Paramour

by Gerald Petievich

  "The artist sees something else."

  "I'll tell you what he sees. Dollar signs."

  She shook her head for a moment. She tried not to smile, then gave up and began to chuckle. There was a devilish sparkle in her eye. They both laughed.

  For the next couple of hours, he accompanied her from exhibit to exhibit, past mobiles fashioned from nuts and bolts and birds, collages of matchbook covers and ice cream sticks pasted onto newspaper, pseudo-primitive nudes carved with oversized genitals, canvases of formless color, uneven geometric design, slashes, marks, spots, and stains-shapes Powers considered, at best, hasty projects of the uncreative and, at worst, factory-line pseudo-art bullshit. But as the hours passed and he could see her continued deep fascination with the exhibits, the strain between them lessened.

  In the middle of the day, they took a table at an outdoor café overlooking the park adjacent to the gallery. It felt good to sit down.

  "You must be exhausted from the surveillance," she said matter-of-factly as the waiter served them plates of sauerkraut and a thick white sausage called weisswurst. "I know how it is to follow someone."

  "Do you often vacation alone?" he said, to change the subject.

  "I've had tours of duty in Moscow, Berlin, and Sofia. Being under diplomatic cover I wasn't allowed to date any locals, and since the only men hanging around American embassies are horny eighteen-year-old Marine guards, yes, I did get used to being alone. Alone is a way of life for those of us in the Agency."

  "I'm not trying to interrogate you."

  "I know you're not."

  Lingering after the meal, they chatted for a while and she seemed to relax. Avoiding the uncomfortable discussion of why they found themselves together, they chatted instead about Washington apartments, intelligence bureaucracies, art, and food. As they finally headed back into the exhibit hall, it occurred to Powers that they'd both gone out of their way to be considerate to each other. Taken with her grace and poise, he also realized that under other circumstances he would have made a full play for her. Not only was she attractive and intelligent, there was a wholesomeness, a feminine vulnerability about her, he found compelling.

  Crossing under the trees on the way back to the hotel, Marilyn talked about her love for contemporary art. Listening without disagreeing, he had the strange, fleeting sensation that the two of them were completely alone in the world. He wondered if she felt the same way.

  They entered the hotel lobby and crossed to the elevator.

  "I'm going to change, then have dinner downtown at the Heilige Geist restaurant," she said as the elevator arrived. "I'll be leaving in about an hour." She stepped onto the elevator, turned to face the door, and winked at him: not a condescending wink but the gesture of a fellow professional who understood his position and sympathized.

  He winked back. The elevator door closed.

  Powers hurried to the hotel courtyard. A minute or so later, the light in her room went on and there was movement behind the sheer curtains. Thus verifying she'd actually gone to her room, he headed to his own room.

  Powers needed a change of clothes. Figuring he could easily be back in the lobby before she left the hotel, he hurried to his room. Having shaved and showered at double time, as he used to do in army basic training at Fort Ord before the morning company formation or when trying to make the early baggage call when traveling with the President, he checked the window again. There was still movement behind the curtains in Marilyn's room.

  He slapped on some after-shave lotion to refresh himself and dressed quickly. Pleased that the clothing he'd purchased, a white shirt and pleated trousers, shorts, T-shirt, and socks, fit well, he stood in front of the dresser mirror and combed his hair. He shrugged on his sport coat and stepped to the window.

  The light in Marilyn's room was off.

  He ran from his room and raced down the hall. Rather than wait for an elevator, he used the fire exit and descended three flights of the steps two at a time to the lobby. She wasn't there. He raced outside. Her rental car was still there.

  Back in the lobby, he made another check: the dining room, bar, and gift shop. At a phone near the registration desk, he dialed her room number. It rang one, two, three, four times. His face felt flushed and a feeling of utter helplessness came over him as he realized that somehow she'd gotten away from him.

  The elevator door opened. Marilyn stepped out.

