by Amanda Cross
More praise for
AN IMPERFECT SPY
“For more than twenty-five years Amanda Cross has been blazing a trail for the rest of us to follow. In AN IMPERFECT SPY she boldly tackles issues of aging and the current furor over so-called political correctness. Anyone who wants to understand these tough, important questions should read this book.”
—SARA PARETSKY
“To open an Amanda Cross novel is to step back into the era of a gentler whodunit in which style and sophistication held sway over graphic sex and violence, and literate dialogue took the place of four-letter words.… Cross employs her graceful style and subtle wit to good advantage in this intricate, inventive, and ultimately surprising mystery. And, as always, Kate Fansler, a thoroughly modern woman but old-fashioned in all the right ways, makes a most agreeable heroine.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Amanda Cross takes on both sides of the political correctness debate, and pays lighthearted homage to master spy novelist John le Carré (hence the title), in her latest academic whodunit.”
—Atlanta Journal & Constitution
“WORTH THE WAIT.”
—The Houston Post
“A solid crime novel … Fansler’s sharp mind and even sharper tongue are enough to keep everything stirred up, including readers.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“[Amanda Cross] is to be lauded for tackling such provocative issues as age discrimination, gender bashing, and political correctness.”
—The Orlando Sentinel
“Cross gets off some of her best feminist zingers in this one, and it’s good to hear her voice again.”
—The Boston Globe
“BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN …
The author’s richest, most textured story yet.”
—Mobile Register
“Kate Fansler, an academic addicted to erudition, cigarettes, Scotch, and sleuthing, was the first of many female literary detectives who broke into the hitherto testosterone-prone world of the private eye.”
—The Boston Herald
“Besides posing and solving a neat puzzle, Cross provides a gold mine of stinging quotes for feminist college professors to post on their doors.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Highly sophisticated tone, carefully constructed prose, and nicely contrived plot make this a winner.”
—Library Journal
By Amanda Cross:
THE THEBAN MYSTERIES
POETIC JUSTICE
DEATH IN A TENURED POSITION*
IN THE LAST ANALYSIS
THE JAMES JOYCE MURDER*
THE QUESTION OF MAX*
SWEET DEATH, KIND DEATH*
NO WORD FROM WINIFRED*
A TRAP FOR FOOLS*
THE PLAYERS COME AGAIN*
AN IMPERFECT SPY*
*Published by Ballantine Books
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1995 by Carolyn Heilbrun
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
http://www.randomhouse.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-94838
eISBN: 978-0-307-80215-6
v3.1
To Judith Resnik
and Dennis Curtis
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
But today, peering calmly into his own heart,
Smiley knew that he was unled, and perhaps
unleadable; that the only restraints upon him
were those of his own reason,
and his own humanity.
—JOHN LE CARRÉ
SMILEY’S PEOPLE
Abruptly he felt inside himself the rising panic of frustration beyond endurance.
—JOHN LE CARRÉ
CALL FOR THE DEAD
Prologue
THE man in the first-class seat in the second row by the window had about decided that there would not be an occupant in the adjoining seat. The flight from London to New York was long, and he was glad not to be burdened with company. He placed his briefcase on the extra seat and sighed gratefully. They were about to shut the doors. And then, at the last minute, a woman entered the plane, smiled apologetically at the flight attendant, and paused at the seat next to his. He removed his briefcase, inwardly cursing his luck, knowing the curse showed on his face.
She was old. Old and heavy. Out of shape, with tousled gray hair that needed combing, and styling before that. If he had to have a female companion for the long flight, why not something young, attractive, and forthcoming, or even not forthcoming? Old women were the devil. They found an excuse to talk to you, they found some question to ask, and then, before you knew it, you were hearing their life story and were in danger of being bored out of your mind, feigning sleep the only release. Really, it was too bad. She was, at least, on the aisle seat; old women had to pee every goddamn minute, and she would have had to step over him, or awake him from sleep, with endless, boring apologies, every other goddamn minute. The flight attendant had asked for her name, as they do in first class to verify one’s right to sit there, but he had been unable to make it out.
The woman requested a Bloody Mary and then buckled herself into her seat neatly and without fuss, although she had to stretch the seat belt to its absolute limits to get it around her bulging middle. Then, after extracting a notebook, pen, and book from her briefcase, she stowed it under the seat in front of her and went quietly to work. Unable to contain his curiosity, he strained and glanced until he could read the title of her book; but only the chapter headings topped the pages. The book was, he eventually gathered, on Freud, and she seemed to find it amusing, at times chuckling quietly to herself and making a note. An intellectual, it appeared, a professional, and probably anti-Freudian at that. He was a psychoanalyst, but he was determined that she would never find that out. If she started babbling to him about Freud, he would listen as patiently as possible, and then retreat into his nap. Anyway, he needed to think.
