by Neil Maresca
“I’m sorry,” was all that Lucas could manage to say.
“We were luckier than most,” she continued. “They let us claim his body and give him a proper, Christian burial.”
“I’d like to visit his grave someday, if that would be alright with you,” Lucas said.
“That would make Mr. Jansson very happy,” she replied
“And you, Marie, would it make you happy too?”
“Very happy Lucas, but very sad too.”
“Good then, we can discuss it this evening when Mr. Jansson is at home. Now, I need to be on my way.”
“Yes, you must go,” she said as she helped him on with his coat and saw him to the door. She watched as he walked away, and she thought for a moment that she was watching Nicolaas go off to school as she had for so many years until the Nazis came.
Chapter 33
January 17, 1957
Home of Pietr and Anneka Roosa
Leiden, the Netherlands
The Roosa home was smaller and older than the Jansson home and in a working class neighborhood, but the bed was comfortable enough, and Peter slept soundly. Like Lucas, he slept past the normal breakfast hour, and by the time he appeared in the kitchen, Pietr Roosa, like Josef Jansson, had already gone off to work. So Peter found himself alone with Anneka, who had prepared breakfast and was awaiting his arrival with a freshly-brewed pot of coffee.
“I thought you were never going to wake up,” she said cheerily. “I was just about to go up and rouse you.”
Peter looked at her and wondered just what she meant by that. He had no doubt that if she had come into his bedroom he would have been ‘roused’ alright. He thought her word choice odd, provocative, and her delivery was slightly coy—just how was he supposed to interpret that smile? He was a guest here, and, as Strickland and the others in D.C. had endlessly reminded him, representing the United States of America. Fooling around with his host’s daughter on his first day in town would be sure to get him a one-way ticket home if it ever became known.
On the other hand, Anneka was lovely in a simple, wholesome sort of way. She wore very little make-up, and her brown hair fell naturally in soft waves over her shoulders. She wore a simple white peasant blouse with lacey puff quarter-sleeves—the kind a young girl might wear in the states, except that she had pulled the sleeves down off her shoulders so that, instead of looking little-girlish, she looked sexy and exciting.
“How old are you?” he asked, although he had not intended to—it sort of just came out.
She answered with the same smile, “21. Why do you ask?”
Peter thought that was a lie,19 maybe, he thought.
“I just wanted to make sure you were old enough to make coffee,” he joked. “It’s an art, you know, takes time to learn how to make really good coffee.”
“Well then,” she said, “You should enjoy this. I’ve been making coffee for my father since my mother left 10 years ago.”
“Left? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but do you mean ‘left’ as in for another world?”
“No,” Anke laughed, “I mean ‘left’ as in for a better world. She went to America with a G.I. who was stationed at the air base outside of town.”
“My apologies, I’m sorry I asked.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago, and to tell you the truth, things have been a lot more peaceful around here since she’s been gone. And besides, with her gone, I had to learn to cook and make coffee for handsome young men. Eat before it gets cold.”
Peter was glad to oblige, not only because he was hungry, but also because he was anxious to turn his attention away from Anke to something less threatening. Peter was not normally threatened by pretty young women, but this situation was different. As tempting as it was, he would have to find a way to avoid becoming involved with Anke, and he would have to do it without insulting her.
Anke sat across from him, sipping at her coffee and watching him eat. When he had finished, she said, “Well, what is the verdict?”
“Guilty—of being an excellent cook, and outstanding coffee-maker! And now, as much as I would like to stay and drink coffee with you all day, I have to get to the University. Don’t want to be late for my first day.”
He rose from the table and walked toward the front hallway where his winter coat was hanging, but he found his way blocked by Anke.
“Well,” she said, “if my coffee can’t get you to stay, I don’t know what will.”
“Anke, I would love to spend the day with you, but I really have no choice. I have to go.”
She turned to the side so he could squeeze past her, but the alcove was so narrow that their bodies brushed together, and, as they did so, Anke moved forward effectively pinning Peter against the wall. He could feel the pressure of her body pushing against his, her small, firm breasts insisting on being noticed as she leaned forward, and raised her face so that her slightly parted lips were only a breath away from his.
She didn’t speak. There was no need; her body was saying everything that needed to be said.
The trouble was, from Peter’s perspective, that his body was listening—and responding.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushed her away from him. “Anke,” he said, “we can’t do this. I can’t do this. As much as I would love to take you up on your offer, I can’t. It’s impossible. So now, if you will let me, I have to leave.”
Anke stood aside, and let him get his coat. She watched as he put it on and went out the door. She watched for a long time, and when he was out of sight, she turned from the doorway, returned to the kitchen, and sat down to finish her coffee, but when she lifted the cup her hands shook so much that she spilled the contents on her white cotton blouse. She looked down at the spreading brown coffee stain and broke into tears.
