The Journey to New Edgarton

By Mark Paul Ready

Radmila Marzanna's mother is the Slavic Goddess of Death and Winter, and her father, Samael, the Angel of Death. Her mother manages the Waiting Room of the Dead, and her father delivers death. World War Two and the holocaust flood the Waiting Room with horribly mistreated souls, and her parent's marriage is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pictures and Words Publishing
• Release date: May 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989340507

Book preview

A drawing of a building Description automatically generated

Chapter 1

The Waiting Room of the Dead, 1939

The Waiting Room of the Dead sounded like a radio dial between stations. A fluctuating hum created by the comings and goings of the thousands of souls that occupied the cavernous building. A sound your mind ignored until it wasn’t there. Gimble Gosar, a petite young woman with blue eyes, pale skin, and curly burgundy hair, looked up from entering names in the Ledger of Death and realized it was eerily silent.

The massive structure functioned as a collection center - a clearing house for the spirits arriving from Earth. Gimble’s office sat on the mezzanine between the Waiting Room’s main floor and its high arching ceiling, giving her an unobstructed view. She moved to the railing and looked down on the recently deceased of every religion, race, and nationality as they stared silently at the entrance.

She grabbed a pair of opera glasses and followed their gaze. A few unblemished souls trickled into the building. Then, more pristine spirits of men, women, and children appeared through the enormous front entrance. Some were crying. Some were smiling, and some showed no emotion at all.

Gimble lowered the glasses. Something terrible must have happened. I need to let the Goddess know right away. The small, skinny woman knocked on the polished cherrywood door of the administrator’s office and entered.

Gimble always marveled at the Goddess Stephaná Marzanna. She was tall and beautiful with black hair and gray eyes but kind and caring.

The Slavic goddess looked up from her file-covered desk. What is wrong?

The front entrance is filled with innocent souls, Chief. I’ve never seen so many at one time.

The Goddess tensed. Innocent souls?

Gimble’s eyes widened. They sparkle like diamonds. Holy crackers! There’s hardly a smudge on them.

The Goddess looked skeptical. Hardly a smudge?

Gimble made an I-can’t-believe-it gesture. You gotta see this!

Go, said the Goddess. I’ll be right behind you.

Gimble raced ahead and handed her boss a pair of brass and black leather opera glasses.

Beams of sunlight streamed through the Waiting Room’s huge multi-paned rectangular windows. Above them, shafts of light shaped like half-open eyes angled in from the smaller arched openings under the eaves. Thousands of silent souls stood bathed in the diffused light, staring at the practically perfect personifications at the entrance.

This is unbelievable! The Goddess returned the glasses and keyed the public address system’s microphone.

All greeters report to the entrance. All greeters to the entrance. She turned to her assistant. Please get our vests. We will assist the greeters and try to learn what happened.

Right, Chief. Gimble removed two yellow vests from a small closet. She handed the larger one to the Goddess.

The stately woman slipped hers over her black Chanel jacket and descended the long staircase to the main floor. The waiting souls parted like the Red Sea for Moses, and she and Gimble hurried to the entrance. The Goddess stopped when she reached a near-flawless soul—a lost-looking older man with a long face, tortoiseshell glasses, and blue suspenders.

Hello, my name is Stephaná. Do not be frightened. I am here to help. You are in the Waiting Room of the Dead. You are safe.

The man didn’t speak. She smiled. Come with me. She seated the silent man on one of the wooden benches. Are you comfortable?

He drooled on her black Sergio Rossi loafers.

She dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief monogrammed with an M and kissed his forehead. That is better. You should not have long to wait. A few seconds later, he vanished in a flash of golden light.

The exquisite soul of a small girl in rags hobbled through the massive entrance. She looked insignificant, leaning against the huge opening, but the Goddess rushed over, wrapped her in her arms, and kissed her. I will not hurt you. No one will ever hurt you again. She carried her to a bench. The frightened child clung to her and wouldn’t let go.

