"Let me go."
"I thought you wanted to dance."
She wiped tears away with her hand. "I'm sorry about that, but in the last few months I've been working a lot and . . . my personal life has gotten somewhat complicated. And now people watching me-"
"Forget about that."
"I've used some very bad judgment."
They continued to dance. When the tune ended they remained on the dance floor and danced again. Back at the bar, avoiding the topic of her proposed resignation, they talked about everything under the sun. They danced again and again, and Powers lost count of the drinks. Finally, at 2 A.M., she suggested they leave.
Outside the bar, the cold night air slapped them and brought them back to reality. On the way back to the hotel in the rental car they spoke very little. Powers found himself wishing she had chosen to sit close to him.
In the deserted hotel lobby a sleepy-looking desk clerk was shining the registration counter with a dirty cloth. He ignored them as they stepped on the elevator. The door closed.
Marilyn pushed the button for her floor, then his. The car ascended and the doors opened. She stepped out into the hallway.
"I'll walk you to your room," he said, following her out of the elevator.
"That's not necessary," she said, without looking at him.
Ignoring her protest, he accompanied her to the door of her room. She reached into her purse, took out the room key, and slid it into the lock.
"I know you were sticking your neck out by inviting me for a drink," she said, without looking at him. "Thanks. You have my word no one will know."
"I enjoyed myself."
"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have a date. Not that we're on a date, but-well, you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean."
Opening the door, she stepped inside the room. "Good night, Jack," she said, looking more alluring than ever.
He reached out to take her in his arms.
"I think we've both had too much to drink," she said, resisting him.
His lips found hers. Her arms slid up his back. Suddenly he realized what he was doing and released her. "I'd better not make things more complicated than they are," he said, stepping back.
They stood there looking into each other's eyes. "Good night," she said softly.
Powers closed the door slowly. Standing alone in the hallway, flushed, with the taste of her lipstick on his lips, he wanted to hold her, to take her, to be close to her, to bring his lips to hers, to have her under him, to have her on top of him, to please her, to bring her to ecstasy, to own her as much as a man can own a woman: to conquer and unite with her.
But she was the subject of an investigation, and an affair with her would be the kiss of death to his career. When they were back in Washington and the investigation was over and she was cleared, he could date her without risk.
The problem was he didn't want to wait.
Imagining her arms around him, he returned to his room. Inside, leaving the fights out, he opened the curtain a few inches. Marilyn was standing on her balcony. Her arms were crossed and she was gazing, as if transfixed, in the direction of the exhibition hall. Powers stepped back from the window to hide himself from her view. After a while, Marilyn rubbed her arms as if she was cold and stepped inside her room. The curtains closed. For the next few minutes her shadow moved intermittently behind the curtains and he imagined her getting ready for bed. Then, finally, the light in her room went out.
And, though he'd had his doubts since she'd first confronted him in the hotel dining room, at that moment Powers decided she wasn't a spy. There was no way to articulate his conclusion, but the fact was he had watched her, searched her apartment, talked with her ... and kissed her. She wasn't a spy. Her affair with the President was unsettling to him, all right, but he'd convinced himself she wasn't working for the East Germans or anyone else.
He paced the room for a while, then finally kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed. But he didn't feel sleepy. Lying there in the darkness, he admitted to himself he was infatuated with her. Unable to sleep, he left the bed and returned to the window. He imagined the smell of her perfume, her hair brushing his cheek as they'd kissed. He wanted her. And he could tell when they'd kissed that she wanted him.
There was the sound of two soft knocks on his door.
Startled, he reached to his waistband. But his gun was in the trunk of his car in DC. He moved across the room and stepped to the side of the door in case someone shot through it. For the first time, he realized there was no peephole.
"Who's there?" he said.
"It's me," Marilyn said.
He turned on the light and opened the door. She had combed her hair and applied fresh lipstick. Their eyes met. He just stood there for a moment. Then he took her in his arms and covered her mouth with his. Their tongues met, Feeling the length of her body against his own, her arms around him tightly, he pulled her inside and slammed the door.
They undressed each other feverishly and Powers's breathing quickened. Marilyn shrugged from her brassiere. There was a small scar on her shoulder.
"I didn't want to be alone tonight," she whispered.
"You shouldn't have come here," he said between kisses.
Naked, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. They kissed and he touched the softness between her legs. She moaned as he massaged her gently. Her nipples became erect.
Suddenly, she guided him into her warmth. Fingernails were in his shoulders and he gave himself to her unregenerately, helplessly, absolutely, and her legs raised to accept him. Her eyes were closed and she moaned. Locked in this rhythm for a long time, her hands reached up to his face and he realized he was perspiring-perspiring on her and breathing hard. Transported in rapture, they clung to one another, then changed positions hurriedly, as if stealing pleasure. Then she was under him again.
"Don't stop," she said. "Please. Don't stop."
He didn't. In fact, he couldn't. Her hands took his waist and he was lost in the timeless cadence of sex. Her nails dug into his buttocks. Captured and held, he could hold back no longer. From deep inside, he released himself and became, in flashes of surging whiteness and pink surrender, all men with all women since the beginning of time.
Then, lying on their sides with their arms around each other, they stayed there for a while, neither saying a word. He could feel her abdomen touch his with each breath. He felt comfortable, unburdened with her, as if they'd been sexual partners and friends for a long time.
Powers realized they hadn't even taken the time to turn off the light. "How'd you get that scar on your shoulder?" he said.
"Fell off a bike when I was in college."
He kissed her, and nothing was said for a long time. She twisted and turned off the light. In the darkness, she snuggled into his arms. Feeling one with her, he closed his eyes.
