Undeceived (14 page)

This is rich! The London Fog has been burned under the glaring light of suspicion. A long time coming in my opinion. A very long time. I know where you’re going, and it’s a cheap imitation of an assignment. How humiliating for you! How deliciously, gloriously humiliating. I couldn’t have planned this any better. What sweet serendipity! You can’t stop me now. Not from so far away. You have no power here anymore, and you can’t stop me. No one can. This is a whole new beginning for me. I’m entrenched here in the States now. The money the KGB pays me gives me autonomy. I understand the power of money now. Perhaps the love I thought to have wasn’t anything but a base, tawdry, unrequited lust. You know about unsatisfied lust, don’t you?

Chapter 21

Elizabeth rose late the next morning, the result of a fitful alternation of sleeping and waking through the night. After she called the director, she tried a dozen ways to relax—a bath, returning to her book, making hot cocoa—but nothing worked. She half-listened for the door, signaling Darcy’s return. He had things here after all, although they were nothing a man of his means and lifestyle couldn’t leave behind. He left everything, and everyone, behind.

She was in the kitchen when she thought she heard the mailman on the porch. Stepping to the window, she peered out, seeing only the blur of a tall figure striding away. Retrieving her revolver, she waited several minutes, and when he didn’t return, she stepped out with caution, the handgun still in her grasp. After several more seconds of scanning the area, her gaze landed on the mailbox. A goldenrod yellow envelope stuck out of the top. Darcy must have left it for her, and the tall figure must have been his, but like his nickname persona, the London Fog had disappeared into the cold, gray Virginia morning. She snatched the envelope from the box, tearing it open as she went back inside.

“Huh?”

It was a notice from The Park, the bookstore and coffee shop where she’d met with Charlotte yesterday, stating that the item she’d ordered had arrived and was waiting for her at the front desk. An involuntary chuckle bubbled out of her. She knew the bookshop package was a ruse and knew a message—probably filled with Darcy’s typical multisyllabic vitriol—was waiting for her there. There was nothing for it. Curiosity demanded she drive up to DC and take whatever he was dishing out.

***

She entered The Park with a clang of the doorbell. Closing the damp outside, she shivered. Most of her colleagues loved it here—the dark wood, the well-worn chairs and dining tables, the smell of books and coffee and cinnamon—but she always shivered when she came in the place.

The same older gentleman with twinkling blue eyes from her last visit looked at her over his bifocals. “Can I help you, miss?”

“I have a package?” She approached the counter and held out the notice. She didn’t want to say a book, because she wasn’t exactly sure what Darcy had left for her.

The man tilted his head up and down as he read the notice. “Ah, yes. I found it in the shipment this morning.” He turned around to scan the shelves behind him. “You must be anxiously awaiting this.” He plucked a brown paper-wrapped book out of a sea of them, and gave it to her.

She tore the wrapper and glanced at the contents. “
The Parsifal Mosaic.”

“Robert Ludlum. An interesting spy novel about a man betrayed by a beautiful woman. It’s been very popular in recent months. I guess we sold out before you could get your own copy.”

“Yes. Thank you for ordering it.” She dug in her purse. “What do I owe you?”

He blinked those twinkly blue eyes at her. “Don’t you remember, my dear?”

“What?”

“It says here you’ve already paid for it.”

“Oh, um…that’s right. Pfft. Bad memory.”

“Let me put it in a bag for you.” He paused. “Unless, it’s a gift? I could wrap it in Christmas paper.”

“No, no. It’s for me.” She took the bag from him. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

***

Elizabeth repeatedly glanced at the book as if it were a ticking time bomb sitting in the passenger seat of her car. Knowing she’d never get the thing inside Langley without a search, she drove to Scott’s Run. Sitting in her car in the park, she finished tearing open the package and began thumbing through the pages. The title page contained an inscription written in a strong, close hand:
For Elizabeth—a mistress of subterfuge. Regards, William.

About one-third of the way through, she saw the cassette tape, embedded into a cutout space in the pages. She opened the glove box for her Walkman and, with her fingers trembling in an absurd manner, placed the headphones over her ears, pushed the tape inside, and pressed play. Darcy’s rich baritone rumbled in her ears and down into the pit of her stomach, making her squirm in her seat.

