Best Man

by Doug Raber

  It was, however, relevant to Biggers & Hayes. Josef had told me of his affiliation with a small Czech company that made medical instruments and hoped someday to export them. Since the firm was interested in finding a potential export partner, this was of definite interest to me. And it provided the rationale for my return to Prague.

  • • • • •

  On my second visit several months later, Josef arranged for me to stay at an official hotel. Accommodations for Western visitors were still difficult in those days, and he warned me — in a very circumspect manner — that I should be careful what I said aloud when I was in my hotel room. When he told me this, he pointed up, as if toward the ceiling of my room. I thanked him at the time for the advice, but I had no plans to speak with anyone on the telephone nor to have visitors in my room. Therefore, it made no difference if the room was bugged.

  The shops in Prague at that time were most remarkable for their store windows. Not because they exhibited the latest in Czech goods, but because they displayed almost nothing. The shops were gray, much like the weather, and the windows were largely empty. If capitalism was preparing to move east in those waning years of Soviet domination, the shops of Prague gave no hint. The free commerce we now see in the Czech Republic remained well in the future.

  While shopping was not an attraction to vie for my time and attention, many other cultural and touristic opportunities kept me enthralled for the entire week of my visit. In my mind’s eye, I can still picture the Charles Bridge over the Vlatava, the sun of late fall peeking through the morning mist to illuminate the statues along the balustrade. I felt a need to look carefully at those walking near me to verify that I had not been magically transported to a time some five centuries earlier.

  The relationship of the people in Czechoslovakia to their government appeared to have an unusual strain at that time, one that I had not seen in my stays in other East Bloc countries. In my opinion, it was not simply a resentment of their dreary life and dismal prospects, but a resentment and subdued anger over the loss of their beautiful experiment with liberalism. It is why Prague Spring has remained such an important part of the Czech psyche. Yet the anger was not aimed exclusively at the Communist Party, and those who were willing to talk of it, cautiously expressed the opinion that the liberal leaders had moved “too far … too quickly.”

  In terms of years, it was a regime nearing its end, but that made no visible difference to either the city of Prague or its inhabitants. Like the city itself, its inhabitants were gray — devoid of color, in that they were extraordinarily private and reticent. If they joked and laughed, it was only out of the sight of others, or at least out of my sight.

  The only example of a joke, or at least a quip, that I can recall from those early days of my Czech visits, came one day as I was walking with Josef in Wenceslas Square, going up the hill toward the National Museum. I was struck by the few splashes of color in the otherwise gray background. These patches of color were brilliant red, and they each signaled one of the many historical and political monuments that dotted the city. On closer scrutiny, I noticed that these markers invariably honored the political or military achievements of a Soviet hero.

  Perplexed, I turned to my friend.

  “Josef, these statues and memorials confuse me. Everything is Soviet, but Czechoslovakia has been a country for many centuries. Certainly, there have been many great men from your country, so why are there no monuments to Czech heroes?”

  The response to my question was one that amazes me to this day, a reaction that I had always believed to exist only in the repertoire of a comedy troupe. Josef stopped walking and turned his head toward me and then farther, as he looked over his right shoulder. Then he turned and looked over his left shoulder. Finally, he turned back to me and smiled.

  “The Russians are our friends.”

  Josef helped to acquaint me with the delights of hearty Czech cuisine during this visit, almost always a variety of pork, and it conveyed a sense of the peasant culture that had dominated the country for hundreds if not thousands of years. I think the most important new experience came one evening, when he introduced me to what he insisted was the true national pastime of his country. It was not the theater. Nor was it the classical music one could hear at countless small concerts around the city each evening. No, it was something much more basic, he claimed.

  “Tonight, you will join me for ‘one Czech beer,’ and you will then understand our country.”

  I think he was correct, but I barely survived the experience. Only with time did I come to appreciate the concept of one Czech beer. It was never clearly defined, but in multiple visits with Josef over the years, I have concluded that it really means one beer, then another, and still more until someone finally concedes defeat, or at least exhaustion. The next morning, but not before, those who participated can agree that they had shared one Czech beer the prior evening.

  • • • • •

  Upon my return to the States, I received another request to meet with Mr. Albertson. He seemed rather uninterested in my tales of Czech tourism, but he listened politely. Apparently, he concluded that I had nothing of value to explain to him and his ‘government office.’ But he wasn’t through with me yet. He remained curious. Did I plan to return to Prague?

  I explained that I had no specific plans, but I certainly would have no objection to further visits. I said it depended mainly on Biggers & Hayes, and whether we would be able to identify further business opportunities in Czechoslovakia. Prague was a lovely city, and I would enjoy seeing it again. And while I had only met Josef a short time earlier, he and I had hit it off well. To see him again and develop a lasting friendship would also be a pleasure.