Stephaná felt someone nudge her.

You work here?

The Goddess looked from the innocent little girl to a fat man wearing an expensive suit and ill-fitting hairpiece. The child’s soul glowed with purity, while the man’s looked and smelled like a dirty ashtray.

Isn’t there a private lounge? he asked. A first-class section? I shouldn’t have to wait with the riffraff.

The Goddess felt the girl’s grip tighten. There is no first-class section or private lounge, she replied. Go to your bench and wait to be called!

The man grabbed her arm.

The girl buried her face in the Goddess’s yellow vest and started to cry.

Look, lady. I’m a friend of Father Coughlin and Billy Sunday, two of the most influential religious leaders in the United States. I go to church every week and donate thousands every year. I’m an important man and a good Christian. He pointed at the abused child. I bet that kid hasn’t given a dime. Now, drop that scrawny runt and take care of me!

The Goddess rocked the child and counted silently to ten.

The man tried to yank the girl from her arms. I mean now!

Stephaná spun, glared at him, and yelled. Assistance, please!

A handsome man in a black tuxedo appeared out of nowhere. I’ll take care of this. He focused on the self-important soul. I’m sorry you had to wait with the common folk, sir. Follow me. I will take you someplace more appropriate.

The fat man scowled at her and the child. Leave it to a well-dressed gentleman to make things right.

The tuxedoed man smiled. May I help you with anything else, Stephaná?

The Goddess pointed at a skinny red tail with an arrow-like point hanging from under his jacket. You might want to put that away before you step on it.

The tail disappeared. Thanks, I owe you one.

The fat man’s expression changed to a look of terror, and he backed away. Lucifer scowled. Let’s go, buddy. I got the perfect place for you.

Stephaná refocused on the child. I am sorry the bad man frightened you. A few seconds later, the girl left her arms and traveled to heaven in a flash of golden light.

The flashes continued as if hundreds of photographers were snapping pictures.

Gimble emerged from the crowd. We can go now. The greeters have everything back to normal. The assistant paused. Are you okay?

The Goddess wiped her eyes. I did not find anything out. Did you?

Gimble’s face firmed. It was the Nazis. One of the souls told me they classify the old, infirm, and mentally disabled as ‘Life unworthy of life.’ These poor souls came from the Hadamar Killing Center. He called it ‘the House of Shutters.’

The Nazis who engage in this behavior are unworthy of life, not these mistreated souls, said the Goddess. The rights of marginalized groups are always the first to go. Next, everyone who doesn’t conform with the approved doctrine. She sighed. It has come full circle. The vampires, witches, and werewolves are now more humane than the humans.

★ ★ ★

Stephaná looked at the painting of the snow-covered Carpathian Mountains hanging across from her desk. She never dreamed she would be shut away from the sun, wind, and rain. She was the Slavic Goddess of Death and Winter, a goddess of the Earth, the seasons, and nature. Winter killed, but spring always brought new life.

She thought of her husband, Samael, the Christian Angel of Death. She had met him 1500 years ago while wearing animal furs, polished stones, and flowers in her hair. He was handsome, and his body was perfect. If sex was the most critical part of a relationship, he was the ideal male. But it wasn’t. How could she have ever been so naïve?

Her eyes went to her black Chanel pantsuit and the white rose on her lapel. I changed everything about myself to make him one with me. I hoped to combine the teachings of his new religion of the God in Heaven with my old religion of the Earth. I failed miserably.

The Goddess looked at the painting again and then walked to the door leading to the mezzanine. Gimble stood on the seat of her desk chair in front of a ledger bound in black Corinthian leather. The tiny woman needed to stand on her tiptoes to write on the giant book’s top lines.

That does not look very safe.

Gimble slipped but caught herself. Jeez, Chief. You scared the heck outta me. She jumped to the floor. I only need to stand for the top rows. Otherwise, everything’s hunky-dory.

How long have you been doing that?

Ever since I can remember. You get used to standing on things when you’re five feet tall.