Ms. Bennet:

“Awfully formal of you, Darcy, considering…”

Don’t be alarmed at receiving this message. It’s not a mission, or a desperate love letter, or a repetition of any of the sentiments that you found so disagreeable last night. I’m sure we’d both like to forget that whole unfortunate incident and move on with our lives.

I do feel compelled, however, by professional courtesy and a sense of justice, to defend myself against the charges you laid at my door. One accusation was definitely more egregious than the other, but each was unfair in my opinion. The first was that I interfered in the personal lives of two of our acquaintances without any consideration of the feelings of either. The second was that I used my position and influence to derail the career of an officer I managed, a man whom I recently learned has been a colleague of yours for some time. What other relationship exists between you and the man in question, is, of course, your own business. But if what I have to say offends you, so be it. It’s a necessary evil. I’ll apologize for it this once, but no matter what happens between the two of you after this, if you trust him, you won’t have my sympathy. I’ve warned you. Twice now.

“Leave it to you to think I have to be sleeping with the guy to work with him. And don’t think I feel guilty about investigating your arrogant ass either. That’s what you get for throwing your weight around the CIA.”

You most likely don’t want to hear me out, Elizabeth. I can hear you now, muttering to yourself about what an arrogant ass I am, but your integrity and your need for fairness demands you consider my information. Arrogant I may be, but I recognize a person with a kindred sense of justice. And I see that in you.

I’ll address the issue of our mutual friends on the tape, but for the story surrounding my professional relationship with that other man and the incidents in Prague, I’ll refer you to the CIA classified report dated January 8, 1982. File number 82374. I’ve made sure you have the security clearance to access the files. Read, watch, and learn, Elizabeth, for your own safety and education if nothing else.

Now, as far as the two supposed lovebirds, let me be perfectly plain…

She snapped off the recording and jumped out of her car, taking off down the easiest trail. The cold, fresh air of late fall would do her some good. She knew the tone in his voice—full of condescending opinions as she expected—and she was in no mood for it.

But the Prague report, now that was intriguing. Referring her to a classified case file meant there was more to the story than she had been told. She’d often had the sneaking suspicion her supervisors kept her in the dark. Perhaps the report could shed some light on Wickham’s motives, or even the director’s, and explain why she’d spent the better part of a year on a wild goose chase.

While she walked, she might as well hear what he had to say for himself in regards to Charles and Johanna. She depressed the play button again. The tape chirped as she rewound the last sentence.

…let me be perfectly plain: Of course, I saw the interest developing between them. Like you, I’ve been trained to observe people’s actions and intuit their motives. Charles is charming and agreeable. It’s one of his most useful qualities. No one expects a man so open and friendly to be in our line of work. He’s also an unabashed flirt, and at first, I thought his time spent with Johanna was just his typical MO when dealing with women. It wasn’t until they returned to Washington that I had any true suspicion he was contemplating something more…serious. I called him the weekend we were in West Berlin. He mentioned Johanna several times in a context that made me realize they had been spending time together socially. When I goaded him about falling for an asset, he never denied it. It concerned me. To be honest, I couldn’t figure out what he saw in her. She’s a pretty girl, but she’s vulnerable physically, emotionally, and politically. Why would he want to get tangled up in that mess? Plus, she smiles too much.

“Annoying know-it-all.”

As for Johanna herself, of course, she’d welcome any attention from Charles. He’s become a powerful man in a brief amount of time, and he can offer her the protection very few men can. However, he doesn’t yet know how to handle people who might be trying to use him.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t even know who he is, you jerk.”

I watched Johanna while we were in Hungary, and she never seemed truly interested. But it isn’t just a suspicion of her motives that incited my objections to a relationship between the two of them. Even if she is genuinely fond of him, being with her puts him in danger—definitely career-wise, but perhaps literally in danger as well.

For example, what happens if she goes back to Hungary, even just for a visit? She’ll be under suspicion from the moment she sets foot in her own country. If government security picks her up for questioning and gets her to talk, they’ll be able to nab her father and possibly Charles himself.

Conversely, if the other side gets wind of a love affair between them, even if they’re here in the States, she’s still a liability Charles cannot afford. The KGB could get to her here and say they’ll pick up her father if she doesn’t spy on her American boyfriend and his brother-in-law in the State Department.

We’ve got a whole web of officers surrounding the Bingley siblings. Do I turn my back while he puts all of them at risk for some…fling? Cara sent me a message to call her after that weekend in West Berlin. She was beside herself with worry.