  He racked the phone and rushed to her.

  "Where were you?" he said, regretting the words the moment they came out.

  "I couldn't find you in the lobby, so I went to your room," she said diffidently.

  "Uh ... we must have missed each other."

  "You thought I ran away, didn't you?" she said with an amused smile.

  "Now that you mention it, I did get a little shaky there for a minute."

  "Jack, you may not have an eye for art, but I take back what I said earlier. You do have an imagination." She laughed as they walked out of the hotel.

  ****

  TWELVE

  The phone rang.

  Landry reached automatically for the nightstand as he struggled to come awake. "Landry."

  "This is Sullivan. Meet me at room 5412."

  "Now?"

  "I'll explain when you get here."

  "Room 5412," Landry said, still fighting the effects of slumber. "That's a Roger." He climbed out of bed, dressed quickly, and, because he never left it in a hotel room, strapped on his gun.

  Landry stepped off the elevator. Room 5412 was to the right. There was a uniformed Santa Monica policeman posted in the hallway and yellow evidence tape extending across the hall.

  Landry's heart beat faster. He showed his Secret Service badge.

  Sullivan came out of the room and ushered him inside. The body of a man was lying on the carpet just outside the bathroom. He was wearing a pin-striped sport shirt, navy blue shorts, and sneakers. There were two bloody spots in the middle of his chest. The rest of the room was a shambles, with dresser drawers overturned and the contents of a leather suitcase strewn about. In the bathroom, the contents of a leather toilet kit had been turned out onto the tile floor. There was the smell of men's cologne. On top of the dresser was a pipe and plastic tobacco pouch, a penknife, a pack of Breakwater Hotel matches, and a well-worn cross-draw pistol holster that looked like it might fit a .38 snub-nosed revolver.

  A stocky, crew-cut oriental man holding a metal clipboard was standing over the body. Sullivan introduced him as Detective Fukuhara, Santa Monica Police.

  "You recognize this guy?"

  Landry leaned closer. The dead man's eyes were open. "Never seen him before in my life."

  Fukuhara motioned to the holster. "With the President staying here at the hotel I figured he might be one of your people."

  Sullivan cleared his throat. "The hotel manager is pulling the registration card."

  "He checked in this afternoon: a Reston, Virginia, address. The name is Miller, Robert Miller. Name ring a bell?" Fukuhara said.

  "Not with me," Sullivan said.

  Miller, the CIA man Powers had told him about. Landry shook his head. "Never heard of him."

  "What do you think happened?" Landry said.

  "Looks like the victim walked in on a hot prowl. There's a vacant room directly above this one on the floor above. I think the prowler dropped down onto the balcony and jimmied the sliding glass door. From the ransacking, it looks like he was in the act when the victim came back to the room. His valuables-wallet, gun, and wristwatch-are gone."

  "Sorry we can't be of any help," Sullivan said.

  "Sorry to wake you up."

  Landry followed Sullivan out of the room. They ducked under the evidence tape and stepped onto the elevator. Sullivan pushed the button, and a car arrived about a minute later. They stepped inside and the doors closed.

  Sullivan was staring at the carpeted floor. "Powers said there was a Bob Miller on the CIA debriefing team at Rehoboth Beach."

  "That wa
s the name, all right. Bob Miller," Landry agreed.

  "What the hell is a CIA agent doing here at this hotel?"

  "Powers told me Miller had been nosing around at Marilyn Kasindorf's apartment."

  "Something is going on at CIA," Sullivan said. "Something major."

  "And my bet is Stryker's death has something to do with it."

  "That remains to be seen. But I want you to maintain contact with Santa Monica PD on this homicide. Have someone from Protective Research follow up with the detective, stay on the case with him."

  "Will do. "

  The elevator came to a stop. The door opened and they stepped out.

  "And there's something else I want you to do, Ken. This has to be on the QT. Have our agents keep their ears open around the House for any staff talk about what's going on in CIA, particularly any mention of the Special Projects Office. I want to know anything they hear."

