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head.     
     
    “How about a cup of coffee and a smoke?”    
     
    “What do you want?”
     
    “Well.  I came to ask for your help, James,” Donovan said. 
     
    “Try to put me in another laboratory and you’re a dead man.”
     
    “No more labs,” Donovan said.  “All I have for you is an offer of hard work and danger.  But it’s good work.  The kind that makes a difference.”  
     
    They looked at one another for a little while until the man said, “I guess I could go for a cigarette.”  
     
    Donovan pointed to his car down the hill.  “I’ve got smokes in there.  What do you say, James?”  
     
    “I say don’t call me that anymore.  James Scott is in the ground next to his wife.  Let them both rest in peace.” 
     
    Donovan shook out his wet jacket on the ground and sighed.  “Those sons of bitches did a real number on you.  Whatever you got out of this whole coming-back-to-life deal, I bet it wasn’t worth the price.”
     
    “Can you get me a new name?” 
     
    “Son, I can get you five of them.”
     
     

 
     
    Episode Two: CODENAME: OMEGA (1943)
     
     
    The handle on the building’s front door turned and Elma Sink immediately pushed the hidden red button beneath her desk.  Two armed guards snapped to at attention at either side of the door as a man walked in and went directly to Elma’s desk.  “I’d like to see ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, please.” 
     
    Elma pushed her glasses up on her nose, “I’m certain I have no idea what you mean, sir.”
     
    He waved his hand in annoyance, “You don’t need to use that old cloak-and-dagger stuff on me, sweetie.  I’m looking for William J. Donovan, Director of the Office of Strategic Services.  Tell him a personal friend of Senator Doxey would like a moment of his time.”
     
    “I’m sorry, sir, but there is no one named Donovan in this building.”
     
    The man opened his mouth to protest, but one of the guards already had a beefy arm around him, pulling him away from Elma’s desk, dragging him back toward the door.  The phone rang.  Elma picked it up and said, “Yes, Director.  He’s gone.”
     
    Across the courtyard, William Donovan peered through his office’s dirty windows at the grand-looking building where Elma Sink was sitting.  It had detailed landscaping and ornate fixtures, justifiable embellishments for the official address of America’s first spy agency.  Shame the whole building is empty, Donovan thought.  “Thank you, Miss Sink.”      
     
    He watched a man enter through the front door, fumbling with his suit and tie before he raised his fist and shook it at the guards.  They waved to him and shut the door.  The man spun around, looking at all of the surrounding buildings, but somehow fixed on the one Donovan was in, as if he could see the Director sitting on the fifth floor, hidden behind smoked out windows. 
     
    “Don’t do it, buddy,” Donovan whispered.  “Just turn around and get back in your car.”
     
    The man took a step forward and Donovan cursed under his breath, knowing the snipers on his roof had already zeroed in on the man.  He imagined he could hear them adjusting the sights of their Mosin-Nagant rifles, preparing to blow a hole the size of a phone book through the man’s chest.  “Turn around, goddammit,” Donovan whispered. 
     
    The man stopped and scratched his head, continuing to look around.  Finally, he gave up and turned toward the parking lot.  Donovan relaxed in his chair and smiled at his guest.  “I apologize for the distraction, Miss—”
     
    “Amelie Brevot,” she said. 
     
    She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again, showing long lengths of sheer-stockinged perfection.  Amelie swept a length of chestnut hair behind her ear and smiled, her lower lip permanently fixed in the pout of a bad girl.  The kind who got caught doing something wrong.  The kind willing to work her way out of it. 
     
    “I wonder what