"V" is for Veronica

Paris

Citroens, Peugeot's, Mopeds and delivery trucks create such a soothing sound in the early morning that only those who live in a major Metropolis can appreciate, understand and love.

High above The Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in a Penthouse that has been owned by her family for the last one hundred years, Veronica lay with her sleeping husband, in a massive four post Victorian bed, on her back, lightly wrapped in a silk sheet, staring at the constant circling motion of the ceiling fan, listening and enjoying the early morning stir of her beloved city.

It was in this very room, surrounded by inlaid mahogany, rosewood, gold, marble and priceless artwork, that she and her "Frankie" first made passionate love. It was in this room, "Frankie" held her, loosing himself to her, bewitchery that he swore an undying love.

Veronica, takes a deep breath smelling the wonderful aroma of fresh bread from Marcel's, just across the street, thinking, there is nothing like the soothing aroma of fresh, baked dough in the wee hours of the morning, tickling the senses.

The morning sun peeks through the white linen curtains hanging, from the open patio door, followed by the soft, cool morning breeze that visits from the Seine, filling the room, softly caressing her naked body like the, intimate touch of a seductive lover.

Slowly, Veronica slides out of bed, running her hands through her waist length silver hair and walks through the blowing curtains, out onto the balcony, leaning on the iron rail, carefree, allowing the world to view he ageless beauty.

Westward an unobstructed view of The Arc de Triomphe, East the Eiffel Tower, North, Notre Dame and thirty yards away, Marcel's, the aroma of which causes her to take another deep breath.

She looks back through the flagging curtains smiling at her sleeping husband recalling the memories they made the night before, thinking of the way he made her feel by the way he looked and touched her.

Quietly, she walks back in and opens the washroom door that is not too far from the head of her sleeping lover and wrapping her hair in a bun, she leans over and draws hot water for a morning bath, briefly glancing over to a solid gold and silver flowered, Victorian vanity, catching the reflection of the un-aged woman.

The bottle of Jasmine and Lavender oil, she opens saturates the air with a smell reminiscent of days not too long ago, when she and her husband shared each other under starlit nights on the knolls of Grasse. One single drop of it, hitting the slow rising steaming water, magnifies the pleasant and intoxicating floral aroma, to the point of instant relaxation.

She turns the gold and onyx, cold and a hot knob, stopping the running water and lowers herself. The combination of the hot water and aroma causes a drifting off into thoughts of nothingness.

When she awakens, she washes with bar of Jasmine scented soap, rinses, lifts herself out of the porcelain tub and dries off.

Quietly, so as not to stir her beloved, she opens a walk-in closet, housing countless pants and dress suits given to her from Coco Channel as a gesture of thanks for saving her from the hands of the Nazi's during their occupation. Dresses, pants, shirts, all aligned the vault size closet as if arraigned by some department store employee.

She sits on a wood bench in the middle, towel wrapped around her, arms crossed, scanning the selection, thinking, confidently how she would look good in anything here, she smiles at her self-centered notion and stands, running her hand over the soft selection of exotic wools and silks.

As she exits, Francis awakes and looks at his beautiful wife floating about. He smiles, leans up resting his back on the Mahogany head board and watches the erotic vision unfold before his waking eyes.

Veronica throws a cream colored silk mini skirt and a black Casmir sweater on a Luis VIII chair, unties the towel that covered her body revealing her damp glistening skin. She unclamps the barrette that holds her hair up in a bun and as her silk like hair falls onto her body, clinging to her back and chest; Francis cannot help but sigh, at the picture coming, sharply into focus. Slowly he begins scanning Veronica's flawless skin up and down, something that even after all these years, he enjoys. The sight of her nude body, the subtleness of her erotic moving about the room, causes his heart to pound.

With her back turned towards him, she smiles and looks over her right shoulder, shooting a seductive grin. "Did I wake you?"

"Sort of, but its fine." He gestures for her. "Come here Ronnie."

She walks over and lies beside him, seductively looking deep into his eyes as he gently runs his hand up and down her soft skin, stopping to elicit a moan pleasure.

