Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  “What was it you overheard?” he asked, his voice languid, a little drowsy.

  “Well, this Lewis, whoever he was, he and some older hand came into a house while I was making an inspection.”

  “That must have been embarrassing for you.”

  “I was upstairs. They didn’t know anyone was there.”

  “And you blithely decided to let them go about their business?”

  “Yes.”

  The bed shook with his quiet laughter. It felt like less of a sin now.

  “And now you’re wondering if you need to report this to someone?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Don’t bother. It will only make a lot of extra paperwork for a lot of people who won’t like doing it. Plus, you’ll be giving Herrington exactly what he’s been looking for.”

  “I know. It’s just…”

  “Something they said? Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “Yes. Or no. Not so much what they said, but the way they said it. Almost like they were speaking their own language. Especially the older one. Not a code, exactly, but something like it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “All kinds of double-talk about lakes, ponds, and bays. Bodies of water. And effies, that was another one. The effies, whose boss used to be named Jack.”

  Baucom was silent for a while before turning to face her, propping his head on his elbow. For a few unnerving seconds all he did was smoke and stare.

  “This older fellow. Did you see him?”

  “On the porch, yes. When he was coming and going.”

  His gaze was steady, attentive. He was fully awake now. It scared her a little.

  “Describe him.”

  She did so. He shook his head, seeming to draw a blank. Then she remembered another detail.

  “He sounded wheezy.”

  “Wheezy?” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Like he was out of breath, even though they were sitting down. And he was drinking. Knocking them back pretty good, too.”

  “Drinking what? Do you know?”

  “An eighteen-year-old Macallan. Brand-new bottle, and he broke the seal. Right out of the special supply, and he knew exactly where to find it.”

  Baucom lay back on the bed and forcefully exhaled a gray plume. They both stared at the smoke, watching it flatten and curl as it reached the ceiling. She waited for him to speak. Instead, he got out of bed and walked naked to the window, where he louvered open the blinds and carefully looked up and down the street.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Are you sure they didn’t know you were there?”

  “Why? What do you see?”

  “Answer me.”

  He said it harshly, a tone he’d never used with her before. She checked his face for any sign of irony, or that he might be joking, but he was serious. It was kind of freaking her out, so she tried thinking back to everything she’d heard that afternoon, rechecking for any possibility they had detected her presence.

  “I’m almost positive they thought they were alone.”

  “Almost?”

  “You know what they teach you at the Farm. Never feel a hundred percent about anything.”

  “Fair enough. But you’re reasonably certain?”

  “More than reasonably.”

  “Good. With those people you’d better be.”

  “Those people? You know who they are?”

  “I might know who they used to be. But now?” He frowned and shook his head. “Even if I’m right, it’s nothing I could ever talk about, so don’t ask again. It’s not your business. Hell, it’s not mine, either.” A slight pause, and then: “You didn’t, perchance, do something foolish like tape them, did you?”

  She looked away. He sighed loudly.

  “I was going to erase it.”

  “But you haven’t yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’d do so promptly if I were you. Better still, destroy it. Burn the damn thing if you have to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Right away.”

  “Scout’s honor. First thing in the morning.”

  “No. Now.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Now. If you’d like, I’ll follow you over there. Cover your tracks and watch the shadows.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  He thought about it for a second.

  “No. I don’t. And everything is clear out front. I’d know if it wasn’t. But it’s nearly eleven, so you should leave before it gets any later. Take a taxi. Have the driver let you out around the corner, but tell him to wait.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but I do know some tradecraft.”

  “Work quickly. If you’re not back by midnight, I’ll ring the duty officer.”

  “Jesus. That’s the worst thing you’ve said all night. Then Herrington would find out for sure.”

  “Chain of command. Sorry, but that’s how it works in these situations.”

  “And what kind of situation is this, exactly?”

  “Probably something small and forgettable, as long as you deal with it now, and never mention it to anyone else.”

  “Okay, then.” She tossed back the sheets. “I’ll go. Get it over with.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She said it sharply, and he grinned so widely that she wanted to cross the room and slap him. But at least he was no longer looking so deadly earnest, and it helped her relax.

  She dressed while he phoned for a cab. A few minutes later it pulled up out front. He walked her downstairs and accompanied her onto the porch.

  “Be smart and move fast. Use your skills.”

  “You act like I’m on a mission.”

  “You are. Call if you need help. And remember.” He tapped his watch. “Midnight, or I phone it in.”

  “You’re never going to tell me what this was all about, are you?”

  He looked in both directions, swiveling his head like a bird of prey.

  “You’re clear. Go.”

  She climbed into the back of the taxi and gave the driver an address on Alt-Moabit. In Berlin, cabdrivers were accustomed to their fares walking around the corner from where they let them off.

  Looking out the back window of the taxi as it pulled away, she saw the glow of Baucom’s cigarette on the porch. He stayed there, watching, until the taxi drove out of sight.