I mean, standing on the chair at your desk?

Her assistant climbed up and dipped the quill. Since the day you hired me.

The Goddess harrumphed. Perhaps I should get you a step stool?

The young woman brushed the suggestion away. Ahh. Don’t worry about it. I’ve had years of experience. I’m practically a professional.

The Goddess wrinkled her forehead. A professional chair stander?

Gimble grinned. Practically.

Stephaná gave her a skeptical look, then picked up the opera glasses and walked to the mezzanine rail. Do you think the crowds have thinned?

The assistant’s blue eyes and wavy burgundy hair appeared around the edge of the ledger.

No, I think it’s worse.

That is not good. Are you able to keep up?

Gimble extended the quill. For now, but if there’s a war. I might need to use my fountain pen.

The Goddess put the opera glasses down and looked between the quill and bottle of ink.

If it would make your work easier, take some money from petty cash and purchase two. You need not use your own.

Gimble blotted her entry, then stepped to the floor and dropped the goose quill into the garbage can.

Stephaná stared at the old gray feather. You are throwing it away?

Yup. She made a sour face. This thing has slowed me down for years.

I am going home. Stephaná looked up from the garbage. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better.

Gimble used a wide red ribbon as a bookmark and closed the dining table-sized ledger. I hope it is, too. She followed the Goddess into her office and snapped her fingers. Her gray A-line skirt and maroon blouse became a white sack dress covered with black polka dots.

Have a good night, Chief.

Thank you. You, too.

Gimble disappeared with another snap of her fingers.

Stephaná thought of the quill. Change is happening too fast. Much too fast. She opened the door between the afterlife and her earthly life and stepped onto her doorstep in Dubrovnik.

★ ★ ★

An adolescent girl with braided long black hair and jet-black eyes looked up from a magazine.

Hi, Mom.

A man’s voice surged and ebbed from the radio speaker. His tone went from angry machine gun staccato to placid, placating, and patronizing. It reminded her of a drunk man telling you what’s wrong with the world and how he’d fix it. Why are you listening to that dreadful Adolph Hitler?

I’m not. You can turn it off. Radmila held up the blue and white cover of The Family Circle magazine. "Gimble loaned me one of her newest movie magazines. I was reading about Tyrone Power, Myrna Loy, and their new movie, The Rains Came.

The Goddess twisted a knob, and the radio went silent. Finally! I do not like that man! Hitler is like the leader of a cult. He holds huge rallies, and his followers believe he will make Germany great again. They do anything he says and ignore criticism or complaints against him.

She handed the jacket and briefcase to a young woman in a maid’s uniform. Thank you, Marja. The Goddess stepped out of her loafers. Please see that my shoes are polished. She picked up the day’s mail. Then there was the Beer Hall Putsch when Herr Hitler and his followers led an insurrection to take over the government of Bavaria.

Umm, Mom?

The Goddess looked at her daughter. Yes, darling?

Father’s here.

Samael? Do you know what he wants?

Radmila’s shoulders lifted. I dunno. He won’t speak to me.

Stephaná studied her. Is that one of your new pinafores? I am sorry I did not notice sooner.

Yeah. I got dark blue instead of black.

The Goddess turned to the maid. We will wait until my husband leaves to have our meal.

Marja curtsied. As you wish.

She put her arm around her only child. Let us go see what your father wants.

Radmila led her mother into a room with a dark, polished wood floor and furniture upholstered in brown leather. A starkly handsome man in a spotless white suit contrasting his black shirt, tie, and the rose he wore in his lapel sat in one of the leather chairs.

Why are you here, Samael?

He glanced at his watch. Is that any way to greet your husband?

Stephaná shrugged dismissively. Maybe if you came around more often?

He mumbled. I have been busy.

The Goddess raised her eyebrows and took a deep breath. That’s what you always say. What do you want?

He pointed to their daughter. Perhaps you could have someone watch, uhh . . . Rad, uhh Rad, the kid for a few minutes.

