The Secret Code of Us

The Art of Quiet Resistance, Chapter 9

The theater had emptied hours ago, the last stagehand wishing them goodnight around midnight. Now, at nearly 2 AM, only the ghost light cast a soft glow from center stage, leaving the rest of the space in intimate shadow. The building settled around them with occasional creaks and sighs, the radiators clicking as they cooled.

Riley sat cross-legged on the worn carpet of the greenroom floor, pages of the script spread in a half-circle around her. She'd kicked off her oxblood heels hours earlier, but remained in her vintage black pencil skirt and cream silk blouse, the top two buttons now undone in concession to the late hour. Her hair had come loose from its earlier precision, falling in waves around her face as she chewed absently on the end of a pencil.

Vivian occupied the room's only decent chair, a high-backed leather affair that had seen better decades. Despite the hour, her posture remained impeccable, though she'd draped her tailored jacket over the chair's arm, revealing a simple silk shell in a deep emerald that matched her mother's brooch, which remained pinned precisely at her collarbone. Her white hair was still perfectly arranged, defying gravity and time with equal determination.

"The problem," Riley said, breaking a silence that had stretched comfortably between them, "is that we need the language to work on three levels simultaneously." She gestured at the script pages. "Historical accuracy for legitimacy, contemporary political allegory for the aware audience, and operational instructions for resistance cells. It's..."

"An artistic challenge," Vivian finished for her, lips curving into a smile. "The best kind."

Riley looked up, catching Vivian's gaze. The older woman's eyes held a spark that made Riley forget momentarily what she'd been saying. This happened increasingly often—moments when Vivian's presence became so magnetic that Riley lost her train of thought entirely.

"I've been thinking about the Valley Forge scene," Vivian continued, seeming not to notice Riley's momentary lapse. She rose from her chair with a fluid grace, moving to a small wooden box on the side table. "It reminds me of something my mother once told me about the winter of '43."

Riley watched as Vivian opened the box, her fingers moving with practiced precision over whatever lay inside. There was something mesmerizing about Vivian's hands—elegant, yes, but also strong and sure, the decisiveness of her movements revealing a lifetime of purpose. Each gesture seemed deliberate, as though even the simplest action carried intention and meaning.

"The resistance cell in Marseilles had been compromised," Vivian continued, "and communications were dangerous. They had to find new methods." She withdrew something from the box—a small, leather-bound journal, its binding cracked with age. "My mother's field notes. Not the official manual, but her personal observations."

Riley felt her breath catch. "You've never shown me this before."

"I've never shown anyone," Vivian replied simply.

She carefully navigated around the papers on the floor, lowering herself to sit beside Riley with fluid elegance. The faint scent of Énigme d'Or enveloped Riley—gardenia and magnolia with those notes of bergamot she'd come to associate exclusively with Vivian.

"Here," Vivian said, opening the journal to a page marked with a faded ribbon. "This is what I want you to see."

Their shoulders touched as Riley leaned in to examine the faded handwriting. The journal was written in French, which Riley could only partially decipher, but interspersed with the text were small diagrams—constellations of dots connected by fine lines.

"What am I looking at?" Riley asked, acutely aware of the warmth where their arms pressed together.

"My mother developed a system of non-verbal cues to signal specific actions," Vivian explained, her French accent deepening as it always did when she spoke of her mother. "Certain gestures, positions, objects arranged in specific patterns. A language without words that the occupiers couldn't decode because they didn't know to look for it."

Their faces were close now, Vivian's profile illuminated by the desk lamp's glow. Riley noticed a small scar near her temple, partially hidden by her hairline—a detail she'd somehow missed despite knowing Vivian for years.

"We could adapt this for the blocking," Riley suggested, her voice softer than she'd intended. "Movements that seem like natural staging but actually contain encoded instructions."

Vivian turned to her, their faces now inches apart. "Precisely."

The air between them seemed to charge with something neither acknowledged. Riley became keenly aware of everything—the faint lines around Vivian's eyes, the perfect arch of her brows, the slight part of her lips. For a wild moment, Riley thought about closing that small distance.

Instead, she reached for the journal, her fingers brushing against Vivian's. "May I?"

