Dunne asked him to deliver it to Miss Veronika in Private Wealth. The porter nodded; perhaps he thought Dunne was a reclusive investor considering opening an account.
* * *
Dunne came back that evening at five-thirty and waited for the office workers to leave at six. He was wearing a baseball cap and pretending to read a newspaper. His heart was racing as he watched the employees walk out the door one after the other.
And there she was: At six-fifteen, he saw the blond hair, the tight black skirt, the sheer white blouse, and the face. He folded his newspaper, wondering even then if he would walk toward her. We don’t know until the coin falls whether it’s heads or tails, and Dunne had never told himself what he would do if he saw her.
But he didn’t have to decide. She strolled directly toward him, crossing the street to the far sidewalk where he was standing. She looked him in the eye just the way she had in the club and wagged her finger at him.
“You’ve been watching me,” she said, smiling. She tilted her head and let those long lashes fall over her eyes. She was wearing fresh rouge and lipstick, and a dab of perfume. “Take off that silly hat so I can see your nice red hair.”
Dunne smiled and removed the cap. “Walk with me,” he said. He took a step before she could answer, but she was alongside him.
“I thought you had forgotten about the woman in the bar, Mr. Joe. I came back for two nights, and then I gave up.”
“I didn’t forget. I should have, probably, but I didn’t.”
She leaned toward his ear. “There’s a park at the end of the street. We can talk.”
They walked together in silence, crossing the tram tracks and into an open space, more pavement than trees and grass. She took his arm when they were inside the enclosure and pulled him toward an outdoor café about fifty yards away. They sat down at a wrought-iron table in the corner, hidden from view by the overhang of a shade tree.
She extended a cigarette toward him. This time Dunne had a lighter.
16 Geneva – September 2016
They sat in metal garden chairs and drank Chablis from a bottle that was chilling in a bucket of ice. Dunne wrapped his big arm around the back of her chair. An early evening breeze was blowing strands of hair across her face. The café was surrounded by plane trees, their bark mottled like sycamore and their branches pruned to nubs. Dunne stared at her, not knowing where to begin, but she laughed and gave him a playful poke in the chest.
“Hey, Mr. Joe? Is that really your name, anyway? You don’t look like a Joe.”
“Let’s talk about you first, madame,” he said. “I’m shy.”
She shrugged. It was like a date: They had to go through the ritual of explaining who they were.
“Okay, Joe. My name is Veronika Kruse. I was born near Bern, in the mountains. Too much snow. I was a skier when I was a girl, but I crashed when I was little and after that the coach was not so interested. Then I became an ice skater, and then a dancer. A good one, ha, like you saw. I studied business and, after that, because I am a good Swiss girl, of course I went to work in a bank, like you already know. It was easy to be hired. I have relatives there. See? Not very complicated.”
“Have you ever been married?” asked Dunne. She wasn’t wearing a ring.
“Once. He was from Zurich. Too conservative for me. I was bored. He came home and caught me with someone else. Three years ago, we divorce. Mama was unhappy, but so what?”
“And your dad?”
“He’s dead. But he would have been glad that I was alone, single again, you know. He was a mountain man. My mother left him. He wasn’t rich or interesting enough for her, and she didn’t like Bern. She was not, what is the word, sympathique.”
“Is she rich now, your mother? Did she get what she wanted?”
“Too much. Her papa owned a bank. After she left my father, she married another man who owned a bigger bank, and when he died, she kept his money, and made her bank very big. She is too good at this money thing and when you start, there is never enough.”
As Veronika talked, her face darkened.
“My mother is beautiful,” she said. “Perfect. That’s why I like to be a bad girl sometimes, you know. Take risks. Because it makes me forget I am not perfect like her.”
Dunne touched her hand.
“She couldn’t possibly be as pretty as you.”
She smiled as if she were accepting a bouquet of flowers. Part of being a beautiful woman was knowing that you were beautiful.
Veronika looked at his hand.
