His cover was a sales manager for IBM. He even had business cards that said he worked out of the Fishkill, New York office. If they called that office, there was a Charles Allen who worked in sales there. His secretary would say he was out on the road, and no, she did not know when he would return. The Company would trace such calls, should any be made.
None would, it appeared. The clerk barely glanced at him and stamped his passport in red ink. He smiled, and the clerk mumbled, “Welcome to Agra,” and waved the next person up. Tarl hefted his suitcase and walked out of the airport to the taxi stand, shading his eyes behind his sunglasses.
“You’re kidding,” he said, seeing her leaning against a convertible. Rose Marie Garcia. She wore a blue miniskirt and white patent leather boots. Her sunglasses were round with thick white frames, and she’d pulled her black hair back into a ponytail. “The car’s a bit James Bond, don’t you think?” She grinned at him.
She opened the door. “Get in,” she said, with a flourish. “Shed that monkey suit though, or you’ll cook.” He did so, tossing his jacket and his case into the trunk. They say boot here, he reminded himself. He settled into the passenger seat, while she pulled out into the chaotic traffic. He tried not to watch as she slewed the car around trucks, narrowly avoiding knots of bicycles, pedestrians, and ramshackle cars. She drove fast, leaving the airport district quickly and heading out into the countryside.
“Where,” he said, “are we going?” He glanced down at her brown thighs as she shifted gears onto the highway. She saw him looking and grinned back, pulling back on the gearshift with force, pressing him back into his seat as she pulled into the fast lane.
She grinned back at him. “All business?” She glanced behind them in the mirror. “I got us a safe house near the Taj. You can see it in the morning from the veranda.” She fished behind his seat and handed him a bottled cola, condensation dripping off the icy glass.
“You know they will sniff that out of your expense reports,” he said, but she just laughed. He took a sip of the cola, grimaced at the sweetness. The Company bean-counters were tightening their grip. The debacle in Cuba had led to a lot of scrutiny, and the new administration was eager to show they were making changes. It was a good time for Smith to retire. He’d been useful, but they were, according to Grandmother, entering a new phase.
He reflected on how long he’d been in this thread. Far longer than he’d originally expected, and far longer than any mission he’d ever been on. Longer even than any he’d ever learned about from the Archivists, either. But Grandmother and the Boy had been adamant. This thread was at the heart of the tangle, and there were a lot of unique disturbances here they could detect. They needed to understand it. So they kept him here. Trapped.
But they hadn’t understood it yet. Or if they had, they weren’t saying. There were signs that his quarry, the woman who called herself Silver, was active here. Here, in India, was where the trail led. His best lead yet. His cover as an IBM salesman was bait. The Soviets were trying to steal or buy computational expertise and equipment for code-breaking. Garcia had tracked a purchaser from the Indian civil service looking for specific hardware the Indian civil service had no need for. She was good, Garcia was, at ferreting out such details.
He looked over at her again. She was lovely, he thought. Mexican, or of Mexican ancestry, he reminded himself. She was from Texas, recruited from college. It hadn’t hurt that she spoke Spanish like a native, and had a sharp mind for figures. She’d been a computer when he met her, when his group had been tasked with cracking some newer Soviet codes. She’d joined his group and proven herself a capable code breaker and even more capable counterintelligence thinker. Garcia's talents had given his little group of actuaries and math professors the edge they needed. She knew Soviet cryptographic capability better than anyone, and she seemed to even know how they thought, which was helpful.
It was a good time for Smith to retire, he reflected again. Garcia would suffer because of it, since she’d hitched her wagon to him. In more ways than one, he thought. They’d been lovers for four years, off and on, which was probably known to the watchers inside the organization as well.
But they’d been discreet about it, he thought, and these things happened. She had seduced him, he told himself, approaching it like all her projects, with dogged determination and speed. One night he’d been working late, and she had entered his office, locked the door behind her, and perched herself on his desk. He’d watched her let her hair down from the tight bun she normally wore and been mildly surprised when she’d grabbed a fistful of his shirt and kissed him. He’d been anticipating something like this from her, but found himself surprised when she crawled into his lap and laced her fingers together behind his neck while she kissed him.