Vivian didn't immediately release the book. "My mother wrote that resistance requires not just courage, but intimacy. The willingness to trust another person with your life." Her eyes held Riley's. "It creates bonds that transcend ordinary relationships."

"Is that why you've never shared this before?" Riley asked, her heart beating faster than the question warranted.

"Perhaps," Vivian conceded with the hint of a smile. "Or perhaps I was waiting for someone who would understand its true value." She finally released the journal into Riley's hands. "Someone like you."

The weight of the journal felt significant—not just physically, but as a token of trust. Riley knew Vivian well enough to recognize the rarity of the gesture.

"I'll be careful with it," she promised, meaning far more than just the physical object.

"I know you will," Vivian replied, making no move to return to her chair.

A comfortable silence settled between them as Riley leafed carefully through the journal. After a few minutes, she shifted her position, subtly leaning her weight against Vivian's shoulder. She felt Vivian stiffen momentarily, then relax, their bodies finding a natural harmony.

"Your mother writes about partnerships a lot," Riley observed, her finger tracing a paragraph. "She seems to believe the strongest resistance comes from pairs, not individuals or large groups."

"She did," Vivian agreed. "She had several close collaborators during the occupation. Not everyone survived."

Riley hesitated, then ventured: "What was it like? With Marie and Catherine? As partners, I mean."

The question hung in the air between them. Despite years of working together, the intimate details of Vivian's relationships had remained largely unspoken.

Vivian's hand moved to her emerald brooch, a habitual gesture Riley had noticed before. Her other hand unconsciously touched the ruby ring she wore—Catherine's ring. "Different with each, yet similar in essence," she said softly. "With Marie, it was like dancing with fire. We argued passionately about tactics, then made love with the same intensity." A distant smile touched her lips. "We'd stay up all night planning civil disobedience campaigns, her curled against me on the sofa, drawing strategy maps on my skin."

Riley remained quiet, sensing there was more.

"Catherine came into my life when I thought that part of me had died with Marie," Vivian continued, her voice warming. "She had this way of seeing through any pretense. 'Your armor is beautiful,' she once told me, 'but you can take it off with me.'" Her fingers traced the edge of the journal. "We traveled together. Made meals together. Built a life of quiet moments between her investigations and my productions. Different from the revolutionary fervor with Marie, but no less profound."

"That sounds beautiful," Riley said softly.

"I've never been one to wear my heart publicly," Vivian replied, the ruby on her finger catching the light as she gestured. "But they changed me, both of them. Marie taught me that passion and purpose could share the same bed. Catherine showed me that intimacy could be found in the quiet spaces between words." She turned slightly, her eyes meeting Riley's, that devastating smile briefly appearing. "And you? No one special waiting at home while you plot revolution?"

Riley shook her head, suddenly very aware of how her body was now leaning fully against Vivian's side, the warmth between them seeping through layers of silk and wool. "There was someone last year. A curator at the Whitney. It didn't last."

"Why not?" Vivian's question was direct, her gaze unwavering.

Riley shrugged one shoulder. "She said I was too obsessed with my work. That I saved all my passion for the theater."

"And was she right?"

"Partly," Riley admitted. "But she also didn't understand that some things are worth being obsessed with." She paused, gathering courage. "Some people, too."

The implication hung in the air between them. Riley felt rather than saw Vivian's subtle intake of breath. For a moment, neither moved.

Then Vivian's arm shifted, lifting to settle around Riley's shoulders, drawing her closer with assured confidence. The gesture was both protective and possessive—a claiming. Riley felt herself being enveloped in Vivian's warmth, in the scent that was uniquely hers. Her heartbeat quickened, echoing in her ears.

"I haven't been this close to someone in years," Vivian said softly, her breath warm against Riley's hair. "Not in any way that matters."

Riley turned her face slightly, her cheek now resting against the silk covering Vivian's shoulder. "Is this alright?" she whispered, though her body already knew the answer, melting into the curve of Vivian's embrace.

Vivian's response was to tighten her hold slightly, her hand sliding to rest at Riley's waist. The heat of her palm seemed to burn through the thin fabric of Riley's blouse. "More than alright."

Riley closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation of being held. Vivian's fingers began to trace small, deliberate patterns against her side—unconsciously or intentionally, Riley couldn't tell. Each small movement sent ripples of awareness through her body.

