The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  ‘Il est mort,’ he said.

  Rafferty didn’t need to hear the words of confirmation. He could see it for himself. Fitz was dead. Rafferty sat in silence on the floor next to the body of his friend. He felt sick, and a desolate pain pushed his heart down to the soles of his feet.

  All the others began talking in French. They were discussing what to do. After only a few minutes, they fell silent. The American spy spoke in English to tell Rafferty what they had decided.

  ‘Before daybreak, they will bury him beside the orchard behind the house,’ he said. ‘I am going to stay and return to Paris. La résistance will get me new papers and a new identity and I will continue my work until the war is over. You must return to your camp immediately so you are not here if the Germans come.’

  Rafferty looked at Fitz’s dead face and then turned back and nodded. He stood up and prepared to leave.

  ‘Thank you for saving me,’ the spy said. ‘You and your friend are brave men.’

  Rafferty didn’t reply.

  The French girl came to him.

  ‘Oui, merci. Thank you, brave soldier,’ she said.

  Her words were thick with Gallic emotion. She kissed him quickly on both cheeks and his camouflage paint smudged her face.

  Rafferty went to Fitz for the final time. He pulled off his friend’s dog tag and put it around his neck with his own. Before leaving, in the dim light of the kitchen, he said goodbye to his friend. Then he checked his compass, slipped out through the kitchen door, and vanished into the night. The girl watched him go.

  ‘I wish I could have asked him his name,’ she said. The American spy looked at her and then looked at his bandaged hand. He agreed with her, but he didn’t say so.

  7 February 5, 1945, Germany

  Marik Kasseri sat in silence.

  The chair was comfortable with armrests worn smooth by use.

  The Russian advance had captured the German border town, towards the east. Kasseri had orders to wait.

  He faced two large windows. The day outside was bright with a pale blue sky. Through the windows, it looked inviting but Kasseri knew the east wind that whistled, in gusty blasts, was bitingly cold.

  A man had come to visit him. The same man had visited General Baranov ten years earlier at the Red Army barracks outside Moscow. He was the politician.

  Kasseri’s fingers ran along the grooves of the scar on his face as he studied his visitor and considered what the man wanted.

  The man was in his fifties with thick, grey hair. He wore a dark olive tunic and a solemn, colourless overcoat. He held the countenance of a confident man with the intelligence to know the lives of others. A thick moustache dominated his craggy face, with cheekbones and jaw line unburdened by any flesh. Behind his sharp, confident eyes, Kasseri sensed there existed controlled aggression and a disposition towards merciless resolve.

  After staring at Kasseri for some moments without speaking, the man turned towards the windows and gazed out. The weak sunshine gave the day an almost ethereal appearance like a seventeenth-century baroque painting.

  His voice, when he spoke, was slow and deliberate as if he were reading it from a page in his mind. He spoke without moving from the view. Kasseri stared beyond him, through the windows, and wondered what it was the man was looking at. Kasseri could see nothing of any interest through those windows.

  ‘The future security of Russia,’ the man said, as though it was the only subject any Russian should be talking about. He turned his head and looked into Kasseri’s eyes. He held the gaze for many moments. In respect of why this man was in his room, Kasseri was still none the wiser.

  ‘You are an unusually rare man,’ he continued. ‘You have the temperament that enables you to be a great soldier, yet the emotion and talent for insight and understanding; the understanding of people.’ The man spoke as though his words could never be doubted. He needed men like Kasseri; he needed them for a future he knew was coming. Kasseri remained silent. The man spoke again.

  ‘The day Germany invaded Poland,’ he said, ‘the world changed, and now Russia must change. General Baranov understands that and so do you.’ The man stopped talking.

  ‘It is very cold outside,’ Kasseri said.

  ‘The wind blows from the east,’ the man replied.

  ‘Yes,’ Kasseri agreed, ‘it does.’

  ‘When the world has finished fighting, then another war will begin,’ the man said. He spoke slowly and Kasseri listened. His voice reminded Kasseri of the chimes from a grandfather clock.

  ‘When the treaties are signed who will the winners be?’ he asked.

  There was silence. Kasseri imagined he could hear the sound of a swinging pendulum.

  ‘This war will be replaced by a new war, a different war, a war of intelligence, of knowledge and of truth. The Russian people must protect themselves; we must be strong and we must be clever.’

  The two men looked at each other again. Kasseri understood exactly what the man was telling him; he may not yet know the details but he understood. It made him want to hear more.

  ‘Before the war, we opened embassies in many other countries. After the war, we will open much more.’

  The man turned back and stared through the window just as a strong gust of wind whistled, making the wooden frame rattle.

  ‘It’s getting colder outside,’ Kasseri said.

  He wondered to which country he would be going.

  The man turned back with a look of satisfaction. He searched for knowledge and for truth. Kasseri would help him find both.

  ‘There are sympathetic people everywhere. Russians will help them to express their compassion.’

  ‘Intelligence will make us strong,’ Kasseri said.

  ‘Mother Russia must never be hurt again,’ the man said. ‘Knowledge is our most powerful weapon. And we shall take it; all of it. We will protect the Russian people.’

