Undeceived (3 page)

I love the beginning of a new assignment. Meeting new people, figuring them out—what makes them tick. A fresh challenge makes the world bright and colorful, but there are so many details to remember! It’s a good thing I have an excellent memory. So many unseens to see: a look, an expression, a note, a presence. Good thing I’ve got the gift of intuition. Intuition is a must for a double agent.

Chapter 4

Budapest, Hungary
April 1982

“For Darby Kent?”
The young messenger tried to wrap his tongue around the English pronunciation of Darcy’s alias as he handed him the envelope.

“Thank you,” he replied in Hungarian and put a forint coin in the kid’s hand. Still, after four months in this country, Darcy had trouble with the Magyar language and kept his small talk to a minimum. His cover as an American businessman consulting with the Hungarian government wasn’t ideal for gathering intelligence, but given his lack of finesse with Hungarian, it was probably a necessity.

The language barrier was one more reason this new assignment made no sense whatsoever.

He slid the letter opener across the flap and retrieved the sealed envelope inside. Lifting the false bottom of his desk drawer, he found his Cardan grille and laid it over a newspaper article planted in the
Baltimore Sun
society page.

“Smart ass,” he muttered, referring to the Central European station chief’s idea to put the coded message in the society page. The COS took any opportunity to goad him by testing the famous Darcy photographic memory. Now, Darcy would have to remember the content in the article in case someone referred to it. He was sure state security routinely opened his mail. His pencil scratched across the notepad as he wrote down the letters left visible through the Cardan grille card.

Fine Eyes rendezvous at Pied Piper’s gamble. SIP. Dossier to follow.

Finally, they were sending him a translator! Anyone was better than Bill Collins over at the State Department, a bumbling idiot who stuck out like a sore thumb. Everything about that nitwit—his walk, his talk, his manner—screamed American.

Darcy lit the scratch paper with his lighter. He stared into the flame and let the ashes fall into the fireplace until he had to drop them, making sure they burned completely. He washed the soot and pencil lead from his hands and adjusted his tie in the gilded mirror, reminding himself to stay positive. As covers went, this Budapest gig was pretty cushy: a nice flat in the Castle district, access to a phone (wire-tapped but useful for unclassified correspondence), eating establishments and laundry facilities close by, and the best household amenities that Hungary and its “goulash” brand of communism could provide. Even his car—a Zsiguli, a luxury in Budapest—was provided. He certainly had been in worse situations over the years.

He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it and tried on his most devilish grin. Darby Kent was a smooth operator, and Darcy knew how to play the part, almost to perfection.

***

The US Embassy was a festival of lights, the interior converted into a facsimile casino for the evening’s party. Darby quickly found a champagne flute and scanned the place for familiar faces. His eyes landed on the ambassador’s wife, a svelte and stunning blonde named Cara. She was hard to miss, mainly because she had planted herself directly in front of him.

“Darby Kent.” She sidled up and took his arm, reaching up to brush a drop of rain off his shoulder and kissing his cheek.

He pasted on a smile and returned the kiss. “Mrs. Hurst, how are you this evening?”

“Oh, don’t be so formal, darling. Those of us thrown into diplomatic exile in Hungary quickly become a close-knit group.” She ran her hand up and down his bicep.

“Like one big, happy family.”

Her laugh rang out, throaty and seductive. “Of course.” She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “My husband is upstairs, talking to some boring government official. Why don’t you ask me to dance, hmm? Keep me out of trouble?”

Standard Introduction Procedure Number One
. Cara Hurst played the bored trophy wife to perfection, but there was some substance under the shallow veneer. She also dabbled in espionage when it suited her. Keeping her “out of trouble” signaled that she was the means of introducing his newest case officer. Perhaps the new guy would ask to cut in while the dashing Darby Kent danced with her.

He summoned up his most charming smile while he eased her onto the dance floor and assumed a respectable distance between them. “So, who’s new at the embassy?”

“All business, darling? Can’t you even enjoy yourself first? Or better yet, enjoy me?” She leaned in close to his ear. “God, you look good enough to eat.” She leaned back, a wicked smile on her lips.

“Apologies, Cara, but I’m not on the menu tonight.”

She sighed dramatically. “Ah well. Can’t blame a girl for trying. Buy me a drink, Darby, and I’m yours forever.”

“As you wish.” Perhaps the new guy was waiting at the bar.

He led her around the edge of the room, taking stock of the guests. State secret police, much nicer than their KGB advisors, littered the doorways. As he approached the bar, a young woman sitting at one end and sipping a glass of red wine caught his eye: pretty, with long brown curls tumbling across one shoulder. She had a petite, almost delicate, frame with pleasing curves inside her black cocktail dress. She held his gaze with a friendly smile.

