Overseas Assignment |
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 Keeper Note: Steve wasn't available this week (merely providing the venue!) but it would be crazy for Cyril to try and catch them up later; he is present but strangely quiet. Aimo and Lizzie more than plugged the gap by their advent, though I did rather miss the crazed cries of "Banana!". |
Around a month or so since the case with the meat-paste in Hertfordshire the five agents were gathered once more in the briefing room at Clemens Park. Joining them were two others; a bearded Sikh and a tall Frenchwoman, introduced as Birapeer Mansukhani Singh and Francoise Duval. The now-familiar Margaret Walsh met and greeted the agents as they arrived, before introducing a man in his 30s. “Alec is in charge here,” she said, “and will fill you in with some more detail.”
Alec smiled at the group. “First of all, to those of you I haven’t met before, hello and welcome. Make no mistake, the unit you have signed up for will make as much a difference in this war as any other, and may put you in at least as much danger. Thank you for accepting.” He glanced at the original five; “Well done to those of you who were there when we needed you last month, and I’m sorry you got chucked in at the deep end.” He chuckled. “Welcome to the club! The Germans are way ahead of us in this field, I’m sorry to say, and we’re all at the deep end at the moment.”
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“With you are two new additions to your team, Birapeer and Francoise, whose particular skills will be of great help on your next mission.” He turned to an easel and flipped back the cover. “Italy,” he said a little redundantly. “Has not yet entered the war – but there’s little doubt what side they’ll be on. At the moment, travel there is still possible – though the Fascists have an iron grip.”
“MI6 have an agent there, codename "Camile", who has sent a request for help – our kind of help. She’s been watching a few interesting locations in Rome, and apparently the Italians had been searching for something in the catacombs under the city. It seems they found it, but before she could find out what it is, it was shipped north – more of that in a moment. However, several workers from the dig then showed up dead in a mortuary in Rome, with the most appalling injuries, alongside two other corpses which were quite definitely not human."
“Camile’s information indicates that the destination of the Artifact is in or around Pinzolo, here. Apparently they need lots of power to work on it, which sounds a bit worrying. Even more of interest, coded messages were also sent to Germany regarding it – crypt are still working on them. She gleaned the word Nachtwölfe in connection with those and we don’t yet know what it means. Camile can’t follow this up without blowing her cover, and she’s taken too much effort to get placed to do that. I agreed to put a team in to look into this; and you, ladies and gentlemen, are it.”
Voluntary Militia for National Security (Milizia Volontaria per la Sicurezza Nazionale, or MVSN—the notorious Blackshirts) |
He put a couple of aerial photographs on the table. “Here’s where it is. Well out of the way, as you can tell. Here’s the plan. We will set you up with some cover identities, probably as French or German travellers as I don’t believe any of you speak Italian. We’ll try and drum a few stock phrases into you before you go."
"You’ll go to Gibraltar by sea, where you’ll pick up a plane we’ve had prepared. There are still commercial flights in and out of Verona, so we will set you up with a Yank civvy plane and ID the rest of you as passengers. From there, you should be able to get a train to Pinzolo; if you keep out of the way of the Blackshirts or the OVRA. After that you’ll have to wing it a bit.”
Naturally there were questions.
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"Is there any support available in the Verona area, in case things go wrong?" asked Birapeer. "Can we have a picture of Camile, in case we run into her?" Alec considered. "There is an agent you can contact, and I'll provide a contact sequence for them - for emergencies," he stressed. "Camile is assigned to a different investigation in Rome, and you are unlikely in the extreme to encounter her. We can show you a picture in case that does happen."
Some more detail on the inhuman bodies reported from Rome elicited the descriptions of "snake-men" and "scaled".
The "wolf" part of Nachtwolfe had triggered some thoughts, and Birapeer requested shotgun cartridges for his sawn-off loaded with pepper, and salt. While pepper proved a problem, it turned out that shells loaded with rock-salt were already in store. Apparently, they had been useful before.... there were also seven 9mm cartridges with silver bullets available, and these were added to the pile.