Irritatingly, in light of his carefully contrived defenses, she paid no attention to him. When their meals were served, with cloths and the additional attentions first class offered, she went right on reading, although she had changed her book for a paperback: frivolity with food, he supposed. She was holding her book with the left hand while she ate with her right, and he could see its title easily: John le Carré: Tinken Tailor, something. So she was at heart a lowbrow, after all. Like him she had preferred white wine with her meal; unlike him, she had ordered the beef rather than the fish. He was intensely annoyed to discover that he was observing her with considerably more interest than she was bestowing on him. He disliked old—well, older, as one had to say these days—women; she was almost old enough to be his mother, and he certainly disliked his mother, whom he saw infrequently; in fact, not at all. His training analyst had encouraged him to break
off all contact with her. He thought, furthermore, that women ought to keep themselves trim as they aged. How could they expect a man to look at them if they let themselves go that way? Her nails were clipped short and she wore no wedding ring. Probably had never even had any. Lesbian, perhaps; almost certainly, he then decided. This raised his spirits. No wonder she ignored him; ignoring men was the whole point of being a dyke, wasn’t it?
After dinner, they showed a movie. With the lights dimmed, she went on reading her le Carré paperback for a while by the single illumination offered from the panel above their chairs. Then she put away her book, stretched out her legs over her briefcase—her legs, unlike his, were not long, permitting her to do this—closed her eyes, and appeared to go to sleep. He realized, as he, too, closed his eyes, that he needed to take a leak, and that he would have to wake her, climb over her (what a thought), and then, when he had done, climb back. He unfastened his seat belt, which he had, unaccountably, left fastened around him; he usually unfastened it even before permission to do so was given by the officious signals. He touched her shoulder, rising as he did so. She stepped into the aisle to let him through; when he returned she was not in her seat, having apparently decided to avail herself simultaneously of the facilities. He thus avoided stepping over her when he returned; immediately he affected sleep, lest her return inspire her to talk. But once she had, upon returning, immediately resumed her slumbers, he decided to follow the movie and dug out the earphones; it was as idiotic as one might expect. He kept glancing at her, unable to prevent himself from doing this. It was exactly, he thought, looking at her in the face of her self-containment, like deciding nothing could induce you to attend a certain party, only to discover you had not been invited. Rejection is never easy. That, perhaps, was why he had, unaccountably, spoken to her near the end of their journey.
The flight attendant had approached them and said that it was the last call for drinks. Would they like some brandy, something like that, some after-dinner drink? He ordered a Courvoisier; she said she would have an aquavit if they had one. She smiled at the attendant. “I took up aquavit in Sweden,” she said to him. “Probably you don’t carry any aquavit on this flight.” But they did. And he found himself, actually found himself, asking to have one, too, instead of his brandy. He had by this time noticed that she wore sneakers, or running shoes, or something inappropriately athletic, and reacted even more unfavorably to that. Yet he ordered her drink. He had no idea why. Except, he had to admit, that he, too, had learned to like aquavit in Scandinavia some years ago. He told her this.
She smiled pleasantly, quickly, but did not answer.
“Are you a professor?” he heard himself asking. She looked like a professor. Damn it, she looked like you had sent to Central Casting for a woman professor: probably no sense of humor, no sense of proportion, didn’t know how to play the game. He knew the type; they turned up in medical school and psychoanalytic institutes, too, more’s the pity.
“Yes,” she said. She was not encouraging him. She did not ask him what he was. She didn’t want to know.
“I’m a doctor,” he heard himself say, not qualifying the kind.
“I see,” she said. And she smiled. She had a rather nice smile, he would give her that. For an old, out-of-shape dame. And he was suddenly embarrassed. She looked full at him as she said “I see,” and he could tell she had known exactly what he was thinking all along. She had met his type before. No doubt she was chuckling to herself, behind her double chins. It was maddening.
He refused to say another word. She went back to her book, the hardcover book on Freud this time, and he pretended to consult some papers. He was seething. Yet what, after all, had she done? Nothing except leave him alone. Passive-aggressive, of course. She knew she couldn’t get his attention any other way. And he had fallen for it. That was how that kind of woman was; like his mother. They had to put you down, one way or another.
After the plane had landed, she retrieved her clothes bag from the rack up front, and left the plane before him. He saw her hurry up the enclosed walk into the terminal, where she disappeared.
Nor would he have dreamed of telling a word of this to anyone, if the police hadn’t got onto him. They’d traced him through the airline tickets. “But what have I to do with her?” he had asked at first. “We hardly talked; and then she vanished into the terminal.”