He hadn’t minded. She was lovely and strong, and kept herself fit. Murn had long since gone back to the tribes, so even on his brief returns to the Center, he had no steady companion. So screwing his secretary didn’t really bother him, even though he suspected the Company might have policies against it. She was quite an armful, he reflected. He would miss her, but he couldn’t stay much longer. His Smith disguise wasn’t going to fool people forever.
He wasn’t aging. The Center’s doing, he suspected. Or if he was, it was being slowed somehow. They didn’t say, and he didn’t ask. But men his purported age were retiring, or nearly so. He didn’t want the attention, so he and Grandmother had laid the groundwork for a change of identity.
Garcia was also bugging him for a transfer to operations, which wasn’t going to happen. Smith would retire, and Garcia would go back to being a code breaker. This trip, chasing this lead, was probably the closest she would get to being a field agent.
The lead had come from the British. A rather effete officer had visited them in their Maryland office, a basement in a suburban office park. The man’s name was Cecil Chandler, and he was, Tarl judged, just old enough to have served in the War as a young man.
“The Russians are active in India,” he’d said, after they had exchanged pleasantries. He had not mentioned their bare-bones office or humble location. Tarl suspected he was being polite. “We’ve got a lead we need help with. Bit beyond our means, if I am being candid.”
“They are active everywhere,” Garcia said. She was severely dressed, in a conservative suit and had her dark hair pinned up in a tight bun. Tarl noticed her large glasses and loose tailoring gave her a frumpy look that hid her trim figure rather well.
Chandler looked at her, then back at Tarl. “Quite,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “But, as I said, we have a lead. They told me,” he said, fixing a stare at Tarl, “that your group might help.”
“We break codes, Mr. Chandler,” Tarl said. “We’re not an investigative unit. For that you want the Operations Directorate.”
“Please,” Chandler said, “call me Cecil.” He waved with his cigarette, indicating their surroundings. “Looks like you are in exile out here, stuck in the basement.” He met Tarl’s eyes. “Out of favor?”
Tarl grinned. “We’re not nest-feathering, Mr. Chandler. Not interested. We’re quite happy here.” He pressed his hands together, then leaned back and folded them in his lap. “Why don’t you give us a little more detail, if you can.”
Cecil hadn’t liked that. He grimaced, as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “They said your group could help. Illegal technology transfer to Ivan. We know what they want to buy, some specific IBM kit. We even have a target, the buyer.”
He fished a slim dossier out of his satchel and passed it to Tarl. Tarl unraveled the string tie and flipped it open on the table. Before he looked at it he looked up at Chandler. “You served in the War, Cecil?”
The man nodded, matching Tarl’s gaze. “I did. Africa, and then later in London, or near London.” He pulled on his cigarette.
“Bletchley Park?” Garcia asked brightly. She was leaning forward, looking like she wanted to bite Mr. Chandler. Her grin was very tight and sharp.
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sp; He looked at her. “Hush hush,” Cecil smiled back. “We don’t say those words in our business.” But he nodded, shrugging. “I didn’t spend long there. We invaded Europe, so all us youngsters had our blood up. I wanted a combat unit and made a stink until I got one.” He chuckled. “Almost got me killed.”
Tarl nodded. “We should have a drink sometime. Tell some lies,” Tarl said, in his best Friendly Colleague mannerisms. “I always admired the British approach to things, in the War.”
“Oh?” Chandler said. “Where did you serve? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“Here and there,” Tarl said, leaning over the dossier. The front page was legalese, the standard secrecy disclaimers, and a signing sheet. He flipped it over and looked down at a photograph. It was her.
