No Work for a Woman
Lynda Calkins
Copyright © 2017 Lynda Calkins
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13:
DEDICATION
To “the best straight man in the business” and the easiest target for zingers.
You know who you are.
“No work for a woman” is a spy novel truly written from a woman’s viewpoint. The author, Lynda Calkins, has painted a picture providing the reader with action, suspense and thrills.
Jessica Winters is a tenacious woman who goes undercover as a jazz singer. She is surrounded by mystery, death and the challenges of the Spy World. Just when you think there’s nowhere for her to turn Jessica puts on her helpless Persona and men rush to help this calculated damsel accomplish her mission while keeping her razor-sharp wit.
The scene is set in Washington DC during the Cold War. Jessica is quickly whisked away to Bulgaria to find out what happened to a fellow spy and to carry out the rest of his mission. Faced with little information Jessica tries to piece together the days prior to her arrival in hopes of finding out what happened to her co-spy and what was so vital that he would go missing.
You will actually be able to picture yourself in the places described as you anxiously read through this book eagerly waiting for the next turn of events that take you to different and interesting places.
Jonathan Carlisle
Ray Stephens was one of a small number of technicians whose existence was tolerated, if not acknowledged, by the Soviet government. Arriving in Moscow from Tblisi, he dropped into his office as usual. The blond secretary was new, one of a seemingly inexhaustible supply of Russian girls who served endless cups of tea from the samovar in the corner, and misplaced messages. This one was distinguished only by darker roots and an even more erratic hair color than usual. He wished, not for the first time, that he had the Clairol account — as a public service.
“Ray Stephens,” he introduced himself. “Are there any messages for me?”
Although he spoke to her in Russian, the girl’s expression betrayed no hint of comprehension.
“Stephens,” Ray said gently. “Messages?”
Light dawned.“Da,” she said, turning to the file folder where messages where allegedly kept. She riffled through slips of paper, several of which appeared to date from the Napoleonic invasion. Finally, she grunted triumphantly and pulled a slip from the pile.
“Spaseba,” he said and glanced at the words on the paper. Dmitri Mitoyen wished information on a newer model. He folded the paper precisely, thanked the girl again, and went out the door and down the hall. He shredded the paper, flushed it down the toilet, and carried out the instructions it contained. He talked to the man whose name was not Dmitri and received the information that sent him out into the five o’clock crowds in a daze. After walking for forty-five minutes, he made up his mind. Routine was a vital element in his life by both personality and training. For as long as he could remember, Ray had stuck to his schedule in the face of fire, flood, and bureaucratic bungling. The Russians on his route, none famed for punctuality, would pretend to set their watches as he arrived year after year at the appointed time. He brought, they said jocularly, the change of seasons as he worked his way from Bratsk and Irkutsk, down through the Alma Ata into the southern provinces. They thought it was hilarious that this mild little American advisor actually expected them to be in their offices, not only on the day they had set, but at the time they had agreed upon. But as the years rolled by, they began to keep their appointments. They were going to have to find another bellwether.
Ray Stephens was going home.
*****
On this sunny spring morning in Washington, all Jessica Winter was thinking of was attending a gallery opening and spending an hour or so chatting with the young artist whose works were on view and lunching with her friend who ran the gallery.
She almost made it. She was closing the door when the phone rang, and she stood there for a moment, key in hand, before she gave in, opened the door, and picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
As soon as she heard Bob Rogers’ voice she began to swear softly under her breath. “Goodbye opening.”
“Max wants you, Jessica.”
“You do realize I’m on leave?”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Ahh, Bob, tell him you couldn’t find me. I was actually outside my door. Five seconds more, and I’d have made it.”
There was a trace of amusement in the voice at the other end of the wire. “Without leaving word?”
She growled helplessly. It was not a gracious capitulation.
“When does he want me?”
“Now.”
“Now?I promised Retha I’d meet her new artist. She’s opening an exhibit this morning…”
“I hope it’s a long one.”
“Oh, God, is Mrs. Crimmins off again?”
“I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
“You know your problem, Bob? You’re a blabbermouth. You really have to curb this tendency to give away information.”
“Goodbye, Jessica.”
“Goodbye, Scrooge.”
She was fond of Bob Rogers, who always had to break the news to Max’s team that their leave was cancelled, that they were leaving town in twelve hours, and that, in fact, there was little to go on and no support in the field. She had never seen him flustered. He was calm and efficient and quietly sympathetic. Not that the sympathy meant anything, but it was always appreciated by the recipients. The team managed to vent their frustrations on Bob, taking for granted that he would not take it personally.
She walked down to the garage and the attendant brought her dark green Jaguar.
