Footwork

“As reporters are want to, much hype and hyperbole was made of this odd high-seas incident. It certainly was an unusual one, both for its demonstration of friendship and comradery via compassionate meals, shared supplies and well wishes to distant family, as well as an undeniable example of the growing political stresses between the Kharkov Republic and the Greater Confederated Kingdoms

[...]

"Speculation as to just why these two governments are now finding themselves so closely related to each other only adds to this unease. With Aerah pouring thousands of tons of naval warships as “gifts” to the Kharkov government, the Confederated Kingdoms’ navy—already small and obsolescent on account of years of spending being prioritized on rebuilding the national infrastructure and improving the quality of life of its citizens—is even further stretched by the challenge, hypothetical as it may be, of keeping the waters of the Northern Emihst safe and secure from hostile actions. And while the gestures of friendship made evident by the Alathea incident are worth remembering on one hand, skeptics will point to the other half of the relationship—images of that lightless cruiser illuminated by flares, lurking ominously in the shadows—and connect that with Aerah’s increasing indirect presence in our hemisphere and conclude that one way or another, the beasts are coming out to play.”

--Distant Voices, May 1941

Passing the duck ponds--still not frozen over, the man thought thankfully, thinking of how bad it must be if that began to happen--he watched the ducklings huddled in the reeds by the shoreline, tucked up against their mother against the sudden cold. They weren't prepared for this, he thought, considering what time of year it was. Things were supposed to be improving at this point--warmth was supposed to be growing stronger. Then a sudden cold, out of the blue--hopefully a small one. A little cold, the lieutenant mused as his boots crushed the snow down the park's promenade past a statue of the nation's founder, who was now adorned with pale white veneer, is one thing. A long lasting, simmering, bitter cold is another.

That's the kind of cold the lieutenant was familiar with. Ettan Tomberlin's trusted right hand man, he was keenly aware of the cold creeping out of Kharkov. The government here liked to alternate between feigning friendliness and saber rattling--a ship stalked in the night one month, apologies and warmth the next, tanks rolling down streets and saber rattling the month after, and all the while playing different games with different people. Tomberlin knew this, and Ambassador Temple was cognizant of the intricacies of diplomacy surely, but the lieutenant was aware more keenly than perhaps most else in the embassy of just how duplicitous the game was.

--White Nights, 11 May 1941

--oOo--

September, 1942.

By mid September, winter was already returning in Pehtrolkagrad. It was dry still, which precluded snow for the immediate future. But the frost on the ground every morning slowed Udo Gorta's eyes as passed his papers to the embassy's guard on this cold September morning. In the dim, early morning light, it made cement glisten like a night sky many miles from city lights, and on the grass just inside of the embassy walls it was thick and crystalline, glistening like broken glass, and Gorta found it beautiful as he snuffed out the remnants of his cigarette at the guardpost.

"Welcome back, lieutenant. Enjoy your leave?" The guard said after a moment of eyeing the paperwork and Udo Gorta's expressionless face. Hearing the question, Gorta went from icily bland to a faint smile, but in a manner which seemed strangely deliberate and forced as if the expression of smiling required practice and Gorta had long been out of shape of it.

"Yes, thank you. It was," Gorta lied softly, "very peaceful. It's good to get away a while, now and again."

The guard, reciprocating the grin, joked that maybe one of these days he'd get a bit of leave too. Gorta wished him luck, a bit more sincerely this time, as the guard's  hand went under the counter to a switch which buzzed viciously, unlocking the personnel gate which Gorta moved through silently. The smile was gone.

Charles Ryan Temple, unlike the icy lieutenant, knew only so much about the manner of things. Gorta liked the man for good reasons, simply as a man: he was a loving husband and an aspiring father, and he was an idealist, which in spite of professional occupation was a condition that Gorta identified with immensely. He was, perhaps, a little taken in with the red carpet treatment the Kharkovs had rolled out for him though, and as the lieutenant closed the door to Ambassador Temple's office behind himself he wondered how much of that was good politics and how much of that was seeing the world with a green tint of optimism. He seemed cozy with Tsukanov, certainly--was that bad? Difficult to say. But when Udo Gorta saw pictures of President Petrovisk, General Yudashkin and Admiral Tsukanov, while it wasn't too difficult to decide who was the most friendly of the trifecta, who was the most well intentioned was entirely another story. There lay the question, in Udo Gorta's eyes--was Temple too charmed by Tsukanov's assurances that he might ignore Petrovisk's swelling military expenses, or Yudashkin's distrust?

"Good morning lieutenant. Tea?" Temple called out from behind the old wood desk inside the office. The lieutenant, taking off his peacoat, nodded appreciatively.

"Yes sir, if you please."

"Of course."

"Cream, sugar?"

"A pinch, please."

"Thank you." Gorta said as he settled into the leather chair opposite the ambassador.