There were two photos. One, an official passport photo. Her eyes, level with the camera, seemed to pierce him. The other, in a sidewalk café, perhaps? She was laughing, even teeth flashing and prominent. He recognized her immediately, and felt a trickle of ice flow down his spine.
It was the woman from the Kaiser’s bedroom. He saw her in his mind’s eye, dressed in a silver gown. It was the woman from the religious procession, the silver circlet on her brow, her eyes pinning him with too much knowledge. It was the woman from the cave under a distant Mexico City, slick with oil and peppered with gold dust. It was the woman.
Cecil and Garcia were talking. He leaned back, trying to piece together what they were talking about. Something about the Eastern Front in the War. He shook his head to clear it, noticed Garcia glance at him. He lifted the dossier.
“Velli Samara?” he asked. “Sounds like an alias. Isn’t Samara in Malaysia?” His mind was racing.
Chandler inclined his head. “We think she’s Russian, maybe Khazack or some other southern province. Anyway, she’s definitely working with the Soviet Embassy’s political boys. Can’t say how but we’re quite sure.” The Embassy system was rife with spies, and most of them held political rather than foreign service postings.
“So,” Tarl had said, leaning back in his chair. “How can we help?”
That had been a year ago. They had tracked down Ms. Samara with the help of Cecil and his dossier. The dossier also helped Tarl (as Smith) convince the operations folks to help, or at least to stay out of the way. This was the procurement of sophisticated accounting computers, not nuclear weapons, so they weren’t interested.
She was in Agra, but seemed to disappear for days or weeks. They kept the surveillance very loose, as Tarl did not want to spook her. Garcia had pressed for a snatch-and-grab operation to bring her back to the States for questioning. But Tarl had a better idea of what, if she were a shadow or reflection of the woman he had dealt with in those other threads, they were dealing with. She was dangerous in ways the Agency didn’t realize.
Setting up the operation had revealed a new side of Garcia, he thought. She had been so reserved when he had first noticed her. Even when she’d seduced him, she had kept up her appearance and didn’t let her hair down, so to speak. Now though, she was almost manic with eagerness to move on things, and was obsessed with this Samara woman.
Like now, he thought, looking over at her as she guided the car through the light Indian traffic. This highway was new construction, and there weren’t that many fast motorcars on it yet. Garcia was tense, like a live wire. He could see it in the set of her jaw, there and her precise, exact operation of the car. She was muttering under her breath in…Spanish, he thought at first.
She glanced over at him, seeing him watch her. She flashed him a tight smile. “You OK, boss?” She geared up to pass a lumbering truck piled high with bales of what looked like dried leaves.
“I’m OK,” he said. “How about you? You seem tense.” He watched out of the corner of his eye for her reaction.
“Not so much,” she said, after a moment. She cocked her head. “Jitters, I guess.”
“It’s all set up,” he said. “I’m meeting her tomorrow as planned, in the IBM office in Agra.”
She nodded. “She seems sneaky, is all,” Garcia said. “What about these trips she’s taking? Where does she go?”
“I assume she will report in,” he smiled. “Agents do that.”
“Do they?” she said, glancing at him. Her smile broadened. “I’ve just never done fieldwork before. It’s exciting.”
The safe house proved to be in a residential district close to the river, just north of the city. It was set upon a bluff, with a low hill just behind. It was white stone with a nice garden and was well-screened by trees from neighboring buildings. “Nice job,” Tarl said to Garcia, meaning it, when they pulled up the driveway. The house was English, he thought, with a broad veranda.
“Let’s have a drink on the patio,” he said. “Is there anything here?”
“Place is fully stocked,” she said. “I’ve been here for four days, you know. It’s got all the comforts of home.” She smiled wickedly at him. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll fix us a few things?”
He did this, reveling in the shower. It was Turkish-style, two large tiled rooms with pipes exposed over the walls, but the water was hot and plentiful. He got out quickly and dressed in his tan linen suit pants and undershirt, nothing else. He half hoped Garcia would not let him stay dressed for long.
