up a traitor to the Crown when the attack began. He was a member of a new investigative team within MI6, and he'd been tasked with discovering the identities of and then apprehending the members of a spy ring that was feeding targeting information to the Germans for their Blitz on the UK.

Ironically, while a spy with His Majesty's Secret Service, Peter Carlson wasn't actually a Brit. Not originally anyway. He'd been born and raised a Yank: Chicago and New York had been his homes before he'd come to England. Again despite being a Yank, Peter's father had flown a Vickers F.B.5 for the Royal Flying Corps during the war to end all wars, collecting 14 kills over Belgium and Holland. He'd even been decorated for heroism by the King himself. After the war, Peter's father had become an aviation engineer and moved his family of five to London to design the UK's next generation of military aircraft.

When the all clear siren sounded, Peter hurried to ground level, eager to locate his target. He had a name, a photo, and an address, but he quickly realized that none of that was going to do him any good. Maldon had thus far managed to avoid the horrors of the German bombings, but now Peter found the community engulfed in fire, smoke, and billowing dust. He fought his way through the devastated streets to the traitor's address, only to now find the neighborhood little more than rubble.

***********************​

"My report, Chief," Peter said, setting a file folder on the desk of his supervisor. When Robert Poole -- a civilian who carried the equivalent rank of an Army Colonel -- only stared at him in silence with that well known, expectant stare, Peter went on, "The body found in the rubble of the Maldon home was indeed that of my target."

"That was three weeks ago, Mister Carlson," Poole said with a critical tone. "What have you learned of value since?"

After a moment, Peter only shrugged. He didn't honestly have anything new to offer. The trail had gone cold with the bombing in Maldon and two other unconnected incidents closer to home.

Poole opened the folder Peter had offered, and the two of them reviewed the information; Robert made rapid fire inquiries about this and that, and Peter responded to each question the best way he could. He was both trying to keep his Chief informed and prevent himself from seeming inept at the job he'd been handed. Peter wasn't an idiot or an incompetent: he was simply at a dead end road in the investigation, the toughest case to which he'd ever been assigned.

The Chief flipped back to a previous page and asked, "What is this notation in the margins ... beautiful blonde in café. What's this about?"

Peter searched his memory for a moment. His face eventually lit up with recollection, but his response to the question was rather lack luster. "The informant who led me to Maldon ... at one point he spoke of a meeting, between one of the Fisherman's contacts and a woman."

Peter glanced over Poole's shoulder to the bulletin boards mounted on the wall behind him. One featured a pyramid of photographs connected by strings stretched between push pins. It illustrated the hierarchy of B Group, code named for the county of Buckinghamshire from which some of their first clues had originated. And at the top of that pyramid was a grainy photo of the man they Fritz the Fisherman.

It was just a nickname, of course: MI6 had done all they could to identify the man further without tipping him off to the fact that he was being surveilled. But they'd come up with nothing of substance and certainly nothing for which they could arrest him. MI6 Agents had casually interacted with the man: in the market, at the pub, on the Gravesend boat docks where he kept the boat that had resulted in his nickname. Still, very little was learned: he was Caucasian, 50-55 years of age, spoke with a genuine Cornish accent, and liked to tell jokes after his second pint at the pub.

And he liked women. The Fisherman had traveled to -- and been trailed by MI6 to -- London, Portsmouth, Ipswich, and other nearby and distant cities on a couple of dozen occasions. Each stay had included an overnight with a beautiful women. The Fisherman's lady friends had been quietly investigated, but nothingtraitorous had been discovered about them. They had all been local girls, they had all been about half the Fisherman's age, and -- according to the guests in nearby rooms -- they had all apparently and enthusiastically enjoyed their overnight with the Fisherman.

Poole interrupted Peter's study of the board with, "And what were you able to learn about this woman?"

"Very little," Peter responded.

"Very little," Robert echoed with a disappointed tone.

"Very little," Peter repeated again. He recounted the Team's failed efforts to learn more about this particular woman or the meeting that had taken place with the Fisherman's contact, adding, "We only know that it took place at a little café in Southend."

"Southend-On-Sea?" Poole inquired.