Rad? Stephaná glared at him. Gimble!

Her assistant appeared at the sound of her name. Yeah, Chief?

I am sorry to bother you. Would you please take Radmila someplace and show her something interesting?

Gimble put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. Come on, Cutie.

Radmila’s face scrunched. You don’t remember my name?

Samael waved the question away. You’ll understand when you’re older, kid.

The Goddess looked daggers at her husband. Her name is Radmila! Her attention shifted to her daughter. I am sorry, darling. I will speak to him. Now, please go with Gimble. He and I need to talk.

Get your coat. Your mom said I could buy a couple of new fountain pens. What’s the point of being a witch if you don’t use your magic? Gimble motioned the girl to follow. I’ll zap us over to Geneva and see what they have. You can pick the colors.

Radmila didn’t move, and her black eyes bored into her father’s. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and Samael tugged at his collar. Why are you staring at me like that?

Radmila’s voice changed from a little girl’s to a woman’s. You do not deserve Mother and me! She glared at him and then stomped out of the room.

Samael looked down at Gimble. How long has she been doing that?

She looked him in the eye. I’m not sure, but I think you made her mad. If I were you, I wouldn’t count on winning Father of the Year.

The Goddess closed the door and stared at her husband. Gimble is right. Radmila is already 120 years old. She will not be young forever. I do not know what words to say.

Samael sneered. You are the one who wanted a child, not me.

The Goddess rubbed her temples. I know, but she is your daughter, too.

He scoffed. Sometimes I wonder.

Stephaná sighed. I am too tired for this. Why are you here?

Samael leaned forward and put his hand on her knee. You look beautiful when you are angry. He stroked her thigh. I have not exercised my husband’s prerogative for quite some time. Let us take advantage of this time alone to have marital relations. Where is your bedroom?

Stephaná laughed. Only you would be egotistical enough to think I would allow you in my bed after forgetting our daughter’s name! What do you take me for, a tramp or a woman of easy virtue?

Samael huffed. If you were not such a shrew, I would come by more often. You should thank me.

Stephaná’s arms crossed over her chest. For what?

I came to warn you.

She recognized the look in his eyes. I will not have sex with you! Either tell me or leave!

The Angel of Death got to his feet. Remember Herr Hitler and the Munich Agreement? ‘The promise of peace in our time?’

Yes, what about it?

Germany and Russia have invaded Poland. Great Britain and France are sure to declare war. You and your staff will experience slaughter and carnage like the Earth has never known. He went to the door. This is your last chance, Stephaná.

The Goddess rubbed her eyes. Leave. Please.

Samael jerked the door open and slammed it behind him.

Stephaná reached for her lacquered cigarette case. What is the world coming to? She looked up. I hope you know what you are doing.

A few minutes later she heard Radmila and Gimble and two sets of footsteps heel-tapped toward the door. The Goddess let them in. They didn’t look happy.

You know about the war.

Gimble gave her boss a small parcel and a receipt. Even neutral Switzerland is worried.

The Goddess glanced at the sales slip. What do you think of Germany and Herr Hitler, Gimble?

She and Radmila sat side-by-side on the sofa. He blames everything on the unfair Treaty of Versailles and the Jews. He controls the far-right wing of the conservative party and believes in burning books and telling lies. Big ones! I’m scared of him.

Me too, said Radmila.

Stephaná sat and motioned the girls beside her.

We’ll get through this, somehow.

You two have nothing to worry about, said Gimble. You’re immortal.

Radmila touched Gimble’s hand. Yeah, but I’m worried about you. You’re not.

Chapter 2

The Moroaicâ Sisters

Lacrema Moroaicâ sat at table number five at Café of Red Flowers, drinking what had to be the worst espresso in Paris. She took a sip and forced herself to swallow. The hot, bitter liquid tasted burnt and acidic and worsened as she sipped it through the day. She wasn’t there for the coffee; the table offered a clear view of the main entrance to France’s National Investment Bank. Monsieur Ambrose Vingerhuet, the Goddess’s finance manager, had his office there. He was due to be whisked out of Europe in five days. Until then, he needed to be kept safe from the sleazy sorceress Fata Morgana and the Nazis.

