Louise's Gamble by Sarah R Shaber Read Free Book Online

feinted with my closed knife across his upper arm.
    ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘Now, Myrna.’ He didn’t move a half a step forward before she stopped him cold and slashed across his arm. ‘Excellent!’ he said.
    ‘What if my attacker has a knife, too, or a revolver?’ asked Sandy, her blue eyes so wide that I could see their whites.
    ‘We’ll show you some more hand-to-hand combat moves tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’re done for today. Get familiar with your knives. And there’s reading material in your rooms for you to go over tonight. Chow is in an hour in the dining room.’
    The three of us hiked from the training field back up toward the country mansion that OSS dubbed ‘The Farm’.
    It sat on about a hundred acres of tobacco stubble and cattle pasture not far from Washington in southern Maryland. Soon after war was declared OSS had converted the house, barns, outbuildings, and polo grounds to training facilities for the Secret Intelligence Branch. The main house itself looked like an English manor. It had enough bedrooms to sleep over twenty trainees.
    ‘The Farm’ wasn’t as military in its nature as the Special Operations training camps. Otherwise we’d be in tents and uniforms. Its curriculum was more informal, emphasizing observation, concealment, cover stories, bribery, how to handle agents, and such. I knew a few girls who’d already taken the truncated course for females here. My friend Joan Adams, who was one of Director Donovan’s secretaries, was one.
    I wouldn’t say this out loud, but I was sick of living in the files and thrilled to be here! I doubted that getting one name from Alessa and delivering it to Max Corso would require any real spy type stuff, but I didn’t care.
    ‘That was jolly,’ Myrna said as we trudged uphill, crunching through the frozen mud of a farm road.
    ‘I wouldn’t say jolly,’ I answered, ‘but I liked learning to defend myself.’
    ‘You two are all wet,’ Sandy said. ‘I’m sure I won’t ever use this knife for anything other than cutting string. I hope not, anyway.’
    True to the sergeant’s word, we found a stack of reading material on each of the three single beds that lined one wall of the large room we’d share. The room was regal. It flaunted a stone fireplace, thick moldings, high ceilings, and oil paintings of the ‘hunt and hound’ sort crowding the walls.
    Sandy sat on her bed cross-legged and hefted her stack of reading material, sighing. ‘I really don’t think I’m going to need all this,’ she said, ‘I’m only going to be—’
    ‘Hush, Sandy,’ I said. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about our assignments.’
    ‘But we’re alone!’
    ‘Shut up, Sandy,’ Myrna said. ‘Or you will flunk out for sure.’
    Sandy shut up, with a pout.
    ‘Do you think we should dress for dinner?’ I asked.
    ‘Absolutely,’ Myrna said. ‘Never overlook the chance to make an impression.’
    ‘Dibs on the bathroom,’ Sandy said, collecting clothes and a toilet bag from her suitcase and heading down the hall.
    Myrna stripped without bothering to turn her back to me. The woman had gorgeous undies. Her pale pink knickers edged with chocolate brown lace matched her bra, garter belt, and slip. She drew on silk stockings; where she found them these days I couldn’t imagine.
    I was more modest and turned my back to don my everyday white cotton underwear. No silk stockings for me – mine were rayon. I’d brought one dress with me, the simple black shirtwaist I’d worn to Bill’s funeral years ago. I wore it seldom, so it was still like new, but I’d replaced the collar and cuffs with a contrasting plaid so the dress would look less funereal. I’d loved Bill very much, but he’d been dead for years now, and I was a different person.
    When I turned back around Myrna was wearing a low-cut red jersey dress that clung to her hourglass figure and stacked heels that emphasized her long legs. She was a real dame, no question.
    Sandy came into