She moves on top of him, grabbing a handful of his burly chest hair and with her right, she guides him in her and slowly and deliberately begins moving back and forth. His eyes roll back in his skull, his mouth open, as she once again takes him to the highest level of ecstasy.

He leans forward and grabs her from the rear pulling her towards him, softly moaning, "God."

She leans down and kisses him on the neck, her hair covering their faces, their lips locking in a long passionate kiss. Francis slides down lower and begins kissing her chest, sucking gently for a few moments before arching his lower body upward, finishing in her.

She looks down at him flashing a wicked grin, before sliding between his legs, covering his wet shaft with her mouth. He tightly grabs her long silver mane as she slowly pulls off of him. She slides back up to his face and after kissing him on the neck, she stares at him. He stares back. The subtle scent of musk mixed with the gentle aroma of her Jasmine scented skin, fills Francis' nostrils as his heavy breathing slowly subsides.

Lost in her erotic nature, carried away by her beauty, Francis softly caresses her face and kisses her gently on the lips, breaking only to utter the words, "Damn, you are so beautiful."

Noticing the clothing on the chair, knowing that when in Paris together they barely leave this room, he looks at her curiously. "Where are you going?"

Every year, on their anniversary, Veronica says to herself that she will make a wonderful breakfast for her 'Frankie', only to come to the realization that in all the days they have been together, she has not lifted one finger in the kitchen. She cannot boil water an egg or even bake a box cake. Today would be different, though, she is going to make the effort. Secretly back in New York, she has been taking cooking lessons from, one of the most popular chefs in the city, and now filled with culinary confidence; she feels she can at least make a decent omelet.

"I'm going to the Bakery to pick up some bread, then to the meat market to get some things for breakfast."

Francis flashes a look at her, for in all the years of marriage to this beautiful, intelligent, erotic woman, he has never known her, to do any food shopping, not even for a gallon of milk.

He leans closer to her and runs his hands through her hair, looking her in the eyes, almost as if he were thinking of something pithy to say.

"Why are you doing that?"

"I'm making breakfast."

Hearing that string of words, Francis could not contain his laughter. It was as if she told him a hilarious joke.

Veronica slides off the bed and finishes dressing, while looking at his uncontrolled hysteria.

"Why are you laughing?"

Trying to contain himself he leans forward and after a few seconds he looks over to his wife.

"Ronnie, I love you, you know that, but...you..."

She looks at him waiting for an acceptable answer. From the look on her face, he knows that he needs to quickly make amends, or at least be diplomatic.

Veronica stands and straitens her short skirt and pulls her hair into a pony tail before sitting on the side of the bed, at which time she leans on his chest and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek, all the while, looking at him slyly like she had some kind of ace card ready to be pulled out at any given moment.

"You don't think I can do it? You don't think I can be domestic?" She says staring at him through her almost, unnatural blue eyes causing him to melt in the very spot he is in. Francis has lost himself, countless times over the many years when she shoots him that look, a look that tells him she will always have the upper hand in any situation.

When given that look, Francis nervously licks his lips and tries to speak intelligently back to her, but his word end up being a jumble spew of confusion. He closes his eyes and sighs, opening them back to see that piecing look, digging deep into soul.

"Ronnie, there are many things that you are just superb at...cooking is just not one of them. Give me a half hour and we'll go to the George V for breakfast."

"No. No Frankie, I am making breakfast this morning and I am not going to argue with you about it, and that is final."

In all the years of being married to Veronica, Francis knew one thing; never argue with her, when she's made up her mind about something.

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders and sighs. "Okay. I'll be waiting."

"I'll be back in about an hour."

"I'll make the coffee."

Veronica slowly walks out the room leaving her husband behind, smiling shaking her head, thinking, when, will he ever learn.

"God I love that woman." Francis mumbles.

Francis looks over to the dresser and picks up his phone book, scanning through the many names, stopping at the letter 'C'. He presses a name and after a few rings a man answers.

"Hello." The voice on the other end says.

"Hey, what did want to talk to me about?"

"Do you have a few minutes? Can I come over?"

"Yeah, Ronnie has gone food shopping; she's making breakfast this morning."

