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Alexander nervously sat at the desk in his Athens palace's office. The Russians, while good freinds, had been giving him a serious run for his money, and since the space race had heated up, he began to resent his meetings with Catherine.
"Alexander! I have come to you for some deals. We have begun lagging behind you in tech, and very much so need these. What may I trade you for such accomodations?".
Alexander pushed his glasses up his nose and tried to stop shaking. He had to stand up to Catherine to finish ahead of her in the space race, despite her 11 ICBMs.
"I'm sorry Catherine, but we can't accomodate any such accomodations," Alexander smiled on his play on words and stopped smiling when Catherine gave him a cold stare. "Your transitionist economy simply can't accomodate us accomodating such accomodations". Catherine's formerly cheerful smily turned to a look of mixed anger and confusion. At least Alexander had lost her in his words. "You see, you just simply don't have anything we want. Since you have just recently switched from Democracy to Communism, which I applaud, your treasury does not hold half of what would be neccessary. My interests favor the Greek people over the Russian people. You understand, don't you, friend Catherine?"
Catherine quickly turned cheerlful. She realized that the Greco-Russian friendship, though falsified, kept the world in a balance and also kept her safe from Greek ICBMs and their tactical nukes. "Of course I do. However, once we get the money, we'll send it, and I expect to get the technologies."
Alexander became nervous again. His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up again.
"Of course, Catherine. If you ever get the funds."
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The Greco-Russian military stalemate had resulted in a technological and economical Cold War between the two. After a division among England, Greece, and Russia of the Iroquois continent, there was a military buildup in both the countries. The former communist and democratic sub-enemies (though both were now communist) waged a war of espionage and funding for the last 20 years. While Alexander had good taps on Russia's close ally, England, the Russians couldn't get a hold on either Greek or French information. With the seperation of the Iriquois, Romans, Germans, and Egyptians, only 4 powers remained with Greece controlling a Western continent and most of the islands.
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In a summit between Catherine and Elizabeth in the Northwestern Muscovite mountains, they "negotiated a mutual defence pact".
"Ah, Catherine! How may I be of service to England's ally?"
"Elizabeth, drop it. I didn't invite you to the freezing North for pleasentries. The Greeks are getting leagues ahead in the tech race--they have computers, lasers, recycling plants, research labs--if we can't catch up to them now, we'll _never_ catch up to them. Problem is, the Greek spies are too slippery for me to get my hands on them in Moscow. They've even infiltrated London."
Elizabeth snorted. "There are no spies in London, that I can guarantee! The Greeks wouldn't try to impede on the royal English gates--" Catherine shoved a document in Elizabeth's face--"Oh, I, erm, see. THEY _STOLE_ SUPERCONDUCTOR FROM US?!" Catherine looked smugly at Elizabeth in her naivety. "Elizabeth, what we need to do is get our hands on the French. Joan is Alexander's protege, and he treats her like a child, giving her technology like candy. My spies investigated Paris, and they have no intelligence agency. Our agents will move undetected".
Elizabeth stood there, amazed at Catherine's cleverness. "What are you? Obsessed? It's scary".
"Yes, well, whatever--now sign this mutual defence pact so we have an excuse for meeting here. Alexander will never know, and the French will never catch us. At any rate, what should we worry? They have four cities, for gods' sakes. Now just sign, and let's get moving".
Next chapter: Fiasco or Future Tech in Paris
Moscow, Rusisia--November 23, 1952--8:56 A.M. local time.
Catherine called in her KGB head of office, Felix Kerensky. Kerensky was an experienced but quiet man; 36 years in the KGB had resulted in a socially excluded person of intellectual sorts. He always wore the same black suit with his sickle-and-hammer crimson tie, but that was as far as his communist allegiance went. He had faired far better under the Russian democracy, and disliked the new attitude of the state, and the space and technological races that devastated the Russian economy. With their army (though the largest in the world) quickly becoming outdated and giving way to nuclear technologies, the intelligence agency had played a far more major role, and Kerensky had become Catherine's right-hand man.
