AC McEnroe shivered and wriggled his toes in his socks. The room was chilly and damp and his clothes lay folded on the couch beside him. The sun had risen only an hour before, and Mac stifled a yawn. Sure, there was no good reason that he should have been called up to Headquarters at half past six in the morning, but one didn’t argue with directives from Headquarters.

A man in a white suit approached him, a bulky vest in his hands. “Try this on, sir. It’s going to be heavy, but we want to get the fit right.” The fit was not right. Mac pulled the vest over his head and shoulders and tried to tug it down over his stomach, to no avail. 

“It’s not this one, I’ll tell you.” Mac wriggled and flapped his arms, trying to make the vest fit. He turned around to see the white-suited man extinguish a smile. 

“Very well, sir. Next size up.”

“Next three, I should think," Mac groused. 

“Getting on, are we, Mac?” A voice behind him made Mac start and he turned to look up into the face of Hargis Bolton. 

“No, we are not, Hargis. I’m not sure they make vests in sizes this large.” Mac ruefully poked his stomach and sighed. “We haven’t even gotten to the Physical Competencies bit yet.”

Hargis smiled. “Don’t you worry about that. The service isn’t what it used to be. They need all sorts; Mac, they want you here.”

“At least someone does," Mac retorted, rolling his eyes.

Hargis just smiled again, patted Mac on the back and headed for the door. Over his shoulder, he called, “I came in to tell you, Mac, I’ll be your homebase contact for this outing. Meet me in the mess hall this afternoon when you’re done and we’ll brief.”

Mac was ravenous by the time he had finished fitting his suit, completed his new physical training program, showered, and started on the mountain of preliminary paperwork that joining a secret service entails. He sat down in the mostly-empty mess hall across from Hargis and poked dejectedly at his salad and sardine sandwich. Hargis was having bangers, but those were newly and strictly off-limits for Mac. 

“Poor old fellow,” chuckled Hargis. “I remember the physical competencies were no picnic. How much have you got to lose?”

“5 stone," complained Mac. “And then there’s the training. I can barely swim and they’ve got that harpy who’s going to indoctrinate me in scuba diving.”

“It’s not that bad. We’ll take up walking and squash, and before you know it, you’ll be chasing the Nazis up the Bavarian Alps.”

“I’m not in the mood, Hargis. What’s the plan?”

“Well, it’s a follow-up. Auflosung was badly delayed, thanks to you. That Casebeer fellow squealed, of course, and the plot is thicker than curdled cottage cheese. The Nazis are stepping up the pace. These weapons were dangerously close to mass production. You’re going as a special scientific attaché— at least, that’s your cover. The Germans are desperate for any help they can get building these things. A Nazi sympathizer with inside knowledge of the Project— they won’t be able to resist.”

“Well, at least someone is excited about it.” Mac pulled a long face, but he couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of excitement. Getting back into the saddle— there was something to be said for that. “What do I need to know?”

“The dossier is rather slim. You’ll be going out into the field. Berlin. We’ve managed to connect with a double agent there who’ll guide you and serve as your entré.”

Hargis reached into his satchel and slid a thin Manila envelope across the table. 

Mac opened the file and shook out a single sheet of paper and a small black-and-white photograph. The sheet had a few neatly-typed paragraphs, but was otherwise unremarkable. The photograph, however, caught his attention. He picked it up and stared at it. The face of a woman, exceedingly attractive, stared back. Her eyes, even in black and white, sparkled with an unnerving allure, set in a fair face framed by long dark hair. Mac looked at her for a long moment. He glanced up to see Hargis studying him with a knowing look. 

“I know. There’s something about her, isn’t there?”

“Wh-who is she?" Mac asked.

“She contacted us as ‘Nadia Ahabassine’. Probably a pseudonym, you know. This isn’t her first day at the races.”

“Have we worked with her before?” Mac asked, finally setting the photo aside.

“No. She’s a local, of course. Worked for…several…different companies, but never the wrong side. Keeps a low profile, as you might expect.”

“Well, it might have helped, in a way. Shown me the ropes. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pass myself off as a Nazi, Hargis.”