"Your wife, Ronnie? Making breakfast?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. She'll be away for about an hour, so if you want to talk, now is the best time."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

Shortly thereafter, Archie Carlisle and Francis sit sipping on very strong freshly ground French roast coffee on the balcony. After taking a long sip, Archie puts his cup on the saucer, crosses his legs and looks very seriously at Francis. He sighs and bits his lower lip.

"What?" Francis says.

"We got a problem Frankie."

"What kind of problem?"

"We have a mole."

"Where? Who?"

"Within your section. Someone has been selling names of our operatives to the Chinese. Five agents have been killed."

"Where?"

"Johnson in Kuala Lumpur, Hampton in Hong Kong, Scotts in Manila, Fitzgerald in Australia and Henry in Hawaii. All deaths made to look like accidents."

"Made to look like accidents? What do you mean?"

"These were top agents. Experienced agents, that don't have accidents, but as far as the news media knows, they died from accidental drowning, falls etc."

"This is my section, why was I not notified?"

"The less you knew the better."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It appears whoever killed these men are after one person."

"Who?"

"You. The news is out Frankie you are control."

"How could anyone possible know that?"

"When you think about it...it is quite obvious."

Francis sighs. "I guess we are getting sloppy in our old age, my friend." Francis takes another sip of his coffee. "Why would they kill my agents?"

"We suspect they were tortured, before dying, although there is no physical proof of that. But this we do know, they all talked, spilled their guts."

"I don't believe that, no way!"

"We have a double agent in Chinese Intel that says they now have information about operations that could only have been attained through agents who knew."

"Who sold them out?"

"We have narrowed it down to two. Green, who is here in Paris and Stiles."

"Stiles who?"

"Jonny."

"You mean, my second in command?"

"Yes."

"Why those two."

"Green is debt to the Russian Mafia due to some gabling problems and Stiles, we've found has a Swiss account, flush with two million plus. And you know, Frankie, when an agent becomes flush with money that means one thing."

Francis sighs deeply and shakes his head not wanting to come to the forgone conclusion.

"So, what now?" Francis asks.

"Well, in order to flush him out and to protect your family, one thing needs to happen."

"What?"

"You need to die."

"What are you going to kill me?"

"Something, like that."

Veronica sits, staring at Francis as he takes a bite of a feta cheese omelet she prepared. With both arms on the table, hands holding up her head, waiting for the verdict. Francis, blow the hot piece of egg dripping in fresh goat cheese, and slowly taste. She flashes a grin of satisfaction as he nods his head up and down. Suddenly, the smile of approval she has hoped for.

"Wow!"

"It's good? It's okay? You like?"

"This is wonderful Ronnie, this is really good. I am impressed."

Veronica leans back in her chair and lets out a sigh of relief and joy that for the first time she's accomplished something so simple, but yet so difficult.

Francis cut a piece and feeds it to her. She takes a bite and taste the flavors exploding in her mouth.

"Oh, Damn! That is good."

Giddy, of her accomplishment, Veronica leans over and places a kiss on her husband's cheek.

"26 years and I finally learned how to cook an egg."

"I'd still love you whether you can cook or not."

Francis finishes his meal and leans back in his chair, satisfied. Veronica moves over to him, sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around him holding him tight.

Looking at his watch, Francis glances at Veronica as he stands. "If we are going to make it to after noon Mass, we better get going."

Francis and Veronica Edmonds were far from practicing Catholic. As a matter of fact, they weren't Catholics. They're not even religious. Spiritual? Maybe, but far from being people of god.

Paris, 1945, OSS (Office of Strategic Services) International Counter Espionage Division.

Through the thick loom of smoke rising from freshly bombed buildings and exhaust from the military transport vehicles patrolling the streets, there was still an allure of the Paris that once inspired great artist, musicians, writers and painters alike. Many of the world famous landmarks still stood, but the most important thing the Germans left behind was, the resilience of the Parisians and their Allies.

Despite the threat of another bombing by German long-range planes, there's a sense of normalcy, yet, a specter loomed over the liberation that sparked a new fight.

Paris played an important role for dispensing orders and directives to the front lines. One way of doing this was by using heavily encrypted messages in the pages of the New York Tribune, The London Tribune, The Chicago Times, The International Herald in Paris, Corriere Della Sera in Milan Italy, all newspapers read religiously by the troops and officers across the battle fields.

