“She was devastated. But it was stiff upper lip and a refusal to let Mom or Dad get away with ‘I told you so.’ She threw herself into her job, went from being one of the best to the best. And not just MI6. Her reputation is worldwide, at least among the people who count in the intelligence community.”
Ben didn’t know how to take what he had been handed. Need to know was the watchword. But did he really need to know all of this? Did it really matter? A brief fling was one thing, but he knew that it would matter if he was going to get serious. The physical attraction was there when he first laid eyes on her. But he had been used for the Saudi Embassy dinner. He didn’t mind doing a favor, but now he knew the whole thing was a lie. She had taken him there as cover for some clandestine operation, and he was not a man who liked being put in that situation. What angered him more than anything was that he hadn’t seen it coming. He had been played for a fool.
Ben realized that he was putting himself in a downward spiral of self-flagellation. What had Hank said? That she was internationally recognized as the best at her job? Not his fault. She could fool the best, so why not him? But he was still pissed. He may not be the best in the world at what he did, but he was no slacker. It was a matter of pride that he had to come up with a plan to deal with this.
“Listen,” Hank said, “I’ve convinced my colleagues here that you’re not trying to get next to Bernadette for nefarious means—perhaps other than to get laid. They’re good at reading people, too, that’s their job, and they agree, but they’ve let it be my call. And I did try to prevent this from happening.”
“Our little visit today,” Ben said.
“Pretty much. I couldn’t get what they wanted, so they decided to try and get it themselves. Anyway, I think we’re done here. One more little matter and I’ll see you out.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“We just need you to sign an NDA.”
“A non-disclosure agreement. What for?”
“You’ve heard a lot of information that shouldn’t leave this room. A risk we had to take, but we’re in the business of risk. It’s a pretty standard paper, used by many corporations. Except for the part where we kill you if you leak any of it out.”
Ben was in no mood to find out if Hank was joking about that or not.
He rose from his chair. “And if there’s anything we can do to make up for the inconvenience, short of having someone killed, let me know.”
“Actually,” Ben said, rising, “there is. I need you to get me a couple of theater tickets. Really good theater tickets.”
* * *
“Bernadette, it’s Ben.”
“Yes, Ben.” Her voice sounded bright.
“Hey, you said I’m supposed to pick the third date. You free on Friday? How about a show and a light dinner after?” The question was rhetorical; she had no choice but to say yes. She had proposed it, even if it wasn’t out of guilt. He had gotten two tickets, third row in the orchestra for a revival of the 1958 hit The Music Man.
He hadn’t been home two hours from his interview with MI6 and he had still been pouring down bourbon to calm his nerves when there was a knock at the door. Kellen was standing there with an envelope in his hand. He held it out to Ben and said, “Compliments of Her Majesty.”
Bernadette was thrilled, saying that she hardly ever got to a West End show, and when she did, the seats were less than optimal. “You must tell me how you got these,” she said.
“Well,” Ben stalled. “There is a great story, though you might not believe it. But that’s for later.”
After the show on the way to dinner in their taxi, they discussed how revivals were very much in vogue, probably because of the lack of new creative ideas for live theater. There wasn’t money in it anymore. Too many people could call up whatever movie they wanted from their sofa at any hour of the day and night.
“Besides,” Ben concluded as they reached the restaurant, “the 1950s and 1960s were the Golden Age of the musical. They were entertainment, not spectacle. Songs you could leave the theater humming instead of watching falling chandeliers and singing cats.”
As the conversation continued at dinner, Bernadette’s curiosity got the better of her. “But why The Music Man? You don’t strike me as being the type for sentimental Americana. And Iowa? Really? Professor at Yale, global consultant, IQ off the charts?”
“I love that show,” Ben said. “Dad used to play show music at home so I heard it all the time in my childhood, before I got into rock. It stays with you.” He smiled, knowing he’d set his trap.
“But it’s so, well, corny, as you Americans would say.”
“Iowa does have a lot of corn, but if you want real corny shows you might go with South Pacific and ‘I’m as corny as Kansas in August.’ Or Oklahoma. ‘The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye and it looks like it’s rising clear up to the sky.’ ”
“But aren’t show tunes so… old-fashioned?”
“I guess I’m an old-fashioned guy. And you’re an old-fashioned kind of gal.”
“How so?”
“Well, take ‘Shipoopi,’ ” he said, naming one of the more unique songs from the show they had just seen. “Remember, you don’t want a girl who kisses on the first or second date. But the girl who waits till the third time around is the girl you’re glad you’ve found. This is our third date.” Ben was enjoying putting his plan into action.
He could see Bernadette start to blush. “Ben, I don’t know what to say. Are you saying that you’re glad you’ve found me?”
“Oh, I was glad I found you the first time we met, when Edith pushed us together. No, the more interesting part is that you waited until the third date.”
“Okay, you found me out. Frankly, I plan so many weddings in which people rush into things—”
Ben cut her off. “Oh, do tell. Who was your most famous client who rushed into things? Someone I may have heard of? Is the Saudi ambassador’s niece rushing into things?”