The café’s owner, Monsieur Légar, a tall, skinny, fussy man with his nose pointed permanently in the air, whispered to his waiter. The young man dressed in a short black coat and tie pointed to the menu and shook his head.

Lacrema’s eyes rolled behind her dark glasses. Here we go again.

The owner grabbed two menus and headed toward her. Mademoiselle, why are you here? You sit at my best table, staring out the window, and all you order is a single espresso. Please, why not at least the boiled egg? You dress like the highly successful young lady in your designer fashions and Persol sunglasses. He wagged his finger. Oh yes, I know they are Persol. The price then must not be your objection. He winked. Even with your head wrapped and eyes obscured, I can recognize your beauty, and how you say, the bountiful bosom and hips voluptuous of the fabled Amazon maidens. I must advise, however, that if you are hoping to attract the ardent suitor, there are many places better than my little café to display your womanly wares.

Lacrema smiled with brick-red lips. I am not looking for an ‘ardent suitor,’ Monsieur Légar, and you surprise me. I would never have taken you as the expert on the female form or as the authority on glasses for the sun. As for my clothing being designer, you compliment the dressmaking skills of my sister Tatiana.

The restauranteur lowered his menus. You are lucky then for your sister. Unfortunately, I have a daughter and wife who expect only haute couture. He extended the lunch and dinner menus. For the sake of my pocketbook and the tastes expensive of my wife and daughter, would you please order more than a single espresso?

A large, polished, gray sedan stopped before the investment bank. The driver helped an attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair from the rear passenger door. She smoothed her clothing and pulled the lace from her hat over her face. She looked around, then strolled casually up the steps to the bank’s double arch-covered entrance.

Lacrema cursed. Blin! That tramp of a sorceress, Fata Morgana, had to show up. She began removing her clothes and stuffing them into her black valise.

Customers gasped. Cutlery clattered, crockery shattered, and women warned their husbands not to look.

No, Mademoiselle! No! objected Monsieur Légar, covering her with the menus as burlesque dancers use their fans. We do not do that here. Perhaps at the Moulin Rouge on the Boulevard de Clichy, but not here. He closed his eyes, then opened them. The genetically blessed beauty wasn’t nude. She had a form-fitting black bodysuit under her clothing, a tight leather cap covering her hair and neck, black leather gloves halfway up her forearms, and calf-high black leather boots. She gave the owner a five Franc note and made a backpack of the valise.

Lacrema started to leave but stopped. I am sorry to be the one to have to tell you, Monsieur, but your espresso tastes like pig swill. She spun in her low heels, raced out the door, and ran down the street. A shorter, similarly dressed woman appeared from a building to her left, and the pair converged on the sedan.

Fata Morgana exited the bank, leading a distinguished-looking gray-haired man wearing a blue suit and a dazed expression. The sorceress noticed the two approaching figures and shoved him into the car’s backseat. She turned and glowered.

Lacrema’s head swooned, and her legs wobbled as Fata Morgana rifled through her memories. Hills and grass appeared where there was none, and the modern buildings distorted like a reflection in rippling water. Her childhood home of Viligos materialized, and a vision of her mother, so vivid Lacrema, reached out and tried to hug her.

Every time she stepped forward, her mother remained out of reach. It was like trying to find the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Her mother looked real, but there was nothing there. She was a mirage. Damn you, Fata Morgana! growled Lacrema. She tried to push the vision away.

The evil sorceress’s voice filled her head. There are three of you. Where’s the third?

The buildings reappeared, and Lacrema noticed her sister Natasha slumped over with her head in her hands. When Lacrema looked back, Fata Morgana had vanished, and the driver stood behind the big car. He pointed a pipe at them, orange flame flickering at its tip. She recognized it as something dangerous. Pipe . . . ? Flame . . . ? Flamethrower! A stream of fire jetted toward her. Someone threw her out of the way.