Peter thought he detected a bit more interest in his boss's tone. "Yes, sir. Place called the Rusty Tub, if I recall."

Poole's steady gaze settled upon his subordinate for a long, silent moment. Peter recognized that expression and could almost hear the wheels'a'turnin' within the Chief's skull. Poole called his Assistant in from beyond the closed door and directed him to retrieve a particular file from the Records Room.

"You know it?" Peter asked. "This café?"

Poole didn't respond immediately, instead waiting for the file, which he directed Peter to open and review. After Peter had skimmed a few pages, apparently seeing nothing of particular interest to his investigation, Poole pointed to a photograph of a man and woman sitting at a small table, just beyond an open window.

"That was taken three months ago," Poole told him, adding, "In Southend ... at a café called the Rusty Tub."

Peter's eyes widened with excitement as he leaned in to better study the picture. Neither of the subjects was clearly identifiable in the photo: it had been taken from a distance, blown up, and cropped, leaving it grainy and less than ideal. Even so, Peter tapped a finger tip to the image of the man and declared without a doubt, "That's the Fisherman."

"How can you be certain?"

Peter snatched up the nearby magnifying glass, handed it and the photograph to his Chief, and began running through the similarities between the Fisherman and the man in the photo. Peter stood and began pacing, contemplating the new information. He asked about the picture's source, learning that it came from an unrelated investigation.

By this time, though, both Peter and Poole realized that the word unrelated no longer applied here. Peter pointed toward the image again, saying, "That's the fisherman ... and that's the beautiful blonde."

He continued to pace a moment, contemplating, then turned and asked with sudden realization, "Wait! You-- your surveillance team, I mean ... you didn't know that was the Fisherman."

"No, we didn't," Poole confirmed.

A moment of thought, then, "So ... you weren't following him."

Poole only shook his head lightly.

"You were following the woman," Peter deduced, adding with a tone as if quoting from the file, "a beautiful blonde woman in a café."

"Yes."

Peter cocked his head, a confused look filling his face as he continued, "You were following a beautiful blonde woman to a café ... but ... obviously, you don't know who she is, or her name would be in the file."

"Correct," Poole again confirmed. "We don't know who she is. However ... we know where she works. Bletchley Park."

Peter's mouth opened a bit with building shock. He repeated with obvious concern, Bletchley Park?"

He began his nervous pacing again, suddenly realizing that his heart was racing. Bletchley Park was one of the UK's most sensitive intelligence gathering operations, home to GC&CS, the Government Code and Cypher School. The Park had been established two years earlier, in mid-1939, and already it had broken several Axis codes used by Berlin to communicate with both its forces in the field and its spies all across Europe and the greater world.

The thought that the Fisherman and his people -- the traitors and spies that Peter himself had been trying to discover and apprehend -- might have someone inside The Park was just ... well, it was a game changer.

"I want you to go to Buckinghamshire," Poole told Peter. "Find this woman. Find her, detain her, question her."

Poole closed the folders and set them on the edge of the desk for Peter's retrieval. He finished, "After she gives you the Fisherman ... after she gives you the names of her contacts ... tells you what information she passed, to whom, etcetera..."

Poole glanced to Peter's hip, where the Chief knew that the spy catcher was packing a Webley .455 caliber revolver. He looked back up to Peter's face, finishing, "...then terminate her."

 

[heartofcourage]

The old Victorian building was beautiful even in a downpour. It seemed to always rain lately, but there had been brief moments of sunlight throughout the recent week. That day, however, the sky above Bletchley was slate grey and the rain was falling without any sign of stopping. It made for dreary conditions, but Victoria didn't seem to mind.

With her raincoat cinched tightly around her waist, collar turned up against the wind, she walked beneath her dark umbrella from the front drive of the building towards the cafe that she inhabited in the early evening time. It had become a second home, especially since her own home had been damaged during a bombing run weeks earlier. Her landlord was working hard to repair her flat, and she very well could have gone back, but she found herself simply wanting to work to escape the interior of London.

Her supervisor had noticed, insisting that she go home that evening. After dinner, she would catch the last bus of the evening and she would sleep in her home for the first time in weeks. It wasn't something that she really looked forward to.

