by Doug Raber
She turned her back to me, and I undid the zipper on the dress. She let it fall to the floor. I took a step closer to her so that my body pressed against her back, and she leaned into me. I put my arms around her and held her breasts. They were exquisite, simultaneously both firm and soft, and the excitement surged through me. I could tell from her muffled gasp that she was aroused by my touch.
My hands went to her shoulders, and I turned her so she was facing me. My eyes swept across her face and then down her body. The lingerie was gorgeous, and beneath it was absolute perfection. I unclasped her bra and was transfixed by her beauty. The sight of her nakedness was even more captivating when I slid the panties down her legs.
“Come with me,” I said, leading her into the bedroom.
I could not remember any time with a woman that was more intense, and her muted whimpers made it clear that I had brought her to the absolute heights of passion. Even more so, when we repeated the act an hour later. I was certain it was an experience she would never forget.
• • • • •
At seven that evening, dressed in my wrinkled clothing and the windbreaker I had purchased in Prague, I led Monika down the hallway to the elevator. We had taken pains to tousle her hair, and when combined with her clothing, the effect was remarkable. Gone was the attractive young woman who had attended the reception the prior evening, and in her stead was someone who would be taken for a working mother on her way home after a long and difficult day.
We walked from the staff entrance to the street corner and turned left in accord with our instructions. The time was exactly 7:15. We had walked less than fifty feet when the headlights flashed.
“That’s the car, Monika. You go ahead, and I’ll be ready to provide a distraction if it should be necessary. But I don’t think it will be necessary. You look nothing like the woman they are seeking.”
She turned part way toward me and spoke haltingly.
“Thank you, Timothy. You have saved me. I think I owe you my life.”
“Go,” I said. “You must keep moving.”
I watched her as she walked the remaining distance. As she neared the black Mercedes, the front passenger-side door opened and a man got out. It was Dieter, and he nodded to me before walking away in the opposite direction.
The rear passenger door opened, and a second man emerged. He held the door for Monika and then he got in beside her. The car pulled out from the curb, and I watched as it drove past me, gaining speed as it merged with the evening traffic.
My eyes followed the car as it disappeared in the distance with Monika and the KGB agents.
I never saw her again.
* * *
30
Bern
The experience in Vienna had been unnerving. I never knew whether the Romanians might have discovered my role in Monika’s disappearance from the city, thereby making me a target for their retribution. In addition, I was never sure whether I had made an unwise decision, or even a step that might prove my undoing, when I turned to Dieter for assistance. If the details of the events were to become known by others, how would they respond upon learning that an American agent had been turned over to the KGB? One day, she was gaily attending a party in Vienna, and the next day, she had disappeared from the city without a trace.
For the several months that I continued as an advisor for the CFE discussions in Vienna, I was never at ease. When I stepped out of a building, walked down the street, or ambled through one of the city’s many parks, I invariably found myself looking around furtively and glancing back over my shoulder. Was that man following me? Did that woman have a gun, or was it only some bread for her supper that she had put in her handbag? My appetite for the delicacies of the city’s restaurants had faded. I found it difficult to sleep at night. Strange or unexpected noises frightened me.
I returned to the States, and after only a brief time in my native country, I began to regain my equanimity. There were no spies shadowing my every move, no assassins lurking in the dark alleys hoping that I would make myself an easy target. Once again, I was a simple businessman who was managing the Washington office of Biggers & Hayes with the goal of bringing in financial profits rather than manipulating the course of the world’s superpowers.
Others in the firm seemed to understand my emotional turmoil, although I had told only one or two of my colleagues of my anxiety. I recall one of them asking me if I had considered counseling, but I made it clear that I would not consider that option. Disclosure of the underlying causes of my fears was beyond comprehension, and I only made vague references to fear of flying and my frustrations with being away from home so often.
Over a period of several months, things began to improve. The fear of physical attack dissipated soon after my return to D.C., and my general malaise steadily declined, although not to the extent that I could say truthfully that it was vanquished.
The end of 1991 was marked by rapid geopolitical change. Communist hegemony was coming to an end, and new nation-states were emerging. On Christmas day, Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev spoke by telephone with U.S. President George H.W. Bush. Later that same day, he resigned as President of the USSR, and formal dissolution of the Soviet Union took place within twenty-four hours.
The Cold War had ended, and America quickly declared itself the winner, but those of us who had played in the match knew the game was not over. New rivalries and confrontations would soon replace the long struggle between East and West with conflicts employing guns rather than words. Never had the search for peace and the need for negotiations been more important. Those who had long been involved in the fight understood that they must continue, but I was not ready. I had no heart for it.
The impetus for an unexpected redirection of my career path arose from what I might well have foreseen. It started with a phone call.
“Hello, Timothy.”
As it had on many previous occasions, the voice sent a ripple of excitement down my spine, changing from surprise to delight as it progressed.