“You took off your wedding ring.”
Dunne nodded. “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I see people. Men. And women too.” She looked down at the table, and then back at him. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay. Whatever floats your boat.”
“What does that mean, about the boat? I love boats.”
“Nothing. It’s a stupid American expression. It means people should do what they want.”
“Okay! That’s me, then.” Her face brightened again.
Dunne didn’t say much about himself. He told her he was a contractor in Geneva on business, and she tilted her head and gave him a dubious look, as if she knew he was lying.
“I know why the caged bird sings,” Dunne said. That had been one of his mother’s favorite books.
“Silly boy.” She laughed. “There is no bird. Just you and me, okay?”
* * *
This is a setup, Dunne kept cautioning himself: This is a play that has been constructed for you. But he knew women, too, and there were some things that could not simply be artifice. Even the most gifted deceiver can’t fake everything: She can’t be taught to arch her neck just so, to brush the hair back from her face because she feels self-conscious; or to tremble, for an instant, when she knows that she is an object of a man’s desire.
Dunne was too intoxicated with her to walk away. But he made himself a promise, as he listened to her singsong, German-accented English, and her improbable way of ending her statements with, “Is that okay?” The pledge was that he wouldn’t do anything that he could not explain, however lamely, to his wife. He was restless at work, that was all; he wanted to give himself a little treat. He told himself that he would stop in time. Just not yet.
Dunne asked if she could have dinner that night. She lowered her face. No, she had a date. That reassured Dunne for a moment. But it made him jealous, too. If he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want another man to take her, either.
“It’s a woman,” she said, as if reading his mind. “We’re going to a club later. You can meet us there, maybe. It’s private. People like to dance.”
“I don’t dance. I told you, I’m shy.”
“You’re not allowed to dance, silly,” she said with a slight smile. There was a glow on her skin, not just the rosy light of the setting sun, but a blush.
“Why not? I thought it was a club.”
“It’s a club for women, mister! They don’t allow any guests, especially men, but I am one of the organizers, so maybe they will let you in. Is that okay?”
“I don’t know. I need to be careful.”
“Don’t worry, Joe. They have a private room. You’ll be alone.”
Dunne closed his eyes for a long moment. The right answer was no. “Sounds interesting,” he said.
She reached in her purse and wrote an address in the district just north of the lake, near the fancy hotels. She wrapped it around one of her business cards and handed the slips of paper toward him.
“The club is called Stylet. Stiletto. It moves around in different clubs and houses. Members only. Come at midnight. Use the back entrance on Rue du Levant. Tell the concierge you’re my special guest. She will expect you. I will, too, but I won’t see you. Until later, maybe.”
Dunne took the card.
“I’m dangerous, you know,” she said, smiling and pushing a strand of hair off her brow.
Dunne nodded. That shouldn�
�t have been a seductive line, but it was.
* * *
Dunne arrived at the address at 12:10. As he headed toward the back alley, he saw a half dozen stylish women at the front door, presenting their invitations for inspection. The women were all dressed in long coats, so it was impossible to tell what they were wearing underneath. They were bantering in a mix of German, French, English, and Arabic.
Dunne rang the buzzer at the back door. It took nearly thirty seconds before a woman in a blue maid’s uniform answered the door. Dunne gave her Veronika Kruse’s card; she examined it carefully and then opened the door and said, in French, that he should follow her. They mounted a narrow stairway at the back of the building and walked down a dark hallway to a door. The blue-uniformed woman took a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. The door swung open.
It was a small sitting room with a velvet curtain at the far end, faced by two leather chairs. The light in the room was low and the maid turned down the rheostat until it was nearly black. She motioned for Dunne to take a seat in one of the chairs. Then she walked to the right edge of the curtain, reached behind it to a cord, and pulled the velvet shears open.
“C’est un miroir transparent,” she said. And, indeed, the room below was visible. She turned and exited the room. After she closed the door, Dunne heard the turn of the key in the lock.