Turning down the street, Victoria glanced both ways before she stepped across the parkway and turned down a small lane. Her smart black heels clicked on the sidewalk, perfectly coiffed blonde hair impeccably in place like always. She always looked put together. It was all part of the image that she enjoyed projecting to others: calm, cool, collected, and confident.

She was also one of the most brilliant minds in all of the kingdom. There was hardly a puzzle that she couldn't solve or a code that she couldn't crack. Her mind had always worked in mysterious ways, turning a problem over until it suddenly became clear when it had previously seemed impossible. That was how she had ended up at Bletchley Park, recruited by shadowy men in service to his Majesty the king. How could she say no to that?

Another two blocks away and she turned down yet another street before she was pushing open the door to the cafe, greeting the man that she knew so well.

"Evening, Paul." She murmured, shaking her umbrella before she left it by the door, her coat soon hung on the rack beside it. "The usual, please."

She took her normal place next to the window, waiting for her order of Earl Grey and the special of the day. It smelled like roast beef and vegetables, a luxury if that were the case. Paul did his best to make his customers happy, even if it meant making ends meet with next to nothing. Victoria had been born in London and raised in the countryside, her father operating a sheep farm that alluded to his Scottish roots.

Her family had been spared the worst of the war so far, save for two younger brothers who had joined the RAF. Of course, her parents worried about all three and sent frequent letters, but Victoria assured them that there was nothing to worry about. She firmly believed that all of this would be over soon, even if the war had already dragged on for years to that point. She had to believe that.

 

[DeadManTyping]

Peter had been in Buckinghamshire County for almost a month now. He'd spent much of that time establishing his cover as a Commodity's Broker, meeting with producers and craftsmen all about the county. He'd offered contacts and contracts between them and the larger companies involved in Britain's war efforts against the Axis powers.

Now with a reason to be seen often in the area, Peter had opened a small office in Bletchley Park ... directly across from the Government Code and Cypher School. The main security entrance to the entire facility -- the School and all of the offices in which the code breaking operations took place -- was within view of Peter's office.

"Evening, Paul."

Peter looked up from his cup of steaming tea at the woman who'd just entered the café. He recognized her immediately as Miss Victoria Stirling, a member of The Park's code breaking operations. She was also one of the eight beautiful blonde women who, over the past weeks, Peter had gleaned from the list of Bletchley Park employees who might be the traitor for whom he was searching.

"The usual, please."

He'd been watching her off and on, just as he had the other women. And he'd been through Victoria's desk in The Park, after hours of course with the accompaniment of the facility's Chief, who was the only man on the grounds who knew of the MI6 investigation into the B Group. And -- while he hadn't personally done it himself -- MI6 had been through her apartment back in London, in addition to interviewing her neighbors and family, under the guise of reviewing Victoria for a security clearance upgrade.

Peter found himself conflicted about Victoria. It would have been such an expedience and a relief to learn that she was the woman in the photograph with the Fisherman. He could have been done with this search for the beautiful blonde woman and gone onto track down the remainder of the B Group. How had Poole put it? Find her, detain her, question her ... execute her.

Which was where the conflict arose. The investigation into Victoria, thus far, had found not a single bit of evidence that she might be the traitor. And while discovering that she was would have made things quick and easy, Peter had found Victoria to be the most beautiful of his potential targets ... maybe the most beautiful woman in The Park or even the whole of England. He couldn't help but think that putting such a woman to death for treason would be such an enormous waste.

Peter watched as Victoria took a seat next to the café window. He'd seen her here before but always from his car, parked across the street and most of the way down the block. But today, after receiving the report from MI6 in London clearing Victoria of any suspicion, Peter had decided to put himself into a position in which he might ... bump into her. He knew it wasn't very professional: after all, even though he didn't believe it to be possible, Victoria being the traitor wasn't entirely impossible.

He stood and intercepted the café owner as he came out from behind the counter to deliver Victoria's order. Peter instead approached her table, waiting for Victoria to look up to him before offering out the cup and saying with a polite smile and tone, "Your tea, miss."

 

[heartofcourage]

The rain pattered against the window beside her as she got settled, pulling out a book of puzzles that she was working on and a copy of Pride and Prejudice. She had been reading back through the books in her flat a second time and Jane Austin had always been one of her favorite authors. It was a cheery little respite from the horrible reality that was happening around her.

