Fantaisie by Michael Kenneth Smith Book Feature Tour April 21-25, 2025!

In Fantaisie, Michael Kenneth Smith explores how love and loyalty survive in the shadow of political unrest. Jan Orlinski, a pilot haunted by war, and Sophie Gordon, a woman seeking atonement, find themselves on opposite sides of an invisible battlefield. What follows is a suspense-filled journey through betrayal, strategy, and hope.

Smith previously authored The Postwoman, a novel based on the real-life heroics of a WWII resistance figure. Fantaisie adds to his body of work focused on historical transformation and the people caught in it.

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Excerpt

The black sedan was still following them as they neared the airport, albeit at a distance. Jan decided whoever it was wanted to keep an eye on them but wasn't looking for a confrontation. He glanced back again as Brian made a quick turn and then another. After four years in Matadi, he knew the city's streets well. Soon, they were headed back across the bridge into the heart of town, the sedan no longer visible behind them. The sun beat down as Brian guided the truck through Matadi's bustling streets, which smelled of exhaust and overripe fruit from market stalls and street vendors. He turned down narrow alleys twice, the truck's tires screeching in protest.

Five minutes later, they pulled up to a small, tidy house in an affluent neighborhood.

"Come on," Brian said. "We need to talk."

They entered the house, mostly empty and neglected in contrast to its well-maintained exterior. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight, revealing bare patches where furniture once stood. In the kitchen, a mountain of dirty dishes teetered in the sink. Brian gestured to one of two wooden chairs. "Water?"

"Yes, please," Jan said, taking a seat and accepting the glass. The water tasted brackish; he grimaced.

"Matadi water," Brian said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Safe, but an acquired taste."

Jan's eyes fell on a large black box next to the refrigerator. It hummed softly, its face a maze of dials, switches, and blinking lights. An antenna poked out from behind it, disappearing through a small hole in the wall. A large radio? He pushed the glass away and folded his arms as Brian sat.

"First of all," he said, "my name isn't Brian Rich. Until recently, I worked for the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS. It was established in 1942 by President Roosevelt as America's first centralized intelligence agency, created to coordinate espionage activities behind enemy lines during World War II. Our work in the Congo was part of a larger operation called the Alsos Mission. Alsos is Greek for 'grove,' which was General Groves's codename—he was the head of the Manhattan Project."

"The people who created the atomic bomb," Jan said.

"Exactly. And Shinkolobwe is where the uranium came from."

"Hold on," Jan said, feeling numb. "Are you saying—"

Brian nodded. "That's not cobalt ore you've been hauling. It's uranium. We kept it from the Germans, though truthfully, they never seemed that interested. Our Alsos teams discovered their program was years behind ours. But the Russians, on the other hand..."

Jan drank more water, taste be damned. "The Russians? Is that why—"

"Why did they steal your cargo? Most likely. They want the bomb, Jan. They want to be a superpower. And now that Alsos has been disbanded and the OSS is being dissolved, replaced by something called the Central Intelligence Group, there's a vacuum. The Soviets are rushing to fill it."

"But wait," Jan said. "What about Gerston? If he's supplying the Russians, why would they need to steal my cargo?"

"That's the question," Brian said. "Maybe multiple entities are competing to be Russia's supplier. Or maybe this Gerston is trying to keep the uranium out of Russian hands. Or maybe he's working for another country that wants the bomb. We just don't know."

"Okay, so what now?" Jan asked, his voice hoarse.

Brian stood, pacing the small kitchen. "I'm sending an encrypted message to Washington. We should hear back by tomorrow. Until then, let's get you back to the airport."

Brian took an entirely different route this time, but no one seemed to be following them. As they pulled up to the C-47, he turned to Jan. "I'll be back in the morning after I get word from Washington."

As Brian's truck disappeared into the distance, Jan slumped against the side of the C-47, its metal skin still hot from the day's sun. He hoped Burundi had found a mechanic and would be back soon. He wanted to get home. He was done working for Gerston, that much he knew. In fact, he would have abandoned the man's plane, but Jan had no other way home.

The African sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and purple. Jan climbed into the plane for the night. With his cargo stolen, nothing was left to guard, and there was no reason to sleep outside again under the plane's wing. He supposed that was a silver lining. He was about to close the rear door when something across the tarmac caught his eye. He squinted into the gathering darkness and saw the black sedan, parked almost out of sight behind a dilapidated hangar. He pulled the door shut, locked it, and lay down with the revolver at his side.

While researching for Fantaisie, I hit a roadblock trying to accurately portray the mechanics of the two-seater Messerschmitt Bf-109G-12 that plays such a crucial role in Jan and Sophie's escape. Aviation forums and history books offered conflicting information, and I was struggling to visualize how a fighter pilot accustomed to a Hurricane would adapt to German controls.

My breakthrough came at a small aviation museum outside Paris where they had a partially restored cockpit section. The curator, noticing my intense interest, introduced me to an elderly aviation engineer who had worked on restoring various WWII aircraft. Though he'd never flown them in combat, he understood their mechanical differences intimately.

He spent an afternoon explaining the quirks of the Bf-109's control systems, even sketching diagrams of the cockpit layout and explaining how the handling would differ from Allied planes. His technical knowledge paired with his storyteller's ability to convey the sensory experience of these machines transformed what would have been generic flying scenes into something much more authentic.

When the book was nearly finished, I sent him the chapter featuring Jan's escape flight. His note back simply said, "I could feel the wind through those bullet holes in the wing fabric." That validation from someone who truly understood these machines meant everything.