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Marcus asked if he could do some prepratory research in Clemens Park's Library, and Alec commented that the fake ID and outfits would take some five days to prepare, leaving time for some preparations.
Over the next five days, a great deal was done. Fake IDs were created and practiced. Intense sessions of tutoring in the Italian language were held, carefully slanted to the kinds of usage the agents were likely to encounter. Birapeer and Joe also practiced the Punjabi language, of which the latter knew a smattering.
Marcus submerged himself in Clemens Park's impressive library. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing on Nachtwölfe, but he did turn up the complete publications of Sr. Sabino Aloia, the Italian archaeologist leading the dig Camile described. Marcus himself knew of Sr Aloia, though he had never met him, and the documents confirmed the impression of a younger man, striving to build his reputation in the field. He also located some items on the history and folklore of Rome and the Pinzolo area, adding to his own books and notes. Checking into the "snake-men" lead, he found suggestions in the extensive occult section of the library of apocalyptic wars in the times before history between the great civilizations of Lemuria and Hyperborea and the "serpent folk." This raised his eyebrows, as he had never encountered any mention of Hyperborea in any of his conventional historical research; but all the investigators were rapidly discovering that the conventional was not the entire story...
| PC | ID | Notes/Outfit |
|---|---|---|
| Francoise | Madeleine deVoost | French Pilot for Chicago Airways, plus civvies |
| Birapeer | Hilaan Gupta | Indian Pilot for Chicago Airways, plus civvies |
| Anne | Janine Noe | French journalist, travelling to Milan for Fashion Week |
| Cyril | David Antonio | Italian professor of Folklore and Culture |
| Joe Vandeleur | Heinrich Stassel | Oberleutenant Wehrmacht |
| Marcus Brody | Alain Jerome | French History Professor, travelling to refer to the libraries in Milan |
| Gregory | Charles Xavier | French Canadian, boy assistant to Marcus Brody |
The two pilots, Birapeer and Francois, were taken down to Biggin Hill for an intense day of training on multi-engined aircraft. Both were truly expert pilots, and it didn't take them long to get the hang of the differences, much to the relief of their prospective passengers. Birapeer then held an ad-hoc session in the use of a parachute, leaving the servants bewildered at burly soldiers and grizzled academics leaping down the stairs and rolling away, so that everyone had at least a hope of escaping an aircraft in trouble.
On the fourth day, they were taken to an out-of-the-way corner of the estate and introduced to a man named Brad Cleavely, one of Clemens Park's occult librarians and magicians. Nervous and a bit erratic, the young librarian offered anyone who wanted the chance to learn just a little protective magic. Ignoring the raised eyebrows and sceptical expressions, he frowned around. "Nobody will be forced," he said seriously. "Magic is damned dangerous stuff, and I don't advise you to explore any further without advice. These few charms are relatively safe."
Everyone accepted the offer, but the skills proved hard to master. Of them all, only Birapeer, Joe and Marcus managed to master the complex invocations, Gergory in particular felt something inside him obstructing his attempts to memorize the spell he was studying.
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On the last day, just before departure, the agents were taken to an even more remote set of newly-built outbuildings on the estate. There they were introduced to Dr Dennis Parker, the research head.
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“Dennis,” said Alec, “is in charge of converting the weird and wonderful things we stumble on into forms we can take out in the field and use.” Parker snorted. “I also do my best to ensure that the people I issue them to don’t do themselves a mischief with them. I’ve a couple of trinkets for you here. ” He dug in some cupboards and laid out some items;
Anné took the handbag; it was either her or Francoise. Marcus accepted the matches, and the coins were distributed across the group. It occurred to more than one of them that - beyond the simple wilderness survival use of the things - the sixpences would be rather handy for disabling enemy vehicles, if they could be introduced into the fuel or oil tanks.
With all preparations complete, Peggy handed them over to the burly Arthur Morris - Clemens Park's handyman, chauffer and Viscount Towton's bodyguard, who loaded them into one of the larger cars and drove them down to the railway station.