She had just gotten settled with her pencil when an unfamiliar voice sounded next to her, the tea cup that she had ordered coming into view. Glancing up at the man that stood beside her, she was slightly confused. She had expected Paul, the portly man who ran the cafe, but this man was anything but portly. He was handsome, a grin on his features that she wasn't sure that she liked.

"Not interested." Victoria said dryly as she took the cup of tea and placed it on the table beside her. "But thanks."

She had many men that had sniffed around for a date or a quick roll between the sheets. Victoria was anything but a prude, but she found most men boring. They couldn't keep up with her intellectually and she needed someone that could challenge her mind as well as take care of everything else that came with a relationship.

 

[DeadManTyping]

"Not interested."

Peter's lips spread in a quick smile. He was disappointed to be so rapidly dismissed, of course. But honestly, he doubted that he was the first man to be sent off without so much as a how do you do by the beauty with the angelic face.

Victoria took the cup of tea from him and placed it before herself, adding...

"But thanks."

He gave her a bit of a slight bow -- as if they were in the 16th century rather than the 20th -- and said only, "Your welcome, miss."

Peter began to turn away, then spotted the puzzle book before Victoria. He continued his slow turn away from her, looking at her current puzzle. It wasn't a circle word or crossword or other simple time consumer piece of work but was instead a complex logic problem that most people couldn't possibly hope to complete with peeking at the answers in the back.

Honestly once again, Peter wasn't surprised. Victoria Stirling did, after all, work for what the nation hoped was the premier puzzle breaking agency in the world. What would she have been expected to be solving, Dot-to-Dots?

Peter returned to his table to sip at his tea and -- without appearing as if was doing so -- returned to studying the woman with occasional glances. He pretended not to notice her signaling the café owner for a second tea, then again waited until it was ready to intercept and deliver it as before.

"A man leaves the market carrying a fox, a duck, and a bag of grain," he began as he neared Victoria's table. "A river blocks his way, but fortunately there is a boat to carry him across the water to his home."

Peter set the full cup before her as he continued, "Unfortunately ... the boat is tiny and will only carry the man and one of the items across at a time."

He lifted the empty cup from the table as he finished, "How does the man get all three of his purchases safely across the river without the fox eating the goose or the goose eating the grain?"

He turned away to leave but stopped to study Victoria for a quick moment. "You're a very beautiful woman ... but to be honest, I'm more interested in a great mind than--"

Peter glanced to her shapely figure, as if he'd been about to say a great body. But instead, he looked back to her mesmerizing eyes and continued, "a great face. So ... after you figure this out, why don't you come join me at my table ... or ... invite me back to yours ... and we'll figure out why you and I getting familiar with one another's great minds would be a very good idea."

 

[heartofcourage]

"You believe a child's riddle is going to endear you to me?" Victoria asked, raising an eyebrow as he placed her second cup of tea down on the table beside her.

She let out a long sigh as he thought he could pick her up with a few sly words. Men smarter and more handsome than him had tried before and failed. Victoria was completely private, not jumping into bed with random men simply because they threw a riddle her way and grinned. Victoria casually took a sip of her original cup of tea, glancing around the mostly deserted restaurant.

"If you insist on bothering me, I suppose the least I can do is invite you to sit down." She gestured to the seat across from her, giving him a long look with her blue eyes. "And you can tell me your name."

 

[DeadManTyping]

"You believe a child's riddle is going to endear you to me?"

Peter smiled a bit broader, responding, "Well, I figured it couldn't do me worse than my first failed attempt, so..."

"If you insist on bothering me, I suppose the least I can do is invite you to sit down ... And you can tell me your name."

"Peter Carlson," he said immediately, offer his right hand as he pulled out the chair with his left. Regardless of whether she took it or not, Peter sat before her and gestured to the café owner for a second tea of his own. "Thank you for the invitation ... and ... I apologize for bothering you, up front."

He studied her for a moment, still wearing his polite smile. "So ... are you a local girl? Or out from London maybe? The Blitz ... a lot of people have moved away from the city."

