Undeceived

by Cox, Karen M.

  “Okay then.”

  “Darcy and I had been working together off and on since London. We were both ex-military: me from the Army, he from the Air Force. So we ‘got’ each other. We joined the agency at about the same time, attended classes together at The Farm. When he was assigned the station chief position in Prague, I was happy for him, happy to work for him. We made a good team. He was the golden boy, and I the street-smart kid from the other side of the tracks. But a lot of things began to change when I met Jirina.”

  “Another officer?”

  “An asset. She was a walk-in.” He shook his head, a touch of sadness under his smile. “She just strolled into the American Embassy one Sunday morning, saying she had information to trade. It so happened I was the one manning the desk that day. She claimed she had an American father and family in the States. Her mother was a Czech actress who had died about three years prior. Jirina was beautiful, but she was also brilliant with scientific research, with technology. Through her mother, she knew several of the intellectuals who had disappeared after the signing of Charter 77, a petition criticizing the Czechoslovakian government’s implementation of human rights policies. Finding what happened to those dissidents and publicizing the government’s treatment of them throughout Czechoslovakia was a pet project of Darcy’s. He pushed me pretty hard to recruit her and then to keep her in place. We’re supposed to ‘keep them in the field’ after all. But Jirina’s goal from the beginning was to get to the States and find her father, and Darcy used her potential defection as a carrot to lure her into spying for us.”

  “What information would a young woman have that would be so valuable? I know she was a scientist, but who did she work for?”

  “It wasn’t just the type of work she did. Jirina had remained close to her aunt and uncle since her mother’s death, often staying with them for long periods of time.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Her uncle was a deputy minister in the Czechoslovakian government—”

  “Ah, so in addition to the dissidents, she also had some access to government officials. No wonder Darcy wanted her to stay in Prague.”

  “You catch on quick, Elizabeth.”

  “That family connection must have made her especially valuable.”

  “It did, but Jirina was more than just an asset to me. I was younger then, more idealistic, and I broke a cardinal rule in covert ops. I began to harbor feelings for her. I have no excuse. I just couldn’t help it. She was an amazing woman.

  “I was her case officer for several months. Many times, she expressed frustration that the CIA wouldn’t get her out of Prague. I tried all the old tired lines and platitudes, but she was starting to lose faith until some of the dissidents she knew expressed a desire to meet with the CIA station chief. That was almost unheard of—considered to be too dangerous for the CIA operatives. Nonetheless, Darcy was considering it. Jirina saw that as her chance to convince him to work on her escape to the US. She arranged the meeting between him and some of the dissidents she knew. At the last minute, Darcy backed out and sent me to take her instead. I had no idea why; he made unilateral decisions like that a lot, but Jirina was disappointed. She thought about refusing to report back to us about the meeting, but she was afraid of pissing Darcy off and never getting to the West to find her family. His new plan was for me to escort her to the meeting and pick her up at a nearby cafe afterward. He sent her in alone, because he’d do anything to get the information she had, including risking her safety.

  “I’ll never forget; she asked me where the station chief had gone. Wanted to meet him afterward to press her case, and I…” George put his head in his hands.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” He sat back up, straightened his shoulders, and set his chin firmly in place. “I told her not to worry.” He laughed without humor. “Famous last words. As it turned out, the place was crawling with KGB, and before she could make it back to the rendezvous point, she was arrested—almost right in front of me.”

  “How awful! I’m so sorry, George. Did our guys find her?”

  He shook his head. “We assume she was taken behind Soviet borders and interrogated, but no one knows for sure. I’m almost sure she’s dead, or lost to us at any rate. I was devastated, and in my grief, I accused Darcy of betraying her to the Soviets. Why else would he have changed plans at the last minute? I must have gotten too close to the truth because, next thing I know, Darcy made sure I went stateside—plunked down in some low-level analyst position. It seemed like my career was over.

  “Well, I’ll be damned”—George pounded his fist on the table—“if I’ll just let him get away with treason, so I went to CI with my story. The director thought the circumstances worth investigating, and that was how I got a second chance at a career—in counterintelligence.” He gave her a sad smile. “Now you see why I didn’t—couldn’t —tell you about how I got into this department. The CI division does important but sometimes depressing work. Now, you’re part of that. Darcy betrayed me, but even more important, he betrayed his country by discarding a woman who believed we would protect her. And I suspect he continues to betray his country to this day. I don’t know if his original motives were money or politics, but he needs to pay for his crimes. I’ve sworn to make that happen. You’ll help me, won’t you? Help me get justice for Jirina?”

  “No matter what it takes, I’ll do everything I can to find the truth.”

  “Thank you. I know I don’t have to tell you how much this case means to me.”

  She stood. “My flight to Budapest leaves day after tomorrow. I’ll grease the line by the tenth to make sure our communication set up is secure.”

  “Safe journey. And Elizabeth…”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful. And above all, for God’s sake, don’t make Jirina’s and my mistake. Don’t ever give Darcy your trust.”

  Elizabeth covered George’s hand with hers. “I think I can safely promise you that I will never trust William Darcy.”

  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.