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The familiar travel warrants got them aboard an express train to Southampton, and the seven agents settled down to their usual relaxations as the train steamed southwards. The journey was set to take several hours, and some slept, others read.
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Marcus Brody was leaning in his seat, staring out of the window, as the train rattled through a small rural station not scheduled for a stop. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, blinking. He was sure he'd not nodded off or started dreaming, but he had no other explanation for what he had seen - a man, dressed in what looked like a monk's habit in - of all colours - bright blue, staring intently at their train as it passed. Staring directly into his own eyes, it almost seemed, though that of course was impossible! Slightly shaken, he settled back, but as they passed through other stations he couldn't resist scouring the platforms for sight of a similar shape, without result.
Early in the afternoon, the train pulled into Southampton and the group disembarked, looking around them. Being one of the biggest military harbours in England, Southampton was thronged with sailors, soldiers, cargo, dockers, MPs and sniffling wives in the most dreadful confusion imaginable. Even locating the correct ship looked to be a tough job.
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Of all people, young Gregory had picked up enough military process to suggest that asking at the Harbourmaster's office might be a good idea, and after Joe had obtained directions from a passing matelot they made their way there. As they walked, Marcus was constantly looking around him in a nervous way, looking for the blue monk. An efficient clerk gave them concise directions, and twenty minutes later, they were showing their IDs and the orders Alec had provided for her captain to the MPs guarding the gangplank of HMS Ashanti.
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The MPs were obviously expecting the agents, and handed them over to a young ensign who conducted them to a large officer's stateroom, cleared for their use and set up with chairs and some bunks. An hour later the ship cast off, and steamed out into the English Channel.
All very efficient and reassuring. However... like most destroyers, at her top speed, the Ashanti tended to bucket around a bit. Slowly, one by one, the party found the effects of the corkscrew motion creeping up on them.
Some had experience with boats - or aeroplanes - and were able to cope. Others found a stroll on deck, where they could watch the waves and match visual senses to the feeling of movement, helped stave off the worst. Only Gregory was unlucky. Twice over; not only did he succumb to sea-sickness, but he lost his way in the maze belowdecks and never made it to the rail before the inevitable. Francoise, alerted by his sounds of distress, located him and helped him up to the deck, where he hung miserably over the rail for several hours.
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With twenty-four hours or so to kill, Joe made an attempt at teaching his newly-learned spell to Anné Laurentine. For some time, both pored over scraps of paper bearing inscriptions in Latin and twisted their fingers in obscure arcane gestures. Finally, the centime dropped and Anné felt the knowledge of Pose Mundane settle unpleasantly into her brain.
The agents took the opportunity to review their cover identities and equipment for the mission ahead.
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When the ship docked at Gibraltar, a man in Air Force blue was already waiting on the quay. As soon as the plank was down he came aboard, asking for the agents by name. His name, he informed them, was Flight-Lieutenant Martin Dodge, here to "drive you to the airfield to pick up your ride, don'cha know?" His enthusiasm was a little grating to the agents, weary after long hours of travel, and they were ready to escape his upper-class chatter by the time they reached Gibraltar Airfield.
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Tucked away at one edge of the airfield was a good-sized three-engined passenger plane; a Ford TriMotor. It was all done out in the livery of Chicago Airways and looked totally convincing. The name “Mandy” was painted on the side of the cockpit in flowing letters. Birapeer and Francoise settled into the cockpit, starting their pre-flight checks as they warmed the engines prior to starting them up. The others clambered aboard, stowed their suitcases and selected their seats in the passenger cabin, plush and luxurious for the air travel of the era.
Changing into their cover identity clothes, they passed their own things out to Flt-Lt Dodge in a bag, and he tucked them into his car with a wave.
Satisified that the plane was ready, Birapeer taxied it out towards the runway while Francoise requested flight clearance from the tower. Swinging onto the runway, Mandy bumped and rattled across the grass, gaining speed before the Sikh pulled back on the column and lifted her into the air on her first leg of the journey.