 

[heartofcourage]

Peter Carlson. He spoke with an American accent, slightly abrasive on the ears, and just as forward as the other Americans that she had known at Bletchley. She had also never seen him around the area before. She wondered where he had come from and if he were based at one of the military sites that were dotted all around the area.

He also didn't ask her name as he shook her hand and took a seat without hesitation. Soon, Paul was bringing him another cup of tea, mentioning that her order would soon be ready. Victoria nodded to him, her attention back on Peter in an instant.

"I'm from the area. The Blitz hasn't scared me away just yet." Victoria murmured, pushing her book and puzzles to the side as it seemed her wasn't going to go anywhere any time soon. "Many others have gone, but I thought I would stay until the bitter end."

 

[DeadManTyping]

“The bitter end,” Peter repeated. Wanting to bring her place of work into the conversation without appearing as if he already knew she worked there, he nodded toward the window in the direction of The Park and said, “Well, if the people down the road have anything to do with it, maybe that end won’t be so bitter … or so long away.”

He leaned in and glanced about as if looking for eavesdroppers before saying in a hushed tone, “I know we’re probably not supposed to know what happens at that school, but … well, it’s sort of the worst kept secret in town.”

Paul arrived, set the steaming cup before Peter, asked if the pair needed anything more, then departed.

“I wish them the best of luck, of course,” he continued. “I wish I had the smarts to be a code breaker.”

 

[heartofcourage]

Victoria stared at him blankly as he casually tried to bring up Bletchley and the work that was being done there. She had been told from the moment that she had been hired to never under any circumstance tell anyone what she did. Her own parents simply thought that she worked for the home service, preparing news reports that would go out to the troops on bases. They never would have guessed that she was one of the top code breakers that His Majesty employed.

"If you're a spy, you don't have the smarts to know what you should and shouldn't be talking about." Victoria said dryly, sitting back in her chair as she eyed him closely. "Which is what you are, isn't that right?"

"You never asked my name, which means you already know who I am. Your suit is wrinkled, telling me that you've been traveling for a few a days, not so long that it's in desperate need, but it is definitely showing. If you were a soldier, you would be in uniform, yet you're not. And...you seem to have some kind of working knowledge in what is going on just down the street." She took a sip from her cup, raising an eyebrow at him as she motioned for him to tell her that she were correct.

 

[DeadManTyping]

"Which is what you are, isn't that right?"

Peter's smile widened again at Victoria's suggestion -- rightfully so, of course -- that he was a spy. "A spy? Why would you think--"

"You never asked my name, which means you already know who I am..."

He listened to Victoria's assessment, marveling at just how sharp she was. She may have been young, but she had wisdom that reached well beyond her years. When she'd finished, Peter tended to his tea, removing the metal strainer and adding a bit of cream and a heaping teaspoon of sugar, his weakness.

"Well ... my suit is wrinkled because my hotel room was robbed, and until the advance I requested from my employer arrives, this and a spare shirt are all I own in the way of clothing," Peter explained. He sipped at the overly sweetened drink, continuing, "And I'm definitely not a soldier ... but not because I didn't give it a try."

He reached to the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small leather pouch, unzipping it to reveal the medical contents. "Diabetes. No guarantee that if I get deployed, I'll have access to my insulin. Or the needles. Plus they have to be sterilized after each use. And sharpened once a week."

Peter displayed a very fine metal file, replaced it in the pouch, then pocketed the container again. "As far as my working knowledge of what's going on down the street..."

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket to remove and slide across to Veronica a business card. On it was:

Peter Carlson
Pennington International Unlimited
Commodities Broker
​

...as well as the company's London address and phone number.

"I deal with the government on a regular basis, making sure that our heroic troops and fly boys have everything they need to prosecute this war against the Nazis," he explained. "Sometimes I hear things that, maybe, some people in the government would prefer I didn't hear. But ... since I'm no more a spy than you are, I guess it's okay to tell you that."