“Not a Nazi, Mac, a sympathizer. Remember that. There’s a lot of people who think Herr Hitler is doing a good job, and just as many who don’t care as long as they get paid.”

Mac shook his head. “I suppose this means I’ve got to learn a bit of Nazi-ese, ‘sieg heil’ and all that rot.”

“Oh, just the odd phrase here and there. You’ll find a German phrase book in your field kit. We’ve got to get started, Mac. Time is most certainly of the essence. We don’t anticipate much interference, with your cover, but we have arranged a safehouse if things go sideways— it’s the usual spot for operations in the area. I want you to report to the commissary while I arrange your tickets. You leave tomorrow.”

II.

NE smelled the markets of the shopping district before laying eyes on them. A miasma of spice, smoke and cheap cigarettes wafted up with the smothering heat on the tiny tarmac where the twin-prop aeroplane sat. Mac arched his back and tried to stretch his arms without hitting the thin, mumbling man beside him. Mac timorously asked the time; the man had hitherto responded to his attempts at conversation with nothing more than sullen grunts. Eleven thirty. “Just in time for maximum humidity," Mac thought to himself peevishly. He didn’t understand the stream of words flowing from the stewardess, but stood up in unison with his fellow passengers and slowly made his way off the plane. 

What to do now? The dossier hadn’t given him much to go on. A helpful taxi sped him to the Alt Gasthof, and Mac decided lunch and a long think would put him right. An overpriced but excellent roast chicken and salad lasted an hour, and Mac filled two pages of his diary. Most of the inscriptions were imprecatory, though he was making respectable progress with the German phrase book. He couldn’t help but look at the photograph, and he found himself glancing at it more often than he would like. What exactly was a lady like that doing in the espionage business? She looked more like a movie star, or a singer, or a fashion plate. Well, at least a woman of her looks would stand out in this place like an egret among crows. Mac motioned to the bored barkeep.

“Have you seen this woman?” he asked, after exchanging lukewarm pleasantries. 

“Oh, yes. This is Mademoiselle Marchande. She is a singer. The toast of the city, monsieur. She has a residency at the Blue Moon club. You should see her! Such a voice! Such a style! Such a woman!”

Mac’s heart leapt, in spite of himself, and not merely because he now had something to go on. Dropping an extravagant tip on the bar, he grabbed his hat and headed out. 

The Blue Moon, though some wit had in a fit of fancy called it a bar, was little more than a shack situated in a dank and noisome corner of the city. It affected a Moroccan theme, popular among the Nazi brass for its faux exoticism and cheap liquor. Accessible only through an arcane maze of back alleys and street ways, it sat squatly like a giant toad in a dark culdesac. Because of its remoteness, the sounds of the city were silenced here, and Mac knew by the sounds of an aria seeping out that he had come to the right place.

Stepping gingerly over the door jamb, Mac strained to see in the dark interior of the club. No light illuminated the place except for the flickering yellow spotlight trained on the cramped stage towards the back of the room. 

The singer was turned away at that moment, one arm stretched behind her and the other resting on a head of long black hair that flowed behind her along with a diaphanous veil; she wore an oriental-style costume, with silver spangles that twinkled in the dim light. The veil-encircled head was tilted up, the mouth agape and an impossibly high note rose forth. Whether the performance was having any effect on the stupored patrons, or their blank stares were due to other intoxicants was impossible to say. Mac himself was transfixed by the figure on stage. Mid-note, she turned around, revealing a fine figure and a face that Mac instantly recognized from the photograph.

As the song faded away, Mac decided that the stupor of the clientele was definitely chemically induced, for they showed no evidence of either approval or distaste for the performance. Mademoiselle Marchande seemed not to notice the unresponsiveness of the audience, for she bowed and kissed her hand to the crowd as enthusiastically as if she had been given a standing ovation at the grandest opera house in Paris. She had apparently reached the end of her set, because she turned back away and walked off the squat stage, disappearing behind the backdrop curtain. For a second, Mac thought of following her, but deciding she was probably going to change, kept his seat. 

