by Doug Raber
By this time in our relationship, I had come to recognize that she was a remarkably attractive woman, despite her efforts to hide it with plain clothing and austere hair style. She looked quite lovely that afternoon, and then I noticed the attaché case. The documents Mr. Albertson wanted me to peruse were not merely confidential, they were highly classified. Miss Huffington carried them in the locked attaché case, but I saw there was something more. Beneath the sleeve of her coat, the links of a chain were visible, evidence that the handle of the case was attached to her wrist by a set of handcuffs.
I was nearly unable to control myself, and she was no more restrained than I. Within what seemed like only a few seconds, I had removed all her clothing, at least to the extent that it could be removed while the handcuff was still locked, and my own clothes were in a pile on the floor next to those that could be completely removed from her person.
We made love with sheer abandon, and perhaps with a bit of noise, but I suspect hotel workers do not consider such things to be unusual. Only when our coupling was finished did she advise me that she didn’t know the combination to unlock the case. I guessed it might be a number that Mr. Albertson and I had shared previously, and to my delight, the case popped open on my first attempt.
We laughed like giddy teenagers when we realized that neither of us had a key to remove the handcuff from her wrist. She was expected to return the case and its contents to Langley later that evening, so nobody had considered the possibility that she might need to detach herself from the case while sharing its contents with me. Certainly, nobody would have thought that she might be sharing considerably more than the contents of the case.
As it turned out, this was a fortunate coincidence, because Miss Huffington’s sense of propriety necessitated that she leave the papers with me to read when she sequestered herself in the bath after our sexual encounter had concluded.
This provided me with the opportunity to retrieve my Minox camera, and I was able to photograph all the papers before she reemerged. I remember clearly my thoughts as I carried out this task.
Josef, my friend, you will be delighted with this information. It has everything you might wish to know about our negotiating positions. Gorbachev and his friends will know exactly what they must do.
A few moments later, Miss Huffington emerged, having donned the garments I had removed completely, while rearranging those that had been restrained by the handcuffs. She smiled at me demurely, as she again put her modest nature on full display.
• • • • •
In little more than a year’s time after Reykjavík, Gorbachev and Reagan held another summit meeting, this one in Washington. I had no role in that activity, but I was in Washington on business the same week. I was filled with emotion when I saw the Soviet leader go past my hotel in his motorcade. I realized then how much I had contributed to the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty* that would be signed during this summit. And nobody knew. But there was no doubt in my own mind that the information — more accurately, the secrets — that I had been able to give to Josef, would alter the course of history.
It was during that year that I next saw Cynthia. One afternoon, I was working in my office in Manhattan, having recently returned from a trip to East Germany. This was only months before the wall came down, and we were working furiously in anticipation of the new commercial opportunities we believed were approaching. My private phone line rang.
“Timothy?”
I knew her voice at once, even though it had been such a long time. I hadn’t spoken with her since Christmas two years earlier, when she visited Uncle Christopher for the holidays. She was with her family, and there were so many people that there was always a crowd. David wanted to reminisce about the good old days when we were at Dartmouth, and Uncle Christopher wanted to introduce Cynthia and her son to all his old friends. It was a madhouse.
Consequently, we never had the chance to be together. To be alone, I mean. To go to bed together and have sex. We both wanted it. That was the one thing she was able to whisper in my ear, even though there were dozens of people who would have been within hearing distance of any normal conversation.
“Will you keep your promise, Tim? I really do miss you so very much.”
“I will. I told you I would.”
But that had been two years before. Whenever I thought of her, which was often, and especially when I was with Miss Huffington, I had to force my regrets into the back of my mind. In fact, I was not keeping my promise to Cynthia, but I did not know how to do so. Therefore, I would just put it from my mind and wait. I no longer recall if this telephone conversation took place at a time when I had recently been with Miss Huffington, but it matters little. There was, after all, no link between my relationships with the two women.
Hearing Cynthia’s voice on the telephone, I was thrilled.
“Cynthia. My God! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m in California, Timothy. Working hard. Missing you. I have a business trip to the East Coast next week, and I was thinking I might tell people I would visit Uncle Christopher in Boston at the end of the week. Then I could stop over in New York for a day, or even two, and we could meet. We could see each other. It would be wonderful, Timothy.”
“I won’t be here, Cynthia.”
I’m sure the disappointment in my voice was obvious to her.
“Oh, no. That’s terrible. I was so hoping to see you again. More than just see you, Tim. Much more. Where will you be? Back overseas again on one of your supposed trade missions?”
“No, I won’t be going that far. I have to spend four or five days at our Washington office. I’ve got some meetings down there. They want me to meet some people at the Commerce Department.”
“That’s even better! That’s where my business trip is. I’ll be in D.C. too. I can just extend my stay for an extra day or two. Nobody would think anything of it. We can have dinner. Maybe go sightseeing. It would be wonderful. Where are you staying?”