A couple passed by their table, arguing loudly about a dog, a rose bed, and a digging situation. Peter sipped at his tea again, and once they were on their own again he smiled and told Victoria, "The man leaves the fox and bag of grain on the shore and crosses the river with the goose, leaving it on the far shore. He returns to collect the fox, bringing it across the river. Arriving, he leaves the fox but takes the goose back with him to the original shore. Here, he leaves the goose, transporting the bag of grain across the river and leaving it with the fox. Again, he returns to the first shore alone, collects the goose, and makes one final trip across the river ... where he once again has the fox, the goose, and the bag of grain ... and he walks home happy. The fox was never left alone with the goose ... nor was the goose left alone with the grain. Easy peasy."

Peter's lips spread in a wide smile, and he sipped at his tea yet again.

 

[heartofcourage]

Victoria didn't know that she entirely believed his story as he showed her that business card with his name and what he did. She had known spies within Bletchley, had worked with a few of them cracking sensitive documents, and Peter had a way about him that reminded her entirely of those men. She also pegged him for a true American, especially after the way he added far too much sugar to his tea.

"As I said, a child's riddle." Victoria murmured as he explained the answer to her and Paul finally arrived with her food.

Thanking him quietly, Victoria glanced down at the plate and felt her belly rumble. The roast and vegetables looked delicious and the smell made her even more hungry than she had been originally. Certainly something that was a luxury and something that she wouldn't have made at home on her own.

"Pardon me while I eat." Victoria said, picking up her knife and fork and glancing across the table at Peter. "And pardon me for not telling you my name. As I said before, I'm very certain you already know it."

 

[DeadManTyping]

"As I said, a child's riddle."

Peter shrugged playfully, telling her with a bit of a suggestive smile, "Well, sometimes even grown ups need to enjoy a bit of childish fun, don't you think?"

He was about to ask Victoria what she did for fun but was interrupted by the café owner delivering a place of roast and fixings

"Pardon me while I eat."

"Oh, no," Peter said quickly, flashing a bit of a surrender gesture as he reminded, "Remember ... I'm bothering you."

"And pardon me for not telling you my name. As I said before, I'm very certain you already know it."

Peter stood and excused himself with, "Well, I'm going to stop bothering you and let you finish your dinner ... Victoria."

He smiled again, nodded his head toward Paul's direction, and -- although he'd obviously known her name before asking the café owner -- Peter told her, "I asked the proprietor if he knew your name the first time I saw you here."

Paul was delivering a small tray of Victoria's preferred condiments as Peter was explaining, and with an apologetic tone he told his female patron, "Forgive me, Miss, but ... he tips very well."

Peter laughed as he gently patted the departing man on the shoulder. He looked back to Victoria and told her with a sincere tone that showed his definite interest, "I have business in London tomorrow, but ... perhaps ... if you are interested in another child's riddle ... or perhaps you have one for me ... perhaps we could meet for afternoon tea ... here, day after next ... say five o'clock?"

He wasn't sure whether or not he'd made enough of a good impression to get a positive response from Victoria. To be honest, it was probably better for Peter is she told him not interested again. After all, Victoria was still on a short list of potential traitors against the crown, though Peter wanted to believe her name was at the bottom of that list with a pencil line already crossing through it.

Either way, he made his farewells, paid his bill -- and very quietly paid Victoria's -- and made his way out of the café and toward his office. A courier from MI6's London Section was waiting for him, delivering the daily brief before taking Peter's written report and departing once again. The brief didn't contain much, just six pages of new or confirmed information, each page just a couple of paragraphs long. Nearly all of it was either inconsequential or simply confirmation of things Peter already knew.

There were a handful of new 8x10 inch, black and white surveillance pictures of what Peter was playfully calling The Beautiful Blondes of Bletchley Park. He spent a few minutes looking them over for the little secrets that a picture can sometimes reveal, then opened the vault and added the pictures to the relevant files. He slipped the first copy of the six page brief in its entirety into the file cabinet in which reports were kept by date; he filed the second copy of each beauty's own pages into their individual file.

Then he returned to and sat at his desk to look at the one piece of new information that had piqued his interest. It was a photograph of Victoria Stirling, apparently shot recently -- days, weeks, or months ago, but certainly not longer back than that -- in a London marketplace. It had been a beautiful sunny day, and the sun had caught the beauty laughing at the antics of a small girl. Peter turned the photo over to read what the surveillance team had learned about the girl's identity, then looked back to the photo again.