“Ah,” Cara replied, following his line of sight. “I see my husband’s brand-new employee with the fine eyes has caught your attention.”

He startled.
Fine Eyes? This
was his linguist? This wet-behind-the-ears, painfully American-looking cheerleader of a girl was his new case officer?

“Shall I introduce you?” Cara asked, a twinkle of amusement in her eye.

“No, let me get the lay of the land, so to speak. How about that drink?”

“Szilvapálinka, if you please.”

Darby leaned onto the bar. “Excuse me,” he said in butchered Hungarian.
Might as well stay in character.

“Yes, sir?” the bartender said.

“Can you make a martini?”

The bartender narrowed his eyes, insulted. “Yes, sir.”

“One of those for me, dry as you can manage. Szilvapálinka for the lady.”

Darby glanced at Miss Fine-Eyes. She’d pulled a cigarette out of her purse and turned her dubious charms on the barrel-chested bureaucrat two bar stools away. That was the female version of the agreed upon contact signal, asking a stranger for a light, so Darby abandoned his post and swept in behind the man before he could dig a match out of his pocket.

“Allow me,” he said, flicking open the stainless steel lighter he carried and watching her gaze travel from the shamrock on the lighter to his face and back again. Signal number three, and they’d identified each other.

She gave him a cool smile. “Thank you.”

Her voice was a pleasant alto, deeper than he’d expected, given her youth and diminutive person. There was an innocence about her that intrigued him, even though the undercover intelligence officer in him found the whole ingénue vibe annoying as hell.

With a subtle glance, he gave Cara leave to disappear—which she did on the arm of the French ambassador. He turned to his new officer, noting he had been observed by at least three probable security officers since he’d lit the girl’s cigarette. If he was to develop a relationship with this young woman, he might as well start while he had an audience. No way she’d be a buddy of any kind, so he supposed he should try to pick her up.

“And who might you be?”

“Liz Hertford.”

“Darby Kent.” He sat down beside her on the bar stool so he was facing the room instead of the bar, effectively blocking her portly, would-be suitor from her sight.

“I’ve heard about you, Mr. Kent.”

“Have you now?”

She nodded, and her eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement and a giddy sort of delight. It just made him feel tired.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“That’s not a very original pickup line.”

Darby stifled a yawn.

The girl noticed, and the light in her eyes dimmed. “If you must know, then, I’m following my boss’s instructions.”

“And your boss is—?”

“I’ve just been assigned to Ambassador Hurst’s office.”

“Well then, you’re the new arrival.”

She nodded and tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. “It’s my first job abroad.” She wiggled a little on her barstool as if she couldn’t contain her excitement. “And you?”

“Formerly vice-president of foreign marketing for Mackey Glassworks. Currently an economic officer at the State Department.”

“Where is—?”

“Mackey? Beautiful downtown Baltimore.” He stood, extending a hand. “Would you like to dance, Liz? It’s a shame to see a lovely woman sitting here all alone when sad, beautiful Hungarian music is playing.”

She stubbed out her smoke and hopped off the barstool.
Hopped, like a rabbit or an overeager child
, he thought with a grimace. He took her elbow and led her to the dance floor then twirled her under his arm to draw her close.

And that’s when the world stopped.

He felt the life in her almost vibrating under his hands—a snap and sparkle that burned, licking at his tired and frayed psyche. Leaning close, he drew in a whiff of her perfume, some kind of clean fruit and flower blend—oranges, gardenia? He couldn’t place it—just knew it was lovely. Without thinking, he pressed her body to him, almost as if he were trying to pick her up for real.

Later, he would remember little of what he said to her during that dance. Only when she pulled back, staring at him with a god-awful look on her face, did he come roaring back to reality. She was a new officer, working under him—and wasn’t that an interesting double entendre?—and he was having extremely inappropriate thoughts about her. Almost laughing at himself for his foolishness, he grinned.

“Masterful expression of ‘shocked, yet intrigued.’ You look like I just proposed you do something salaciously scandalous.”

As he brushed his palm over the small of her back, he was reminded of the softest, warmest silk. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “I think we’ve given them a good enough show. Let’s get out of here. I’ll brief you on some of the mission parameters while I drive you back to your flat.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

He brushed a finger across her jaw, the barest hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Look at me.”

She looked up, frowning.

“No, really look at me. Let’s make a good impression for our dossier pictures.”