Bernadette looked at him quizzically.
“Did you leave me alone at the party while you tried to get the niece to slow down and consider her marriage carefully? Or did you have some other rendezvous to make? Is the ambassador’s niece even getting married?”
Bernadette could not meet his gaze. And for the first time in decades, she couldn’t find the words to explain her way out of this one.
“Bernadette, I didn’t take you to see The Music Man because of ‘Shipoopi.’ I took you to see it because one of the lead characters isn’t who he says he is. The other lead finds him out about the phony cover with the help of a little research. She is Madame Librarian after all.”
“Ben, where are you going with all of this?”
“I very recently had an interesting visit with a couple of your colleagues. It was very enlightening. For example, I learned you have an interesting nom de guerre, but if I tell it to you, they’ll probably kill me. Tell me something, do all the men in your life have to be vetted that way?”
“I am so sorry. I had no idea—”
“But you’re not surprised?”
She shook her head. “No. Not really. And you’re right. I’m not who I said I was. But I really can’t be, now can I?”
“Some of us more than others.”
Bernadette paused. “Perhaps you should take me home.”
“Perhaps I should,” and Ben signaled the waiter to bring the check.
“All my life men have been scared of me,” she said. “When I was a teenager, all the way into my twenties. My father made them disappear, or that’s what I thought. He was one scary man. He didn’t try to be, but all the young men I saw could sense it. He could read their minds. Not that the young male mind is particularly difficult to read. But when my father got inside your head you knew it, and you knew that if you stepped out of line there would be consequences.
“I used to blame him for scaring them off. Then I began to realize that I actually didn’t mind all that much. He was spe
cial and I wanted someone special. I suppose your interview left you well briefed. But did you know about Sam?”
“My source didn’t mention him,” Ben said.
Bernadette sighed. “When he came along, he reminded me so much of my father. Same line of business, same thought pattern. He was what I wanted. Most young women secretly want someone like their father. My parents warned me of what might happen. But I didn’t listen. Why should I? I had finally found what I wanted and a part of me still blamed them for making it so difficult. But the day I found out he had been killed—”
“Bernadette, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. That needed to come out.” She stared intently at her well-manicured hands. It had been a long time since she had felt vulnerable, and she wasn’t used to it. She could not be upset with Ben. She realized how unfair she had been to him and felt terrible. Her experiences were unique. She didn’t have any girlfriends that she could “whine and dine” with. How do you start a conversation about your boyfriend being killed when he was a MI6 agent? None of her training had covered that.
“I haven’t been this candid with someone in a long time. Perhaps it says something about you. And you’re right about ‘Shipoopi.’ Only most men never get to the third time around. Being a wedding planner helps. One date is all it takes, and when men find that out, they think I’m out to plan our wedding. Let’s face it, commitment is not the male long suit. So it’s an outstanding cover. Between parents, career, and Sam, I suppose I wanted men to fail.
“Three who made it past the first date turned out to be moles. They were trying to infiltrate my brain and perhaps MI6 as well. It didn’t take much research. I could usually tell on the second date or whenever it was when we first slept together, if it got that far. I was too good. Too trained. The Soviets in particular were quite good at that. Honeypot was the name for the women. Not sure what the right name for the men was. One Russian, one French fellow, and one German. Strange, isn’t it, how even allies try and infiltrate one another? I never had to break off any of the relationships. Not face to face, mind you. All I’d do is let my colleagues know and they vanished. The Russian, for good. The Frenchman and German were reassigned out of the United Kingdom. I guess being an ally does have its privileges. So you see, it’s not like my colleagues were acting like big brothers, trying to scare sister’s new suitor off. And I’m sorry you had to find out about me that way.” Bernadette was measured and unemotional as she spoke, and Ben understood that this was, in part, what made her an incredible agent.
“So MI6 plays the role my father had played. And as you found out, they can be intimidating. But here’s the good news: you’ve checked out.” She smiled, raised her eyes, and looked straight at him. “At least, so far.”
This had not gone the way Ben had thought it would. He knew that part of Bernadette’s job meant that emotions were never involved, but now he could see the real Bernadette for the first time. It was a moment of vulnerability, and far from creating a little emotional distance for himself, he was now in deeper than he ever had been since Ellen died. He respected Bernadette for being honest with him, albeit under duress, and he wanted to finish the evening on a positive note.
“Listen. Bernadette. I also picked The Music Man because of the ending. The duplicitous character is totally forgiven and the two ride off happily into the sunset. Bells on the hills and a magically transformed band parading them down Main Street in celebration. Wouldn’t you like to try for a similar ending?”
She nodded.
“I’ll take you home like you asked,” he said. “You need some time. And frankly, I do too. I’ve been unfair to you as well.”