Sure enough, Mme. Marchande soon bustled forth, flipping her wrists to adjust the collection of bangles that festooned them both. She strode up to the bar with the insouciance of a regular, ordering a gin-and-water in a husky French accent completely different from her singing voice. “Zhin and wotair," she said to the waiter’s back, already engaged in fixing her drink.

She sat heavily on the barstool and began removing the bangles one by one. Without looking up, she greeted Mac. “‘Allo, my friend. You like the pre-formance, non?”

Onstage, her presence had been captivating. Up close, Mac was intoxicated. 

“Oh, yes, very much,” he stammered. “How long have you been singing?” 

A stupid question, but Mac could feel himself getting flustered. 

“All my life. My mother, she was a singer, and my father played the bass.” She picked up the glass and began swirling it vigorously. “The streets of Paris are so different from here, no?”

“The streets?” asked Mac dumbly. 

“Oh, yes. We were buskers before the war. Those were good times, though the money was not so good. In Paris, even the street people knew what was good music. Here, they just want something to accompany the drink.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I thought you were wonderful. I played the odd bit of piano as a boy in school, but never had a knack for it.”

“Ah. It is a gift. One has it or doesn’t. Everyone in Paris is an artist. What is it you do now?”

“Well, er, I’m looking for someone. I had a picture…”

Mac slid the photo over. 

“Oh, yes. You are from the agency?”

“Yes. Are we safe to talk?”

“As safe as anywhere. Most here are busy with other things.” Her tone hinted at illicit activities, and Mac shuddered.

“Should we leave? I think they intended for you to come with me.”

“Yes, it's the old game. I’m quite popular with the German high society. Herr Goebbels was in attendance the last time I did Wagner in Berlin.”

“Well, let’s have dinner here and go. If that’s agreeable.”

“Indeed. I am expected at the opening of the new opera house in Berlin this week. You must come and make your entrè.” 

Mac sighed. “Yes. They’re supposed to think of me as a sympathizer. Doing consulting”.

“Do they know who you are? Not so smart to come parading in uninvited and unannounced".

“Yes, well, my work is pertinent to their designs. They ought to think of me as friendly to their damned scheming. I’m afraid they used some of my formulae to make this thing work. I’ll be double-checking the maths or something.”

“Ah so! The famous professor! We must meet Dr. Casebeer in Berlin. He’s the lead designer on the new Special Weapons program. Very close to Goebbels’ inner circle; I’m certain that—”

“Did you say Casebeer?” Mac interrupted. 

“Yes, he’s recently come back from England. Gotten a special promotion from Hitler himself. Do you know him?”

Mac whistled long and low. “You could say that. You could certainly say that. I should’ve known he would have gone right back into action.”

“Oh! Well, Nico is an acquaintance of mine, a patron. He adores the opera in general, and my voice in particular. Followed me on tour in the early days. We lost touch after he went abroad to England. This concert was to be our reunion.”

“Yes, well, that’s where we got in touch. I’m going to have to see this thing through, you know. I’m going to have to confront him. This Nigel, or Nico, has an uppance coming.”

And so Mac found himself in a stylish luxury coupe, seated next to a rising star of the German opera, on his way to foil a plot that might mean the end of life as he, or anyone else, knew it. Despite his frazzled nerves and deep misgivings about his suitability for the task, Mac couldn’t help but feel a growing enthusiasm for the job. He would be grading term papers back at St. Ethel’s, easily the most tedious part of his old career.

Mme. Marchande patted his arm familiarly as the old car heaved itself into the driveway. The opera house was everything that the Blue Moon was not, reminding Mac of nothing so much as a shinier St. Paul’s Cathedral. Its striped dome shone in the glow of the floodlights flanking the grand entrance, where a slow but steady stream of gorgeously-dressed patrons filed in. Mac and Mademoiselle, of course, did not use this entrance, but wended their way through a side door to the backstage. Up they went on a long carpeted staircase, flanked by ornate brass rails, and onto a small balcony. Mademoiselle Marchande produced a lorgnette from her handbag and surveyed the crowd below. 