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Their refuelling stop was the airfield at Gerona in Spain, just as evening was gathering. Francoise put the big plane neatly down on the dusty strip, and the travellers all climbed stiffly out. Spain, too, was still neutral at this point, so none of their outfits were an issue.
| Keeper Note: I have represented various things in foreign languages I do not speak with the aid of Google Translate, probably sounding like Mongo to anyone who does actually speak it. Forte titty. |
While the plane was being refulled, several of the agents wandered into the buildings near the airfield in search of something to eat. As they did, two Spanish guards stopped Francoise and Anné. Both were more than a bit nervous, but it soon emerged that their issue was not being able to believe that a woman could be the pilot of a plane, especially a plane the size of Mandy. Francoise expanded to loom over the two men, bristling with Gallic fury. "Alors!" she rapped. "Et voila! Mon plane! Mon passagers! Mon assitant!" - she waved an arm at Birapeer - "Avec moi!" she snapped her fingers. The guards retreated in confusion.
With that settled, and the fuel for the next leg loaded, Mandy took to the air again and headed out along the Mediterranean.
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Several hours later, the plane was cruising serenely through the dark over northern Italy when the radio crackled and a harsh voice barked a challenge in German; "Achtung! Englischer flugzeug! Du bist im luftraum das Reich uberschreiten!" Birapeer, never one to be overawed by a reputation, responded without hesitation in tones that would have pleased Lt Dodge; "Speak English, old boy; the international language of Aviation, don'cha know?"
A moment later, with a thunderous roar that rattled the windows and a brief rattle of machineguns, two FW-190s howled past the Tri-Motor and turned to swing into place ahead and astern. The radio rattled again with more furious German just as Joe Vandeleur leaned forward into the cockpit.
"You seem to have annoyed them," he said quietly. "They're demanding that you land as you're a British plane transgressing Reich airspace - neither being true. Pass me that thing."
"What are they armed with?" asked Anné from behind. Birapeer glanced at her sharply; night-fighter pilot or not, an unarmed heavy passenger plane would have less than no chance fighting or evading one FW-190, much less two. She subsided.
Once on the line, Joe identified himself as his cover identity, Oberleutenant Wehrmacht Heinrich Stassel, and demanded the pilot's name. He then crisply reminded the man that they were not over Reich territory - "Yet!" he whispered grimly to the pilots - and that as this was an American plane it was a neutral. This got an immediate response, as the Germans - unlike the Japanese - weren't crazy enough to want to draw the Americans into the war until they were ready. There was a pause as they someone made a radio call to Verona airfield to check their flight number, and then the pilot grudgingly declared they were free to continue before peeling off in a huff. "Macht's noch' nicht!" he snapped before cutting the call. Joe handed the mike back to Birapeer. "What did he say?" asked Francoise. Joe grinned wryly. "'Don't do it again'", he said with a grin.
Finally, the big plane dropped down onto the flare-path and landed, Birapeer's night-fighter expertise standing him in good stead. He rolled Mandy to her assigned parking slot and to a halt, glancing to the side as the rampies pushed the chocks in either side of the wheels. He gave the steering column a gentle pat; she was a good plane to fly.
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Wearily, the travellers - now two aircraft crew, two professors with one assistant, a journalist and a German officer - disembarked and headed across the grass to the customs building while the Italian baggage crew unloaded their cases. Now that they were leaving the airfield, they had to pass customs and passport control, and this was the first real test of their cover. All were nervous as they shuffled into the queue.
Birapeer, Francoise and Joe had decided that their personae were such that they would not be required to queue up, and so they walked to the front of the queue, trusting in their respective uniforms to get them through. Sure enough, the Italians merely glanced at the ID of the two pilots, and Joe was waved through so rapidly it was pretty certain that - in this case - the work put into his Grossdeutschlander Reisepass was rather wasted.
As Gregory trudged up and held up his passport, a sudden shout made them all tense. "Ei, tu! Stai fermo e preparati a essere ispezionato!" Two burly Italian soldiers were hurrying towards him, hands on their weapons. For an instant, Gregory considered making a break for it - and then they were past him, to grab an unassuming-looking man in a Homburg hat and hurry him away. Mmmn, poor fellow looks Jewish, he thought sympathetically as the doors closed and his heartbeat began to recede down from hummingbird level.
