Shadow of the Eagle
The rain in New York doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. I was sitting in my office on West Forty-second Street, watching water trace dirty paths down the window, when he walked in. The Eagle. That's what everyone called him. No real name. No birth certificate. No record of any kind. Just a man who appeared in the military hierarchy in 1942 as a nobody and by 1945 was...
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