Chapter 34
January 17, 1957
A Tavern
Leiden, the Netherlands
Washburn was annoyed. He had let Roosa pick the meeting place—somewhere inconspicuous he had told him, where they wouldn’t be noticed, and Roosa had selected this place, a local tavern in a working class district not far from his home. As soon as Washburn stepped into the tavern he realized his mistake. Every head turned to stare at the nattily-dressed man with the polka-dot bowtie who was so obviously out of place. The men (and there were only men there) didn’t appear hostile—at least not all of them—but if ‘inconspicuous’ was the goal, this location surely did not achieve it. I should have known better, Washburn thought. Roosa is an idiot, and I’m more of an idiot for letting him do anything on his own.
However much he was annoyed, there was nothing he could do about it anymore. The damage had been done. The best thing to do now, he reasoned, was to find Roosa and make the meeting appear as natural as possible. He stood, conspicuously, near the entrance, looking around, unable to locate Roosa, growing more angry with every passing second. He was about to leave when he caught a movement from a table in a darkened corner of the room—it was Roosa!
What a fool! Was all Washburn could think of. This is his idea of espionage, hiding in a dark corner like some villain in a Three Musketeers movie!
He almost walked out—would have walked out, but he had his orders! He was used to meetings with upper echelon operatives in elegant restaurants, at symposia and conferences in luxury hotels in places like London, Geneva and Paris. Meeting with field agents in grimy bars in Leiden was far out of his comfort zone, but he had his orders! So he took a deep breath, and walked purposefully across the room, acutely aware of the dozens of eyes watching his every step, and silently cursing the man he was going to meet.
Roosa had squeezed himself into a corner with his back against the wall. He sat there like a spider in a web, his small dark eyes darting from point to point, never at rest.
“Good afternoon, comrade,” Washburn whispered as he sat. “Is it safe to talk here?”
“As long as you talk low,” Roosa said.
A waiter o
f sorts came and stood silently by the table.
“Order a beer,” Roosa said. “You’ll get none of your fancy drinks here.”
Washburn ordered a beer. He likes me about as much as I like him, he thought.
“I trust you have made our guest comfortable,” Washburn asked, but it really wasn’t a question.
“If he’s a man, he should be real comfortable by now,” Roosa replied with a smirk.
“Your daughter is up to the task?”
“You let me worry about Anke. She’ll do as she’s told. Besides, Why is this Peter Cameron so important? He looks like any other spoiled, rich American to me.”
“Don’t be fooled by Peter Cameron. He’s smart—and it’s not for you know why. Just do as you are told. Your daughter has to get close to him. We need to know everything he does, who he sees, who he talks to. She has to gain his trust, and if that is not possible, then she has to compromise him.”
“I told you, don’t worry about Anke. She’ll do it. Whoring is in her blood, like her mother.”
Washburn knew Roosa’s story. He had been given the file before coming to Leiden. He knew that Roosa’s wife had run off with an American airman, and that was one reason that he could be counted on—he hated Americans. But Washburn also knew that Roosa was a brute, and a man without principles. He was a member of the Party, but he wasn’t highly regarded. He was a union member and therefore a Party member, but he had never participated actively in Party affairs before this. Even during the War, he kept a low profile, supporting the resistance, but from a distance, never putting himself at risk. Washburn neither liked him nor trusted him.
“I’ll need a report every other day.”
“That often?”
“Those are my orders.”
“Very well. Two days from now, it is.”
“I’ll tell you where.”
“What’s the matter? This place not good enough for you?”
Washburn looked nervously around. The place was certainly not good enough for him, but that wasn’t the problem. He stuck out like a sore thumb here.
Roosa laughed. “You seem nervous, Comrade.”
“You are a fool Roosa,” Washburn hissed. “You would do well to remember that the Party does not suffer fools well. I will let you know where and when we are to next meet—and I expect to hear more than I heard today.”
The beers arrived just as Washburn was getting up to leave.
“Not staying for your drink?”
Washburn huffed and left without another word.
“Very well,” Roosa said to no one in particular, “That’s more for me then.”
Chapter 35
January 17, 1957
Office of Professor Johan De Groot
University of Leiden
Leiden, the Netherlands
Peter watched in amusement as Professor De Groot launched large, perfectly-formed smoke rings into the air while they waited for Strickland to arrive. He was uncharacteristically late. Peter and De Groot had passed the time in pleasant conversation, enjoying each other’s company along with generous portions of the tea and cakes provided by Mrs. Van der Alte
Strickland burst through the door, hat, coat, and scarf in hand, threw them down on the first flat surface, and took a seat across the desk from De Groot, alongside Peter. He was clearly agitated.
He took out a cigar, offered one to Peter, who declined, growled an apology, and said, “Let’s get to work. Peter, what can you tell us about the Roosas?”
“Peter Roosa seems to be an ordinary member of the working classes, not very well educated, a bit gruff, very sharp with his daughter Anneka—treats her more like a servant than a daughter. Her mother ran off with a U.S. serviceman, so that probably explains it. I can’t visualize him as a soviet agent, unless he is extremely good at hiding his real personality, which I don’t think he is. I think, with Roosa, what you see is what you get. To be honest, sir, I can’t understand why the commies chose him.”