The news organization that operated, and Published these important window to the world, was the World International Press, owned by the Edmonds Family.

It was a twenty year old Francis Edmonds III that was assigned by his family and the O.S.S. to set up a Global network to send out top secret directives and orders that was simple for the allies to decipher quickly and complex enough to go unnoticed by the enemies.

Francis was universally liked and respected by some of the most war harden soldiers of the frontline, mainly; he chose to be here, fighting hand and hand with his fellow countryman. Because of his family's stature in the political arena that he did not have to be on the frontlines, but upon graduating from Yale, in 1943, he knew what he had to do as a lover of freedom and democracy.

Sitting at his desk, sifting through the latest batch of orders to be encrypted and published, Francis is has a visitor from the highest rank pay him a visit.

This particular OSS field office was staffed by thirty intelligence officers all with covers of reporters and editors of the various news agencies reporting on the war, and all in this unit were considered to be the brightest the Allied Forces have in the fight in the intellectual war.

The Commander of the Allied Forces enters and at once Francis stands in attention, nervous.

"Sir, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

Commander Smithers a tall slender man that has a sickening pale complexion, unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat in the chair across from Francis and begins speaking in a thick, almost un-understandable. Francis cannot help but stare at his mouth, full of rotten teeth as he finds the words to begin the conversation.

"Right. We have a new assignment for you chap."

Always eager to serve and to accept anything coming his way, Francis looks back at the Commander and flashes a cordial smile.

"Of course, whatever is needed of me, you and all others know I am here to assist."

"That is the type of attitude we like. That is why everyone respects you Francis."

Most Military personnel who visited this office did so under the cloak of night, so as not to be noticed by the many Nazi spies that still dotted the Paris landscape, so for a top ranking Officer, to pay a visit in the middle of the day, meant one thing, something big is at hand.

"As you know, we are now fighting the war on a different battlefield now. The air, and I'm not talking about bombers or fighter planes; I'm talking about the radio and shortwave transmitting."

"I am aware of that sir."

"And you and your little staff her are doing a bloody hell of a job intercepting enemy codes and the like. But we now have reason to believe that the Nazi's have a code they are using to communicate with each other, that our boys on the front lines have not been able to break...until now."

Francis perks up in his chair and with a childish eagerness leans over the desk looking directly into the withered teeth of the Commander.

"What is it?"

Francis and his staff, always enjoyed using the latest technology in the war, so for the Allies to have something in their vast arsenal that can make the jobs of this band of highly classified cryptographers easier, he was more than willing to do whatever was necessary

Commander Smithers senses Francis eagerness, gently smiles and leans back in his chair crossing his arms.

"They are calling it the 'Black Cipher'."

"Sounds interesting. What does it do?"

"It can break any encrypted code, in ten languages, in less than thirty seconds."

"Amazing! What type of technology is this? French? Italian? English?"

"It's American, if you can believe that."

"Our boys have done it? This is outstanding! When do I get to see it?"

"Soon. You will be the guardian of it, if it falls into the hands of the enemies, we are sure to loose our fight on the intelligence front."

"Of course, you have my complete guardianship."

"We know."

The Commander nods at his staff sergeant and few seconds later, he arrives with a young blond haired girl. Francis is so concerned about the news, he hadn't time to even acknowledge the girl.

"How big is it? How much does it weigh? Is it portable?"

"You will now find out Francis."

Walking back into the room with the Staff Sergeant is a very young girl. Francis is so excited to examine this new piece of technology, that he doesn't even notice the girl.

"Where is it? Where is this 'Black Cipher'?

"I-Am-the 'Black Cipher'."

Francis looks confused. "I don't understand sir. I thought that this...thing...this decoder was some sort of machine."

"You misunderstood. Or you didn't listen." The girl says.

"Sir. I am an Intelligence Officer; I have no time to babysit a child."

"I am NOT, a child!"

"SIR!"

"Francis, she is your new assignment. You must protect her at all cost. There is no negotiating this. This is a direct order from the highest level. Do you understand?"