Chapter 2

(France, 1943 - Outside Paris)

"Hurry!" whispered Duncan's friend and fellow Resistance operative Georges Dalou. "I hear someone coming."

"Just one more second," muttered Duncan. "There!" he hooked the wire that led over the train tracks and down the telephone pole to the detonator for the explosive charge the pair had buried under the tracks. "Let's go." As quietly as possible the duo slipped away. Minutes later they broke into a run.

"Why did you run the wire overhead?" inquired Georges later when they stopped for a breather. "Wouldn't it have been easier to just stretch it across the tracks?"

"Easier yes but not safer. The Germans have a corps of track walkers who daily check as much of the railroads as they can. They'd spot the wire in an instant if it stretched across the track. But high overhead? They look down all the time, not up. No, it will be safe there until the smokestack of the locomotive snags it and detonates the explosive charge."

"Hmmmm, nice."

"Indeed. The American OSS came up with a neat trick when someone thought of that. Now, let's get back to the monastery."

"The monastery! Always monasteries" Georges grumbled. "What a place for a Parisian to hide out. The only singing is chanting and the only drink is water. And don not even get me started on the food mon vieux."

"Poor Georges," chuckled Duncan softly. "Perhaps we will run a mission to the Left Bank for you one evening."

Heartened by the idea, Georges followed Duncan as the pair of saboteurs hurried away into the night. They made it back safely into the city, dodging three German checkpoints before their luck ran out. A Wehrmacht patrol spotted the two black clad figures slipping along a wall as they sought to cover the final leg of their journey. Shots rang out. Duncan and Georges raced through darkened alleyways and down little known side streets. They managed to avoid outright apprehension but additional patrols closed in on them and they found themselves pinned near the river.

They plastered themselves against a brick wall and held their breath, hoping that the patrol blocking the exit would move on. With agonizing slowness they fumbled down the nearly pitch black alleyway. Suddenly Duncan felt the sensation. There was another Immortal nearby. He strained his senses, trying to determine where the other one might be. Then he heard faint singing and he smiled as he recognized the voice.

"Outside the barracks, by the corner light. Darling I remember how I'd wait for you at night..."

"Come on," he whispered to Georges. "I know where we're going." He led the way down the alleyway, following the sound of the haunting song as it floated through the air.

"That's the Kit-Kat Club," protested his friend. "It's a known hangout for the Boche and those bastards who support them."

"I think we'll find a friend there." Duncan reassured him.

Georges shook his head but contented himself with mumbling under his breath.

It took time, but eventually the pair ended up at the back door to the Kit-Kat Club. Duncan rapped on the door. When the slit opened he hastily scribbled a note in the dim light and passed it in. Shortly the lock rattled and the door opened just long enough for Duncan and his friend to slip inside.

A bulky bouncer silently led them to a door, which he tapped on before leaving them. It opened and a slender arm drug Duncan inside. Georges followed, to be momentarily surprised at the sight of the tall Highlander being embraced by a slight red-headed woman. A woman that he recognized as one of the club's singers and, he thought, an ardent Nazi supporter. He opened his mouth to protest, a protest that he never got out. His mouth did remain open though as Duncan and the young woman kissed.

When the pair finally came up for air Georges was still staring. Duncan released the woman and turned towards his friend.

"This is my friend, and fellow Resistance operative, Georges Dalou."

"I am very pleased to meet you," the red-head said in pure Parisian French.

"But, but, but..." stammered Georges.

"Oh." Green eyes twinkled. "Duncan did not introduce me did he? I am Lieutenant Deirdre O'Connor, Army of the United States and presently attached to the Office of Strategic Services."

Georges' mouth gaped open even wider, if that were possible. "You're an Allied agent?"

"One of the best," confirmed Duncan. "And an old friend."

"I must say I wasn't expecting you Duncan," smiled Deirdre. She grew serious. "In fact, I was worried you might be someone else."

"Oh?"

"He calls himself 'Ernest Daimler'." When Georges turned his head and spat Deirdre nodded. "He's a Major in the Wehrmacht and seems to be as dedicated a Nazi as any one else. So far he has not visited the club and I have taken care to avoid any areas he could reasonably be expected to frequent. But sooner or later I'm sure our paths will cross."

"But not so far."

"Yes, when that happens I fear my usefulness here will be at an end." She shrugged. "Most of the information I have been gathering I have passed on a irregular basis through a conduit set up through the Underground."

"Information? How do you gather information here?" asked Georges. Duncan suspected his friend's question had less to do with a desire to learn more about intelligence operations and more with keeping the lovely Irish girl talking. From the look on his face it appeared that Deirdre had made yet another conquest.

Deirdre dimpled, obviously aware of the young Frenchman's attraction. "Quite easily, mon petite Georges. The Germans come here; they drink and listen to me sing. After my performance they but me drinks and vie with each other to draw my interest. That often leads to boasting and boasting lets slip things that they would never reveal to a man. But they console themselves with the knowledge that I am a woman and more to the point I am Irish. It is well known that the Irish, although ostensibly neutral, lean towards the Germans, not so much because they favor Germany but because they detest the English."

"And you don't?"

"Once perhaps." The singer's eyes met Duncan's as the pair shared a long ago memory. "No longer." She made a gesture as though she was brushing away old memories. "Meanwhile, how did you know it was me?"

"As if your voice wasn't instantly recognizable to me, after," Duncan stopped himself from saying "After all these centuries" and changed the finale of the sentence to "After all this time."

"Well I'm glad you did." There came a soft but rapid knocking on the door. Deirdre motioned for the two men to step out of sight and cracked the door. There was a rapid exchange in tones to low for Duncan to pick up before Deirdre shut the door and turned to them.

"The Germans are searching the place." She took three quick steps and opened a huge free standing closet. "If there was time I'd get you to a secret passage that connects down to the sewers. But the searchers are already in the building. So we'll improvise."

Under Deirdre's rapid fire directions the two men hid themselves behind the clothes that hung in the closet. They precariously balanced themselves on a wooden shelf so their feet would not show. Surprisingly, Deirdre did not close the closet doors but instead made sure that they were flung wide open, allowing both men to peek through the mounds of clothes that hopefully obscured them.

Even more surprisingly the Irish singer's next step was to begin to rapidly undress. Duncan heard Georges barely smother a gasp. By the time a loud, authoritative rap came on the door Deirdre was clad in nothing more than a black corset with black seamed stockings snapped to it and a pair of black high heels. Duncan had seen her in less than that before but it still was a sight worth seeing.