"Your," Temple said carefully, "time away was rewarding?" Temple knew enough about Udo Gorta to know he didn't know everything--the classified sections of his resume suggested at years of work in fields the ambassador was probably better of knowing. Combined with three week's leave being requested by Crouuningglory on his behalf it was difficult to ignore the fact that Udo Gorta was probably an incredibly remarkable man. Captain Tomberlin, the embassy's head of security and an expert in intelligence, spoke of him without compromise--no secrets spilled, no hints made, but unequivocally communicated how deeply impressed he was with Gorta's professional talents on the few occasions when that came up.

"It was." Gorta answered simply. "I'm grateful you were able to arrange for it." He said without smiling. "Thank you."

From there, they moved onto business: Temple explained what he needed, and Gorta understood. Simple footwork.

In all of five minutes, the necessary specifics were made clear, and the lieutenant patiently listened. Dispositions needed, quietly, that sort of a thing. Soon afterwards, Gorta had finished his tea and excused himself to get after the matter, leaving Temple alone in his office again with a feeling akin to needing to wash one's hands, though nothing had been touched. Hell, the lieutenant's present assignment wasn't even illegal, or morally questionable or anything that begged for forgiveness. Why this uncleanness, then?

--oOo--

That afternoon, Gorta stepped out of Tatiana's with a thermos full of soup tucked under his arm and a bag of perogis bulging inside of one of his peacoat's pockets. It was a good place for lunch, as well as for listening, and as Gorta dropped the appropriate coins into the trolley's register and stepped inside he felt almost cheerful. Tatiana's was one of those places that made you believe in good people. Perhaps this was simply a byproduct of Pavlov's conditioning--you step inside and smell warm bread, feel warmth radiating from the bakery, experience some savory sensations throughout the course of the meal. He supposed this might make one feel a little more warmly inside too, but if it did he also strongly suspected it was simply a matter of conditioned psychology. As much as Gorta enjoyed a warm meal and a warm place where people talked freely, he also didn't put an incredible deal of faith into warmth by itself. None more than he gave to the cold, anyway.

But, he conceded as the smell of the bakery faded into the dirtier, grimier air of the day, it's much more pleasant than listening in the cold.

Setting the thermos between his feet, he starred out the window as the trolley rumbled down the street and thought about his new task from Temple. He wondered if Ettan knew about it, or if it was directly from the diplomatic vine: Crouuningglory calling out to Temple in secret tongues, their cries echoing out across the North Emihst and repeating itself again from some distant and lonely radio-ship , finally being heard and encrypted inside the cryptography cage at the embassy, right on to the ambassador and on to him. It was a common question on his part, and on the part of Captain Tomberlin above him: who knew what, when and why was really half of his occupation. The other half was figuring out who could know more, and who shouldn't know more, and how to keep everything in line therein.

As the trolley moved past the People's Park, he reminisced about a late night meeting he'd had in the hotel on the far side during the World Socialist Conference last year. It had been snowing--it was the same day as the parades, he remembered, as he hesitantly reached into his peacoat pocket and unrolled the top of the bag of perogis. Up in that apartment, he'd met with the Neuu Uuorker's Party delegates, wined and dined them a bit, and once most were gone to bed or tired had quietly whispered with the last one about objectives, assignments and a piece necessary equipment. When he'd left that night, he hadn't imagined that a year later his involvement with a simple matter like that would take him as far away as a coaster in Prinz Petersland. And then the thought stopped. He didn't want to think about it any more. It was too nice of a day for thoughts like that. Instead he eyed the trolley for a moment, surveying faces, and glancing backwards watched the traffic behind them as he slowly ate. No tails today as far as he could tell. Pleasant.

Wiping the crumbs off his lips, he re-rolled the bag and returned it to its pocket, buttoning the coat's pocket and pulling himself upwards out of his seat. He stood near the doorway for a spell as he watched the street roll past him. Shopfronts and automobiles all equally adorned with a thin grime to them, an urban veneer of industrialization that seemed ubiquitous to him. At the next stop, Gorta hopped off and crossed traffic, pushing quietly into a building with a large aerial on the roof. He took the stairs and partly out of habit to avoid bellboys. He'd never trust them, as a matter of principle. They were cheap eyes, and he was cheap too--more than willing to save the experience of being noted in exchange for a few seconds more moving up the stairs.

Radio Trans Emihst had originally operated out of the embassy, but with the Kharkov embassy switching from airmail correspondence to radio the business there had changed. Per these changes, RTE had taken up residence in the commercial district, and erected its own antenna atop the building. While not quite as secure as when at the embassy, it had certainly had its perks in Tomberlin's eyes: less strangers coming and going from the embassy, better communications capabilities now that the embassy wasn't trying to share diplomatic channels with commercial broadcasts, and frankly a great deal more peace of mind knowing that they weren't so evenly blending diplomatic ties with those of relative unknowns.