“A good crowd tonight… oh, there’s Madame Irminskaya! On the arm of that rascal, of course!”

“What about Casebeer?” 

“He should be here by now. Perhaps he’s running late, though that’s not like him.”

“Punctual, eh? I should hope so.”

“Yes. I need to get ready. I’ll see you after the show." 

Mme. Marchande flashed Mac a cheeky smile, patted him on the arm and bustled away to the changing room. Mac took his seat, availed himself of the hors d’oeuvre the butler offered him and kept scanning the crowd. 

Mac had never been hunting before, but all at once, he knew how a hare must feel being cornered by hounds. The prickle at the back of his neck would have made him turn around, even if the sound of his name uttered by a cold and familiar voice had not. 

“Mr McEnroe! What a pleasure— an unexpected pleasure.” Nigel Casebeer stood behind him, jovially throwing nuts from the refreshment tray into his mouth. 

“It’s not unexpected to me, nor a pleasure," Mac retorted. “I’ve been closing in on you for days.”

He said this with a bravery that he did not quite feel, and he swallowed a lump in his throat that arose at threatening the man, harmless though his threatening might be.

“Ah, yes. Still playing at saving the world, eh? If you thought you’d put me out of commission in England, you were sadly mistaken. Even the Yard couldn’t touch me.”

“I suppose not,” Mac said coldly. “How exactly did you squirm out of it?” 

“You’ve, how do you say, put the cart before the horse, Mr. McEnroe. You have your suspicions, but suspicions aren’t enough to put me away. You can’t prove anything.”

“My plans? They prove everything. And stealing such things is a matter of national security.”

Casebeer scoffed. “I destroyed the original, of course. A small oversight on my part, but I couldn’t risk getting caught with such things. Now, knowing the plans is one thing. The execution, quite another. You are going to come with me, Mr. McEnroe, and you are going to help us build this weapon." 

“Oh, I bloody well will not!”

Casebeer smiled. “A bit of British pluck, eh? I like to see it. Sadly, however, you are coming with me. Or if you prefer, Madame Marchande will pay for your obstinacy. An escort awaits her— there’s enough Jewish ancestry there to send her away for good." 

Mac put his head in his hands. “Damn you. Damn you, Casebeer, and the lot of you.” 

The rest of the performance was a blur. Mac fought to keep his composure, sitting beside a smug and smiling Casebeer for the rest of the performance. He fought for a glimpse of Madame Marchande as the crowd filed out of the theater, but without hope. Casebeer gripped his arm firmly, trading pleasantries with the other patrons, and steered Mac into a waiting car. 

Mac thudded heavily into the seat beside him and turned his face away. It was all over. How had it come to this? He wished he had never set out on this wretched adventure, wished he had turned Hargis and the service down from the start. The car glided softly into the night toward the airport. 

Mac McEnroe, professor of St. Ethel’s, a teacher at a tiny college in England, was headed directly into the belly of the beast.

***

Mme. Marchand hurried backstage to change. A decent performance, though her mind had not been fully engaged on the show. She had no qualms about being involved, but this mission was different. This was not your usual sabotaging a few convoy trucks or forging a shipping manifest. Still, with a project as big as this, one that might turn the tide of the war, one’s duty became inescapably clear. Adjusting her earrings she reached for the door. 

“So, Monsieur Mac, we are ready, yes? My car will take us now to the airport.” 

Her words trailed off as she realized she was talking to an empty room. 

Mac was gone.

***

Hargis Bolton was not a timorous man, but Mme. Marchand could hear the anxiety in his voice over the phone. “Mac’s true-blue. He won’t peach, under normal conditions. But with coercion…” He trailed off. 

“Well, then, we haven’t a moment to lose," said Mme. Marchand. “I’m not on active duty, but…”

“Of course, of course," Hargis said hurriedly. “A one-time shot. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can." 

III.

AC, of course, was not having an easy go of it. Considering the trouble he was in, the flight over was fairly calm. Casebeer seemed to have lost none of his wonted joviality, even chatting about the Project as if Mac had already signed on with alacrity. Mac wondered if this was some sort of ploy to get him to go along with the plan more easily.