“What are your thoughts?” Strickland said, turning his attention to De Groot.
“I agree with Peter,” he said. “Pietr Roosa is the same man he has always been, a crude bully, irresponsible and untrustworthy. I don’t understand his selection either. It’s doubly perplexing because he isn’t even a staunch communist. He belongs to the union, so he must, that is, he has to be a member of the Party, but he has never been an active member. Even during the war, he was a lukewarm patriot. Some thought he might even have been a collaborator. So why the Soviets chose him to be their man is beyond me.”
“What about his daughter?” Strickland directed the question at Peter.
“Ah yes, Anneka. Well, I can tell you she’s nothing like her father.”
“Can she be exploited?”
“Possibly. She tried to seduce me this morning. I suspect her father put her up to it. He left for work early, and she tried very hard to get me into bed—almost succeeded too.”
“What stopped you?”
“She said she was 21, but I didn’t believe her.”
“You were right. She’s 17—barely. But are you sure that’s all that stopped you?”
“Well, I thought it was a little too fast for one thing, and yes, her age was a factor. She seems like a nice girl. Her father’s a beast. In truth, I felt a little sorry for her. Her approach was too obvious. I don’t think she’s very experienced.”
“Once again, I would agree with Peter,” De Groot added. “Anneka is a nice girl, at least as far as I know.”
“Nice girl or not, if we can use her, we should do it.”
De Groot resumed blowing smoke rings. Peter looked down at his hands.
“Problems?” Strickland asked.
“No sir,” Peter mumbled.
“Peter,” Strickland said. “This is a dirty business. If you are not up to it, I need to know now.”
De Groot said nothing, but he studied the two men carefully. His instincts told him there was more to this discussion than a question of Peter’s willingness to seduce a young girl. Strickland was probing Peter, but why?
“I’d do it if I thought it was necessary,” Peter answered. “But I don’t believe she knows anything. I don’t see the purpose.”
“Then let me explain it to you,” Strickland said. “Roosa wants his daughter to seduce you. He believes you will be so under her spell that you will tell her everything about our operation…”
“That’s ridiculous,” Peter interrupted.
“…But if you let yourself be seduced, then we can use her to funnel misinformation to him and his handlers, or perhaps, she will become so infatuated with you, that she will turn on him completely.”
“OK, I can see the misinformation bit, but the rest is garbage, and I’m not comfortable seducing a young, innocent girl.”
“But you’ll do it?”
Peter didn’t answer right away. It was a difficult decision for him, and not only for the reasons he stated. It was true that he was uncomfortable with idea of using Anke, but there was another reason as well—Kate. Ever since that evening that they celebrated their graduation, he had been unable to get her out of his head. He knew it was wrong, completely against agency rules, and potentially even dangerous. Agents simply were not supposed to get romantically involved—so he fought against it, purposely didn’t call her, tried desperately to forget her—and even thought he had, until Strickland proposed this liaison with Anke, forcing him to choose between loyalty to the oath he had taken when he joined the Agency and the thought that somehow he would be betraying Kate—a thought that confused and annoyed him. He had thought he had put Kate behind him, that his one-night stand with her was that and only that, but now, faced with the very real possibility that he would have sexual relations with Anke, the only thing he could think of was Kate.
Strickland and De Groot gave Peter time. They recognized that it was a difficult moral predicament, although they had no way of knowing the full nature of the conflict going on inside Peter’s he
ad and heart. They needed Peter to be “all in”—a half-hearted or forced commitment was in nobody’s best interest, so they waited silently, respectful of Peter’s need to be sure of his decision.
After what seemed to be an inordinately long time, Peter looked at Strickland, and murmured, “I’ll do it.”
“You are certain? No doubts?”
“I’ll do it,” he repeated more forcefully. “You can count on me.”
“I’m sure I can,” Strickland replied, “so why don’t we change the subject. What can you tell me about Mr. Hamilton?”
“Ham?” Peter’s customary smile returned. “Nothing much about him personally. He never speaks of himself, and always manages to change the subject whenever I try to turn the discussion to his childhood, or his time in France during the war….”
“If he was in France during the war,” Strickland interjected.
“… He’ll discuss philosophy, literature and history all day long, but clams up when the discussion turns personal. He is intensely interested in Soviet history, but hates communists; at least he expresses hatred for them.”
“You have reason to doubt his sincerity?” De Groot asked.
“No, none at all, except for a gnawing suspicion that he is holding something back—that he is not telling all the truth. I can’t accuse him of anything. Maybe it’s just some embarrassing or personal thing in his past that he doesn’t want to discuss.”
“Does he give any reason for these feelings? “Do you think he might be homosexual?”
“I have no reason to believe so. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I believe he has been sexually involved with girls.”
“What is his opinion of Washburn?” Strickland asked.
“He used to be very enthusiastic about him. When we first met, he raved about the man and his work—claimed he would never have been accepted into the Ambassadors program without his help.”
