by Alisa Smith
As the gang’s driver, I had never shot a gun, but soon it would be my turn.
My hand shook a little as I jammed in the final bobby pin. I took a deep breath and waited until my face looked calm in the mirror.
All I had to do right now was go to a party.
“Looks good on you,” Bill commented when I came down the stairs. “Shows off them pipes.” I flushed. I hoped I didn’t look too mannish. My arms were bigger than when he first knew me. What else could I expect after countless days in Alaska holding up guns—a Springfield rifle was nearly nine pounds—when I was aiming at targets in the Aleutian fog.
“I’m only going to this party because it’s part of the assignment,” I said. The last thing I wanted was for Bill to think I actually wanted to be with him. I absolutely did not.
The business was compelling enough. Bill said we were looking for intel about the Nazi agent: how would he carry out his assassination of the king? Assassination. The word still gave me shivers. Someone in the new Strategic Services Unit was willing to go that far to prevent Communism from taking hold in Siam.
Byron watched our repartee from the corner of the marble foyer where he stood in the shadows. A silly place to hide, I thought: anyone like me looks in the shadows first.
“It’ll be fun,” Bill said. “It’s in a castle, for God’s sake.”
Bill held out his arm, but I did not take it. He was not winning any points just because he had an invitation to a palace.
“I see my role as the wife who can’t stand her husband,” I said. “That happens a lot, I’ve heard.”
Bill stormed off ahead of me in his tuxedo, and I followed, grimly satisfied that I punctured his smug attitude.
“Have a good time,” Byron called out feebly. He was always trying to smooth things over.
Bill seethed silently on the boat and in the car as we drove toward the palace. As we turned onto a large boulevard, it was blocked with people chanting, pumping their fists, and waving empty burlap rice sacks in the air like flags. At the end of the street, a man stood on a pillar, inciting the crowd with a bullhorn.
“Commie rally,” Bill muttered. “Could get ugly.” He leaned forward to address the driver. “Better go back. Try Maharat Road.”
The driver reversed the car. The next street he turned onto was empty except for a huge fire burning in the middle of it. This seemed more ominous than the crowds. Around the next corner there was a little more life and the cab picked up speed, weaving between bicycles and ox carts. We passed a little girl sitting on the ground in front of a thatch hut, intently cutting wood into kindling with a large machete. It seemed a task well above her years. She had to be only four years old. I hoped the machete was dull, so she wouldn’t get injured if she slipped. Where were her parents?
“You know that Hughes doesn’t love you, right?” Bill said. His face was in darkness save an orange flash when we passed an oil-drum fire flaring. He looked like a warrior dreaming of vengeance in the savage light.
The words hit me like a sucker punch, coming out of the blue like that, and I struggled to keep a calm tone. “What would you know about it?”
“Plenty. I’ve loved you more in one hour than he could in his whole life.”
I brooded over that statement, absently snapping the metal clasp on my purse open and shut, open and shut. Past tense, yes? Yet ambiguous. I didn’t want to go there at all. What about the wife Byron told me about? I should be recording this little exchange to send her and see how she felt about it. What kind of field operative was I, anyhow?
I wasn’t, that’s what. I was an analyst. I wished I was back at the palazzo, listening to radio signals. God, I was sick of men who had wives. Link and Bill were like warped funhouse reflections of each other—and I had chosen them both. Ten years between them and I’d apparently learned nothing.
“He’s not himself,” I said. “He has no feelings about anything right now. He needs to recover from his ordeal.” I wasn’t really sure why I was defending the possibility of his love. I had given up on it myself.
“He won’t ever be the same. He’s been through too much, and he don’t have the character for it. Forget about him.” Bill cleared his throat. “Can’t you see I’ve changed?”
I glanced at him, and my heart ached. I told myself I was only seeing the past, before things got bad. If anything, he looked too much the same, and I didn’t want to get suckered in again. “I see a drug kingpin. I see a man who uses other people to his own ends. How’s that change? What you did is too much to forgive. You hit me. You betrayed me to Miss Maggie. Why would I ever trust you again?”
“Byron does.”
“Byron is a soft-hearted fool.”
“He’s a good man. He ran from the old me also. He came back.”
“It would take about a thousand years to make up for what you did to me.”
“My time on death row was hell. Don’t that count for at least nine hundred and ninety-nine?”
“No,” I said, and closed my purse with a decisive snap. Why did he even care, with that wife he had in Burma? I was tempted to bring her up, but I didn’t want him to think that I cared. He would think that was progress. And I really wasn’t jealous. Looking out the window, I saw that we had reached a tall white wall, stretching block after block. I was relieved at the chance to change the subject. “Is this the palace?”
Bill wiped his hand over his face and turned to me with a grin that frightened me a little. His eyes had a malicious glint. “Yes. We’re going to play Spot the Nazi tonight. You’ll tell me who you think it is.”
“You already know?”
“Sure. I just want to see how you judge character. To assess your operational usefulness.”
