The man was seated with his back to the door, hunched and focused. The smoke from the soldering iron was wafting up the left side of the man’s face, tangling with his black curly hair before rising to the small ceiling.
Outside the room two men waited, alternatively pacing the small room and staring out the window on the street below. Before the Great War and l'occupation this was a busy bakery, but the building had seen better days and the previous owners had long since fled. Henri slumped against the door after checking the street for the 15th time this last hour. There had thankfully not been any patrols in 2hrs, with most of the soldiers held up around the Kaisers’ hotel.
God I felt like a cigarette, my skin crawling with need. I did my best to ignore it, telling my self that not only would the light give our location away but more importantly, having an open flame in a bomb factory was probably not a good idea.
Henri sighs again and whispers “I heard they went across you know. They might have even made it.” “Who?” “The bakers” he states pointing at the tattered sign, “I heard they tried to get out in the last boats across to Tripoli. I wonder if they are providing bread for the President.”
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Huh, not a true believer then, just a French “patriot” looking to rid themselves of the Germans so that sorry excuse of an government in exile can return. Good to know.
“That would be something” I play along. The enemy of my enemy and all that. Besides, at least an incompetent French government was still better that this united “Europa” German government. At least the French government will stay out of peoples way, too caught up in the little things and corruption to help or hinder it’s citizens.
My smile fades quickly however as Henri paces to the window again. Today would be the day, the day to strike the match again on this powder keg of Europa, the first flame of the wild fire to spread across the continent, leaving behind a pristine landscape for the people without government interference. With luck the spreading flames will drag in the Soviets as well, putting an end to the edifice of communism as well.
I find my self in front of the door again, listening to the sound of small tools on metal. The Jeweller I was told to call him, the bomb maker. For all I know it might be true, it might be what he was in the past life, before the war.
Henri returns, slouching again against the door frame. The nerves are getting to him, getting to both of us.
Three of us in this cell, brought together by the man I know as Armand, but certainly not the only name he uses. One to make, one to guide and one to finish it. The Jeweller will make the bomb, Henri is to guide me in and out of the compound, and me, my name is Jean and I will be to end the rain of Wilhelm II in a shower of flame and force.