  3

  A bungler’s chore. A fool’s errand. That’s what this was, and it was all due to her lack of self-control. Helen cursed herself as she slid the key into the lock. Mercifully, none of the neighbors seemed to be awake, so at least she wasn’t likely to be spotted.

  Need to know. That was the bedrock rule she’d violated. Even if something funny was going on, it wasn’t her business to know it, much less report it. Baucom had seen that right away, just as she should’ve. He, at least, seemed to have a pretty good idea of what the strange conversation was about, which made her feel somewhat better. If it needed to be reported up the chain of command, then Baucom would do it.

  Funny how often curiosity was a liability in this business. When they’d first recruited her they’d assured her it was a strength, one of her greatest. Now? Compartmentalize. Avert your eyes. Mind your own business. Or maybe Herrington used that mantra only on her.

  She didn’t bother to switch on the lights. Helen knew the house well enough to tour every room blindfolded, and why risk having a passerby see her upstairs before she was able to shut the blinds?

  She climbed the stairs, unerringly crossed the room to the side table, and pulled open the drawer. She felt a matchbox, a pen, a pack of cigarettes, and a small notebook as panic began to rise in her chest. But finally, there it was, pushed toward the b
ack by her rummaging. Baucom had advised her to destroy it, and that’s what she intended to do—later, at a more suitable location. But there was no way she was going to carry the tape out of the house without first erasing the conversation.

  Moving across the room, she fumbled to load the reel on the spindle before remembering that a blank tape was already in place. She groped for the rewind button to free it from the take-up reel, but after hearing the click and then not hearing the slapping of the tape she realized she must have hit either play or record. Some light would be necessary after all, which meant she needed to shut the blinds. She crossed the room to the window and reached for the cord when, like some sort of bizarre replay, she heard the rattle of a key in the front door downstairs. A surprise visitor. Again.

  “Shit!” she whispered. “What the fuck?”

  Calm down. Maybe it was Baucom, having decided she needed backup after all. She let go of the cord to the blinds and looked through the lace curtains. Her heartbeat did a drum roll when she saw a male, medium build, in a long dark overcoat. Definitely not Baucom. Had the older fellow from this afternoon waited for her to return? Had he known all along what she’d done? If so, what next? Fight or flight? Then the man turned his head just enough to show his features by the glow of the street lamp. Dark hair, not graying. Too young to be the older man. Nor was he the one named Lewis. In fact, she knew this fellow.

  He was a case officer, cryptonym Robert. Real name: Kevin Gilley, although she wasn’t supposed to know that. A fanatic for exotic firearms, a prolific filer of verbose reports. Fancied himself a ladies’ man, or so she’d heard. In fact, pretty much all of her knowledge was from in-house gossip. The only thing she knew firsthand was that, as a onetime previous user of her safe houses he’d been supremely tidy, and hadn’t left a trace. His operational weakness, according to Agency scuttlebutt, was that his cover as a commercial attaché had apparently fooled none of the opposition, and lately there had been talk of an imminent transfer, either to Latin America or a desk job in Langley. She watched him enter the house and heard the door shut.

  A nimbus of light appeared in the doorway to the stairwell as he switched on a lamp downstairs. She heard his footsteps heading toward the kitchen. Another customer for the secret stash of liquor, Helen guessed, although at least Gilley was supposed to know where these things were.

  Now she was present for yet another unauthorized meeting, at the facility that was supposedly her most efficiently run. She wondered if this sort of off-the-books activity was again becoming standard practice. Maybe Herrington had circulated a memo among his favored operatives, instructing them to ignore her rules. She knew exactly how he’d word it—a mixture of the practical and the profane, with an overlay of his mannered Anglophilia: Look, chaps, this officious chick no doubt means well, but if in your judgment these new requirements are cramping your style, then fuck the lot of them. Henceforth, come and go from the facilities as needed, and we’ll sweat the paperwork later.

  Yet, she, too, was again here without notice, meaning she should probably get this over with quickly. Swallow her pride, announce her presence, and be on her way, with the illicit tape burning a hole in her purse as she carried all its secrets back across town to Baucom.

  There was a knock on the front door. She looked out the window to see Gilley welcoming a young woman. The sound of their voices ghosted up the stairwell. The woman spoke German in an affected Berliner accent, like someone from the provinces trying to pass for local. Probably one of Gilley’s agents, meaning it was too late for Helen to announce herself without disrupting their meeting.

  Helen sighed, carefully slipped off her shoes, and prepared to wait them out. It wasn’t proper procedure, but since when did that matter on this Day of Transgressions? No wonder they wouldn’t make her an operative. Screw up like this in the field and someone would be dead. Screw up like this twice within twelve hours and you’d be dead as well.

  The young woman downstairs was talking rapidly now. Even from here, she sounded earnest and eager, as if she’d brought Gilley the best possible material, although Helen couldn’t make out the words. Helen had warned the cabdriver she was liable to be a while, but who knew how long this meeting might take? The fare would be a fortune. She might even have to ask Baucom for a few D-Marks. She remembered the deadline he’d imposed. Back by midnight, or he’d phone the duty officer. Things could get complicated in a hurry. Maybe this pair would leave in time for her to phone Baucom first. But she probably wouldn’t have time to erase the tape before leaving.