“Listen to you. Miss Maggie has got her claws into you,” I said. But my insult felt hollow. I was scared I would fail at this, as he hinted. He had the power to report my shortcomings to the only person who really mattered.
He was silent a moment as he adjusted his bowtie in the rear-view mirror and then, catching me observing him, his eyes locked on mine. I looked away. “Just act your part, wife. But don’t go too far. This is a state occasion.”
The car slowed at the iron gate where two guards nodded us in, and Bill gave a friendly salute through the window. I stared down the long carriageway, visualizing it within Bill’s sketch that we’d studied before leaving tonight. There was a bewildering array of temples and mansions belonging to the extended royal family, and I feared I had not memorized them all. The secret tunnel in the temple, however, I knew. If it was real, a voice whispered in my head. This supposed tunnel would be the key to our next visit to the palace, once we found out when the Nazi agent planned to kill the king. There was no indication it would be tonight. It would be rash, with so many foreigners present to witness or wonder. Most likely Gaige would wait to make it look like some local madman or internal politicking. The engine purred as we continued along the rolled gravel drive at a crawl. We stopped behind some other luxury cars—Bill’s Rolls Royce as slick as any of them, I had to admit—and the driver came around to open the door for me. I struggled with the long skirt tight around my legs. Bill scooted out his side and came around, at the ready with his arm proffered. I stayed sitting in the car.
“Please,” he said. He looked like a little boy with his hopeful eyes.
I took his arm—only because of the damn dress.
I was impressed by the scene despite myself. The Italianate palace glittered with lanterns along the outer colonnade, while the windows blazed with lights. Behind us, the golden roofs of exotic temples gleamed. “It’s beautiful,” I said.
I felt a stab of insecurity when I saw the other women stepping out of their cars, bedecked with pearls and diamonds. I touched my throat to remind myself of the ruby necklace I wore, made from gems Bill had procured in Burma. “Advertisement. For our cover,” he’d said as he clasped it round my neck back at the palazzo, his fingers brushing my collarbone, making me shiver and draw awa
y. Now, reflexively, my hand continued up my neck to where I’d been cut, but the bandage was gone. The wound was healing well, though the stitches weren’t out yet. Byron had assured me a person would have to be short indeed to notice them.
Some of the Siamese women were very short. I hoped they would not inquire, but Bill had concocted a story about a horse-riding accident and a wire fence. I was angry about the horses when I thought of his tribal wife in Burma, but I had not come up with anything better.
Entering the reception hall, we stood in the receiving line. I was nervous to meet foreign royalty in case I forgot the protocol—Bill said that a curtsey would do, but to look at the floor. Eye contact was not polite here. He said not to worry too much about it, though, because the king was raised in Switzerland and was used to European ways. “In the old days, you had to crawl across the floor,” Bill whispered in my ear. “The king is next to a god here. Not a bad gig.”
You’d like that, wouldn’t you, I thought, but held my tongue.
The line progressed quickly. Three aides flanked the king, one briefing him discreetly before each guest approached. He gave a shy smile and greeting to each.
“I never put you down as my wife,” Bill whispered. “Business partner, okay? Maybe you’ll be a little more civil?”
There was not time to answer because we were approaching the king, who wore a white military uniform with epaulettes, his chest draped with gold braid and medals. “Mr. Yardley. Your generosity to the hospital is much appreciated.”
The king shook Bill’s hand in Western style, and Bill answered him in Siamese, looking humbly at the floor. I was impressed without wanting to be.
The king’s dark eyes were languid and trusting. I felt a pang of sorrow for him. He looked scarcely more than a boy, but Miss Maggie claimed he was marked for death—for the simple reason that he would introduce full democracy to Siam. I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t know about the Nazis firsthand. If that was possible, anything was on the table.
I curtsied to the king and we moved into the ballroom, my heels clicking on a stone floor inlaid with candy colours. An orchestra played big-band tunes on a stage while Siamese women with flowers in their hair carried trays of champagne around the room. I took a glass and sipped. “The women are so beautiful here. How are the Burmese women?”
“They’re pretty enough,” Bill said.
I seethed inwardly. I had only myself to blame for my dig backfiring, but he certainly was not out to charm me. He could have complimented me instead. Hoping to find someone else to talk to, I looked around the room, but of course everyone was a stranger. The majority of the guests were European or American. Even on first glance, I noticed at least four with bristle mustaches that evoked Hitler. Were they all fans, and this foreign country their refuge after the war? Finding the Nazi would not be so simple after all.
Finally, I saw one familiar face: the man that Bill pointed out to me in the Oriental bar as a potential customer. “What’s his name again?” I asked.
“Warner. Dance with him so he can see your necklace up close,” he said. “I’ll introduce you.” As I followed Bill, patting my head to make sure no strands had come loose from the bobby pins, I regretted my intricate hairdo. Being in the military so long had left me unpracticed at the role of civilian female. I didn’t appreciate being bait, but if that was my purpose I couldn’t bear the humiliation of failing at it. I hoped he’d think I was pretty.