Krensky saluted Catherine as he entered her Cityscape office. The weather outside was chilly, late November had begun to set in. 1952 was supposed to be the warmest winter in Moscow history, but both Kerensky and Catherine resented it. The cold meant more money for armies, and less money for technology and space parts, which spelled more falling behind. The Greeks, able to move their industries to the Southern Roman homelands, would not suffer the same fate as Russia, since 90% of Russian industry was located in the icy former German cities of Hamburg, Frankfurt, Cologne & Berlin.
Catherine saluted to Kerensky, and returned to stirring her French coffee. Kerensky prepared for a verbal bashing on his agents failure in Athens; They had been arrested while Catherine was on "holiday". Instead, Catherine seemed warm and caring. "Comrade, I have some serious obligations I need you to fulfill. It is a necessity that we should act in Paris for technologies. As you know, our economy is no match for the Greek, so we have planned to steal technologies from the French, in Paris, with the association of English special ops. I need you to organize and plan this. Get your best agents, comrade. Our nation depends on it."
Kerensky, though disagreeing, kept to himself. Hell, the job payed well, why risk it--Catherine would keep him on so long as he did what she said, and no one had been in the KGB for over 35 years except him.
"As you wish, comrade. I'll get Joshifensky on the case".
"Good man".
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Athens, Greece--November 26, 1952--12:22 P.M. local time.
Alexander had invited Joan d'Arc to a Greek spa, BeauGreek, in Athens. God knows the woman needed it, especially with her insistency on fighting in & training for the front lines. Alexander's wife had gone to the BeauGreek for years past now. He had agreed to take Joan there after she arranged it with her over the satellite phone. Alexander resented it, but went along with it.
The planned to meet in front of the Greek politburo building, which stood in the shadow of Alexander's magnificent palace, at 12:45. Alexander had gotten done early and decided to go outside for a cigarette.
Athens was a busy city, rather unaffected by winter and its small population. Athens was the trading capitol of the world, and you saw the multinationalites of the Greek empire all converge into one beautiful city. While only having a population of 2.5 million (as compared to 6 million man Moscow), it was remarkably developed and clean. Joan d'Arc loved it here, especially in the fall, where the leaves turned colors and stayed on the trees longer than any other place in the world. The Greek flag was hung prominently on the front of the politburo, and it swayed gently in the wind.
Alexander stood there amazed. This was only a fraction of his creation, his family's millennia-old work. To think such a thing could be created and owned by a single man. It boggled his mind.
Joan D'Arc arrived, and the shook hands. They quickly left for the spa, and would spend the entire time discussing the Russians. Alexander loathed such things.
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Paris, France--December 2, 1952--10:42 P.M local time
Joan d'Arc was painfully aware of her nation's weakness. She looked down at the main street of Paris from her army headquaters; all the tanks in the armee wouldn't make up half the traffic on the road. such were the faults of democracy.
A gentle knocking was made on the door. Joan d'Arc snapped away from her pity party.
"Come in," she said quietly.
In stepped her intelligence chief. Their intelligence operation had been completely under wraps; not even the citizens of France knew of it.
"Bonjour, Mon ami. You were thinking pretty hard, eh?"
"Yes, yes...anyways, what have you come to see me about, Couplain?"
"Our informant in Moscow has given us information about an operation. It turns out the Russians and English have an entire intelligence undergroun running in Paris as we speak".
Joan d'Arc, still disheartened by thinking of her nation's faults, smiled weakly.
"Make sure Alexander knows about this. I know our informant wouldn't want another communist power knowing, but this is too important".
"Oui, Madamoiselle. I shall contact the radiomen immediately.
Couplain stepped out the door, and Joan returned to looking down at Main street.
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Majenour (a suburb of Paris), France--December 2, 1952--12:03 A.M. local time.
Yuri Joshifensky was going to lead the Russian part of the special ops. They were going to place a man inside the palace, possibly as a cook of sorts; Joan d'Arc was well known for her extravagant banquets and great meals. It was the one area for France where no other nation could compare.
Yuri's counterpart, English lieutenant John Comwell, would also be helping the operation. The irony of it all was that they were meeting at a suburb resturant for cooking lessons. All in the sake of communism. Joshifensky had laughed in Kerensky's face when he had told him his first objective was to train his crew in French cooking.
While Yuri and John rarely spoke, there was a certain understanding between the communist and the democrat. They were both experienced, and both knew what they were doing, and as such they left eachother alone.