“Hi, Cynthia. How have you been?”
“Everything is good. I’m here in town for a meeting at the Pentagon.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Just overnight. My plane leaves early in the morning.”
It had been several years since we had seen each other. Even the traditional family gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas had not provided the opportunity. She was in California, her son had soccer practice, I was overseas … something always prevented us from being in the same place at the same time.
“Can we meet?”
My heart was pounding, and I had to force myself to breathe.
“Of course.”
“I want to see you. I need you, Tim.”
“I can get free. Where?”
“I’m staying at the Jefferson. Six o’clock? In the bar?”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
I felt awakened, more alive than I had been for months, and the arousal extended beyond my emotions to my body. I was barely able to finish the paperwork on my desk as I waited for the afternoon to fade.
The doorman at the Jefferson saw me glance around the lobby, not remembering the location of the bar.
“Might you be Mr. O’Connor?”
When I confirmed his assumption, he led me to the bar’s entrance. I saw her at once, and she was as beautiful as ever, no different than the last time I had seen her. It was almost twenty years since I had first held her in my arms, but my physical reaction to the sight of her was no different.
She extended a hand as I walked to the table, and I held it as I sat down. Her electricity flowed through my arm and into my body.
“I ordered a cocktail for you. One of their special concoctions called a ‘Conflict of Interest.’ I thought it would be appropriate.”
I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, so I just smiled.
“How are you feeling, Timothy? Have you been able to settle in after all the stress of the past year?”
It
seemed she already knew, but I told her that I was pretty well recovered.
“It’s a lot of stress, all that traveling,” she said.
“Yes. It’s been very refreshing to spend my evenings at home without meetings or receptions all the time. Weekends, too.”
She wrinkled her nose in a cute but disapproving way.
“Sounds to me like you need to start getting out a little more. Here’s an idea. Do you still ski?”
“It’s been a few years. But it’s one of the things I’ve missed since everything got so busy.”
“Then it’s the perfect solution for you. A friend of mine at work has a ski chalet, and she’s been asking around if anyone was interested in renting it for a week or two next month. I’ve seen pictures, and it’s really beautiful.”
I thought about this for a moment.
“It might be fun. And I could use the exercise.”
“Then it’s done. I’ll call her tomorrow and tell her. For two weeks? And does it matter which two?”
“My schedule is fairly open right now, Cynthia. Whatever works for your friend. But you haven’t said where it is.”
“In the mountains, of course. Not far from Bern.”
I was a bit puzzled. I don’t think I know it. Colorado? Utah?”
She smiled mischievously.
“The other direction. Switzerland.”
“Switzerland? I’m not sure …”
She reached across the small table to put her hand on mine, and she spoke earnestly.
“It would be good for you. Quiet. Isolated. A great place for you to continue your recuperation.”
“I suppose, maybe …”
“No ‘maybe.’ You need to do this. For your health.”
“All right. Go ahead and make the arrangements. Just let me know what I have to do.”
“I have another friend who’s a travel agent. I’ll have her take care of everything. You’re going to love it.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Now, let’s turn to more immediate matters. Dinner.”
“What are you thinking of?” I asked.
“Sandwiches. Something that won’t be ruined if it gets cold.”
“Why would the dinner get cold?”
“Because we might be busy with something else. I’ve already arranged to have the sandwiches delivered. Pay the check, so we can go to my room. I need you, Tim.”
• • • • •
I left for Switzerland two weeks later, and I was surprised by the extent to which I found myself looking forward to the trip. The chalet was one of many that could be rented in the village, and a local manager made sure I had everything I needed. The pantry was stocked, convenient transportation to the ski runs was provided, and some lovely restaurants were within a short walk.
The only thing I missed was Cynthia. Our evening together at the Jefferson hotel had been far too short for my preferences. When we first reached her room, we nearly tore each other’s clothes off before making love with reckless abandon. That was followed by a brief respite to consume our supper, and we again returned to her bed. Two weeks later, I could close my eyes and still feel my hands touching her tenderly, as she yielded my caresses. But at least I had the memories.
Part of the first afternoon was sufficient time for me to regain my proficiency on skis, and by the second day I was flying down the expert runs. After my last run, I stopped to have a beer in the inn at the base of the ski slope, and my mood became somewhat wistful as I gazed at the attractive young women who also were concluding their day on the snow-covered mountain. They were staying in one of the hotels in the village, and I almost wished that I were also. But, truth be told, I was too physically exhausted to do much more than return to my chalet for a cold supper, a bottle of wine, and a good book.
As the end of the second week neared, I felt like a new man. My anxiety and depression had vanished completely, my physical stamina had returned, and, to my great surprise, I felt the urge to seek new challenges. Who would have predicted that my return to peak form would coincide with a completely unexpected encounter on the ski slopes?