She pushed her upper body from the pavement in time to see a third woman dressed in black leather shove Natasha off to the side. The figure stood, put her gloved hands over her face, and let the stream of fire wash over her.

Lacrema screamed, No, Tatiana! and rocketed from the ground. She raced over and scraped at the flames with her gloved hands. Natasha joined her, rolling Tatiana on the street until they extinguished the thickened petroleum.

Are you okay? Natasha and Lacrema asked.

Tatiana removed her gloved hands from her face and pulled her head cover and sunglasses off, revealing a beautiful woman with the same long black hair, light mocha-colored skin, and flashing brown eyes as her sisters.

She sprang to her feet. I told you leather with concealed expansion panels would work. She stretched and then dropped into the splits. We do not lose any movement. The suit protects us from sunlight, and the fire did not touch me.

Lacrema eyed the burnt leather. Your design appears to be effective, she agreed. Well done, but do not do that again. I could not stand it if anything happened. She began to tuck her sister’s hair under the cap. Cover yourself before you are burned by the sun.

Tatiana’s eyes turned red, and she pulled away. What could happen to me? I am a soulless animated corpse who must drink human blood. How much worse could my existence get?

Lacrema took a step closer and gathered her hair. What if we were not together?

Tatiana slowly nodded. You are right. That would be worse.

Natasha tried to look behind her. I like the suit. Does it make my butt look big?

Tatiana glanced at her sister’s generous hips and buttocks. It took more leather to cover your bottom than mine, dear sister. Your behind does not look any larger than usual.

Natasha put her hand on her pelvis. Larger than usual? What do you mean?

Lacrema pulled Tatiana’s tight cap on and harrumphed. Calm down. We have more important things to worry about than the size of your backside. Fata Morgana has escaped. Her car and driver are gone.

A bearded gentleman in a red and black Citroen convertible blasted his horn. Get out of my way. Surely, there are better places to gather than a public thoroughfare.

Lacrema rushed to the driver’s side door and ushered him out of his auto. We need to borrow your car, Monsieur.

The older man stood clutching a tall hat. He looked as if he might cry. You are stealing it?

Borrowing, the leather-clad beauty slid behind the wheel. Natasha climbed in beside her, and Tatiana took the spot next to the passenger door.

The older man raised his eyebrows. You will return it?

Lacrema revved the engine. No, but you will find it at Le Bourget airport. She gave her sisters a sideways glance. Fata Morgana may be able to travel on the wind, but Monsieur Vingerhuet needs an airplane.

She turned to the auto’s owner. Do not worry, Monsieur. You will find it without the minor defect. The tall vampire slammed in the clutch, jammed it into gear, and stomped on the accelerator. The tires spun, leaving the bearded man in a cloud of white smoke.

Lacrema yelled as the little car squealed around a corner. Remember the clothing you designed for me?

Tatiana looked around Natasha. The wide-legged blue trousers and jacket with four buttons?

The eldest sister swerved around a slow-moving truck. Yes! Monsieur Légar, the owner of the café, mistook them for couture.

Tatiana’s head bobbled. I am flattered.

Lacrema double shifted, honked, and called, Pardon! as she cut across a sidewalk and sent pedestrians scrambling.

The shortest sister looked behind her. You are cutting it a little close, are you not, dear sister?

I saw them. The pedestrians had plenty of time to get out of my way.

Tatiana looked past Natasha’s big eyes. How do you know to go to the airport? Why could they not keep the Monsieur in the city?

Lacrema skid the Citroen onto the Rue de Flanders, which ran beside the Canal Saint Michael.

Fata Morgana’s driver is a member of the Gestapo. I recognized him from the Devil’s Cave near Pottenstein. She nudged Natasha. You remember. We were collecting the chest of gold and jewels Gimble had concealed. He stopped us as we were leaving.