What they did not know, however, was that back in the Paris headquaters, French intelligence authorities were investigating. When they returned, they had no idea what had happened there.
They were being weaved in to a trap by something they did not even know about.
Whoops...forgot to give a name to the chapter. Oh well. This will be simply called, "The Next Chapter".
Paris, France--December 3, 1952--9:33 A.M. local time
Alexander again prepared for a meeting with Joan. This time it was under special circumstances--the radiomen had told Alexander of the Anglo-Russian operation in the midst, and as such, they had planned an immediate meeting. The truth was, Alexander was getting rather tired of the intelligence war going on, despite the English and French vulnerability. But he finally had the Russians in a firm hold. Catherine would be cornered and he would win the U.N. elections...either that, or, he could get the spaceship. At any rate, everything was good.
As Alexander walked down the carpeted hallways of the Parisian government complex, he noticed the fine art and he could smell a great brunch that Joan must have been preparing for all night. If there was one thing the French were specialized in, it was their national identity. Every Frenchman knew damn well he was French, and was damn proud of it.
Alexander creaked open the door to Joan's office. She had made quite a habit of looking at Main street...she always seemed to see something the men of her country could not. In every case, she was always a step ahead, even if her nation wasn't.
She quickly turned around. She and Alexander had met many times, but she was so absorbed in her thinking that she did not at first recognize him.
"Come in, come in, have a seat," Joan said quietly. Alexander sat himself in one of the two leather chairs that sit in front of Joan's maple desk. Her walls were plastered with diplomas and pictures of military operations, even the one where the French lost three quarters of their land to the Russians, over 700 years ago. These lands were firmly Russophied, and she resented the loss of them. Her back wall, opposite the door, was made purely of glass pannels, which she had adorned with a rather large French flag.
After a moment, Couplain sneaked in the door and sat down next to Alexander with a simple nod to Joan.
"Alexander, dearest, we have caught Russian and English special and secret ops agents in Majenour. We thought it would be in our best interests to let the do their work, as we don't yet know what their work is, and catch them red handed at the last moment".
Alexander leaned back in his chair with an unusual quietness. He looked at her strangely, and let out a heavy sigh.
"You dragged me all the way across the world, just for this?," Joan seemed astounded by his apathy. "You could have radioed me the details, rather than take me to this stuffy capitalist office of yours and tell me all you're going to do is let it go on".
Joan seemed slightly angered by his reply, but realized the importance of their relationship.
"I also thought we might discuss and operation in London to counter this. The English have the worst spies I've ever heard of--" she thought of the incident where they had literally done their entire operation in front of a parliament security camera--"It should be fairly easy with your spies' expertise, and mine could give information on their plans from the Anglo-Russian covert ops base in Majenour."
Alexander leaned back in his chair. Joan never failed to surprise him. In her moments of seemingly obvious stupidity, she would always come back with a flash of brilliance.
They agreed. After the meeting was over, Joan again looked out her glass panels on the back side of her office. She saw Main street, the tiny French cars (since they had to import it from those greedy Russian communists), but something different. A man with borwnish-red hair and dark eyes stood looking up at her office, unflinching. As they realized that they were looking straight at each other, the man raised a pistol out of his right breast pocket of his leather jacket, and fired.
Next chapter: The life or death of Joan d'Arc.
Paris, France--December 3, 1952--9:38 A.M. local time
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Alexander stopped in his tracks when he heard a loud bang and glass shatter. He knew a window had broken, but he never expected it to be Joan's entire office wall.
As Couplain had just left the office, he knew that the shot had come from Joan's. He quickley turned and blew open the mahogany door. He didn't see Joan anywhere; there was glass shattered across the white carpeted floors, and some rest on top of Joan's desk. Everything but the shattered glass remained untouched.
the wind gusted directly into the office. Couplain heard distanced screams, whistleas, and sirens (he was on the 43rd floor). As he slowly crept towards the desk, he looked over and saw Joan. She had glass on her body and cuts on her face from it, and the blood from her shoulder where she had been shot was spilling on to the floor.
Couplain couldn't tell if she was breathing or not, but he picked her up. He got blood on his navy-blue cavalry suit and trudged her out of the shattered office--she was rather muscular, after all.