She loved that car. She loved the low sleek lines, the feel of the interior. There was nothing rational about it; it was not a particularly reliable piece of machinery. It had stranded her one busy evening on the West Side Highway in New York, exposing her to the comments of city dwellers, never shy about pointing out the infirmities of others. It had stalled in the Baltimore Washington Tunnel at the end of a Labor Day weekend, making her one of the ten least popular persons on the Eastern Seaboard. She knew, intellectually, that no one should own a Jaguar who was not an expert mechanic, and who did not have at least two other automobiles to enable him to reach his destination. Maybe no one should own a Jaguar who actually had to reach a destination. She’d had the Jaguar for five years, and there were 14,000 miles on the odometer. There’d have been more, of course, if towing miles counted. Fortunately, for both Jessica and the Jaguar, she also had George, who shared her enthusiasm and who kept the car shining inside and out.
He got out of the car and held the door for her.
“How does she sound, George?”
“A little rough, Miss Winter. She needs more use, you know. Jaguars like the open road.”
She sighed as she got into the driver’s seat. “So do I, George. It seems like years since we’ve been stranded anywhere…but those are the breaks. She’s just going to have to make do with a quiet collapse here in the garage. Try running her down to the lower level and back up again a couple of times a day. Something will give.”
George grinned. He knew how she felt about the car. “Are you off again, Miss Winter? Seems like you just got home.”
“It looks like it, George. Anyway, I’ve been invited to drop into the office.”
“How long will you be this time? It’s almost time for her tune-up.”
“You’d better go ahead without me, George.I don’t have any idea how long it will be. I don’t even know where I’m going.”
She pulled out of the garage and headed across the river toward McLean. �
��But then,” she said, patting the dashboard of the Jaguar affectionately, “So few people do.”
She was annoyed at having her day’s plans altered. She was fond of Arthur Amiote, an Oglala Sioux, whose exhibit was opening this morning. She’d been looking forward to seeing him again, to watching the reactions of the viewers, talking with other collectors. Her friend who owned the gallery was also a sculptor, and her enthusiasm and generous discounts had started many a young couple collecting art who had never dreamed they’d be able to afford it. Jessica was both amused and touched to see them reordering their priorities as the bug took them, driving their cars a little longer, cutting back on vacations, finding other things they could do without in order to buy another painting, another piece of sculpture. She knew several couples who had remodeled homes to accommodate their artwork. And one couple had confided in her one afternoon that they had put off starting a family in order to continue adding to their art collection.
“Dear heart,” she had teased her friend, “Don’t you think you’re going just a little too far? Of course, Planned Parenthood would love you. Maybe you could work a tie-in of some sort.”
She swung off the bridge and onto the George Washington Parkway and felt that familiar surge of joy that came from just being off. It didn’t matter that her destination might be some dreary hole in the back of beyond into which she would have to fit herself inconspicuously. She was going.
She felt vaguely ashamed of having retained this enthusiasm over the years and did her best to cover it up. But those who knew her well were both aware of it and amused by it. It was a considerable part of her charm that she was always eager to see what might be around the next corner or over that bridge or behind that mountain.
And, in fact, life had been good to her. She’d had to be resourceful, but no more than any mother trying to feed and clothe a growing family. She’d been brave, but no more than any coal miner making his daily descent into the pits. And the rewards had been considerable. For the most part, she was pleased with what she found around the corner, across the bridges, and behind the mountains…and she never stayed long enough for it to sour.
Exceeding the speed limit only slightly, she walked into the office thirty-five minutes after Bob Rogers’ phone call. She greeted his secretary and stuck her head into the door of his office.
“Is he ready to strike, or do you have to prep me?”
He grinned across the room. “I get to bat clean-up today.
He’s waiting for you.”
“Christ, that’s a happy thought.”
Rogers was eyeing her approvingly. “You look very smart today, Jess.”
“Thank you, love. That’s because I didn’t expect to end up here. I was planning to move in artistic circles. Well, with any luck, I can be there for a late lunch. I wouldn’t want to waste this grandeur on you two.”
“Marge always enjoys seeing how the other half lives.”
“The other ninety percent,” his secretary called out from the other room.
“But I wouldn’t count on getting there today,” Rogers continued.
She looked at him in exasperation. “Or tomorrow?”
He nodded.
She sighed.
“Possibly even tomorrow.”
“‘And all my tomorrows depend on you.’ Do I get a blindfold or do I have to watch as my leave is shot down?”
He grinned sympathetically. “I think you’re going to want to watch.”
She raised her eyebrows and looked at him quizzically. “Hullo, hullo, what’s this?”
Before he could answer, the door to Max’s office opened and he called out to her. “I thought I heard your voice, Jess. Keeping the troops from working again?” He walked over and kissed her lightly on the cheek and led her back toward his office. She was mildly surprised. Max was not given to displays of affection in the office.
He sat looking at her.She did look very well. He saw no reason to mention it. He expected her to look well. He had taught her to dress herself. From her hair to her well shod feet, she was a tribute to his good taste. He’d have been very surprised indeed if she’d shown up in blue jeans and a tee shirt.