"Your mother's codes," Riley murmured, not opening her eyes. "Are you writing them on me now?"

She felt rather than saw Vivian's smile. "Perhaps," came the reply, low and intimate. "Or perhaps I'm creating new ones. Codes only for us."

The journal lay forgotten on Riley's lap as she shifted, turning further into Vivian's embrace. With an exquisite slowness that felt like both a question and an answer, Riley tilted her face upward, her nose gently tracing the elegant line of Vivian's jaw. She breathed in deeply, memorizing this new nearness, this unspoken permission to explore.

"I've wanted this," Riley admitted, her voice barely audible, lips brushing the sensitive skin below Vivian's ear. "For longer than I should admit."

"I know," Vivian replied simply, her voice a low vibration Riley could feel against her own body. One hand rose to cradle the back of Riley's head, fingers threading through her hair with exquisite tenderness. "I've seen you watching me. The way your eyes follow when you think I won't notice."

Riley felt herself flush. "Was I that obvious?"

"To me? Yes." Vivian's fingers continued their gentle exploration of Riley's hair, sending cascades of sensation down her spine. "But then, I've been watching you too."

Riley's lips brushed the hollow of Vivian's collarbone, just above the emerald brooch, not quite a kiss but more than a touch. Vivian's breath caught, her hand at Riley's waist momentarily tightening. Then Riley settled, resting her head against Vivian's shoulder, their bodies fitting together as though designed for this very shape.

In the dim light of the greenroom, time seemed suspended. The usual barriers—age, position, circumstance—dissolved into insignificance. There was only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty between them.

The world had not changed—outside, the city was still waking to another day of quiet oppression—but something fundamental had shifted within the walls of their sanctuary.

"We should continue with the play," Vivian said after a moment, though she made no move to create distance between them.

"We should," Riley agreed, equally motionless.

Their eyes held, a silent conversation passing between them. The journal still lay open between them, Marguerite's codes waiting to be translated. The resistance would continue—perhaps now with even greater purpose. But for this moment, in the growing dawn light filtering through high windows, they allowed themselves to acknowledge the other form of resistance they had discovered—against loneliness, against fear, against the cold calculation of a world that sought to reduce everything to utility.

Vivian's fingers resumed their patterns against Riley's skin, but now there was no pretense of codes or strategy. This touch was purely for the pleasure of connection.

They remained close as they returned to their work, shoulders touching, hands occasionally brushing, stealing glances and small touches that spoke volumes. Their conversation drifted between technical stage directions and whispered personal revelations, the boundaries between professional collaboration and intimate connection now beautifully, irrevocably blurred.

Outside the theater's windows, the city awakened fully, but within their private world, a different kind of awakening had occurred—one that neither had expected but both had secretly desired. A resistance of the heart, perhaps the most revolutionary act of all.

THE ART OF QUIET RESISTANCE

Chapter by Chapter

Chapter 1 The Art of Quiet Resistance

Chapter 2 The First Test

Chapter 3 Invisible Movements

Chapter 4 How to Fight the Monsters Under Our Beds

Chapter 5 The Best Disguise is No Disguise

Chapter 6 Midnight and Blue

Chapter 7 The Stage Is Set: A Coup in Three Acts

Chapter 8 Scripts and Subterfuge

Chapter 9 The Secret Code of Us

Chapter 10 The Language of Risk

OSS BRANCH — SIMPLE SABOTAGE FIELD MANUAL Strategic Services

(Provisional) STRATEGIC SERVICES FIELD MANUAL, No. 3
Office of Strategic Services
Washington, D. C.

17 January 1944

This Simple Sabotage Field Manual Strategic Services (Provisional) published as a typewritten manual for the first time, is the information and guidance of all concerned and will be used as the basic doctrine for Strategic Services training for this subject.
The contents of this Manual should be carefully controlled and should not be allowed to come into unauthorized hands.
The instructions may be placed in separate pamphlets or leaflets according to categories of operations but should be distributed with care and not broadly. They should be used as a basis of internal radio broadcasts only for local and special cases and as directed by the theater commander.
AR 380-5, pertaining to handling of secret documents, will be complied with in the handling of this Manual.