  Landry felt his heart quicken. He took a deep breath before speaking to mollify his tone. "We're playing with fire to start spying around the House."

  "This isn't spying. This is gathering intelligence of what we hear during the normal routine of the day. There are strange things going on, and I want to know what the story is."

  "It's going to be pretty hard for me to go to the men and ask them to start carrying tales after I've warned them all personally about talking out of turn about what they learn on the job."

  "Look, goddammit, I'm just trying to protect the Service-to have some advance warning if something is coming our way. I don't need a lecture on what's in the White House Detail operations manual."

  Landry nodded. "Are you going to brief the President?"

  Sullivan rubbed his hands roughly over his face. "Yes," he said, letting his breath out. "And he's going to ask me what's going on. And I'm going to have to tell him I have no goddam idea."

  "I wouldn't put anything past the CIA."

  "On the other hand, we shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe Miller had a legitimate reason for being here, and maybe he was just killed by a hotel burglar. After all, this is LA. Things happen. Hell, maybe the dead guy isn't the CIA Miller. Maybe he's some fucking shoe salesman from Kansas City,"

  "You don't believe that and neither do I," Landry said.

  Sullivan nodded. "I'll phone Powers and fill him in."

  The Heilige Geist restaurant, located on a crowded cobblestone alley at the center of town near the Kassel train station, was sandwiched between a small bakery and a cutlery shop. The sign above its door was hand carved on a wooden plaque.

  The interior of the place was lit by candles on tables, and the walls were crowded with shelves of steins, beer mugs, wood carvings, clocks, and other German kitsch. There were about twenty tables, only half of them occupied. A waiter who spoke fluent English led them to a table in the corner. After they were seated, Marilyn told him the place was listed in Peter Wesselink's Travel Guide to Germany as the best for the money in Kassel.

  During dinner Marilyn talked of her childhood: moving from one army post to another. Her father had been a career army officer, and during their frequent military transfers she discovered an aptitude for learning foreign languages. When she graduated from Princeton, she was recruited for the CIA by one of her professors.

  Powers found himself talking about his early years in the Secret Service, his assignments with Presidents Carter and Ford.

  "Did you volunteer for this assignment?" she said.

  "I guess you could say that."

  "Funny. You don't seem like a climber."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "In the CIA, agents used for off-the-wall assignments are usually people on the verge of being promoted. Those who know a refusal might mean treading water for the remainder of one's career."

  "How did you end up working in the White House?" Powers asked.

  "There you go again."

  "Pardon?"

  "Turning the question back to me. I'm getting tired of doing all the talking, Jack."

  "I'm not trying to make this difficult-"

  "You're on duty and getting paid to be here. That's not difficult. Difficult isn't even being followed everywhere I go on vacation by a Secret Service agent. Difficult is having dinner with someone who won't talk."

  "There is one benefit," Powers said in a mock serious tone. "Uncle Sam is picking up the tab."

  She returned his smile and shook her head. "How generous."

  The waiter came to the table and refilled their glasses. The bottle empty, Powers ordered another.

  "Will you answer one question for me?" she said, picking up her wineglass.

  "Probably."

  "Did you search my apartment?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "If I'd been instructed to find out whether someone was a security risk, the first thing I'd do would be to see the way he or she lived."

  He took a big gulp. "Great wine, isn't it?"

  "That means you did search my place and you probably found the Minox camera I keep hidden in a hollowed book. If that's the reason you are so suspicious of me, perhaps you should know the camera is CIA property and I was issued it as part of an Agency photography course. I keep it in the bookshelf hiding place because, like everyone else who lives in DC, I'm worried about burglars."

  "Thanks for clearing that up."

  "I just hope my apartment was decent when you conducted the search."

  "Spotless."

  "You know a lot about me," she said, "but I know absolutely nothing about you."