She sat smiling at him. She could, for all intents and purposes, read his mind. She expected no comment.
“This had better be good. I was on my way to Retha’s. I didn’t take time to phone. I hate standing people up.”
“Who’s there?”
“Arthur Amiote. You met him last year, remember? Retha says it’s a new departure for him and that it’s magnificent. I’m sure it’s good, but you know Retha loves all her artists. Still, I’m looking forward to it. I liked Arthur.”
“I’ll look in tomorrow. If I see anything you’d particularly like, I’ll ask Retha to put it aside.”
So she wasn’t going to get there.
“There are a couple of figures that sound interesting. I gather they’re not framed yet…everything arrived late. It got a very sketchy report…things were in the usual preopening dither. But you might look at those particularly.”
He was stalling. Why? It was totally unlike Max. He was actually fiddling with a paper clip. Curioser and curioser. When he did speak, it was totally unexpected.
“You’ve been a good agent.”
What was going on here? It was as if he’d said, “I like your dress.” He’d been there when she bought it. He’d made her a good agent.
“Most of your assignments have been fairly routine.”
She drew herself up just a little, then said judiciously, “I haven’t assassinated anyone in a week or ten days, if that’s what you mean. I hope that’s not going to be held against me at the annual salary review.”
“Your assignments have tended to be of a certain type, at which you have become expert. I didn’t mean to suggest a lack of skill or even originality. You have done what you’ve been sent to do. One could hardly ask more than that.”
She gave a little cough. “Dear, at the risk of defusing what I know was going to be a masterful monologue, could we just get to the point? Are you firing me? Because if you are, I can still make lunch at the gallery.”
He looked surprised. “Firing you? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know. All this damning with faint praise.”
“I said you were an expert.”
“At routine tasks. Dishwashing, ditch digging…”
“You’re certainly snippy today.”
“Max, will you knock it off? You’ve dragged me in here, you’ve waffled around, what is the matter with you? Has someone discovered the Tzar has been overthrown? Has Idi Amin resurfaced and occupied Switzerland?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Oh my dear, why didn’t you say so in the beginning?
But where would we be without problems? Unfunded. Or worse.”
“Jessica. Please. This is not your usual kind of assignment and, even if it were, there are complications which make it difficult.”
She rose decisively from her chair. “Well, obviously I couldn’t be trusted with a difficult and complicated assignment, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just wander off into the sunset.”
“Will you sit down and shut up? This is not easy for me.”
“If you think it’s all beer and skittles on this side of the desk, Chum, you’re laboring under a severe misapprehension.”
“Jessica, Ray’s in trouble.”
She sat down with a thud and leaned forward, her hands grasping the desk.
“Where is he?”
“He is, or was, in Varna. He came out early, which he has never done before, and we’ve had no word since.”
“Why was he coming out?”
“That’s the obvious question. Presumably, he’d picked up something too hot to sit on. He doesn’t get excited easily.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go in and find him. Or whatever he brought out. And bring it home.”
She sat looking at him, stil
l pale enough so that several freckles stood out on her nose and cheeks.
“Just like that?”
“I told you it wasn’t your usual kind of thing. You don’t have to go.”
“That was uncalled for. You know I’m going.”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence, thinking of the man in trouble halfway around the world. He was their closest friend, a man they had known almost as long as they’d known each other.
“So what shall I tell them? I’m the young person come about the trouble?”
He didn’t recognize the quote; he’d never heard of Albert Campion. He never read thrillers. He looked at her speculatively, aware that she was not going to be happy with the pronouncement. The silence lengthened and she was eyeing him suspiciously.
“Well?” she said sharply. “What’s it going to be this time?
Not another Iowa schoolteacher? If I never see another seersucker skirt…”
“You’re going to sing,” he said abruptly.
“Oh, my God!” She stared at him, willing him to be joking. Impossible.
“Max, I haven’t sung in fifteen years. I can’t…”
His voice was rough. “Jess, we were damned lucky to have an opening to get anyone in. This has been set up for months…you’ll replace the woman who was scheduled. She’s a small time blues singer. I’m not asking you to stand in for Ella Fitzgerald. Do you want to help Ray or not?”
She sighed. “All right. I’ll swallow the butterflies.”
She got up and moved to the window. She was really upset.
“Oh, God, this is going to be wonderful. It won’t help Ray if I’m so bad they toss me out after twenty-four hours.”
“If you’re fishing for compliments, forget it. You’ll be adequate. You don’t have to impress the critics.”
“Adequate? Adequate? You don’t want to go throwing those superlatives around. You’ll turn my head.”
“Rogers has tickets and everything we have on Ray’s itinerary.”
“Good.” She rose briskly and stood at the door. “If he hurries, I can catch the New York shuttle plane and be in Saks by 3:30.”
“There’s no cause to go overboard, Jessica. Sofia is not the fashion capital of Eastern Europe.”
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