Alexander peeked through the door, and Couplain shoved him out of the way. A small handprint of Joan's blood was on his shoulder.
Already the medical staff was on their way up the elevator. They decided to try and serve her on the 43rd floor, but despite their efforts, the bleeding wouldn't stop. They went down the elevator with Joan in a stretcher and loaded her up into an ambulance headed for the Paris hospital.
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Moscow, Russia--December 3, 1952--9:47 A.M. local time
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Kerensky walked in to Catherine's office. He had, for once, not worn his usual red sickle and hammer tie today; instead, he wore a plain blue tie.
Kerensky saluted Catherine and read from an emergency comminique.
"Paris to Moscow; urgent; 9:40 A.M.:
"In a dramatic and sad turn of events, President Joan d'Arc has been shot by an appearant French Communist. She is as of yet not dead, but is in critical condition. All countries shall be kept informed."
Kerensky looked up with his tired old eyes at Catherine. The grey-blue eyes looked at her with conviction and guilt. Catherine simply leaned back in her chair and looked back apathetically.
"Did you have anything to do with this?," Kerensky convicted.
Catherine leaned forward in her chair. "I didn't tell Joshifensky to shoot her. I told him to get Joan, and for that matter, Couplain, out of our way. It seems he is 50% successful."
Kerensky was absolutely disgusted with Catherine. He was tempted to quit--but, he had to stay on--for Democracy's sake.
"I am not one to judge my chairman's actions. I simply came to show you the communique. Good day, Comrade."
"Good day".
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Moscow, Russia--December 4, 1952--12:30 A.M. local time.
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Kerensky had hooked up a telegraph in the broom closet of his Moscow apartment; it was all the upper-class Russian could afford.
He had it in his broom closet to keep it hidden from the authorities. If the KGB ever got wind of his operation, he would have been sent to a German detention camp, end of story.
He slowly tapped the reciever not to make any noise. The TV was on, but any high-ranking official would have been twice as worried if Kerensky had not been so strong a believer in democracy.
Moscow to Paris; 12:30 A.M.;
Catherine linked to killings; Joshifensky mastermind; Couplain in danger. Check Majenour ops base.
End transmission.
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"Alexander! I have come to you for some deals. We have begun lagging behind you in tech, and very much so need these. What may I trade you for such accomodations?".
Alexander pushed his glasses up his nose and tried to stop shaking. He had to stand up to Catherine to finish ahead of her in the space race, despite her 11 ICBMs.
"I'm sorry Catherine, but we can't accomodate any such accomodations," Alexander smiled on his play on words and stopped smiling when Catherine gave him a cold stare. "Your transitionist economy simply can't accomodate us accomodating such accomodations". Catherine's formerly cheerful smily turned to a look of mixed anger and confusion. At least Alexander had lost her in his words. "You see, you just simply don't have anything we want. Since you have just recently switched from Democracy to Communism, which I applaud, your treasury does not hold half of what would be neccessary. My interests favor the Greek people over the Russian people. You understand, don't you, friend Catherine?"
Catherine quickly turned cheerlful. She realized that the Greco-Russian friendship, though falsified, kept the world in a balance and also kept her safe from Greek ICBMs and their tactical nukes. "Of course I do. However, once we get the money, we'll send it, and I expect to get the technologies."
Alexander became nervous again. His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up again.
"Of course, Catherine. If you ever get the funds."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The Greco-Russian military stalemate had resulted in a technological and economical Cold War between the two. After a division among England, Greece, and Russia of the Iroquois continent, there was a military buildup in both the countries. The former communist and democratic sub-enemies (though both were now communist) waged a war of espionage and funding for the last 20 years. While Alexander had good taps on Russia's close ally, England, the Russians couldn't get a hold on either Greek or French information. With the seperation of the Iriquois, Romans, Germans, and Egyptians, only 4 powers remained with Greece controlling a Western continent and most of the islands.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
In a summit between Catherine and Elizabeth in the Northwestern Muscovite mountains, they "negotiated a mutual defence pact".
"Ah, Catherine! How may I be of service to England's ally?"