The expression on Victoria's face ... the apparent joy in her heart ... and -- as Peter was, of course, a man -- the delicious curves of the Victoria's shapely figure caused the man from MI6 to simply sit there at his desk with his feet up for the longest time ... again praying to almighty God above, first, that this beautiful woman wasn't the mole for whom he searched, and second, that she was at this moment yearning for yet another childish riddle.

He locked up the vault, then the office, and made his way to the pub next door. He found his usual seat taken initially, but by his second pint he was in his regular chair at the window, staring across at the GC&CS. There wasn't much to see this late in the day: the first shift, which included Victoria Stirling, had long been gone and the second shift was only partially through their day, or more specifically their evening. But he liked to keep a casual eye on the place anyway.

His meal was delivered by the inn keeper's twenty-something daughter, a fiery haired redhead whose flirtations Peter had reluctantly had to fend off. Peter needed to keep his relations with the locals casual and without depth: the fewer people to take notice of him the better, which unfortunately went counter to the reactions his cock had when the shapely young waitress was intentionally drawing his attention to her curves when she was serving him or other patrons nearby.

Peter looked across at The Park again, thinking about Victoria. In her case, he would most certainly make an exception about his hands off policy. But, such an opportunity wasn't likely to present itself. Oh sure, she'd invited him to sit with her for a moment. But Peter had a good idea that that had been Victoria's socializing equivalent to ripping off a bandage: do it now, do it quick, get it over ... and forget about it, or forget about him, as the case might be.

He'd probably see her around some more, maybe bump into her at the café again, give her a smile, a wave, a polite Good afternoon, Victoria. But, unfortunately, Peter had the distinct impression that she had little interest in him. As he lifted his pint to his mouth and recalled those mesmerizing blue eyes, he thought to himself, What a shame ... what a damned shame...

 

[heartofcourage]

It had been days of terrible stress and constant messages since Victoria had bumped into Peter in the cafe. Bletchley depended on her knowledge of French and German when important missives came their way. However, the codes that they were using were more complicated than ever before. Even though she worked with a team, she often felt alone in what she was doing. It gave her headaches more often than not.

That evening, her coworkers had insisted that they all needed to go out. She hadn't wanted to. She had wanted to go back home, curl up with a book and a hot bath, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. That was how she found herself in a pub near Bletchley, the music too loud from a band that was playing and the ale watered down to make up for the crowd that was crushed in. She was seated at the far end of the bar, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible until she could slip away.

Glancing around, she paused when she saw a familiar face making his way towards her. Her blue eyes never left him as he casually sided up next to her, ordering an ale of his own and then turning her way with a grin.

"Do you have another child's riddle?" She asked Peter, wondering how he just happened to be in that same pub at the same time she was.

 

[DeadManTyping]

It was no accident that Peter was entering the same pub at which Veronica's friends were partying ... and at which she was watching the too-slow clock tick its seconds away. The investigation had continued as investigations did, yet nothing new was coming out of The Park nor out of the nearby towns in which the eight potential Beautiful Blondes of Bletchley lived.

With so little to contemplate about the case and so much to contemplate about Veronica Stirling, Peter had been personally keeping a closer eye on her. He hadn't had an opportunity to bump into her casually until since their first meeting, so when he caught sight of her heading out for a pint, Peter's excitement got the better of him and he followed after her.

She was watching him as he approached her, and when -- without asking permission -- he took the stool next to her, she asked...

"Do you have another child's riddle?"

"I'm sure I could come up with something," he told her with a smile, "if I put my mind to it."

He reached out to the barkeep for his pint, thanking him and dropping an extra coin on the counter. Peter had been coming to this pub -- as well as all of the others -- off and on during his month in Buckinghamshire Country, and he'd been paying extra for the good stuff which many of the owners kept back for those willing to part with the extra coinage. He tipped the pint to his mouth for a slow but big swig as he studied the beauty before him.