Natasha had her arms braced against the dashboard. Yes, I remember him. We offered him a quid pro quo. Her mouth and nose puckered. He did not smell good, and his cum tasted rancid.

Lacrema slid the little convertible sideways through the airport’s gate. The shiny gray sedan had parked next to a large white tri-motored monoplane made of corrugated metal. The word Lufthansa was painted out but still visible. A fuel truck pulled away, and men with machine guns crouched and sprayed the sisters with bullets. The auto’s windscreen shattered, and the sisters hunkered behind the dashboard as the airplane started down the runway. The men clambered aboard, and Lacrema floored the little Citroen and raced after it. A man leaned out of the airliner’s door and pointed something at them resembling a metal toilet plunger.

They screamed, Panzerfaust! and jumped from the car as the tank-killing weapon shot toward them.

One second, the Citroen was there. The next was a rolling bonfire.

The big plane continued down the runway until it gradually took to the air. Two policemen and two civilians ran from the open doorway of a large metal hanger at the end of the field. The driver of the fuel truck raced over and joined them. He stared at the sister’s figures and then at the burning auto.

Are you injured?

They wiped the dirt off each other and said no.

Sorry about your automobile.

It was not ours, replied Lacrema. She looked at her sisters. Do you think if we washed and waxed it, the bearded man would not notice?

Natasha and Tatiana stared at the flaming wreckage.

Lacrema bit her lip. I did not think so. She turned to the police officers. When an older gentleman comes to retrieve the auto, could you let him take the large gray one instead? The officers shook their heads.

She sighed.

A man with short black hair, an intelligent face, and quick brown eyes spoke up. Why did the Germans try to kill you?

Lacrema pivoted. You knew they were Germans, Monsieur?

Oui, commandos. They only landed long enough to refuel and meet that car. Why were you chasing them?

Lacrema lifted her dark glasses and squinted until her eyes adjusted to the light. They abducted someone we were guarding.

The man wore brown coveralls with a white shirt and tie underneath. It was an unusual exchange for Lacrema because he was talking to her face, not staring at her breasts. Did you notice an older man and a woman in an aquamarine dress board the plane?

The man in coverall’s head shook. There was no woman—only two men—one in a blue suit, the other black. Do you work for the government?

No. Lacrema removed her tight cap and then used her hand to lose her long black hair. The men’s eyes bulged except the man in brown coveralls. His did not change. We are a more discreet service.

Natasha and Tatiana removed their caps and glasses and unlaced their leather suits, revealing their cleavage. Tatiana looked at the men with doe eyes and asked in an almost childlike voice. You would not by chance know where they were going, would you?

The driver of the fuel truck looked up from her chest. I  . . . I heard the copilot mention Schloss Itter.

Itter Castle, translated the brown-eyed man. It’s in Austria.

Lacrema slid her hands over her impressive figure. Can you take us there?

The man with the necktie ignored the gesture and motioned her away from the police. You might want to watch the words you use in front of the two officers, Mademoiselle. France has been at war with Germany since September. Flying into Austria would be suicidal. As it happens, my friend, Monsieur Milhaud, owns a Wibault Penhöet 283-T airplane. He could fly you, but I can think of no conceivable reason why he would want to risk his life and aircraft.

Lacrema loosened her leather suit and exposed her cleavage. She gestured to Monsieur Milhaud.

He glanced at her breasts and bowed. You wished to see me, Mademoiselle?

Oui, Monsieur. You own a plane that could fly my sisters and me into Austria?

He nodded. Oui. I own such a plane, but surely you know of the war.

Lacrema looked the slim older man in the eye. My sisters and I are frantic to rescue the man I spoke of. It will assure an Axis victory if we do not.

An Axis victory? Milhaud sputtered. How can that be?

I am not at liberty to say. She peered into his eyes and said seductively. We are willing to make it worth your while.

He laughed. What could you possibly offer me to take such a risk?

The tall beauty nuzzled his neck and