Several inches of fresh powder had fallen overnight, and I was one of the first in line when the lifts opened in the morning. I was making first tracks with my wide swooping turns and exulting in the sheer beauty of the untouched surface that lay ahead of me. I was about halfway down, when another skier passed me at high speed. I initially thought he might have lost control, but I quickly realized I was looking at an expert. Oddly, he also reminded me of someone, but I could not recall who that might be.
The old competitive fire from my days at Andover reemerged with a vengeance, and I quickly found myself flying after the other skier. I gained some ground, but he was too fast for me to catch him on the remaining part of the run. Clearly, he was an outstanding skier, a man worthy of acclamation, so I called to him as we both came to a stop.
He turned toward me, and the look of familiarity remained. His ski hat and goggles, however, prevented me from seeing anything more specific. I raised my own goggles to my forehead, and his face suddenly lit with a wide smile.
“Timothy!” he cried out. “What are you doing here?”
Confusion quickly became recognition. It was Reza Kashani, my Iranian agent, or perhaps, I thought, my Iranian friend. It had been several years, and I was uncertain how things stood between us.
“I’m here on a ski vacation, Reza. Why are you here?”
“I have been assigned to the embassy in Bern. But you? There are no negotiations for you to advise here. I never expected to see you. And with whom are you on holiday? One of those gorgeous young ladies I see everywhere?”
The question made me laugh.
“Unfortunately, not. I am traveling by myself. It has been to help me recover from all the work and stress of the last year.”
“And it has been successful?”
“More than you can imagine, Reza. I feel like a young man again, even if I was unable to catch up to you on the slope.”
“I did not know it was you when I went past. But I think you must overstate my speed. It was only that you were not attempting to catch me until I was well past you.”
“Perhaps so,” I said. He was being polite, but I think he knew I was the better athlete.
“You will be here for the next week?” he asked. “We should spend a day skiing together.”
“Alas, I will be leaving in the morning. Could you at least join me for a beer now? Alcohol is still okay for you?”
“I remain less strict than the revolutionaries in my country, and I wish I could say yes. Unfortunately, I have a meeting this afternoon at the embassy, so it is not possible.”
He frowned and then continued. “Are you free for dinner this evening? I could cancel my other obligations. It is the least I could do, Timothy. We could relax over a meal and have a good discussion. Like it was before.”
“That would be excellent,” I said. “I suggest we meet in the village at the restaurant named The Golden Lamb. Would seven o’clock be good for you?”
“Certainly. I will see you then.”
He looked up the mountain.
“Will you go for another run?” he asked.
I nodded, and he smiled apologetically.
“The you must go without me. Enjoy your afternoon, Timothy. I will think of you when I sit in my tedious conference.”
• • • • •
Reza was already seated when I reached the restaurant. We ordered a bottle of wine and drank it slowly through the course of our meal. Our conversation began with small talk, moving from general health to career progress. I learned that he now occupied an official position as a deputy assistant to the Iranian Ambassador.
“You are to be congratulated,” I said. “You have truly become a diplomat.”
“It is only the title of my position,” he responded. “I shall never have the skills in diplomacy you have exhibited. It is why we need you back, Timothy.”
; “Back in what way?” I asked.
“The world is becoming very unsafe. Your skills are needed. My country is at risk, as is yours. If you and I do not cooperate to stop the madness, we could all die. The world itself could be exterminated.”
We had finished our dinner, but the real conversation had just begun. We ordered a round of schnapps.
“Of what specific risks do you speak, Reza?”
“There are many, and I could not name them all. However, three stand out as most dangerous, and each of them threatens to place your country in conflict with mine. First is nuclear war and the development of weapons. My country has officially denied any program in the development of nuclear weapons, but there are people in America who think otherwise. They have spoken of a military strike to destroy what we have stated does not exist.”
“I’m not sure …”
“Allow me to tell you of the other two before we discuss. The second is chemical weapons. Iran has already been the victim of attacks with such atrocities, and regrettably, we also used them near the end of our war with Iraq. Yet now we hear threats from those you call hawks in your country. Suggestions that there should be military attacks against Iran to stop what they claim is another weapons program. But they are wrong, and our research is intended only to discover defensive measures against such attacks.”
I found myself unable to remain silent.
“There are negotiations on both of these topics. You and I have each participated previously. What must be done is already being done.”
“Much is being done, but not enough. In particular, it is not enough when you understand the third risk that faces us.”
“And that is?”
“Religion. It is a conflict as old as mankind. But now there are weapons that did not exist previously. The lines of battle are becoming well defined, but no one seems to notice. Think about this, Timothy. Why did the Soviets go into Afghanistan? Why did the U.S. go into Kuwait and attack all the way to Baghdad? Why is there such fighting among the different parts of what previously was Yugoslavia? It is all religion.”
“Muslims? Are you telling me that Islam is beginning a war with Christianity?”