He helped her into her coat and they made their way out of the restaurant to a waiting cab in reflective silence. Then, as they pulled up to her flat, came the real kiss. Long and passionate. Ben couldn’t tell if it were thanks or goodbye or something else. He was done with overanalysis for now and enjoyed the moment before bidding Bernadette good night, not knowing if he would hear from her again.
He didn’t have to wait long. His phone rang at ten the next morning. “All right, Mr. Coleman. What does your song say about waiting till the fourth time? Be at my place at six tonight. And dear, it is your job to bring the wine. Two bottles. One simply will not do.”
He barely had time to reply to her request before she ended the call. “I must dash. I have a wedding to plan.”
Ben chose a Margaux and a Pouilly-Fumé. Bases covered. But it wouldn’t have mattered. They didn’t eat dinner or even open a bottle of wine. Saturday night turned into all day Sunday, and at six on Monday morning both realized they had to get to work. For two workaholics, even passionate romance had its limits, at least in the short run.
* * *
That had been ten years ago. Nine years ago had come the mutual decision that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, and Bernadette used her background to plan a modest but well-attended wedding for the two of them. Eight years ago, Washington called Ben back to the United States and Bernadette made the decision to walk away from MI6 and travel across the pond with her husband.
But she had no plans to be idle. After taking up residence with Ben in Virginia, she realized that while she had wanted to escape that old job, she couldn’t give it up all together. She began to write. This time it was fictional accounts of the spy business. They were thrillers and written, as nearly all such novels were, from a masculine point of view, prompting her to take the nom de plume of Edmund Whitehall.
By and large the novels were compilations of her father’s life as best as she could piece them together. It was her way of posthumously paying tribute to him. Of course, they were advertised as fiction, in which “any resemblance to an actual person is purely coincidental.”
While the link between Bernadette and Edmund Whitehall was not public knowledge, it was well known in intelligence circles. As the public gobbled the novels up, thinking they were getting a really good story, the intelligence community read the books with great interest. And MI6 was thrilled—the novels served as an opportunity. They collaborated with Bernadette to interject certain key pieces of disinformation that she incorporated as plot points in her work. Since the intelligence community knew that most of the stories were close approximations of reality, the disinformation was also believed, and her MI6 career lived on, albeit in an unexpected way.
Leave it to her, Ben thought one day, perusing The New York Times Book Review to again find Mr. Whitehall on the bestseller list, to find a way to stay by my side and stay in the work that meant the world to her.
And wistfully, Ben thought again that Bernadette was the best thing that ever had happened to him.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT A QUARTER TO FIVE the next evening, Ben, Hector Lopez, and George Steinway were gathered in the anteroom outside the Oval Office.
The three men had been on the phone together off and on almost the entire day. By the time they arrived at the White House, Lopez and Steinway had blessed ninety percent of Ben’s presentation. There were bells and whistles that needed to be discussed, and the President might not like the whole thing, and they would have to start over. But the three of them doubted that would happen.
Promptly at 5 p.m., the President opened the slightly rounded door that completed the look of the Oval Office to let the three advisers in.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming.” He directed them to sit in the same places they had occupied the day before. “Okay, let’s see what my brain trust has come up with in the last twenty-four hours.”
Ben led off. “Mr. President. We believe what is happening now is part of the China 2049 strategy that is intended to make them the world superpower by the hundredth anniversary of the communists coming to power in Beijing.
“We also believe that they have agreed to win the inevitable war with us to become the lone superpower by economic means. If that fails, the military option is always available.
“Further, we believe th
ey are seeking an economic tool other than trade relations, having failed at that in the last decade. That leads us to think that the most likely battlefield will be in monetary policy. Specifically, the Chinese intend to make the yuan the world’s reserve currency. The dollar holds that position now.”
“Why does that matter?” asked the President.
“A reserve currency is the one in which most international transactions take place. It’s also the one that countries keep on hand in case of emergency. Money isn’t free. To get a dollar, a country must sell something of value to America and get this little piece of paper in return. That’s a pretty good deal for us. Right now about seventy percent of all the money we’ve printed is in the hands of foreigners. Yearly, that’s three trillion dollars. In other words, we have, over time, gotten three trillion dollars’ worth of other people’s goods for free.”
“You mean we swapped money we can print for free to live a better life? Isn’t that like living on a credit card?”
Ben said, “That’s a very astute observation, Mr. President. Technically that money is a loan of sorts. The foreign holders can always take the three trillion and buy something that we make. So instead of them getting a piece of paper in return for their hard work, it will be Americans who have to work hard to get that piece of paper back.”
“That doesn’t sound like a recipe for a happy America,” said the President. “It sounds like we’d be working harder and enjoying it less.”
“Precisely. What the Chinese want to do is be the ones who can get goods from the rest of the world in return for little pieces of paper. Only in yuan, not dollars. In doing so, they will force those three trillion dollars that are out there back to us. Americans will feel the pain quickly.”
“So it’s a win-win for them? They get the goods for free with the yuan and we have to work harder to get our dollars back?”
Currency War Page 7