Through the mirror, he could see a dozen women clustered in small groups in a well-furnished salon, talking as if at a cocktail party. The coats were gone, but there was every variety of silk: slit skirts, gowns with plunging necklines, harem pants that rode low on the hips; and more exotic garb, too: bustiers, corsets, straps, and belts. Each woman was wearing black stiletto heels. The club motif.
Propped on an easel against the far wall was a placard with the words EN SOIE CE SOIR. In silk tonight. The women were all young and attractive; that appeared to be a condition of membership.
Another notice was displayed by the entrance door. ÉTIQUETTE DU CLUB. LES MEMBRES DOIVENT ÊTRE APPROUVÉS À L’AVANCE. LES HOMMES SONT INTERDITS. PAS DE JOUETS. LES APPAREILS PHOTO OU LA PHOTOGRAPHIE SONT ABSOLUMENT INTERDITS. No men, no toys, no photos. Just Dunne.
A woman with short black hair moved to the center of the room. Her face was angular and severe, but her body was shapely. She was wearing a black silk corset, tightly bound with stays, and black stockings that descended to her black heels. She spoke to the group, but Dunne couldn’t hear what she said. In the circle gathered around her was a blond woman, prettier than the rest, in a tight silk sheath. She looked up toward the mirror and smiled. Veronika.
A waitress arrived carrying a tray of champagne flutes. There was a toast, a clink of glasses. Some of the women downed the champagne quickly; the waitress circulated with another tray of champagne.
The dark-haired woman at the center of the group concluded her introductory talk by extending to her guests a silver bowl, from which each withdrew a slip of paper. These seemed to be the equivalent of dance cards, for the women began to pair off. Music had started, and some of the women began to sway rhythmically; Dunne could hear the thump of the bass notes through the thick wall.
The lights dimmed, as the women found their partners and moved to corners of the room and alcoves beyond. Dunne could scarcely see what was happening, but in the half-light at the left he saw the blonde nestled against a woman with jet-black hair, wearing bright red lipstick; Veronika gave her partner a kiss, first on the cheek and then on the lips, and then turned her head ever so slightly toward the mirror behind which Dunne was standing. She slipped the sheath dress from her shoulders and it fell to the floor.
* * *
An hour later came a knock at Dunne’s door, and then a turn of the key in the lock. The door swung open, and in the beam of light from the hallway, Dunne saw Veronika. She was wearing a silk robe, but as she entered the room, she let it slip. There was nothing underneath. She closed the door but didn’t lock it.
Veronika approached him. Dunne’s heart raced, with excitement but also with anxiety.
“Maybe you want some company, Joe,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s lonely up here, you know.” She moved her hand to his thigh. He began to pull away but stopped.
“Are we safe?” asked Dunne.
“I think so.” She moved her hand a bit farther. She was so close he could feel the soft weight of her against his chest.
“How do you know we’re safe?” he asked.
“Nobody knows you’re here. Except the woman who let you in. She is an old maid. Who would she tell? I am one of the bosses.”
He looked at her, trying to decide. In that moment of silence, she undid his trousers and let them drop and tugged at his shorts. She moved her hand toward him.
“This is dangerous for me,” he said. It wasn’t a protest.
“It’s okay, I think.” She drew closer. “We can go somewhere else, maybe? But you are ready now.” She held his rigid form gently in her hand.
Dunne was about to say yes, they should go somewhere else, when the door burst open. He couldn’t see the face, but he saw the flash of the camera, one, two, three times, and then heard the slam of the door.
* * *
Dunne stayed that night in a hotel on the south side of the lake. He had left Veronika sobbing, protesting that she hadn’t known that anything would happen. It didn’t matter then whether she was lying or telling the truth. Someone had set him up, and he had had to escape. He had slipped out the back door and into the shadows of the alleyway behind the building. As he lay awake later, trying to think about what had happened, he had two certainties: She was very beautiful. He was very stupid.