Mac was dreading a prison cell, and his heart lightened a bit as he was led to an old hotel in the heart of the city. The doors were firmly locked behind him, however, and he noticed that he was never let out of the sight of a few uniformed officers. A long corridor, sloping sharply downward away from the front entrance took nearly 10 minutes to traverse. The room the guard deposited him in seemed a fairly normal one, a cellar-like dampness notwithstanding. He tried the doorknob, expecting nothing and getting exactly that. The windows did not open, and the skylight in the bathroom was inaccessible, as Mac discovered after almost taking a tumble off the toilet. Even the door had a heavy rubber slab gasketing the bottom. Dejectedly, he lay on the creaking bed and stared up at the ceiling. What would a good serviceman do? What would Hargis have done?

***

Hargis, at that moment, was gathering his papers and passport, packing a bag and reserving a seat on a RAF plane. He grinned to himself as he drove to the airport. The situation was dire, of course; no question about that. But Mac had made contact with Madame Marchand— Specialist Marchand— and had now positioned himself perfectly. Where, exactly, was the question. Irminskaya had done a crack job as lookout, as usual, and spotted Mac being escorted from the concert hall by a tall man with a scar on his forehead. Though she had done her best, she wasn’t quick enough to follow the car they left in. That hadn’t stopped her from getting a good description, along with a license plate. A black Citroën, plate MKV33, had checked in at the airport 30 minutes after the concert ended. 

Hargis’ mood remained buoyant as he interrogated the man at the checkout. The passengers had left for the Ore Mountains about an hour ago. Hargis commandeered a car and was soon speeding along the narrow mountain passes, a few trusty agents following behind. Hargis had a momentary misgiving about his paucity of backup, but decided that an accompanying army wouldn’t be necessary. The belly of the beast would be infiltrated by a small and precise force, unexpected and undetected. His confidence grew as he approached the mountainside hamlet.

This was not a fortress, it was a summer resort! The main building was a picturesque little chalet set in a field of blue and white flowers that waved sleepily in the cool air. The building itself lay quietly in the middle of the meadow, with none of the bustle of a normal house evident. Pushing aside the protesting butler at the door, Hargis strode into the lobby and knocked firmly on the locked door.

***

Mac lay still on his cot and tried to remain calm. He was despondent and hungry and hoped, when he heard a knock at the door, that the Nazis would be decent enough to give him a lunch. Rather than the hoped-for food, a dark-clad figure was shoved roughly into the room.

Mac scrambled up from the bed, preparing for a scrap, but the newcomer made no effort to get up from the floor where he had fallen. He hunched over, wrapping his knees in his hands, and moaned a long low wail.

Mac was speechless for a moment. The man hid his face and continued to moan, stopping only for breath. 

“Excuse me, my dear chap. Are you alright?” At the sound of Mac’s voice, the man gave a start and looked up, then twisted away and began sobbing. Mac got down off the bed and gently placed a hand on his back. 

“Come now, my dear fellow, nothing so awful we can’t work it out.”

“Oh, what am I to do? My family, my family, my children and—” The man’s voice was choked off by a fresh round of sobs. Mac gingerly lifted the man off the floor and sat down beside him on the bed. Offering him his handkerchief, he patted his shoulder and waited for the weeping to subside. 

“Now then, my friend, how do you find yourself here?”

“Oh, sir, I hardly know. We never harmed anyone. We wished to live our lives in peace and let others live theirs. We refused the salute and the Horst Wessel-leid. They call us Bibelforscher and make us wear these— ” Here the man touched his arm and Mac noticed the dirty white armband with a purple triangle.

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t known. So, it’s not only Jews now.”

“Oh no, sir. It’s all of us. Hitler will not stop until we are all consumed.”

“Where is your family now?” Mac asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. 

“Some are hiding, some are dead. I am meant to be transferred to a different camp soon.”

“Camp? What camp?”

“That’s where they are putting us. None I know have eve r come back." 