So, yes, I steered him out of Johanna’s path. I discussed with him the various evils of his choice. He still might have put it all aside and continued to pursue her if I hadn’t pointed out that he was sealing off her opportunity to go back to her homeland—maybe preventing her from ever seeing her father again. Charles has empathy for assets, probably more than he should. One of the reasons he belongs here in Washington, I suppose. It was scarcely the work of a moment to convince him to let her go. It was for the best, and, again, I refuse to apologize for doing what was best.

She could see his point, which annoyed her. She’d had more access to Johanna than he had, though, and thought she’d read her pretty well. As for Charles, he was a big boy and could take care of himself. How officious was it of Darcy to insinuate himself into the situation? And why could he not give Johanna a break? Why was it always rules, rules, rules with him? What about flexibility? What about seeing two sides of an issue?

Jerk.

As for Wickham…

There was a pause. She heard him draw a deep breath, could almost see him closing his eyes, gathering his composure. In her mind’s eye, she saw his lips draw into a firm line and then glide into an almost pout. Quickly, she shut the tape off. Before she heard his side, she wanted to see the CIA’s files on the Prague incident. It was time to head to the archives department.

***

“Officer Bennet?”

“Yes, that’s me.” She held out her badge.

He looked at her identification and then paged through a file filled with green and white computer printouts. “Okay, you’re on the clearance list. Just since this morning, though.”

“That’s soon enough,” she intoned sweetly as she held out her hands for the files.

“There’s video as well. You want a viewing booth?”

“Yes, please.”

“Hold on.” He picked the phone off the cradle and buzzed back into the labyrinth of archive rooms. “Right this way.”

He led her through to a small cubicle with a table and chairs, painted a drab celery green and white. The only other object in the room was a rolling cart crowned with a television and dressed with a VCR below it. The librarian plugged in the cord and tested the setup. “You’re good to go.”

She thanked him and settled herself into the metal chair. Leaning forward, she pushed the tape in and pressed “play.”

Blue screen, white lettering:

CIA debriefing: William Darcy
08 January 1982
East European Division: Prague
Incident: 1981‒149

The lettering disappeared to reveal Darcy, sitting in a cubicle much like the one where Elizabeth sat now, his hands folded in front of him, physical exhaustion emanating from both his facial expression and his body language. His hair was longer than he’d worn it in Budapest but not quite the length he’d sported in East Berlin. The ice-blue eyes had dark circles under them, and he was unshaven, casting the lines and planes of his face into dangerous shadow.

A disembodied voice from off camera spoke. “Please state your name and rank, sir.”

Darcy lifted weary eyes to the camera. “William Darcy, Station Chief, Prague, East European Division.”

“Tell us about your primary mission in Prague.”

“From mid-1979 until a few days ago, I was the chief of station in Prague, Czechoslovakia. I was assigned to the State Department as an undersecretary to the ambassador, which gave me some diplomatic immunity and the protection of the embassy. I ran a shop of case officers and assets placed in the government, in the state run media, even in the household of the chief of the secret police. One specific mission in Prague was to discover the fate of some of the dissidents who had signed the document often referred to as ‘Charter 77.’ We also tried to engage the portion of the citizenry—artists, students—thought to be most amenable to Western influence. That’s a cold way to say it because there’s considerable economic and personal suffering in Prague, but as station chief, it’s not my place to be warm and fuzzy.”

“The majority of our questions today will be directed toward the incident of December 28, 1981.”

“I understand.”

“But before we delve into that, please tell us how the CIA acquired the asset known as Jirina Sobota? What was the first point of contact?”

Darcy leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “As word got around the artistic community that we were interested in the Charter 77 dissidents, we began getting a few unsolicited offers of intelligence information. Jirina Sobota was one of those. She was a young college student who walked into the US Embassy on…” He leaned forward and consulted his notes. “…March 18, 1981.”

“A young woman just waltzes in off the street and offers to spy for the US government?”

“That’s what happened. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”

“What did you do? How did you handle her?”

“The same way we always handle that kind of thing. We whisked her off to a safe room and began an intake interview.”

“And who conducted that interview?”

“Officer George Wickham.”

“Tell us what information he obtained from her that day.”

“It’s in his reports. I’m sure you have them there.”