* * *
Dunne managed to sleep a few hours before dawn. He awoke knowing what to do. He messaged the watch officer in the operations room and said that he needed to speak urgently, personally, with George Strafe, the deputy director for operations, as soon as he awoke that morning. That made it easier, knowing that he was going to confess his mistake, rather than hide it. He thought briefly about what he might do after he was fired from the agency.
Calm restored his appetite: He ordered a big American breakfast, eggs and bacon and a potful of coffee, in the hotel restaurant. He went back to his room and watched television, then tried to read, to pass the time, but he couldn’t concentrate.
He left the hotel and found a sporting-goods store nearby, where he bought a T-shirt and some shorts and a cheap pair of running shoes. He ran along the southern rim of the lake to Anières, six miles east, and then ran back.
It was noon when Dunne returned to the hotel. An hour later, when it was seven a.m. in Washington, Strafe called him using an encrypted phone app.
“This better be important,” said Strafe. His voice had the rough, unshaven edge of early morning.
“I fucked up,” said Dunne. “I needed to tell you right away, so I don’t make it worse.”
“Uh, okay. Anybody dead? Anybody arrested? Anybody shoot the pooch?”
“No, it was a honey trap. Someone took a picture of me with my pants down and a naked woman with her hand on my dick.”
Strafe laughed. It was a low, growly chuckle. “My, my,” he said. Then he laughed again.
“What should I do? I can try to get the picture back.”
“Fuck, no, forget that. Too risky. Who set you up?”
“I met a cute Swiss girl at a bar. She brought me to this, I don’t know, lesbo club. I don’t know if she did me, or the people who run the club. I can tell you the details if you want, but they’re not pretty. I ran when someone opened the door on us and started snapping pictures.”
“You are an idiot, Dunne. Let’s stipulate that. You had trouble keeping your dick in your pants when you joined the outfit, as I recall. You’re not the only person in Operations with that problem, but even so, grow up! Does this Swiss Miss know who you are or where you’re staying?”
“No. I’m not that dumb.”
“Yes, you are, probably. But we’ll leave that f
or later.”
“So how do I neutralize this? Should I tell my wife?”
“How would she react?”
Dunne paused a moment, thinking about Alicia. “She’d go batshit,” he said.
“Then don’t tell her. Don’t do anything.”
“Nothing? Really? I mean, I have to assume that I’m compromised, don’t I? Someone worked overtime to frame me. This chick, or someone else. I’m a sitting duck.”
The line went dead for twenty seconds, while Strafe considered various options. Then he came back. His voice was lighter.
“I’m underwhelmed. It’s a tolerable risk. It’s too late to organize another run at this target if I pull you, so I won’t. My instinct is that you should keep your head down but continue moving. Get in place to do the op in Italy. Find out everything you can. Get it done. Then come home and we’ll figure out what you do next. If someone tries to spin up your wife, we’ll deal with that down the road. They can’t blackmail you with the agency because I already know, so WTF, right?”
“You’re the boss. If you say so. That’s a relief. I thought you were going to fire me.”
“Maybe later, asshole. But not now. For the moment, I want you to do your goddamn job. And if you see this woman, I want you to run the other way. Otherwise I am going to come after you with a meat cleaver and chop you off at the curly red roots. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to be an idiot. It won’t happen again.”
Dunne waited for a response, but Strafe had already hung up.
17 Cheat Lake, West Virginia – May 2018
A six-figure wire transfer arrived in Pittsburgh soon after Michael Dunne had “pwned” the tormentor of Pia Zimmerman, the Hollywood producer who had retained him as a consultant. She was Dunne’s new champion: She wanted to recommend him to her friends and urged him to build an L.A. cyber defense practice. Everyone in the entertainment and technology business had online persecutors, she said, of one sort or another. But Dunne demurred. He wanted to stay in the East and think about what to do next, now that he’d had a first blush of success after the year-long shaming solitude of prison.
The Paladin Page 9