"Elizabeth, drop it. I didn't invite you to the freezing North for pleasentries. The Greeks are getting leagues ahead in the tech race--they have computers, lasers, recycling plants, research labs--if we can't catch up to them now, we'll _never_ catch up to them. Problem is, the Greek spies are too slippery for me to get my hands on them in Moscow. They've even infiltrated London."
Elizabeth snorted. "There are no spies in London, that I can guarantee! The Greeks wouldn't try to impede on the royal English gates--" Catherine shoved a document in Elizabeth's face--"Oh, I, erm, see. THEY _STOLE_ SUPERCONDUCTOR FROM US?!" Catherine looked smugly at Elizabeth in her naivety. "Elizabeth, what we need to do is get our hands on the French. Joan is Alexander's protege, and he treats her like a child, giving her technology like candy. My spies investigated Paris, and they have no intelligence agency. Our agents will move undetected".
Elizabeth stood there, amazed at Catherine's cleverness. "What are you? Obsessed? It's scary".
"Yes, well, whatever--now sign this mutual defence pact so we have an excuse for meeting here. Alexander will never know, and the French will never catch us. At any rate, what should we worry? They have four cities, for gods' sakes. Now just sign, and let's get moving".
Next chapter: Fiasco or Future Tech in Paris
Moscow, Rusisia--November 23, 1952--8:56 A.M. local time.
Catherine called in her KGB head of office, Felix Kerensky. Kerensky was an experienced but quiet man; 36 years in the KGB had resulted in a socially excluded person of intellectual sorts. He always wore the same black suit with his sickle-and-hammer crimson tie, but that was as far as his communist allegiance went. He had faired far better under the Russian democracy, and disliked the new attitude of the state, and the space and technological races that devastated the Russian economy. With their army (though the largest in the world) quickly becoming outdated and giving way to nuclear technologies, the intelligence agency had played a far more major role, and Kerensky had become Catherine's right-hand man.
Krensky saluted Catherine as he entered her Cityscape office. The weather outside was chilly, late November had begun to set in. 1952 was supposed to be the warmest winter in Moscow history, but both Kerensky and Catherine resented it. The cold meant more money for armies, and less money for technology and space parts, which spelled more falling behind. The Greeks, able to move their industries to the Southern Roman homelands, would not suffer the same fate as Russia, since 90% of Russian industry was located in the icy former German cities of Hamburg, Frankfurt, Cologne & Berlin.
Catherine saluted to Kerensky, and returned to stirring her French coffee. Kerensky prepared for a verbal bashing on his agents failure in Athens; They had been arrested while Catherine was on "holiday". Instead, Catherine seemed warm and caring. "Comrade, I have some serious obligations I need you to fulfill. It is a necessity that we should act in Paris for technologies. As you know, our economy is no match for the Greek, so we have planned to steal technologies from the French, in Paris, with the association of English special ops. I need you to organize and plan this. Get your best agents, comrade. Our nation depends on it."
Kerensky, though disagreeing, kept to himself. Hell, the job payed well, why risk it--Catherine would keep him on so long as he did what she said, and no one had been in the KGB for over 35 years except him.
"As you wish, comrade. I'll get Joshifensky on the case".
"Good man".
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Athens, Greece--November 26, 1952--12:22 P.M. local time.
Alexander had invited Joan d'Arc to a Greek spa, BeauGreek, in Athens. God knows the woman needed it, especially with her insistency on fighting in & training for the front lines. Alexander's wife had gone to the BeauGreek for years past now. He had agreed to take Joan there after she arranged it with her over the satellite phone. Alexander resented it, but went along with it.
The planned to meet in front of the Greek politburo building, which stood in the shadow of Alexander's magnificent palace, at 12:45. Alexander had gotten done early and decided to go outside for a cigarette.
Athens was a busy city, rather unaffected by winter and its small population. Athens was the trading capitol of the world, and you saw the multinationalites of the Greek empire all converge into one beautiful city. While only having a population of 2.5 million (as compared to 6 million man Moscow), it was remarkably developed and clean. Joan d'Arc loved it here, especially in the fall, where the leaves turned colors and stayed on the trees longer than any other place in the world. The Greek flag was hung prominently on the front of the politburo, and it swayed gently in the wind.