At the same time, there was a slight loss of security for RTE. Their 'bingo' games still had to come directly from the embassy, and that constituted another link in the chain of vulnerabilities. But the worst that could happen, Gorta supposed as he stepped into RTE's front room, was that someone could steal the winning bingo numbers for a given day, and there were worse fates that could befall that particular ODIIN operation. The couriers didn't know any codes, after all, and worst case scenarios panned out to them having to pay out once or twice more than usual for someone 'winning the game.'

Anya was on the phone in the front room talking briskly, and seeing Gorta she grinned excitedly. He smiled back too, a well practiced expression, and unbuttoned his pocket as she gestured towards one of the side doors. He set the bag of perogis on her desk--the soup he kept for himself--and let himself in.

If he closed his eyes, the RTE offices sounded remarkably like many of the rooms' he'd worked in. Typewriters clacking, phones jangling, the sound of papers rustling--he could almost hear code machines whirring, the sounds of icons being slid across maps. It was all about communication, anyway: the same game with different pieces.

Tollbach, for once, wasn't in her corner abode. Gorta stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering how long he would have to wait, before he stepped inside. The desk, cluttered; a small pile of ashes in the ash tray, the smell of cigarette smoke. He knew where to find her, regardless; he turned on the radio, and pulled a long and lonely cigarette out of its packaging.

"...continued investment," she was saying, "in West Aerah has proven increasingly unpopular at home. Though successful in providing a stable alternative to the Khav occupied regions of the country, the mounting costs of promoting stability in the region in terms of manpower and national resources has provoked increasing criticism of the Nathan-Lee government, with the National Homefront Party advocating that the secessionist province be rejoined to the remainder of the state along with amnesty deals for its leadership. In response, Nathan-Lee has voiced strong opposition to any talk of abandoning those seeking freedom from the militant Khav-Aerah state.

He puffed the cigarette slowly, patiently, as Tollbach continued her broadcast. She talked about the upcoming release of the next four year's military budget back in the Kingdoms, and the controversy about whether it was too much or too little, and a good deal of explanation about how Kharkov was spending five times as much on their navy as ours. The best kind of propaganda, Gorta mused, was occasionally the truth. His thoughts dwelt there a moment longer as he listened--it was precisely his work this week, trying to gauge how open the Kharkov government would be to a major naval restriction treaty, and so he listened quite intently. Thinking back to his meeting with Ambassador Temple this morning, he wondered if for perhaps a moment he had an epiphany of clarity, of an intense and vast scale of efforts all pushing forward with singular purpose. But then again, everything here might just be coincidence. Regardless, it would be good conversation.

--oOo--

And it was. Tollbach, being someone who's entire career revolved around communication, was incredibly open and willing to share what she knew, what her opinions were, and more or less everything he might need barring the privacy of certain sources. This Gorta respected. You don't push your friends too far or too hard, he knew, partially out of respect, and partially out of fear of breaking them.

He spent the early evening at the embassy, typing his report out. He'd be doing the same thing for the next few days until his assignment changes. Espionage was for the most part not like the radio-plays. Most of it didn't involve secret lairs, exotic locales and pitched fist fights atop moving trains. There were a few similarities, admittedly--he'd once met a man with a blade concealed in his shoe, and there were some rooms full with unpleasant things for convincing people to make difficult choices more easily. But for the most part it was simply listening, asking questions, taking pictures and reporting. Some days you were followed, and you adjusted your plans accordingly. Some days you were following others, and trying to be discrete about it for your own benefit. The stuff of pulp adventures was mostly nonsense--car chases, never; cars following cars, much more plausible.

By the time the day's report was filed, daylight was fading again. Twilight's kingdom reigned in the city streets, punctuated periodically by streetlights and the figures who stood beneath them, waiting on buses and carpools. Pulling his peacoat on tightly, he only found standing room in the trolley, and he rode it home. Crowded tight, he felt exposed, as he tended to in crowds--never mind their harmlessness. Crowds were good for too many people though, and he couldn't bring himself to smoke in such tightly packed conditions for fear of insulting some little babushka. If crowds weren't good for people, he joked with himself privately, there woudn't be so many of them.

The last five minutes of his commute was always his favorite. Getting off the trolley, he finally lit his cigarette and stood outside his flat with it, just inside of the threshold before the door. Nursing it along, he watched traffic for a few minutes more until the cigarette was decidedly dead, and crushed it out before first unlocking the outer door and then moving to the third floor of this small complex had been rented out by the embassy for its staff. On one hand, it was more convenient for whoever in red was doing their job over here--much more easy to keep track of people. But on the other hand it was a harder target, with everyone living so closely, and it really developed a sense of community. But he came home late, and no one greeted him; Udo Gorta simply unlocked both the locks he kept on his room, slipped inside, and relatched them. Inside, the cat, sleeping, did not bother raising its head to say hello.