Chapter 8

Honey, the British undercover agent fighting the Nazis both home and abroad was commonly referred to in Whitehall gossip as "The Black Widow". The first time she heard that title it made her giggle because her skin was so milky white that she almost looked like a borderline albino. Then she realized it was for her preference for black attire ever since the sudden demise of her short-lived husband.

Her "handler" at the firm was distraught at being replaced by a strange fellow from Scotland who had the dourest face and the limpest wrist in the headquarters unit. His subordinates constantly ridiculed him for his supposed non heterosexual inclinations but in actual fact he had been married for almost twenty years when his wife and two teenaged children were incinerated by one of Jerry's rockets obviously off course to be landing in the suburban residential patch which boasted peaceful cow's in near proximity.

He knew the rumors and did nothing to kill them since his archaic sense of behavior prescribed ignoring such folderol as beneath his concern. Sir Henry Hathaway's clothing hung on his frame like a scarecrow's rags. It was not that they were of inferior quality. In point of fact, their tailor was well known in the clothier district and they were custom fitted to each customer. The primary problem was that Sir Henry had lost all interest in mundane requirements for food and drink and mostly consumed only tea and unsweetened crackers. His gaunt body moved with slow determination wherever he directed it and his speech was limited both in quantity and volume as if the effort to form a word was far too distracting for his innermost thoughts.

Honey was upset at the removal of her old handler because she felt the need to operate in Nazi-occupied France without a firm order was imperative for the success of the mission. She had plenty of questions but tended to keep her own counsel after the news of her handler's replacement. It was beginning to look like instead of giving her medal, they were planning to drum her out after stripping her of her buttons and patches.

She sat across from the grim figure scowling at a hidden report on his desk and looking up at her from time to time without saying a word other than to cluck his tongue and shake his head from side to side in visible disapproval. It was disconcerting to say the least but Honey saw an element of humor in the performance not really caring what the sour-faced old man thought about her activities behind enemy lines.

"Mrs. Weston, it is Mrs. Weston I see. Looks like you have decided to abandon the married name of Peabody for your maiden name. Does it feel any different being a Weston rather than a Peabody?"

Honey was beginning to think the older man was a bit addled but she struggled to respond without using her usual caustic sarcasm to couch a reply. It would probably be non-productive to start off on the wrong foot since this was the person who would be directing her "behind enemy lines" activities in the near future.

"No, sir, I actually hadn't thought of it in that sense. I just felt more comfortable with my old name and needed a fresh start after my Donald was gone. It also made it easier to get employment with the government since my father Brigadier Weston's name still carried some weight in Whitehall."

Sir Henry appreciated her honesty but he certainly was not going to complement her on it. Her lack of discipline was a trait that he abhorred in an agent and one that had to be corrected quickly if she was going to survive. He looked up at her fresh young face and pictured her look over his knee with his riding crop dancing a pretty tune on her cheeks. He regretted it immediately because it was beneath his dignity as a handler and was unfair to Mrs. Weston as she was still innocent until proven guilty.

"I have just a quick question to clarify one issue, Mrs. Weston. I wondered why you took the time to set up the weapons cache with the radio and the funds. Was it because you didn't trust the cell in the farmhouse or because you had no confidence in the planning coming from Headquarters?"

Honey was tempted just to answer with a simple "Yes!" to bedevil Sir Henry with the fact he was breaking protocol by posing a dual question that indicated poor interrogation skills. She decided just to answer generically and not tempt fate by rubbing his fur the wrong way.

"It was a little bit of both, Sir Henry. I didn't trust the people in the farmhouse because it seemed almost certain our mole was one of those resistance fighters. As to the planning from Whitehall, I think the results of my plan are there on the record and the original plans had already failed two times already. My father always told me it is good to be a person who goes by the book but sometimes, it is more important to get a good result."

He looked at her over his glasses.

"Well, my dear, I am going to team you up with our "Marcel" whom I believe you had in your report a few times. He is actually one of my people and I had given him orders to stay close on your tail because we did not want to lose a new agent too quickly. It would be far too discouraging to the others. You must remember that he is the senior agent and you will take your orders from him."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"Do we understand each other?"

Honey nodded her head in agreement but inside she was seething with resentment because she still felt the sneaky Marcel was an unknown player on the board and not to be trusted fully. She received a pass to get outfitted at the "shop" which was a sort of dirty tricks and nasty weapons dispensing unit that was tasked with finding new ways to achieve a kill with silence and dispatch. She still had her little pistol from the last mission but she was not overly happy with its lack of stopping power.

The kindly old man who ran the "shop" section was humorously garrulous and had a Scots accent that she had to concentrate on in order to understand. The poison needle things were not her cup of tea but she did like the series of flat blades that could be used to slice through skin and flesh so neatly that the blood did not begin to spurt until the attacker was several steps away to safety. None of the American or the British long guns suited her desires but she did find a splendid sawed off shotgun of French origin that would blend into the locale with great ease. The old man tried to foist off some concussion grenades on her telling her that they worked perfectly when one was cornered. She was afraid to even touch one of the things ever since she had seen the two young lads from Ireland who had been torn to bits in the training pit right in front of her eyes. They were fine lads and a source of light hearted fun in the midst of the sour-faced professionals who saw no humor in the training program.