  This was all Mr. Albertson needed. Might it be possible, he mused, for me to meet with him again the following week. One of his colleagues would likely be in attendance as well. And so began my regular meetings with these government officials. All that remained was the formal offer for me to be an external contractor for the government. All done discreetly, never to be mentioned to others, although information on Czech business opportunities would find its way to Jonathan Biggers with equal circumspection.

  I would receive a stipend, and although it would be modest, it would be in addition to my salary at Biggers & Hayes. Some very special accounting would allow the creation of a significant trust fund that ostensibly had been created for me upon the death of my father nearly thirty years earlier. It would suffice to answer any questions that might subsequently arise from persons who had no justifiable reason to know the truth.

  I had found my calling. And soon I would be hard at work, not only as a businessman, but also as a spy. It seemed as though I was born for it. I was good at it, and I loved it. I always knew I was the best. The best man they ever had working for the Agency.

  * * *

  24

  Miss Huffington

  After a time, it was decided by Mr. Albertson that I should visit him on a regular basis. Visits to my mother provided a frequent justification, but it was also the case that the firm’s growing business in Czechoslovakia necessitated consultation with officials at the Department of Commerce in Washington.

  I was provided with a pass to CIA headquarters, and I was able to proceed directly to Mr. Albertson’s office whenever I arrived for a scheduled meeting. He had a small waiting area that served his office as well as several others. I never knew who occupied these other offices, at least not on any official basis.

  Quite soon, I learned that the Agency was no different from any other bureaucracy. Albertson may have been in charge, but the real power in the office resided with his staff assistant. In the old days, she would have been called his secretary, which would have been fitting because her responsibilities corresponded to the original meaning of the word. She was responsible for the secrets.

  Miss Huffington was older than I, by about ten years. When I first met her, she was still not forty, but there were hints of gray in her hair, which
she wore pulled back in a bun. Her eyeglasses were severe in the style of the time, with large rounded lenses and colored plastic frames. She wore modest dresses that served to hide any evidence of her body shape beneath, and only after meeting her on many occasions did I discover that her conservative style of dress concealed an exceptional figure.

  Miss Huffington was the key to my discovery that women found me attractive. For a year or so, we did no more than exchange pleasantries on those occasions when I had to wait for Mr. Albertson before a meeting. I was always friendly to her, but there came an occasion when things began to change.

  She was trying to reach something, a book maybe, or just some papers, on the top shelf of a bookcase. She was considerably shorter than I, and she couldn’t quite get hold of it. She was only a few steps away, and I was watching her closely. She started to lose her balance, and I almost didn’t react, because I was focused on how attractive she was. Especially with the way her dress was clinging to her as she reached above her head. When she began to falter, I stood quickly and reached out to keep her from falling.

  I reached above her for the book or whatever it was, she returned to her normal standing position, and in that moment, she leaned back against me. It was all very innocent, or at least I thought so at the time. But I felt her hips press against me, and the sensation was quite pleasing. It appeared she thought so as well, as she didn’t seem embarrassed nor in any way disconcerted. She merely took the book from me and smiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor. You’re most kind.”

  After she returned to her desk, I was quite certain that I could see a bit of a flush, but Mr. Albertson emerged from his office just then and escorted me down the hall to a meeting room. We had business to conduct.

  During the following month, I would find myself thinking more about my next encounter with Miss Huffington than my ensuing meeting with Mr. Albertson. The business I typically discussed with Albertson was important, but it was routine. The encounter with Miss Huffington promised much more. She had secrets. And I was addicted to secrets. So, I began to lay my plans. It was nothing nefarious. No more than a desire to become closer to her.

  The next appointment was scheduled immediately following a trip to Czechoslovakia. At a small shop on the outskirts of Prague, I purchased a small packet of the traditional glass beads used to make inexpensive jewelry. I probably paid only a few korunas, certainly less than a dollar by the exchange rate in effect back then. I hoped she might think it was a nice gesture, but she was really quite taken. I could sense this at the time, but once again my official business intruded. Not until a subsequent visit, did I realize the impact I had made.

  She certainly knew I was coming. After all, she kept Mr. Albertson’s calendar. When I reached the office, she greeted me with a broad smile. She pointed to a chair in the waiting area, and her hand lingered in the air. It was then that I recognized the beads. She had strung them into a bracelet that now hung from her wrist. I smiled in recognition of that fact, and she walked over to give me a closer look.

  “I am terribly pleased with this bracelet, Mr. O’Connor. It was so thoughtful of you.”

  “It was nothing, Miss Huffington. Merely something to remind you of my appreciation for always being so nice to me when I come to visit Mr. Albertson.”

  She flushed slightly.

  “It is more than that. It was a true kindness. It is a courtesy I would like to repay.”

  Then she spoke in a quiet voice that was little more than a whisper.

  “Perhaps you might come to my home for tea some time.”

  I nodded. “I would like that.”

  The words were hardly out of my mouth when she produced a folded piece of paper. Again, it was barely a whisper.

  “We should be discreet. This will be our secret.”

  I took the paper and put it in my shirt pocket without looking at it, as I offered my most sincere smile.