Mac felt at a loss. This was so much worse than he had bargained for. The Nazis had a reason for wanting him gone; he and his research posed at least some kind of threat to the Nazi regime. This man and his family had done nothing, nothing except live their lives in accordance with their beliefs. And Mac felt again the anger rising up within him, and the disgust at the insanity of this new world that the Nazis wanted: compliance or extermination. A world built on hate and intolerance of anyone or anything different than themselves. The anger gave him resolve and energy.

“Well, don’t you worry. We’ll think of something as long as we stick together. Why, this is a stroke of luck, old man! Two heads are better than one, right?”

The man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I am Bruno Hahn.”

“Alistair McEnroe, at your service! My mates call me ‘Mac’, and I’d be pleased to have you do so. Now, we need a plan. D’you have any ideas?”

Bruno glumly shook his head. “We would have to fight our way out, and we are outmatched. Usually they send a single guard to give us food, but once we take him, then what?”

“We may have to take our chances," Mac said soberly. “If the guard has a weapon, we might be able to snatch it, but…” His voice trailed off. “Done any fighting?”

Bruno shook his head again. 

Mac frowned. A single gun was better than nothing, but not much. Still, he thought, it would be better to make some account of themselves before dying— Mac swallowed hard at the thought— than to sit around and wait to be slaughtered or interrogated and doom the whole effort. 

A knock came at the door, and Mac’s heart dropped. The man at the door looked up in surprise as Mac launched his body into his knees. 

Mac, oddly, found his mind going back to rugby practice in school, the voice of his old instructor saying “shoulders down, head up. See what you’re hitting." The guard crumpled to the ground and the tray he was holding clattered to the floor. Bruno snatched it up with a quickness one would not have expected from one so thin and despondent. With both hands, he whipped the tin tray into the guard’s head and was as surprised as Mac that the guard lay still and did not get up. 

“Well, that could hardly have gone any better," Mac remarked. “Does he have a gun?”

Bruno relieved the guard of a Walther handgun and proffered it to Mac. “One hopes the sacrifice of many clay pigeons was not in vain," Mac joked. “Let’s leave before our friend wakes up."

Peering out through the doorway, Mac and Bruno gingerly crept through the damp, dim halls. They could hear muffled voices through the walls, but encountered no one— “dare I say they are ashamed of their prisoners?," Mac thought.

***

Bruno was, despite all appearances, not unhandy in the field. Mac watched in surprise as he cut into the dashboard of an ancient jeep and pulled out a mass of wires. This one crossed that one, and the old car sputtered to life. Mac took the wheel, as his costume was less prisoner-like than Bruno’s, who lay on the floor of the back seat and hoped that no one inspected them too closely. Parking at the back of the factory, Mac hopped in and they set off.

Bruno was in no shape to take on the Nazis, but Mac intended to see his duty through. If he could strike a blow against the regime, undo the damage that his research had done, then maybe he could redeem himself. Aüflosung was his doing, and he would see that it was undone. 

Bruno, it turned out, didn't know about the hideaway that Hargis had set up, but he did know that one of the major factories involved in Mac’s mission was not too far from them. They drove in that direction.

“Bruno, where did they take you when they brought you to the prison?”

“There was a rear gate behind the main facade of that building. There were a dozen of us in vans."

Yes. The vans. Things were beginning to make a horrible kind of sense. 

“Were you on a work detail? Were you building something?” 

“When we came here, we built big steel cranes and fitted them to a few rooms. They had us building these big tubes with fins. They said they were submarine jets.”

“Did they ever launch a submarine? I mean, did you ever see a completed submarine dock at a launch site?

Bruno’s face registered surprise and he squinted at Mac. “Why, no. We worked on a production line. We were responsible for one part of the construction, another crew was responsible for the next.”

“Was there any signage for explosives? Any restricted areas of the complex?”

“Why, yes. The obersturmführer was adamant that the entire north wing was strictly off limits." 

“Well, then, that’s where we need to be." 

Bruno’s eyes widened. “Herr Mac, that’s impossible.”