“Warner Knox, this is Vera Pasterfield,” Bill said. “Old friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
Warner put down his champagne to clasp my hand for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. After chatting briefly, he asked me to dance. As Warner escorted me to the floor, I saw Bill watching and tossed my head. Bill turned his back to talk with the men in Warner’s crowd, and he seemed to know most of them already. Bill had certainly insinuated himself into this place, like a worm burrows in the dirt.
“So you’ve known Mr. Yardley some time?” Warner asked as he took my left hand and placed his other arm gently around my back. He smelled of French cologne and Cuban tobacco. It was pleasant.
“Since before the war,” I said, looking up at him and smiling. He was over six feet tall and muscular, like a boxer.
“Were you in gems with him all that time?”
“That’s new. But I have every confidence in it,” I said, touching my necklace.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Though of course the woman wearing it is influencing my impressions.”
“Thank you.”
The waltz carried us across the room, our own small circles within the wheel of the other dancers, like planets circling the sky. I had to take small steps so my fitted dress didn’t trip me up, but Warner accommodated me easily. “What did Mr. Yardley do during the war?” he asked.
“Lord knows,” I smiled. “Except for those who like to brag—who usually lie—most men don’t seem to want to talk about what happened.”
“True. It’s all best forgotten.”
We chatted off and on for the rest of the waltz, and I learned he had majored in classics at Cornell, and was fond of Dutch art, particularly Vermeer.
“Not Roman art?” I asked.
“They’re best admired for the art of empire. No one knew light like Vermeer. Only he could do justice to a painting of something like this necklace against your pale skin.”
I felt warmth in my cheeks, and I tried to turn the topic to business. “Does that mean you’re interested in buying some rubies?”
“More and more. Why don’t you come by the Oriental tomorrow? You can ask for me at reception.” The waltz over, he kissed my hand and bowed as he returned me to Bill.
“See you fellows around,” Bill said, abruptly leaving the group. He twitched his head for me to follow, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Warner tracking us with his eyes. Bill grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. He moved like an eel through the crowds, nodding his hellos while I struggled to keep up in my tight dress, until we stood on an empty balcony overlooking the garden. The heady scent of tropical flowers filled the air and Bill put a glass into my hand.
“Thought you’d taken them both for yourself,” I said. Bill closed the French doors behind him and the noise of the party dimmed, leaving us in privacy. We could see into the ballroom, but the reflections from the bright lights inside would obscure us to their eyes.
“I should have, but I didn’t. Anyways, what’d you think of him?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. He wants to do business.”
“With you, I’ll bet he does,” Bill smirked. “I saw how you gave him the sparkle eyes. You might as well know he’s von Roth. The Nazi.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of champagne. “I found out where he lives,” I said, recovering myself. “At the Oriental. He said we could come by any time.”
“That’s just tickety boo.” Bill stared at the dark garden below, finishing his champagne, and ducked back inside. In a minute he came back onto the balcony, with two more full glasses. “The king left the reception already,” he said. “When Warner, or I should say, the Nazi, wasn’t staring down your dress, he was eyeballing the king. Von Roth might try to scope out the place. If he leaves the room, follow him. If he makes you, you have your excuse. You found him so charming, you wanted to be alone with him.”
I ignored Bill’s sarcastic tone. “Think he’ll try something tonight?”
“No, security’s too tight. He’s a smart motherfucker. But I’m smarter.” He took both my hands in his and I stared at the ground. “I’m going to get him, Lena.”
Murder. He was talking murder. “You’re going to risk your neck for some foreign king?”
“Did you see Ananda? An innocent. He can’t help what he was born into, any more than I could.”
Bill had once told me his father was a drunk who beat him, until he ran away at the age of twelve to raise himself up on the streets. He had to steal
to survive, and that was how his life of crime began. I felt a stirring of pity for Bill and tamped it down.
“Can’t we turn von Roth over to the Nuremberg court?”
“Miss Maggie says that won’t work and I agree. He’s protected by the authority of the US government, even if it is through Gaige. His identity’s been changed. Lena, don’t get cold feet. Let me tell you something. Von Roth was one of them who uncovered hidden Jews and sent them to the death camps. And he was a field commander over the massacres in the Ukraine. Even some of his SS troops found it too vicious. If they wouldn’t do it, he shot his own men. To make an example.”
I had danced with that man. His hands, murderous hands, had touched my neck—with gallantry. His lips, lips that had shouted orders to kill, had pressed against my fingertips, and I had sensed nothing of this. I had no intuition for evil. I was a failure. Weren’t agents supposed to know what goes on underneath? “How did he seem so normal? So American?”
“He really did go to Cornell. A slick bastard. Evil takes many forms, I seen that much in my life,” Bill said. “He deserves whatever he gets.”
Through the glass doors I saw a blond man, taller than most, weaving patiently through the crowds and away from us, toward the main exit of the reception hall. “He’s on the move. I’m going to follow him.” I put down my champagne glass on the stone balcony ledge behind me, and Bill grabbed my arm as though to stop me. “You said to,” I hissed, and brushed past him.