That was it, it transpired. She had vanished into the terminal and, as far as anyone could discover, out of the world. She hadn’t been heard from since.
He felt mildly triumphant hearing this, though he did not say so. He said he had hardly spoken to her; how could he possibly help them? It was only after careful questioning by the two investigators that the whole story emerged. If it was a story. They got it on videotape, as it happened, so there it was, preserved forever. He had, at first, offered a dry account without any of his actual thoughts or angers, but the investigators got the entire narration in the end. Even long afterward, no one who had known her could decide if that had been a triumphant exit for the lady professor or, for her, just a characteristic exchange with that sort of professional man. They inclined, eventually, to the latter. After all, she had walked off into thin air, and no doubt men like this wonderful example had driven her to it. And yet—would she have wanted to give them the satisfaction of just disappearing? For who knew better than a woman professor that disappearing into thin air was what most professional men, given their druthers, would have required of her?
And there, for a time, the matter rested.
One calls it politeness, whereas in fact it is nothing but weakness.… Weakness and an inability to live a self-sufficient life independent of institutions … and emotional attachments.
—JOHN LE CARRÉ
TINKER, TAILOR, SOLDIER, SPY
One
WHEN, after many months had passed and Kate Fansler was able calmly to review that frenzied year, it seemed to her portentously coincidental that it had begun with her thinking of le Carré’s George Smiley, whose final adventures against his Soviet enemy Karla she had just been reading. A sentence about Smiley had echoed in her mind as she made her reluctant way toward her old school to deliver a lecture. The school’s invitation was one to which she had found no suitable words of refusal. It was then she thought of Smiley: “With dismal foreboding, Smiley agreed on a date. After a lifetime of inventing cover stories for every occasion, he still found it impossible to talk his way out of a dinner invitation.”
Or an invitation to one’s old school, Kate assured him, walking toward the crosstown bus. True, she had not had a lifetime of cover stories, she had kept one name and one identity, but while she had hardened her heart against many social occasions, against dinner parties, cocktail parties, and especially against reunions of any sort, a summons from her own school seemed immediately to lock her into an unwilling, deeply resented acquiescence.
Once on the bus, Kate brooded further. Having passed the statistical point of midlife—assuming greater length of life these days than the Bible’s conservative estimate—she had determined not to make policy, to decide on everything as it came along. Policy limited one and discouraged thought. All the same, it might have been said that she had a policy against returning to one’s old school or college, a policy the more stringent the more distant the return from one’s original attendance. Nonetheless here she was on her way to the Theban, the renowned girls’ private school from which she had graduated decades ago.
“Surely you aren’t thinking of going back to that place to give a talk!” Reed had said, astonished. Kate could see he was seriously worried, almost as though her going were a symptom of physical or intellectual decadence.
“I couldn’t refuse,” she had answered, grumbling the inevitable excuse of all those snared into accepting unwelcome invitations. “The headmistress asked me to give one of the talks for high school parents this fall, and pointed out with a certain emphasis that I had refused every invitation to revisit the place sinc
e that incident with the dogs so long ago.”1
“But that was another headmistress,” Reed had said. He had always found the elegance of Kate’s education daunting.
“Of course it was; I didn’t owe that one a favor, as the hideous phrase goes. Rather the other way around. But it was this one I had to plead with twice to get in the brilliant child of a friend, the child having adamantly refused to behave in a way expected of an applicant to the Theban. To be both frank and crude, I rather thought my donations covered my part of the bargain, but of course the Theban never confuses money and service, and of course they shouldn’t.”
“Couldn’t someone else talk to the damn parents?” Reed had not unreasonably asked. They were having their evening drink, and as sometimes happened now when they had both had wearing days, the talk, although softened by alcohol and intimacy, had an irritable edge.
“I appear to be the only professor available for the job, and everyone has expressed, or is purported to have expressed, an interest in the academic situation of the moment. Aware of all the invective swirling around about the canon, and ‘political correctness’—that appalling and meaningless term—the Theban is, as it ever was, anxious to get all the facts and make up its own mind. I clung to the last possible straw by saying that I wasn’t exactly impartial in this matter: I did not admire a single thing accomplished in the terrible Republican eighties, and I think the right wing’s influence on the country and on public opinion has done terrible damage to us all. Since the Theban always begins by embracing impartiality, I thought that would get me out of the whole thing. Not at all. The Theban, in the person of the current headmistress, was certain I would make my partiality clear, and proceed from there; besides, I suspect they agree with me. Educational funding was horribly cut in the eighties. Still, it is reassuring that such principles of tolerance survive in this world, even if they are but meager sparks.”