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After locating the nearest hotel and passing the rest of the night uneventfully, the agents wandered out - largely separately - into the city of Verona, setting for Romeo and Juliet, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and The Taming of the Shrew. Today, however, the Bard of Avon would have probably felt most unwelcome.
On the face of it, it was an ordinary European town, with people going about their daily affairs in the usual way. Only after spending a little time among them, shopping, eating in a cafe and so on, did one recognize the underlying element of tension, of fear, in the air. Almost everywhere one looked, fascist propaganda posters glowered down, often bearing the forbidding visage of Il Duce - Mussolini. The townfolk clearly regarded Joe's Nazi uniform with focused trepidation and respect; but beyond that, there was a hidden terror of the hand on the shoulder in their eyes.
The railway station was easy to locate, being in the centre of town, and tickets for the train stopping at Pinzolo were fairly cheap (especially for Gregory!). The train was due around two, so they had some time to kill. Mostly, they browsed the shops, drank coffee in cafes, and viewed the sights. Even Gregory was circumspect, but chance plays funny tricks, and it was he that caught the attention of two burly men in black jackets, grey jodhpurs with a black stripe, knee high black boots and knitted black caps with a dangling tassel; members of the MSVN, more commonly known as the Blackshirts.
| Keeper Note: At this point I had the task of trying to portray Italians speaking German and French very badly. No DM should have to face such linguistic trials. We settled for arms waved emphatically! |
After watching him for a while, they also noticed Joe Vandeleur, standing across the street smoking. Very deferentially, they came up to him and introduced themselves, and explained in pretty poor German that they would like his opinion on a potentially suspicious foreigner they had observed. Joe nodded, and signalled for them to lead the way, pretty certain of what he was going to find. Sure enough, a moment later the three had apprehended Gregory Snickers.
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The Blackshirts demanded his papers, and bulleted a stream of aggressive Italian at him. The brief lessons at Clemens Park had been pretty good, considering the time allowed, but Gregory's grasp of the language was nowhere near good enough to understand this. He shrugged, and responded in the Canadian French he already spoke and which matched his cover.
Joe eyed him coldly, staying firmly in character, and shrugged. "He looks harmless, if not especially intelligent" he said disparagingly - Gregory was indeed playing dumb with all the power of his alarming mind - "do you have any actual evidence?" The Italians looked a bit disappointed with him. "We don't need evidence, mein Herr," said one. "He looks like an anti-Fascist to me."
At this point, Birapeer and Marcus happened up, seperately. The Sikh came straight up to the Blackshirts, scowling all over his dark bearded face. "That's him!" he barked in passable Italian. "I saw this child steal some food!" Marcus, meanwhile, approached Gregory directly, berating him for apparently wandering off when he was supposed to be doing something. The Blackshirts began to finger their batons.
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In the confusion, Joe siezed his moment. "You!" he barked at Birapeer, "Be off!" All the racist arrogance of a Nazi was in that, and Birapeer took this hint and went. "You!" he turned to Marcus, "Is this child your responsibility?" Marcus swallowed, not needing to fake his nervousness. "Yes," he said hesitantly. "Stay here, I will deal with you in a moment!" Without pausing, he turned on the two Italians. "You!" he snarled. "Go away, and don't waste any more of my time!" Defeated, the two hurried away, though one was making hasty notes as they did so. Joe kept up a tirade at Marcus and Gregory as he marched them away, until they were round several corners and out of earshot. Then they split up, keeping as low a profile as possible until it was time to board the train.
Seated in various places along the train, the agents rattled and banged along the line out of Verona - bang on time, maybe some of what they said about Mussolini was true after all. The countryside outside was pretty, rural and fertile, and sloped up as the journey continued into the foothills of the Alps. Their fellow-passengers were mostly countryfolk headed home after trips to the city, along with some commercial types and the odd soldier - inevitable anywhere in Europe now.