  The sound of shattering glass broke her train of thought. So much for Gilley’s usual neatness. Then a thud, like a chair overturning. What in the hell were they doing? Helen moved toward the doorway, where she heard grunts, as if from a wrestling match.

  “Stop it!” Gilley shouted.

  “Nein!” the woman replied.

  “I told you, stop that!” Then, in German: “Unvorstellbar! Genug!”

  Had she threatened him? If Gilley was in trouble, right here in Helen’s most secure safe house, then she needed to act immediately. She slid into the hallway and onto the landing, and then stooped lower to try and see what was happening below.

  She eased down a step, and then another. She heard the tearing of fabric, and a pinging of small items—buttons?—bouncing on the wooden floor like sleet against a windowpane.

  “Hold still!” Gilley shouted. “Stupid whore!”

  Only a whimper from the woman. Gilley had either turned the tables or had been the aggressor from the start. She eased farther down the steps and heard a massive thump.

  “That’s better,” Gilley said, his voice smug. The woman grunted.

  Helen, horrified, now saw everything. Gilley had climbed atop her on the couch, which was knocked askew. His bare white back glistened with sweat, and his shoes and trousers were off. He wore only brown socks. The woman lay on her back below him, her face turned to the side and her eyes shut. Black skirt rucked up around her waist. Blouse torn open. The couch shook like a raft on a tossing sea. The woman grimaced and bit her lip.

  “Nein, nein, nein.”

  “Stop it!” Helen shouted.

  She clambered down the stairs, nearly slipping as she reached the bottom.

  The woman’s eyes opened in shock. Gilley looked over his shoulder, but didn’t budge from the couch.

  “It’s you!” he said, almost laughing. “The goddamn station busybody!”

  He lurched backward and slung his legs to the floor like a cowboy dismounting a horse. Smiling, he turned to face Helen, his erect penis standing red and glistening with moisture. Helen turned away and, then, figuring that was what he wanted, looked him in the eye.

  “I was…I was sleeping upstairs,” she ad-libbed, even while at another level she was wondering why she was the one having to explain. “What the hell are you doing to her? You’re…you’re…” She needed to say the word. He was raping her.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said, tossing a hand to the side, flippant in his gestures. “Frieda likes it rough. Enjoys it more when there’s a tussle. Isn’t that right, Frieda?”

  Frieda, if that was indeed her name, was sitting now, with her knees drawn up protectively against her chest. Her feet were still clad in black sneakers. She pulled the front of her blouse together, but the buttons were gone. Then she shook her head and muttered an answer beneath her breath.

  “Speak up, my dear.”

  “Ja,” she said. “Yes.” She smoothed her skirt and stared at the floor. “It is as he says.”

  “So you see?”

  “I know what I saw. And I know what I heard.”

  “Then do as you must, of course. But if anyone’s out of bounds here, I’d say it was you, interrupting a private meeting between a case officer and his agent. Sleeping, you said? Like hell you were. Nosing around where you shouldn’t be, more likely. Way
out of your depth. Probably grounds for dismissal, or at the very least, reassignment.”

  “I’d heard the same about you. Now I think I know why.”

  He grinned widely. Infuriating. His eyes, the blue-green of a swimming pool, flashed with anger.

  “Just the sort of disinformation I’d expect to hear from someone at your level. You really don’t know anything, do you?”

  Gilley picked up his boxers and slipped them on, and then his pants. He finished dressing as casually as if he were alone in a hotel room. All the while he smiled at Helen, who remained rooted to her spot at the foot of the stairs.

  “I know what I saw and I know what I heard,” she said again, less assertively this time.

  “As do I. Guess whose version will be accepted? Guess which one Frieda will verify. And guess which one of us will be held in violation of policy for their activities tonight?”

  He turned toward the woman on the couch.

  “Maybe next time, Frieda. When there’s a little more privacy, yes?”

  She said nothing and continued to stare at the floor. Gilley smiled ruefully and glanced around the room as if checking to see if he had forgotten anything. Then he departed, shutting the door behind him. Helen felt like she had taken a blow to the head. It was as if everything the Agency had ever taught her about tradecraft and secrecy and doing your job the right way had just been spilled onto the floor in a broken mess that could never be reassembled. She drew a deep breath and put a hand to her chest, where her heartbeat was only beginning to slow down. She looked over at Frieda.

  My God, practically a girl. Twenty at the oldest, probably younger. One of those pale, undernourished Berliner waifs who wore nothing but black. Hair chopped in a statement against style. Helen guessed she was Gilley’s connection to some fringe leftist cell in Kreuzberg, groups notoriously infested with East German operatives. And now here she was tugging at her blouse as she scanned the floor for missing buttons.