William J. Donovan

Section 1. INTRODUCTION
Section 2. POSSIBLE EFFECTS
Section 3. MOTIVATING THE SABOTEUR
Section 4. TOOLS, TARGETS, AND TIMING
Section 5. SPECIFIC SUGGESTIONS FOR SIMPLE SABOTAGE

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William J. Donovan had a habit of showing up exactly where history needed him. Soldier, lawyer, diplomat, spymaster—if he’d taken an interest in the culinary arts, we’d probably be crediting him with inventing the CIA and the martini. Best remembered as the founder of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) during World War II—the blueprint for today’s CIA—Donovan was the sort of man who made life interesting for both his allies and his enemies.

He was born in Buffalo, New York, on New Year’s Day, 1883, because of course he had to arrive at the start of something. The first-generation Irish-American son of a working-class family, he grew up with the kind of tenacity that makes for great war heroes and absolutely maddening children. At Columbia University, he played football with a level of aggression that probably had his opponents considering career changes. One of his classmates was Franklin D. Roosevelt. One imagines they got along well enough, though FDR likely had the sense to avoid competing with Donovan in anything—a wise choice, given that Donovan approached life like a man who refused to lose.

After law school, he set up shop in Buffalo, where he became a formidable lawyer. He was sharp, ambitious, and had the kind of legal mind that made judges either admire him or reach for the aspirin. But then came World War I, and Donovan was not the type to sit safely behind a desk when there was a war to fight.

He joined the “Fighting 69th” Infantry Regiment, later reorganized as the 165th Infantry of the 42nd Rainbow Division, and—because it was simply how he operated—quickly rose to the rank of colonel. He fought on the Western Front with the kind of courage that makes battlefield legends. At Landres-et-Saint-Georges in 1918, he earned the Medal of Honor for sheer, audacious bravery. He didn’t stop there. He also picked up the Distinguished Service Cross and a handful of foreign decorations, because if Donovan was going to do something, he was going to do it all the way.

After the war, he returned to law, this time serving as U.S. Attorney for Western New York under President Calvin Coolidge. He spent a lot of time prosecuting Prohibition-era bootleggers, though one suspects he had the occasional pang of sympathy for their ingenuity. Later, he became a high-powered corporate lawyer and an international businessman, which sounds ordinary—until you realize that this meant spending a great deal of time in Europe, rubbing elbows with powerful people, and, oh yes, getting very friendly with British intelligence.

By the time World War II rolled around, Donovan was the man who knew everyone, understood everything, and could make himself indispensable in about three sentences. He advised President Roosevelt on intelligence and covert operations, and in 1941, FDR made it official: Donovan became the Coordinator of Information, a fancy title that really meant “America’s first spymaster.” A year later, he transformed that office into the OSS—the United States’ first real intelligence agency. It was the stuff of wartime thrillers: espionage, sabotage, guerrilla warfare, and the kind of psychological operations that would make an enemy lose sleep.

Donovan didn’t just set up the OSS; he reinvented how America did intelligence. He collaborated closely with Britain’s MI6 and the Special Operations Executive, because if there was one thing Donovan knew, it was the value of working with people who’d been in the spy game longer than you. Under his leadership, the OSS trained operatives to infiltrate Nazi-occupied Europe, supported resistance movements in France, Yugoslavia, and China, and turned psychological warfare into an art form. In short, Donovan made sure that American intelligence didn’t just enter the war—it made itself necessary to winning it.

And then, just as he was riding high as America’s top spymaster, the war ended—and Truman, who was deeply suspicious of centralized intelligence, dissolved the OSS. Donovan fought for the creation of a permanent agency, warning that the world didn’t get less dangerous just because the guns stopped firing. In 1947, Truman finally relented, and the CIA was born. But in a classic case of Washington politics, Donovan—who had built the damn thing—was passed over as its first director. The irony must have been bitter, but if he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Donovan had done what he always did: built something that would outlive him.

He died in 1959 and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery, having lived the kind of life that most men would need three lifetimes to accomplish. His legacy remains in every intelligence operation the U.S. runs, in every covert mission, in every agent trained in the dark arts of espionage.

And let’s be honest—he would’ve loved that.

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