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Birapeer and Anné had noticed a Blackshirt on the train, and had placed themselves so they could unobtrusively watch him. As time went on, they noticed that he was surreptitiously watching Marcus Brody and making notes in a little book. This was not good. Anné rose and headed to the toilet at the end of the carriage, allowing the motion of the train to sway her body close to the professor as she passed. Five whispered words in their mutual French reached his ears only, and then she was past, leaving the professor aware of his watcher. A moment or two later she passed Joe Vandeleur and repeated the same trick in German. The old undercover skills were still there, even if her ability to remain unremarkable was gone forever.
Once she was back Birapeer, as ever an influence of chaos, rose and approached the MSVN goon. "La mia pipa è uscita, hai una luce per favore?" he said politely, brandishing the guttered pipe for emphasis. All around him was a carriage full of disbelieving silence; no-one in Mussolini's Italy wanted to attract the Blackshirts' attention at all, and here was this Indian loony actually approaching one! The fascist glared at him with cold disdain. "Go away, folletto buono, I don't want to catch it," he pronounced clearly in Italian. "I'll be watching you." Birapeer locked eyes with him for a moment, then turned with no apparent fear and headed down the carriage to the toilets. After a few seconds, the Blackshirt stood too, heading in the same direction, no-one in the carriage looking at him as he did. As Birapeer walked, his eyes met Joe's, and the Commando nodded briefly; a whole plan passed between them in that moment.
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After the Blackshirt had passed, Joe casually stood, folding his newspaper and shouldering his MP-38, and followed him.
A sliding door with frosted glazing seperated the seating from the open space where the carriage doors and toilets were, and Birapeer was standing in that area, apparently waiting for the facilities to become free, when the Blackshirt stepped through and let the door click shut behind him. Anger on his face, he advanced on Birapeer, jabbing a finger into the pilot's chest, his other hand on his baton. "Voi animali dovete imparare il vostro posto!" he snarled savagely. Birapeer lashed out suddenly, grabbing the finger, smiled seraphically at him - and abruptly snapped the finger backwards in a crackle of bone.
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With a choked cry of pain the Blackshirt fumbled towards his pistol with his maimed hand before realizing that he couldn't shoot it without a trigger finger. His left hand was clumsily dragging his baton from its holster when Birapeer launched a perfectly-timed punch, catching the Italian neatly on the point of his chin. His eyes glazed a bit as his head rocked back from the haymaker blow.
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Inside the compartment, Joe heard the muffled sounds of the scuffle and tightened his grip on his weapon. Shouldering through the door, he found himself directly behind an Italian too stunned to register his presence as he dodged a second of Birapeer's punches. Letting the door slip shut behind him, he hefted the submachinegun and brought the butt savagely down onto the back of the Italian's head. With a sickening crunch, the whole back of his skull caved in and he went down nervelessly. Birapeer siezed him before he hit the floor and lowered him the rest of the way, tugging him sideways towards the door and away from the glazed carriage window, while Joe (whose bulk had obscured events from the passengers in any event) crouched and wiped the blood and hair off on the fascist's uniform.
A swift search turned up his indentification papers - which with a smear over the photo might allow Joe to pass as him at a pinch - his Beretta automatic pistol, and the notebook in which he'd been making notes of Marcus' "suspicious" behaviour.
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It was the work of a moment to open the door, lug the body up between them, and tip it out down the embankment into some bushes. Then they looked at each other with a pleased smile and separated; Birapeer heading on through the connection into the next carriage, creating the impression that the Blackshirt had escorted him away, while Joe casually returned to his seat after visiting the facilities. Some of the other passengers looked curiously up at him, but after he'd barked "Ihre Ausweispapiere bitte!" at a couple and shaken his head critically before handing the ID cards back, the rest lost interest rapidly.
An hour later the train rattled to a halt at Pinzolo station, and the agents - still moving separately - disembarked. They had travelled as far as the clues Camile had provided could take them; now they would need to do some investigation of their own.
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Session Date: 19th December 2017 |
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