“Probably at the Mayflower. My mother always wants me to stay at the house with her, but I can’t bear it. She no longer leaves the house, except to go to morning Mass. She keeps the shades drawn, and the house is as dark as a tomb. She’s showing her age quite badly now. And she isn’t even sixty yet. It’s quite sad, really.”
“I’m sorry, Timothy. I know you’ve always been close to her. Look, why don’t I call you when I finish my meetings. They’ve booked me at the Hay-Adams because my meetings are at the White House.”
“That sounds perfect, Cynthia. I’ll be flying to D.C. on Tuesday morning, and my meetings should be done by Thursday afternoon. You can just leave a message at the Mayflower.”
“I’ll do that. This is very exciting. I do miss you, and it will be fantastic to catch up. Bye, Timothy. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Have a good trip.”
• • • • •
When I returned to the Mayflower that Thursday afternoon, the assistant manager waved to me as I entered the lobby. He told me there was a message for me, and he went to fetch it from the front desk. It all seemed quite cryptic.
The message said, “Room 725. Please call.”
I walked to the bank of house phones and asked the operator to put me through to room 725. It rang three times, and someone picked up.
“Hello, Tim?”
I stammered in my response. “Cynthia … how did you get here? You were supposed to be at the Hay-Adams.”
“Quite easily, Timothy. They have these things here in Washington called taxicabs.”
She paused for a moment, then continued in a softer voice. “Oh Tim, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so sarcastic. But my meetings finished a little earlier than I expected, and I decided it would be nice if we were both staying in the same hotel. Let’s meet for a drink, shall we? In the hotel bar? Maybe we could have dinner after.”
“That would be great. I need to drop my briefcas
e off. And I’d like to shower and change, too. It’s been a long day for me.”
“I’ll tell you what. Rather than fight for a table in the bar, why don’t you come up to my room when you’re ready. I’ll ask the hotel to send up our drinks. Do you still like champagne? We should celebrate. It’s been ages.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
She opened the door as soon as I knocked.
“Tim!” she cried, reaching out to embrace me with an excited smile.
“Oh God, it’s good to see you again. You look wonderful. Come in. The champagne is waiting. They brought it right away, and I had them open it. Please come in and pour us each a glass.”
She seemed so enthusiastic that I couldn’t tell if it was just her, or if I had already been that excited myself. But it was indeed a delight to see her again. I gave her a great big hug, and she kissed me. Not just a peck on the cheek, but neither was it a terribly romantic kiss. On the other hand, as I think back, it got my attention. She looked great. If women in their mid-thirties were supposed to begin to show age, she was living proof that such a maxim was completely incorrect. To my eyes she was as vivacious and beautiful as that first time I saw her when she was in her teens. And the effect on me was hardly any different.
We went through all the necessary chitchat — families, jobs, and all that. But the family never got very specific. Neither of us seemed to want to talk about David — at least not with each other — and I’m fairly certain her son was never mentioned. She said most of her work for MITRE was still confidential, although it was in the general area of sensors.
We were lying in bed together, naked beneath the sheets, when she began asking about my career. I was in a state of bliss, and just hearing her voice made me as happy as I had been in a very long time.
“Tell me about your great financial exploits, Tim. Have you set up any big commercial ventures across the Iron Curtain yet?”
I reacted with a laugh.
“Hardly, Cynthia. But I think we’re making progress. There are people over there who realize that communism isn’t the answer, even if they’re afraid to say so out loud. And their governments need hard currency, so they’re willing to let some of the preliminary discussions go forward. I think we’ll get there soon enough.”
“And how do you like Geneva? Do you find the Swiss a bit more refined than the East Germans and Czechs?”
At first, her question caused me no surprise. In my defense, I must explain that when she asked it, I was caressing her, and my concentration was definitely not on the urbanity of Eastern Europeans. Only after I mumbled some silly reply did the significance of her question strike me.
“How did you know I’ve been in Geneva?” I didn’t ask it in a challenging way. It was merely curiosity.
She answered after the briefest of pauses.
“Probably from Uncle Christopher. He talks to his old friends at Biggers & Hayes now and then. He told me how he meets them for lunch sometimes at the Harvard Club.”
“Yes, I suppose he does.”
She had been to Geneva several times herself, and we talked about some restaurants we had both been to, and about the lake, and the majestic view of Mont Blanc above the opposite shore. But my attention was increasingly focused on the woman I was in bed with.
That evening, we went to dinner at a restaurant that Cynthia picked out. It was near the White House, and she thought we might see some important people there, but there was nobody we recognized. I don’t remember anything about the restaurant, but I was thoroughly enchanted by the experience I was sharing with Cynthia. Our conversation was light, and there were hints of greater pleasure to come when we would return to the hotel.
She surprised me with a more serious comment.
“I met someone today who is quite interesting. Her name is Pamela Tremont.”
