Colin Gee - Opening Moves

The sex had been average at best but, as was her habit, she moaned and screamed her way through the brief session before collapsing on top of her spent lover as if he was her best ever.

It was not the first time she had slept with this one and he certainly was a looker, and had the equipment, but no expertise in using it. Well, there are other fish in the sea, thought Emilia, but not any with the knowledge that this one possessed and not that were sufficiently senior within the project and crossed all the boundaries not open to her. He also carried a secretary’s notebook in his back trouser pocket wherever he went, contrary to regulations, in which he jotted notes when a thought occurred, or swiftly recorded a fellow scientist’s idea to think through more carefully later.

Emilia had slept with a number of members of the Manhattan Project; actually quite a number. Always those she felt she could extract information from or those who, like Irving Zbrynevski, carried a notebook or diary in which they were often indiscreet about their work. Sex was a bonus if it was good.

The last time Irving had been permitted to sleep with Emilia, she had discovered drawings of geometric shaped explosive charges with extremely precise measurements annotated alongside so she was keen to see what new entries there were tonight.

His orgasm would probably have knocked him out for hours anyway but to be on the safe side Emilia had plied him with a bottle of Bourbon too. The empty lay on the carpeted floor, testament to his capacity. He slept on his back, arms and legs splayed like the Vitruvian Man. A gentle, almost feminine snoring marked him as out for the count.

A quick check of the clock reminded her that it was nearly two in the morning and if she wanted sleep, she best get moving quickly.

The camera retrieved and made ready, she extracted the notebook from Irving’s trousers and quietly pulled the door of the toilet shut behind her.

From memory, she turned to the page she had last read a week ago, turned the paper over and skimmed the first new entry for anything of note. Frustratingly, it was solely a list of things to do around his own living quarters. The next page was more fruitful with some complex electronic circuitry, most certainly in the hand of another, possibly trying to show Irving what he had been talking about. A swift click of the button and it was captured by the Minox. Another shot to make sure the image was captured, just as she had been taught.

After that, there were a few pages of notes on what looked like physics and a page of doodling followed by some amateurish pictures of female breasts. Pervert. No picture of that was necessary.

Another turn of the book and then the Holy Grail gazed up at her from the paper.

Emilia was looking at an impressive sketch of an atomic bomb, apparently called ‘Little Boy’, accurate dimensions boldly recorded and with precise annotations on critical masses.

The camera rolled four times on that and she felt the perspiration trickle down her cleavage, although the bathroom was cool enough.

On the next page was a list of ‘favourite women’. Emilia had no interest in that so failed to notice she had made number three.

She stopped dead when she turned the next page over.

There in a bold hand were the words ‘16th create a rainbow, 17th all go home.’

‘Create a rainbow’ was an expression she had heard a few times. It was an insider’s jokey comment about the expected visual effects of a full-scale explosive fission reaction.

She took no pictures. There was no point. She understood perfectly. Suddenly the sweat dripped off her as she stood naked, digesting the enormity of what she had just read.

Thinking quickly, she re-hid the camera and unlocked the bathroom door, slipping quietly back into the bedroom and returning the book to Irving’s trouser pocket. Ensuring everything was at it was before, she quietly ran the hot tap until warm water came out. A quarter glass was enough and she moved to the bed and lay down. Pulling back the sheet, she made a swift movement and the liquid was spilled on the mattress around Irving’s groin. Putting the glass on the floor by her side, she rolled back to Irving and started to violently shake him.

A sleepy Irving moaned “Wassup honey? You want more? Huh baby?”

The tone of the reply quickly made him aware that not all was rosy in the garden and that his services were not to be needed again that night.

“Get out you dirty bastard! You’ve peed in my bed! Go on Irving, get out!”

His hand shot down and was greeted with warm dampness.

“Shit! Ok honey… quiet… shit… I’m sorry… oh gee… sorry” Every lean to recover an item of clothing or bend to hook out a shoe was punctuated with an apology. Emilia would have found it comical, had her mind not been consumed with more pressing matters.

“Please don’t tell anyone Emmy. It musta been the Bourbon honey. Sorry”

He vacated the room, having dressed in record time, and hurried off before his embarrassment overcame him.

Emilia, still naked, threw back the sheet to allow the air to dry the bed, then she grabbed a robe and a chesterfield.

Sitting quietly in her private space, she analysed what she had just discovered. Less than four weeks ago she had found out that the project was more advanced than anyone thought. Now she held proof that, less than three weeks from today, the project would test an atomic device. She had heard the talk but it had always seemed months off, possibly years. Yet here was a simple comment in a notebook that she knew was confirmation that the Manhattan project was about to go live.

“Fucking hell!”

This needed to go out straight away and so she sat to her desk, brought out her text book, and wrote a lovely girly letter to her cousin. She even referred to the unfortunate nocturnal urination of her drunken lover, just in case anyone still read them, which of course they did. The film would go out next time she took a trip over to Santa Fe but this had to go out tomorrow. She also included one other word.

‘ Wellington ’.

In a world of the toughest men, he was an enigma. Slight of figure, balding and of modest height, he could have easily been ignored if he crossed someone’s path in civilian clothes, although the tell-tale signs of bearing and fluidity of movement would be there for those that knew of such things. In his uniform of Colonel in France’s famous Foreign Legion, he presented a figure of awe and reverence to his troops, and of total professionalism to all others.

Unlike many of his countrymen, Christophe Lavalle had fought long and hard, never surrendered, and had preserved his nations once-proud military tradition at a time when it lay in the dust and was trampled by jackbooted feet.

Initially serving with 1st Regiment Étrangère Infanterie in the hot and unfriendly surroundings of a frontier fort in Algeria, he distinguished himself sufficiently in the desert skirmishing to be promoted to Lieutenant. On the declaration of war, he was transferred to the mainland to provide experienced officer leadership for the brand-new 11th Regiment Étrangère Infanterie.

His military career nearly ended when, as a Capitaine in the 11th REI, Stuka dive-bombers attacked his convoy on its way forward in 1940. Unlike many of his men, Lavalle escaped to join his Regiment, just in time for it to be savaged and retreat once more as German columns raced around any pocket of resistance.

During one brief rearguard action, Lavalle had been felled by an explosion and was left for dead by his comrades. Coming to, dazed, disorientated and behind enemy lines, he gathered his wits and what supplies he could find on the battlefield and moved towards the nearest positions in which he believed friendly forces were positioned.