  "I've been on the White House Detail since-"

  "Are you married, Jack?"

  Powers shook his head.

  "Why not?" she said softly.

  "Never got around to it, I guess."

  "Or never wanted to get around to it?"

  "Actually, I've never met a woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. "

  She was obviously amused. "That's a nice way of saying you're a confirmed bachelor. I know about you guys on the White House Detail. A bunch of rakes. "

  "Actually a group of sensitive, caring chaps."

  "I understand most of the secretaries on the White House staff have been cared for rather well."

  They both laughed.

  As they chatted, Powers found himself talking about the army and about working on his father's fishing boat. Marilyn talked warmly about her years at Princeton. Though they both avoided any discussion of the present, for the first time since they'd met Powers thought the ice actually had been broken. She was articulate, clever, and he found himself taken with her. It was midnight when he realized the place was closing.

  "We'd better go," she said.

  Powers paid the bill, and she gathered her purse and coat. Outside, though it had been warm all day, it had turned cold. As they walked down the sidewalk toward his rental car, they passed an orange neon sign over a door. It read TANZ CLUB TANGERINE. A young, modish couple was entering, and the sound of rock music came from inside.

  Powers nodded toward the place. "How about one for the road?"

  "Why not?"

  He took her by the arm and, opening the door, entered a cauldron of sound. A young, well-dressed crowd was milling around the bar, and the cocktail tables were filled. The dance floor was full, and against the facing wall a disk jockey with blond spiked hair stood behind a record turntable and an array of stereo sound equipment. In the corner, a few younger men with short hair, who Powers thought looked like off-duty American soldiers, were huddled around a table.

  A tall lady wearing skintight black pants, a red pullover sweater, and a stiff German push-up bra took their drink orders. Marilyn stared at the crowded dance floor as the woman prepared the drinks.

  "Do you think I'm a security risk?" she said, turning to him.

  "Frankly, I wish I hadn't accepted this assignment. I feel like some sleazy private eye."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  "No," he said after a while.

  The ba
rtender brought drinks. Marilyn picked up a glass, drank, and set it down on the bar carefully, as if it contained something valuable. "I don't believe you, but I want you to know I still think you're a nice guy. I mean that."

  Powers felt chastened and small.

  Marilyn turned toward the dance floor. "I haven't danced in years," she said. "Will you dance with me?"

  "I'm not a very good dancer."

  "I won't tell."

  Deciding dancing with her was no more sinister than having dinner with her, Powers took her hand and, weaving through cocktail tables, led her to the dance floor. A romantic tune was playing, one he'd heard a thousand times, but what was its title?

  She held herself politely away from him as they danced, as if to tell him in a nice way her invitation to dance was nothing more than that. "Thank you for dancing with me. I expected you to refuse," she said as they moved to the music.

  "My pleasure."

  "I'm going to resign from the Agency when I get back," she said.

  Powers sensed the tension in her. "You're foolish to give up your career just because you're the subject of a security investigation."

  "I'm tired of the bureaucratic intrigue, of living in a pecking order. I want to do something on my own-something in the field of art, hopefully."

  "There won't be any record of this investigation, if that's what's bothering you."

  "Are you really concerned about me?" she said, tilting her head back to look him in the eye.

  "I don't want to be the reason someone gave up a career."

  She stopped dancing. "I hope you're not trying to convince me you actually give a damn about what I do."

  "Maybe it'd be better if I just drove you back to the hotel."

  Her eyes flashed. "Maybe it'd be better if you went straight to hell. I didn't ask you to follow me here," she said angrily. Her lip quivered for a moment, and she dropped her head and broke into tears. Embarrassed, she covered her face quickly. They stood there for a moment, and Powers realized others on the dance floor were looking at them. Marilyn seemed suddenly embarrassed.

  He stepped closer, slipped his arm around her waist, and took her arm. She tried to pull away but he led her, moving to the music.