“Should I know the name?”
“I doubt it. She’s a program officer at the State Department. Works for the assistant secretary who deals with arms control stuff. If you ever get over to Foggy Bottom, you should look her up. A couple of years older than you. Really smart, too. Went to Smith. The assistant secretary trusts her with everything.”
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye out. But tell you the truth, I’d rather keep my eyes on you. More than just my eyes, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, Tim. You have such a one-track mind.”
“But it’s a very nice track, don’t you think?”
She grinned in response. It was at once both mischievous and lascivious.
“Shall we pay the check and get back to the Mayflower?”
* * *
26
Moscow
My contributions as an advisor to the nuclear negotiations in Geneva must have made an impression on some very senior people in our government. I conclude this because my technical expertise was sought for a series of negotiations that included both biological and chemical weapons. Technical expertise is somewhat of a misnomer, given my lack of formal training in those areas, although I contributed substantially through my background in international commerce.
I must emphasize that historical context is extremely important here. The Cold War had been going on for four decades, and even average citizens recognized the possibility of a cataclysmic event that could annihilate humanity. Not just a few people, nor just many of them. If one of the world’s leaders said the wrong thing or threatened an inappropriate action, one of his counterparts might react by issuing an order for a first strike. It could be the launch of nuclear missiles, the release of extraordinarily toxic chemical munitions,* or the spread of virulent biological organisms for which neither treatment nor cure existed. We would all die.
This was not a scenario anyone was anxious to discuss, and it was certainly not a subject any political leader wanted to describe to his constituents. But Reagan and Gorbachev both understood the potential for worldwide catastrophe, so they began to talk. And this led to wider discussions that were subsequently formalized. Some of these talks were at a very high level, and their locations in both the United States and the Soviet Union reflected the importance that should be attached to them.
Of course, it was not to be the Soviet Union much longer. Soon it would be Russia, and the former Soviet states. On the one hand, I would be able to say that we — and here I mean the United States — had won the Cold War, but it also meant that the instruments of annihilation would be held separately by a half-dozen potential adversaries rather than just the one we had come to know so well. It was a frightening time, and I, along with many others, worked twice as hard to stave off the possibility that the world might end.
About a month after I saw Cynthia, I returned to Washington for a series of meetings. Some were with businessmen with whom Biggers & Hayes might want to cooperate, and the others were with government officials. One of these involved a panel discussion held at the State Department on trade relationships with East Bloc nations. The topic was of great importance to me, as possible new regulations were on the agenda, and I would need to remain up to date to help the firm avoid any legal jeopardy.
During one of the intermissions, while members of the audience were milling about and exchanging business cards, I noticed a particularly attractive young woman engaged in conversation a few feet from where I was standing. She had a gorgeous figure and long, silky dark hair. I moved closer, trying to devise a reason for joining in that group’s exchange. My desire to meet her increased considerably, when I noticed her nametag. “Tremont.”
I approached her directly, and when there was a break in the conversation, I smiled and extended my hand.
“Good morning. Timothy O’Connor.”
She shook my hand warmly, and I began to explain.
“Cynthia …”
She cut me off before I could say anything more.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. O’Connor. Do you often participate in meetings here at State?”
If there were any doubt as to whether this was t
he right Tremont, her interruption answered the question.
“Not so far,” I answered. “But it looks as though there may be more occasions in the future.”
Her response surprised me.
“I think that would be very nice.”
She handed me a business card, turning it over as she placed it in my hand. On the back of the card was a handwritten number.
“That’s my private number. You should call me. Perhaps this evening.”
She smiled once again, and we repeated our handshake.
“Mr. O’Connor,” she said formally.
“It was nice to meet you, Miss Tremont.”
We met for a drink at my hotel that evening after I called her. I was quite enchanted by her, as was she by me. It seemed quite clear to me that the next time we met, it would involve more than a drink.
Most of our conversation that first evening was small talk. She confirmed that she worked in the area of arms control, but obviously, the details were classified and inappropriate for public discussion. She did, however, inform me that international negotiations would be proceeding on several fronts, likely by different teams in different locations. Some would focus on missiles and nuclear arms, but chemical and biological weapons would be important topics as well.
• • • • •
Several months later, I was on my way to Moscow to work on a possible trade deal. It seemed that the international situation was changing more rapidly than ever. Doing business in East Germany and Czechoslovakia was one thing, but this was at the very heart of the Soviet Union. I was both nervous and thrilled at the new opportunity.
The trip involved more than trade opportunities, however. In a whirlwind of activity during the preceding weeks, that began with a summons from Mr. Albertson. I made a trip to CIA headquarters, and when I reached his office suite, I was surprised to discover a woman other than Miss Huffington sitting at the reception desk. Of course, I asked him.
“Miss Huffington,” he responded in a tone that seemed thoughtful, almost as though he couldn’t quite remember.