Alexander stood there amazed. This was only a fraction of his creation, his family's millennia-old work. To think such a thing could be created and owned by a single man. It boggled his mind.
Joan D'Arc arrived, and the shook hands. They quickly left for the spa, and would spend the entire time discussing the Russians. Alexander loathed such things.
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Paris, France--December 2, 1952--10:42 P.M local time
Joan d'Arc was painfully aware of her nation's weakness. She looked down at the main street of Paris from her army headquaters; all the tanks in the armee wouldn't make up half the traffic on the road. such were the faults of democracy.
A gentle knocking was made on the door. Joan d'Arc snapped away from her pity party.
"Come in," she said quietly.
In stepped her intelligence chief. Their intelligence operation had been completely under wraps; not even the citizens of France knew of it.
"Bonjour, Mon ami. You were thinking pretty hard, eh?"
"Yes, yes...anyways, what have you come to see me about, Couplain?"
"Our informant in Moscow has given us information about an operation. It turns out the Russians and English have an entire intelligence undergroun running in Paris as we speak".
Joan d'Arc, still disheartened by thinking of her nation's faults, smiled weakly.
"Make sure Alexander knows about this. I know our informant wouldn't want another communist power knowing, but this is too important".
"Oui, Madamoiselle. I shall contact the radiomen immediately.
Couplain stepped out the door, and Joan returned to looking down at Main street.
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Majenour (a suburb of Paris), France--December 2, 1952--12:03 A.M. local time.
Yuri Joshifensky was going to lead the Russian part of the special ops. They were going to place a man inside the palace, possibly as a cook of sorts; Joan d'Arc was well known for her extravagant banquets and great meals. It was the one area for France where no other nation could compare.
Yuri's counterpart, English lieutenant John Comwell, would also be helping the operation. The irony of it all was that they were meeting at a suburb resturant for cooking lessons. All in the sake of communism. Joshifensky had laughed in Kerensky's face when he had told him his first objective was to train his crew in French cooking.
While Yuri and John rarely spoke, there was a certain understanding between the communist and the democrat. They were both experienced, and both knew what they were doing, and as such they left eachother alone.
What they did not know, however, was that back in the Paris headquaters, French intelligence authorities were investigating. When they returned, they had no idea what had happened there.
They were being weaved in to a trap by something they did not even know about.
Whoops...forgot to give a name to the chapter. Oh well. This will be simply called, "The Next Chapter".
Paris, France--December 3, 1952--9:33 A.M. local time
Alexander again prepared for a meeting with Joan. This time it was under special circumstances--the radiomen had told Alexander of the Anglo-Russian operation in the midst, and as such, they had planned an immediate meeting. The truth was, Alexander was getting rather tired of the intelligence war going on, despite the English and French vulnerability. But he finally had the Russians in a firm hold. Catherine would be cornered and he would win the U.N. elections...either that, or, he could get the spaceship. At any rate, everything was good.
As Alexander walked down the carpeted hallways of the Parisian government complex, he noticed the fine art and he could smell a great brunch that Joan must have been preparing for all night. If there was one thing the French were specialized in, it was their national identity. Every Frenchman knew damn well he was French, and was damn proud of it.
Alexander creaked open the door to Joan's office. She had made quite a habit of looking at Main street...she always seemed to see something the men of her country could not. In every case, she was always a step ahead, even if her nation wasn't.
She quickly turned around. She and Alexander had met many times, but she was so absorbed in her thinking that she did not at first recognize him.
"Come in, come in, have a seat," Joan said quietly. Alexander sat himself in one of the two leather chairs that sit in front of Joan's maple desk. Her walls were plastered with diplomas and pictures of military operations, even the one where the French lost three quarters of their land to the Russians, over 700 years ago. These lands were firmly Russophied, and she resented the loss of them. Her back wall, opposite the door, was made purely of glass pannels, which she had adorned with a rather large French flag.
After a moment, Couplain sneaked in the door and sat down next to Alexander with a simple nod to Joan.
"Alexander, dearest, we have caught Russian and English special and secret ops agents in Majenour. We thought it would be in our best interests to let the do their work, as we don't yet know what their work is, and catch them red handed at the last moment".
Alexander leaned back in his chair with an unusual quietness. He looked at her strangely, and let out a heavy sigh.