  Kasseri’s eyes were searching, fixed through the window. A sycamore tree was whipping in the gusting east wind. He nodded in agreement.

  ‘Yes, we will,’ he said. ‘Intelligence is our best weapon.’

  A scud of low, dirty cloud had blown over. It started to rain. A fine, light shower that turned quickly heavy and then raindrops, blown by the wind, rattled on the panes of glass.

  Both men stared through the windows even though the rainwater was obscuring their view.

  They only spoke again to make plans for the future.

  8 June 6, 1946, Los Angeles, California

  Edward Rafferty didn’t much care for parties and he wasn’t enjoying this one.

  He was standing between Richard Tobias and Franco de Napoli. Franco’s voluptuous wife stood slightly ahead of them, movie star spotting.

  ‘Look, do you know who that is?’ she whispered indiscreetly and pointed with a red fingernail. The three men looked at the man. Rafferty had no idea who he was.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he whispered back, loudly. Franco laughed. Rafferty didn’t seem to know any of the movie stars. The only one he had recognised was the English comedian who had entertained the troops during the war, and who worked with the other guy, who was the singer.

  ‘Oh, my God, look who it is,’ Franco’s wife said loudly. Rafferty didn’t bother looking.

  ‘Who?’ asked her husband.

  ‘Only the most gorgeous man in the world,’ his wife told him like an excited teenager. ‘I’ve got to meet him,’ she said. She turned, reached across and kissed her husband on the lips before disappearing into the throng, in pursuit of the "most gorgeous" man in the world. Richard’s wife, Isabella, had already disappeared five minutes earlier in search of a particular matinee idol. A man she was determined to meet. Richard wasn’t sure if he minded or not. Either way, he couldn’t have stopped her.

  Rafferty put his empty beer glass on a tray held high by a waitress and then headed outside. The house was big but it was still crowded, there must have been over four hundred guests.

  As he walked, Rafferty spo
tted Avid Zuckerman angling towards Richard. He had timed that well. To avoid passing their host and movie mogul, Rafferty took evasive action. His dodge led him away from the pool area, beside a wall and onto a path that led towards the driveway. It was less frantic outside. He stood for a while and listened to the sounds of drunken movie people. They were theatrical and noisy.

  He was only at the party because Richard, Franco and their wives were there. Richard and Franco had become important stockholders in the Twentieth Century-Fox Film Corporation. Franco had persuaded Richard and Richard had persuaded Rafferty.

  ‘A big house full of pretty girls,’ Richard had said.

  Richard had been right, the house was full of pretty girls but none of them seemed interested in Rafferty. He wondered if they could tell he wasn’t in the movie business.

  Rafferty walked along the pathway, following it around the house and onto a raised patio area on the east side. Ornate, French style doors appeared. They were open and party music from inside floated out. The elaborate doors entered into a large drawing room full of laughing, chattering guests.

  He lingered in the fresh air a few moments longer before stepping over the threshold. He sidestepped a couple in their forties who were sipping champagne, then stood and took in the scene. As his eyes cast around the room, he saw her for the first time. She was standing under the chandelier, twenty-five feet away, side on, holding a crystal flute in her right hand. She wore a black, off the shoulder, party dress, which emphasised her shiny hair that fell in blonde waves. Her eyelashes were long and dark, and her snub nose was lost above deep red lips.

  She was facing three men, all attentive and all encouraged by the warmth of her laughter. To her right was a tall, thin man wearing a checkered jacket; to her centre was a heavier man with unruly hair, and on her left a bearded man in an expensive suit. Rafferty watched her. He was jealous of all three men.

  His eyes remained fixed. He would guess her age at about twenty. She turned naturally in conversation and his view improved. Rafferty’s eyes moved with her body. Her figure was curved and slim, her pout was never far away and her eyes shone in the light from the chandelier. His reaction was not a surprise. She had excited him sexually, just by her look across a crowded room. Rafferty turned away but he couldn’t think of anything else. The girl had stolen his thoughts. He looked back, glancing several times. Every time she was just as beautiful.

  Marilyn had slept until midday. Then, sitting on her bed dressed in nothing but a robe she drank tea and thought about the party. She spent a leisurely four hours getting ready. Soaking in the bathtub, she contemplated her future. The screen test had gone well; perhaps her modelling would take her into movie acting. Where might she go from there?

  She wondered how difficult it would be to maintain control of herself at the party. She had a weakness, she knew, and her desire could be so strong. It was seemingly beyond her control. This was where the danger lay. She knew there would be many attractive men there. The excitement she experienced for such a big Hollywood party, where famous actors might speak to her, was irresistible. She felt it might become an uncontrollable night.

  Her hair took longer than an hour to get just right, but her make-up took only a second. She wriggled into her party dress, then clasped a silver necklace and let it fall at her throat. She smiled at her reflection. The women would envy her and the men would stare.

  The casting director’s name was Bradley. He arrived to collect her at the agreed time, wearing a new suit bought for the occasion. Marilyn was late. She kept him waiting for forty-five minutes. He was not amused; but her appearance, when it came, helped smooth his temper.