  “Indeed. A secret it shall remain.”

  I did not look at the paper again until after my meeting with Albertson. Not until I was in my car, and after I had passed the exit and had driven back into D.C. When I looked at the paper, my heart rate increased significantly. It had worked! It wasn’t a formal invitation. It was more of an instruction. The kind one spy might give to another.

  McLean House

  6800 Fleetwood Rd, McLean

  4 pm, Saturday

  I went to her home that Saturday, pleased to discover that it was one of the townhouses across the street from the high-rise complex. It was a lovely brick building that seemed secluded despite being part of a larger complex.

  When she answered the door, she looked nothing like the Staff Assistant in Mr. Albertson’s office. I found myself face to face with an extremely pretty woman, one wearing a silk blouse that confirmed all my prior suspicions about her feminine figure. Her skirt similarly showed the curves of her body in a way that I found extraordinary. I hardly knew what to say.

  “Come in, Mr. O’Connor.”

  She took my hand and led me into her living room, where she took my coat.

  “Please sit down. I said tea when we spoke at the office, but I would prefer something a bit stronger if you approve.”

  I smiled in relief.

  “If you have scotch or bourbon, I’d be delighted.”

  “Then scotch it is. With soda?”

  “Excellent.”

  She went into her kitchen, and I heard her put ice into the glasses. A few seconds later, she returned to the living area. She reached across me to place my glass on an coffee table, and she brushed against me as she did so. She then sat across from me.

  “May I offer a toast, Mr. O’Connor?”

  “Only if you would call me Timothy. At least here, when we’re not in the office.”

  “That would be nice. And you must call me Virginia.”

  She raised her glass, and she giggled.

  “We’re really not supposed to be fraternizing. Office policy and such, but I don’t really think it matters. So, here’s to our little secret.”

  I smiled back.

  “Yes. To secrets.”

  We couldn’t discuss her work or mine, so we mostly made small talk. Life in the D.C. area. Our favorite restaurants. Movies we had seen. I told her about living in New York, and she described her upbringing in Chicago. It was a pleasant afternoon but not remarkable, although I will admit that I enjoyed her company.

  After two refills, we were both slightly tipsy, and I finally said that I should be going.

  “Where are my manners?” she asked. “I’ve never even shown you around.”

  There wasn’t that much to show, since I could see that it was a small townhouse. But it would have been impolite to refuse, so I walked behind her into the kitchen. Next were the closets, and a vague wave of the hand as we passed the hall bath.

  “And this …” she said with a wave of her arm, “is the centerpiece. My bedroom.”

  I followed her hesitantly. There really wasn’t anything unusual. A bed, a chest of drawers, a makeup table, and a reading chair. She came close and looked up at my eyes.

  “If you make love to me, we will have to keep it a secret, Tim.”

  I was stunned. But I was also aroused. Until that very moment, I had not allowed myself to admit the extent to which I was attracted to her.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m good at secrets.”

  That was the start of our relationship. There were many more secrets, although for the most part, they had no great significance. We were discreet, and we always arranged our times together so nobody would ever have reason to think we might be seeing each other socially.

  In the beginning, all our other secrets were no more than pillow talk. But I slowly realized that I had a hold on her. Our affair was never more than that. She was as committed to remaining single as I, but we understood it was a liaison for the long term.

  • • • • •

  When I obtained secrets, I had to decide what to
do with them, just as it had been when I was a child. But now, these secrets were of value and importance not just to me but to others as well. The resolution of my dilemma came about through Miss Huffington, who inadvertently opened this door to what would become the core of my career.

  As I said, the secrets she gave me at first were mostly unimportant things, facts or opinions that were of no interest to anyone else. But they were secrets, nonetheless. And it seemed to press on my most fundamental being. This was the period of my life in which I refined my philosophy of secrecy. The content of the secret material was almost irrelevant, but its value came from being secret, and it was perhaps the most valuable coin of the realm.

  • • • • •

  At first, the secrets Miss Huffington gave me seemed innocuous, secrets only in the sense that the information was not otherwise in the public domain. But they were hardly the sort of thing that could provoke an international incident, or even a political scandal. Slowly, that began to change.

  One Sunday afternoon, we were lying naked in her bed, nearly exhausted from our lovemaking, caressing each other tenderly. What she said seemed to be no more than an offhand comment.

  “The Director is going to Geneva next month.”

  “That’s nice. A vacation?”

  “No. It’s a big nuclear thing. There are some talks on disarmament,* and he’s going to brief our negotiators.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Actually, it could be. He told me last week that President Reagan is ready to make some serious concessions in bilateral discussions with the Soviets, but he wants to get the other Western countries on board. They’ll be at this Geneva meeting.”

  “That could be real progress. What sort of concessions?”

  “Both sides would limit the total number of nuclear missiles to five thousand, but they’d also have to cut back the number of heavy missiles with multiple warheads. It’s a great proposal. One that would make the U.S. much safer.”