He found her on the broad veranda, on the second floor, looking south. The sun was setting, and the sky glowed purple in the west.
“That’s the Taj Mahal,” he said, marveling at the view they had of it. “Wonderful view.” The dome of the great tomb was visible, along with the wide complex and temple outbuildings. It reminded him of the other woman, the one with the gold circlet. Her temples had borne these same onion domes, he remembered.
“If you’re going to be a rich American,” she said, “stay in a house a rich American would pick, right?” She handed him a drink, gin and tonic, his favorite. Heavy on the gin, light on the lime.
He toasted her. “Great job,” he said. “Maybe I should retire here.”
She laughed. “That won’t happen,” she said, with a knowing smile. “They will have to take you out feet first.” She gave him a pouting smile. “Company man.”
“How little you know me,” he said, teasing her. “I might take up painting. Watercolors." He laughed. “I could paint the Taj Mahal all summer long.”
“That would be something—” she said, but then stopped as the telephone rang.
“Who?” he asked, glancing at her.
Garcia shook her head. “Nobody knows this number. I don’t even know it.”
“Probably the landlord,” he said, walking into the bedroom where the telephone was. He felt Garcia follow. He lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” he said. “Who is this?”
“Mr. Allen?” A woman’s voice, low and husky. “Is this Mr. Charles Allen?” The voice held a faint Indian accent. He raised his eyebrows at Garcia, whose mouth had dropped open in surprise.
“Yes,” he said, slipping into character. “This is he. Who is this again?”
“Mr. Allen,” she said. “I’m Velli Samara, from the Agra Civil Service procurement office? We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow?” Her voice carried her smile, he thought. She is toying with me. “Your office gave me this number.”
He smiled back, nodding to Garcia. She stepped closer, on her toes, leaning in to hear better. She nodded back.
“Ms. Samara,” he said. “I hope everything is all right on your end?” He’d spent an afternoon six months ago with IBM salesmen, taking one of their infamous sales seminars, to pick up on their jargon. All tribes have slang.
“I’m afraid I can’t meet in the morning. I could, perhaps, do an early evening meeting. Perhaps over a drink?” He could almost picture her, twisting her hair with a twinkle in her eye. Playing the vixen. She is flirting with you, he thought, amazed.
“I could do that,” he said slowly. “Did you have a venue in mind?”
“Have you ever seen the Taj, Mr. Alle
n?” she asked. “It is lovely in the early evening this time of year. The sky turns all pink and purple and casts magic reflections from the stone.” She sighed. “It is a magical place. We could stroll through, have a look, and then go have a drink at a bar I know. It’s a quick walk from there.”
“I’m looking at it right now,” he said, and it was the truth. “It is indeed lovely. Shall we meet this time tomorrow?” He paused, waiting. Nothing. “How does that sound?” he added, hoping they hadn’t been disconnected.
“I think that sounds perfect, Mr. Allen,” she said finally. “I hope this hasn’t been an imposition. I really appreciate your flexibility. You won’t regret it.”
He widened his eyes at Garcia. “Of course,” he said. “I am at your disposal. You are my customer.”
“Of course!” she said, laughing. “I almost forgot about that. But wait, how will I know you?” she exclaimed. “I suppose you would be hard to miss. Let me guess, you are tall and blonde and have a cowboy hat?”
“Afraid not, Ms. Samara.” He laughed. “I’m originally from Romania, so I grew up there. I came to the States after the War.”
“Ah,” she said. “So what is distinctive about you? I look like every other Indian girl, so that won’t help us.” She was pushing the joke, still flirting with him. “I tell you what, I will wear my red coat. It’s quite striking.”
He smiled at Garcia, to let her know he was in on it. “I will be the foreigner with no hair, in a tan linen suit which I can hopefully press all the wrinkles out of,” he said lightly. “I’m not that tall, and I’ve never owned a cowboy hat, although that is something I feel I ought to look into.”
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