Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

How were things?” It was customary to ask such things given the occasion.

“It was a good service,” Kretschmer nodded, grateful for small mercies.

“Is the house salvageable?”

“We’re not thinking about that yet. The children’s teacher has taken them in on a short-term basis.”

“Good, good. Come and sit down, sir, this is... it might take a while.”

“I hope not,” he groaned, though seemed to be joking. “Florence or César?”

“César.” Gehring had opened up a little about him over the phone (those occasions the phones worked) and now revealed all. Kretschmer tried to interrupt his pitch once, dissuaded when Gehring begged him to let him finish. Kretschmer was right to group Florence and César together for they were one and the same, one occupying the manipulative serpent form, the other the sadistic hooved-beasted image. César had revealed more of his supposed agenda in meeting Florence, fancying himself as a middleman between her and them, brokering a peace between the two sides. They would receive a one-woman army for the Russian Front on the condition that no French blood was spilt. The one fatal flaw with this plan was that it meant trusting snakes, a viper and a constrictor, which would only end one way.

When Gehring had finished saying his piece, Kretschmer said, “You’re correct to voice your suspicions, especially after everything else that has gone on, but you’re wrong in this instance. I talked with him an hour ago. He’s not directly involved in this.”

Gehring sighed, deflated by this development. He had been so explicit in his instructions – this was why they’d lose the war, they weren’t doing things by the book. “Sir, do you not see that... it doesn’t matter.”

“You believe I’ve succumbed to his charms. He has charisma and is arrogant enough to believe that he could do what he claims, charm her into surrendering to us.”

“Sir, he was seen leaving his home with a suitcase the day that he met her. He knew we were going to arrest him. He was taking incriminating evidence away.”

“Do we know where?” Kretschmer asked, going through the motions as much as Gehring here in pretending to have an open mind. It was an effort for Gehring to even talk about this anymore, but Kretschmer was still his commanding officer, if no longer his superior.

“They only watched him leave.”

“What does he say about it?”

“He denies it. He claims it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

“Is that not possible? Remember, he admits to dining with her, the bigger admission,” Kretschmer said, to Gehring’s intense frustration. The meal was irrelevant, a smokescreen. That was what César wanted them to focus on. Misdirection, the oldest magician’s trick in the book, and very effective in this case.

“His obsessive followers wouldn’t mistake someone else for him.”

“There is a serious flaw in that line of thinking. César’s obsessive followers wouldn’t reveal his secrets to us.”

“I worded it carefully, sir.”

“Come now. They know what us asking questions means. They’re not stupid.”

“No, sir, they are not.”

“Strohkirch and I are in agreement that your aversion to this man is affecting your judgement. Take a step back and you will see things differently.”

Gehring already did see things differently. It wasn’t worth the aggravation, that was what he now saw. Be hypnotised, be his mental slaves. He didn’t care anymore. There were plenty of other battles ahead. This one was lost.

Interlude III

A Scrambled Life

Scrambler spent so many hours on the streets of Paris that he was on speaking terms with hundreds of people. The newspaper vendors, shopkeepers and market traders all knew him, plus there were loads of others not in hospitality who crossed his path frequently. He joked that he was the fittest man in Paris with callused soles that could walk on hot coals without flinching. Some paid him lip service in response, his pattern of speech so quick, his dialogue often so random that many couldn’t quite follow his train of thought. He got many wrong responses showing they’d misheard or misunderstood, a lot of yeses when he hadn’t even asked questions.

Sabotage was a fulltime job. The pay was decent enough, the Love Phantom giving him a monthly allowance for his service. He’d always struggled with holding down jobs, this one the longest he’d had. He was keen and had a great work ethic. Unfortunately, most workplaces weren’t sabotage proof. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose. Now he did, giving full vent to the destructive nature of his gift. He’d walk around buildings the Germans occupied, officially or unofficially, the Milice too. He travelled the streets locating the homes and quarters of their enemies, getting as close to their vehicles as he could for long enough to fuck them up. He had to hoof it around the city and so would they. It wasn’t Florence levels of resistance, but it was something, Scrambler feeling satisfaction whenever he felt like he’d wrecked another vehicle or machine. They would slow them down enough that they’d grind to a halt, making them easy pickings for the soldiers or the more militant Resistance groups. Which he still wished they could become.

The Love Phantom had been lucky enough to have been a soldier during the Battle of France. Scrambler wished he would draw on that experience to take their resistance to the next level. Scrambler had volunteered to fight and had been rejected. They never explained why to him, just thanked him and sent him on his way. He went back several times to try and talk them round. They still didn’t explain why and got progressively less polite in how they ushered him away. At least the Foundation provided an avenue for him to resist, if not exactly fight. It gave him a purpose and a family, a brother, anyway.

He missed his brothers, Vincent especially. They had been close in age, two of the middle of the seven kids, Vincent younger but still in the same school year as him. They got up to mischief there too as well