  ‘You look ravishing,’ he told her. Marilyn just smiled. They arrived at the mansion and went in together, Marilyn taking his arm.

  ‘Are you going to make me a movie star?’ she asked.

  Bradley laughed. ‘There’s always that chance,’ he said.

  ‘I think that dress may help.’

  Once inside, they made their way through the huge reception room. Bradley lifted two flutes of champagne from a tray carried by a waitress and gave one to Marilyn.

  She thanked him and suggested they go out to the pool.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he replied. ‘Let me just get a plateful of those good looking shrimp things, I’m starving. Do you want some?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll wait here.’

  Marilyn watched Bradley head off towards the huge buffet table before glancing around and taking in the scene. The room was full and she was blocking someone’s path.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said and stepped back a couple of paces, which took her into an alcove that led through into another room. Marilyn looked through the archway and saw him for the first time. He was standing a few feet inside the room, side on, holding a glass of beer in his left hand. He wore a dark suit with a blue open-neck shirt. His haircut was short and although he was freshly shaven, the darkness still coloured the lower half of his face.

  An older, attractive woman stood talking to him with shiny, loose hair and sparkly earrings. She kept her beaming eyes on his face and her hand danced as she spoke in a warm, rolling voice. The woman was quite striking and Marilyn wondered if they were together as a couple. The thought gave her a strange sensation, and then she recognised the emotion, it was jealousy.

  Marilyn watched them for any clear signs. The woman came close to touching his arm but then pulled her hand away and, instead, ran it through her hair. It was a flirtatious gesture and one that Marilyn understood immediately. Another man joined them and the three of them spoke for only a minute more before the new man led the woman away by her arm. Marilyn knew the defensive actions of a concerned husband and smiled. This left the man alone.

  He turned slightly and Marilyn had a clear view of him. His jacket hung from wide shoulders and the belt at his waist was flat against his stomach. He changed his stance, from one foot to the other, and the movement showed a confident, natural balance; like a bullfighter, Marilyn thought. He moved his head, and his face and eyes were hard just like those of a matador should be. In addition, there was something else, for a second, something Marilyn thought she remembered in his expression and then it was gone. He walked away without seeing her and disappeared. Other guests passed by but she didn’t notice. Her reaction to the man did not surprise her. She realised she had that feeling of desire; she was sexually aroused.

  The party was lively and in full swing. The six-piece band played with a fast tempo and the dance floor, in the main reception room, was alive with couples moving.

  They shuffled the cha-cha, swung their hips to the rumba, glided the tango and continuously turned for the waltz. For those who enjoyed dancing, it was heaven. Rafferty did not.

  He stood at the edge of the room near to more open French doors that led out onto a romantically lit courtyard and watched the dancing. Franco de Napoli and his wife were performing an exuberant tango. Rafferty watched with amusement as they strutted. The comicalness of seeing older people, he knew well, behaving in such an unusual fashion gave him a feeling of unease.

  With the uncomfortable smile still on his face, he turned and stepped through the open French doors into the darker and more relaxed calm of the courtyard. It was a still, clear evening with a Californian midnight blue sky and a shrouded, ghostly moon. The air was fragranced by the sweet perfume drifting from a wall of climbing roses; and a statue of a nymph poked her face from between two clipped, decorative fir trees. The sculpture seemed to gaze with a deep ethereal beauty. He moved closer, to look at her face and leant in.

  A warm, soft, almost breathless feminine voice said, ‘are you going to ask her to dance?’

  Rafferty hadn’t heard anyone approach and he turned quickly, and there she was, standing right in front of him. For a second he was surprised. She spoke again and said, ‘I don’t think she’ll be very light on her feet.’

  Rafferty smiled at the girl and nodded his head. She smiled back.

  ‘You loo
k surprised as though you weren’t expecting me, but that you know who I am,’ she whispered.

  ‘I saw you earlier this evening. You were surrounded by three men,’ he explained.

  She didn’t answer, and instead asked him, ‘who was the attractive dark haired woman you were talking to near the alcove? You see, I saw you too.’

  Rafferty didn’t answer. There was a pause. Neither of them spoke. They looked at each other and both saw it; the strong attraction they had for each other. It existed in the space between them as clearly as an express train thundering through a quiet country station. It was loud and unstoppable.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  She considered answering Aphrodite, but instead she replied, ‘My name is Marilyn. What’s yours?’

  ‘Rafferty,’ he answered. ‘Are you an actress?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m a model, but I did have a screen test this week for a one-line part in a new big budget comedy. Twentieth Century-Fox is making it. That’s how I got the invitation to this party. Our host is head of the studio, and my date is the casting director,’ Marilyn explained in her slow, breathless voice. Rafferty watched her lips and her eyes; her voice sounded like music. God, she was…bewitching, yes, that was it, bewitching; her words were spells, her face enchanting and her body mesmerising.

  ‘I don’t think you belong here,’ she told him.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t look to me as though you work in the movie business,’ she explained.

  Rafferty laughed.

  ‘Do you?’ she pressed.

  ‘You’re right, I don’t,’ he admitted.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I used to be soldier in the US army.’