She glanced quickly over his shoulder, her eyes widening slightly as she recognized the state security. She looked down at the floor, and he stared at the crown of her head, willing her to play her part for God and country. He was about to give up when she looked up at him from underneath her lashes, biting her lower lip in a provocative manner. Then her very fine eyes sparked and took on a sultry expression with a dark humor underneath. She laid a delicate-looking hand on his arm and rose up on her tiptoes to murmur in his ear, “Put this in your dossier and smoke it, Mr. Kent.”

He pulled back, momentarily taken off guard. Then he laughed and took her hand. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” He led her out into the rainy dark.

***

Darby drove along the narrow streets, glancing periodically in the rearview mirror.

“So you’re the new gal.”

“Yes, I’m the new
officer.”

He ignored her correction. “All right then. Let’s go over a few standard precautions. You’ll need to be careful while you’re here. Hungary might look like a cushy post in some ways, especially compared to other East and Central European assignments, but there is some real danger here. Always keep in mind, most of the embassy offices…”

“…are bugged. Yes, I know that. Sensitive information needs to be encrypted using Magpie, and there’s a secure room on the second floor of the embassy that directional microphones don’t reach. Where are the dead drops located?”

“Well, I guess you aren’t a complete greenhorn.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve completed my training at The Farm.”

“Baby, that’s only the beginning.” He merged into evening traffic. “The only drop you need to know is in People’s Park; that’s the one you’ll use. Most of what we’re collecting in Budapest is information about economic expansion—plans for factories, shipping routes, etc.” He shrugged. “Boring stuff, really. Especially compared to the disappearances in Prague, but I suppose boring is a good thing. As Soviet minions go, the Hungarian government is relatively tame. However, that doesn’t mean you can be careless. You’re expected to follow protocols and procedures without exception even if you make friends of the locals or start dating some young Hungarian stud.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “I know my job. I’m sure the new chief of station will be satisfied with my work.” Darby might have been the more experienced officer, but he wasn’t her official boss, and she wanted him to know it.

“Then we won’t have any problems.”

He took a corner almost on two wheels, forcing Elizabeth against his side. “What are you doing?”

He glanced in his rear view mirror. “We’ve got a tail. I’ll try to lose him. Where’s your flat?”

“Number 4 Molnar Street.”

“I have a good sense of direction. I should be able to wind around and come in the back way.”

An awkward silence settled over them.

“So, you’re fluent in Hungarian.”

“Yes, I am, you arrogant jerk,
” Liz replied in practiced Magyar, ending with a sweet smile.

“You do sound like a local, but that innocent expression tells me I may have just been roundly insulted.”

“Well, aren’t you observant? You’re a bit of a horse’s ass, but you do have lovely eyes.”

“Hmm.”

They rode on through the city, passing old, dilapidated buildings and burned out streetlights, until they came to the stretch of buildings on Molnar.

“It seems the powers that be know you’re new here. The secret police are waiting on the other side of the street. Who got your apartment for you?”

“Some officer with cover in the State Department—Collins, I think?”

“No wonder the Hungarian government knows where you are. Collins is an idiot.”

“I’m starting to get the impression that everyone’s an idiot except you.”

He turned to her, flashing what her stepfather would have called a shit-eating grin. “Now you’re learning, Ms. Hertford. It will save us a lot of time and consternation if you assume I’m always right.”

“How do you know this audience across the street is because of me? How do you know they didn’t track your car? Or that it isn’t bugged right now?”

“I swept the car for bugs myself this afternoon. And nobody can follow me if I don’t allow it.” He got out of the car and jogged around to open her door.

“A gentleman. Who would have thought?”

“Gotta complete the suave, dashing diplomat disguise.”

When they got to the door, he leaned in close to her ear. “Not to intrude or anything, but I should probably come in for a little while.”

“Just how far are you planning on taking this little charade?” A frisson of alarm that felt suspiciously like excitement moved through her.

“Only to your sitting room, so don’t get the wrong idea.”

He looked around the apartment as Liz flipped on a light and put her evening bag on the counter. “Nice place.”

“It’ll do. I want to fix it up. You want a drink or something?”

“Sure.”

“Beer or wine?”

“Wine, thanks. How about some music?”

“Help yourself—stereo and albums are over there.” She pointed and turned toward the kitchen. When she came back with two glasses of wine, he was sitting on her couch, an arm draped lazily over the back of it and an ankle crossed over his knee. “Gimme Shelter” belted out of the stereo, just a tad too loud for mood music. He beckoned her to sit beside him.

“The music will mask our voices—keep the secret police out of our conversation. If we sit close, that adds to the illusion that we’re about to become an item.”

“Understood.”

He spent the next half-hour briefing her on current projects, reports that were sitting in his desk waiting for her to translate, and safety procedures.