“Yes, but necessary. Not for you; I’m going this alone. But I have to do something. Don’t you see? I fine-tuned these things. I’m responsible for the formula of the navigation systems on these damned devices. Bruno, I want you to leave this place and head for the woods after I leave. There is a little chalet about three miles’ trek from here. We use it as a safe house for the resistance. Take the guard’s outfit and don’t talk to anyone if you can possibly help it.” Pulling up to the factory, they parked behind a grassy knoll a short way off from the main complex. 

Ignoring Bruno’s protests, Mac checked his pockets and took the pistol from Bruno’s grasp. With a deep breath, he stole from the jeep, trying to tread with the bare minimum of noise. The corridors leading to the lower levels were damp and noisome, not that Mac paid it much mind. He was desperately trying to recall the basic formulae of the Aüflosung Superweapon. “Velocity vs. tonnage… constant rate of fuel consumption, measured against the target distance and wind resistances." He checked his wristwatch, wiping the sweat from under the band. The halls seemed deserted, and for that Mac was thankful. He had a general idea of where he should be heading: the complex was built along the same lines as most weapons facilities he was familiar with. The long corridor he trudged down terminated in a thick double door. He tried the door: locked shut. 

Mac blew a raspberry and threw up his hands. Now what? He couldn’t sit around and wait for someone to pick him up— that meant instant capture and probable death. But he needed time to think. 

Time: his old nemesis. Lives hung in the balance and every moment wasted shifted that precarious balance closer to death and destruction. How much time Mac stood there, he could never remember. Nor could he remember the face of the young soldier who marched by and stopped in mid stride and stared him down.

 “Wie gehts dir hier? Das ist verboten.”

Mac’s German was not by any means fluent, but the phrase “entschuldigung sie. Ich bin ein Techniker” seemed to satisfy the youth, who seemed bored and distracted with his duties in these dank labyrinths. “Öffne es, bitte." 

The young man looked Mac up and down with squinted eyes, but shrugged and opened the heavy door. 

***

The chalet was a lovely little place, once a romantic getaway for Bavarian courting couples to spend their honeymoons, or hunters needing a cold lager after a long day at the chase. In these unhappier times, it had found a second use as a rendezvous for covert operations by the resistance to the Nazi regime. Hargis stumbled across the threshold and sat in the chair by the cold fireplace. If the coordinates were correct, the weapons complex was not far off. Several agents had paid dearly for this knowledge! Had he not been so preoccupied, Hargis would have lingered on that thought. 

Hargis pondered his next move. Mac was alone, and that was an asset and a liability. Harder to detect, but badly outnumbered. 

Hargis harrumphed and stood, stretching his legs and wandering over to the pantry. Tinned fruit, tinned fish, tinned cheese. His thoughts wandered wistfully to his sprawling estate in the English countryside, and he wished the butler were putting on a roast mutton with a good glass of port. A happy thought occurred to him, and he was gratified to see three cold bottles of lager on the floor of the pantry. Rummaging through the kitchen drawers for a bottle opener, he dropped the bottle when a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The figure at the doorstep made Hargis want to laugh and cry simultaneously. A bedraggled man, thin beyond all natural inclination, hunched over and and shrank back from Hargis’s outstretched hand. 

“Hullo, my dear fellow. May I assist you?”

“He’s here. Not far. He told me to meet you.”

“Who, my friend? And who are you?”

“I am called Bruno. I met Mr. McEnroe this afternoon. He said you would be able to help us.”

“Good heavens! Did you say ‘Mac’? Where is he?”

“The factory over the way. He is going to try to sabotage the Nazis’ weapon tonight.”

Hargis chortled and clapped the man on the back, making him stumble a good three paces across the floor. 

“Good old Mac! Hurrah for the unsuspecting hero! Now, Bruno, my lad, what is the move? Mac needs our help, but how? He kept the formulae top secret, of course, so I don’t know the details of the neutralizing agent. But perhaps we might serve as reinforcements.”

Bruno nodded. “Herr Mac told me to wait for him, but he didn’t know I would run into you here. I think he could use our aid.”