"A body is found at the base of a six story office building, a victim of suicide or murder, it isn't immediately known," he began. He sipped at his brew again, then continued, "A local Copper tells the Detective Sergeant, 'I can find the answer'. He goes to the second floor window, opens it, and tosses a shilling out toward the ground below. He listens, and when he hears the coin hit, he moves on to the third floor. He opens the window there, tosses out a coin, listens, hears it hit, then moves on. He repeats this on each floor ... opening the window, tossing the coin, listening ... opening the window, tossing, listening ... until he reaches the sixth floor and repeats. The roof is locked and inaccessible so he leans his head out the last window and hollers down to the DS--"

"This man was murdered!"

Peter was surprised when a woman suddenly pressed up into both he and Victoria, putting her arms around them and laughing. She was excited and happy and obviously already intoxicated. He recognized her almost immediately as Elizabeth Corning, one of the beautiful eight.

"He was murdered!" she repeated. "If he had committed suicide by jumping out a window, there would have been an open window. But there were all closed. Remember? The Copper had to open each of them."

Elizabeth pulled at Peter's arm, begging him to come out on the floor and dance with her. But even before he could politely tell her no, a man grabbed her, swung her out away from Peter, and in an instant she had forgotten about the two at the bar and was dancing with the man with a sense of familiarity.

"She's right," Peter said, looking back to Veronica. Her expression was hard to read: had she already known the answer or had she figured it out; or even more importantly than that ... did she really care? He smiled broadly to her, sipping again at his beer before telling her with humor, "Okay, new riddle. Well, not a riddle so much ... as just a puzzle. How does a man like me ... a man of mystery, for whom you have more questions than answers ... how does a man like that get to know a woman like yourself ... intelligent ... personable ... beautiful ... beautiful to extremes beyond the bounds of the word itself ... how does such a man get better acquainted with such a woman ... in the shortest amount of time."

 

[heartofcourage]

Victoria regarded him as he asked how he could get to know her in the least amount of time possible. It cemented in her mind that he was a spy, more than likely one of the men working for MI6. He knew too much and never asked many of the questions that she would assume a man would ask. She didn't let him know that she had guessed his game, instead she sipped on her drink and looked around the inside of the crowded pub.

"The quickest way is to take me out of here." She said. "I can't stand the noise any longer and I want somewhere quiet to sit and simply be. Can you do that?"

 

[DeadManTyping]

"The quickest way is to take me out of here," She said.

Peter couldn't help but begin to let a smile spread his lips.

"I can't stand the noise any longer and I want somewhere quiet to sit and simply be. Can you do that?"

"Doesn't sound too awfully difficult," he responded as he stood and ripped off a couple of Pounds to cover the tip. He added with a smile, "I think I can do that."

Peter stepped out into the crowded aisle through the tables to make a hole, then offered Victoria a hand. He didn't know whether or not she would take it. If she didn't, he'd casually let it fall away; is she did, he'd also try to slip a hand to the small of her back to guide her out toward the door. Either might appear a bit forward of him, and if she didn't take kindly to either, he'd very willingly let her know he was sorry.

Once outside, Peter pointed across the road and a block down the street. "There's a little café right there … run by a little man from Poland ... doesn't drink and believe in the drink, therefore, he doesn't sell it. I only point that out because on a night like this, when all anyone wants to do is drink and have fun and forget about the war, the place is likely to be nearly empty."

They headed that way and found a corner booth in -- like Peter had suspected -- a very nearly café. The owner whose given name had 13 letters in it, leading him to go by Sam, brought Peter -- the American, Sam called him -- his normal order times two, strong and steaming hot coffees with a teaspoon of hard to find sugar.

Peter just stared across the little table at Victoria for a moment. Then he broke the silence with a very forward, "You're the most beautiful woman in the whole of England. Are you aware of that?"

 

[heartofcourage]

Victoria visibly relaxed the moment that they were out of the noisy pub. It might have been damp outside and chilly, but she found it much more preferable to the extreme noise and crush of people. Even if she were in the company of the annoying American that seemed to always be there when she least wanted him.

He mentioned a cafe and she gave him a nod, letting him lead the way. It was quaint, quiet, and most importantly, nearly deserted on that evening. She didn't even have to order as a cup of coffee was placed in front of her by the owner and Peter grinned across the table at her.

"A few men, much more handsome than you, might have mentioned it. However, I think I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that none of them got very far with me." Victoria commented as he told her how beautiful she was.