"You dragged me all the way across the world, just for this?," Joan seemed astounded by his apathy. "You could have radioed me the details, rather than take me to this stuffy capitalist office of yours and tell me all you're going to do is let it go on".
Joan seemed slightly angered by his reply, but realized the importance of their relationship.
"I also thought we might discuss and operation in London to counter this. The English have the worst spies I've ever heard of--" she thought of the incident where they had literally done their entire operation in front of a parliament security camera--"It should be fairly easy with your spies' expertise, and mine could give information on their plans from the Anglo-Russian covert ops base in Majenour."
Alexander leaned back in his chair. Joan never failed to surprise him. In her moments of seemingly obvious stupidity, she would always come back with a flash of brilliance.
They agreed. After the meeting was over, Joan again looked out her glass panels on the back side of her office. She saw Main street, the tiny French cars (since they had to import it from those greedy Russian communists), but something different. A man with borwnish-red hair and dark eyes stood looking up at her office, unflinching. As they realized that they were looking straight at each other, the man raised a pistol out of his right breast pocket of his leather jacket, and fired.
Next chapter: The life or death of Joan d'Arc.
Paris, France--December 3, 1952--9:38 A.M. local time
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Alexander stopped in his tracks when he heard a loud bang and glass shatter. He knew a window had broken, but he never expected it to be Joan's entire office wall.
As Couplain had just left the office, he knew that the shot had come from Joan's. He quickley turned and blew open the mahogany door. He didn't see Joan anywhere; there was glass shattered across the white carpeted floors, and some rest on top of Joan's desk. Everything but the shattered glass remained untouched.
the wind gusted directly into the office. Couplain heard distanced screams, whistleas, and sirens (he was on the 43rd floor). As he slowly crept towards the desk, he looked over and saw Joan. She had glass on her body and cuts on her face from it, and the blood from her shoulder where she had been shot was spilling on to the floor.
Couplain couldn't tell if she was breathing or not, but he picked her up. He got blood on his navy-blue cavalry suit and trudged her out of the shattered office--she was rather muscular, after all.
Alexander peeked through the door, and Couplain shoved him out of the way. A small handprint of Joan's blood was on his shoulder.
Already the medical staff was on their way up the elevator. They decided to try and serve her on the 43rd floor, but despite their efforts, the bleeding wouldn't stop. They went down the elevator with Joan in a stretcher and loaded her up into an ambulance headed for the Paris hospital.
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Moscow, Russia--December 3, 1952--9:47 A.M. local time
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kerensky walked in to Catherine's office. He had, for once, not worn his usual red sickle and hammer tie today; instead, he wore a plain blue tie.
Kerensky saluted Catherine and read from an emergency comminique.
"Paris to Moscow; urgent; 9:40 A.M.:
"In a dramatic and sad turn of events, President Joan d'Arc has been shot by an appearant French Communist. She is as of yet not dead, but is in critical condition. All countries shall be kept informed."
Kerensky looked up with his tired old eyes at Catherine. The grey-blue eyes looked at her with conviction and guilt. Catherine simply leaned back in her chair and looked back apathetically.
"Did you have anything to do with this?," Kerensky convicted.
Catherine leaned forward in her chair. "I didn't tell Joshifensky to shoot her. I told him to get Joan, and for that matter, Couplain, out of our way. It seems he is 50% successful."
Kerensky was absolutely disgusted with Catherine. He was tempted to quit--but, he had to stay on--for Democracy's sake.
"I am not one to judge my chairman's actions. I simply came to show you the communique. Good day, Comrade."
"Good day".
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Moscow, Russia--December 4, 1952--12:30 A.M. local time.
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Kerensky had hooked up a telegraph in the broom closet of his Moscow apartment; it was all the upper-class Russian could afford.
He had it in his broom closet to keep it hidden from the authorities. If the KGB ever got wind of his operation, he would have been sent to a German detention camp, end of story.
He slowly tapped the reciever not to make any noise. The TV was on, but any high-ranking official would have been twice as worried if Kerensky had not been so strong a believer in democracy.
Moscow to Paris; 12:30 A.M.;
Catherine linked to killings; Joshifensky mastermind; Couplain in danger. Check Majenour ops base.
End transmission.
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