“Right you are. I think the two of us ought to at least back him up. A bigger force would be hazardous, if not fatal to the endeavor.”

“I don’t have a weapon. There was a pistol that we took from the guard, but Mac took that.”

“And just as well. There is an old hunting rifle in the study over there, but heaven knows if it’s in working order.” The two men stepped over to the fireplace, and Hargis carefully took down the ancient firearm from over the mantel. As luck would have it, the gun had a working bolt and chamber, though it looked ridiculous: the muzzle terminated in a flare like a trumpet. “A bolt-action blunderbuss!” thought Hargis to himself. “Just the thing one wants by his side when facing the entire German military!”

“No, this will not do. We are going to have to chance it.” Wordlessly, the two men shook hands and set off. 

The trek to the facility was moderately strenuous, but Hargis paid no attention to the stitch developing in his side. It occurred to him that this was what he had wanted so much in the old days: a chance to do his bit, to play his part in the biggest game of his page of history. And, by gum, Hargis Bolton intended to play it to the hilt. He straightened his shoulders and swung his arms, giving Bruno a clap on the back.

As the factory hove into view, the two hunkered down behind a small hollow. “Now then, Bruno, keep a sharp eye out. We’ve no call to go rushing madly in. Where did you get out?”

Bruno’s reply was completely and utterly drowned out by a rumble that seemed to emanate from the very core of the earth. Low at first, then louder and louder, it culminated in an ear-shattering roar. The building likewise seemed unchanged at first, then in the blink of an eye, erupted in a shower of debris and a plume of black smoke.

“My God!” yelled Hargis. “Come on!” All thought of stealth was abandoned. The two ran down the hillside toward the ruined building, stumbling as they came. The stench hit them first: an acrid fog hung in the air. And as he ran, Hargis fought to hold back his fear. Mac, dear Mac. Honest, unassuming, brave beyond his own knowing, accidentally a hero.

Because of the tears that stung his eyes, he didn’t recognize the bedraggled figure stumbling out a side door of the ruined complex. Hargis approached the ragged man, who stretched out an arm clad in torn and blackened sleeves. Unrecognizable for the soot that smeared his face… but Hargis would have known that voice anywhere.

“Hullo, Hargis. Bit of a shambles, eh? What will they say back at Ethel’s?”

“Mac, you old rascal! What have you done? And how on Earth did you do it?”

“Oh, you know. All that work in the lab, pressures and thermodynamics. They asked for a demonstration on a smaller scale, which I was only too happy to give them. Set the main valve to pressurize the arming mechanism and conveniently forgot to turn it off. I can be quite absentminded, you know. They didn’t quite understand the difference. Took me back to my room and locked me in. Or, locked themselves in.”

“By Jove, old man! You’ve gone and done it. I’ve made a friend; I think you’ve met before."

Bruno clasped Mac’s shoulders. He owed him an especial debt, and he knew they would remember it forever.

“Now to make our escape," said Hargis, rubbing his hands. “D’you have a car?”

“Dozens of ‘em," said Mac. “They were all parked outside and so are perfectly intact.”

“That’s the ticket!” exclaimed Hargis. An old military jeep suited their purposes nicely, and the three unlikely heroes sped away.

***

T. Ethel’s was exactly how Mac remembered it. Empty now, but with any luck, it would soon be full of students and teachers again, living the bookish, quiet life that Mac loved so well. 

Mac and Hargis sat in his office, a bottle of port between them. For the dozenth time, Mac demurred to Hargis’s effusive praise and remarked mildly that he was only looking forward to teaching again. 

“Maybe I’ll write my memoirs when all this is over.”

Hargis had other plans. “I don’t know how I ever left the Service," he mused. “Consulting is all very well, but I find myself wanting to get back into the field. It’s the Service for me, my boy. Straight into the thick of things. I’m going to stay on; doing my bit in the belly of the beast.”

Mac shook his head. “Hargis, you’re a total brick. There will never be another Hargis Bolton.”

Hargis raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

And Mac smiled and raised his glass in return.