"You're so quiet," he said.
"I wish we had never met," she said sadly.
"That's a funny thing to say."
"I mean it." She lifted her head from his shoulder. She kissed his cheeks, his mouth, his chest, biting kisses, sucking kisses everywhere, and soon, to his own surprise, he felt a new stirring. She grasped him firmly, ministering to him, her head moving up and down on him. He opened his palms and allowed her lifting and falling hair to touch them lightly. Erect again, he took her under him, abandoning himself. After a long, long time he closed his eyes and came.
Lying there on his back feeling depleted and drained, he sensed the tingle of perspiration evaporating from his chest and legs.
Marilyn climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom. She returned with a white, fluffy towel and used it to dry him.
Allowing himself to breathe deeply, Powers finally felt the effects of his loss of sleep over the past days, and the deep, paralyzing fatigue that makes eyelids weigh twenty pounds took him.
"What time is it?" he said.
She pulled the covers up and snuggled next to hi
m. "Four-thirty A.M."
Powers closed his eyes.
"You're wonderful, Jack."
"I like you, too."
"Get some sleep," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.
For a moment, he thought he felt Marilyn shudder, as if she might be stifling tears.
"What's wrong?" he said.
"I wish we could have met under other circumstances."
"I don't understand."
Her fingers touched his lips. "Go to sleep," she whispered. "We can talk in the morning."
Her arms held him tightly. Slipping comfortably into sleep's blackness, he saw her walking into the restaurant in Washington. She stopped and looked around, then sat down. Silently, as if transformed into a cloud, Powers imagined himself moving to her. Her back was to him, and standing behind her he was unable to see her face. He reached out and touched her hair. She didn't acknowledge him. "Marilyn," he said, and the others in the restaurant turned to look, but she ignored him....
The phone was ringing. Powers opened his eyes. He was on his stomach and his left arm was asleep. There was a wide break in the curtain, and a shaft of morning light trailed across the bed. Powers grabbed the receiver and said hello.
"This is me." It was Sullivan.
"Yes," Powers said, coming awake. "I read your voice."
"One of the men you met at the beach was found dead in a hotel room at the Breakwater during the visit."
Powers rubbed his face to come fully awake. "Sounds spooky."
"I thought you should know. How is everything going.
"I'm hanging in." Powers suddenly realized he was alone in the room. He sat up. Was she in the bathroom?
"Has the other person made any contacts over there?"
Only one. "None."
"Keep me advised," Sullivan said. The phone clicked.
"Marilyn?"
****
THIRTEEN
Powers reached to the nightstand for his wristwatch. It was 7 A.M. He felt a sense of uneasiness coming over him as he picked up the phone receiver.
"Miss Kasindorf's room, please."
"Moment, bitte," the operator said. The phone clicked and there was a ring, then another and another. Powers dropped the receiver on the cradle and climbed out of bed. Quickly, he pulled his clothes on and hurried to the ground floor. He checked the restaurant, the lobby, and the gift shop but she wasn't there. Then he ran past the reception desk and out the front door. Her rental car, the brown Mercedes Benz, was gone.
At her room, he knocked loudly on her door. There was no answer. Without hesitation, he stepped back and, holding his arms out to his sides to maintain balance, lifted his right foot and kicked. The door snapped open.
Inside, the bed was unmade. With hands flying, he opened drawers. They were empty. Her suitcase was on a stand next to the bathroom door. He opened it. Nothing but clothes. Her purse was nowhere in the room. Closing the suitcase, Powers noticed a small wooden wastebasket with a white plastic liner. Even it had been emptied. Powers shut his eyes and covered them with his hands for a moment. His mind raced with the events of the night before. He felt like screaming, crying, perhaps vomiting in frustration and anger.
Rather than wait for the elevator, Powers hurried to the stairwell and descended the steps two at a time into the lobby. He checked with the desk clerk and the doorman. Neither had noticed Marilyn leave.
Powers left the hotel and ran outside to his rental car. He climbed in, started the engine, and sped out of the drive down the highway to Camp Darby. It took him about ten minutes.
The guard booth at the front gate and the tall chain-link fence surrounding the post itself was illuminated by security lights on tall metal poles. On top of the fence, razor-sharp concertina wire glimmered in the morning light. He pulled up to the guard booth and a uniformed military policeman, a tall young man with a regulation-trimmed mustache, stepped outside warily.
"Yes, sir?" the MP said, eying him suspiciously.
Powers took out a black leather case containing his Secret Service identification card and badge and held it open. The MP studied it closely.
"Secret Service?"
"Special Agent Powers, White House Detail. Is there an intelligence officer assigned here?"
"The only spook we have on this post is Sergeant Fuller. You can find him in the headquarters building Monday morning at oh-eight hundred."
"It's an emergency. Call him and ask him to meet me here."
"May I see that identification again, sir?"
Powers complied.
"Thank you, sir." The MP stepped into his guard booth and grabbed a phone.
About ten minutes later, a black Ford sedan sped up to the guard booth. The driver, a rangy man a few years older than Powers, stepped out. He had a ruddy outdoorsman's complexion and wore a blue sport coat, gray dress slacks, and a white shirt open at the collar. His brown hair was just long enough to comb. He was wearing a snub-nosed .38 in a waist holster, a garish silver eagle belt buckle, and shiny army-issue "low-quarter" dress shoes.
"Special Agent Charles Fuller," he said in a Southern accent. "Army Intelligence."
Powers showed his badge and introduced himself.
Fuller studied the identification, holding it up to the light, and nodded.
"Is the President coming here?"
"No. I'm on a special assignment, a surveillance of a U.S. civilian. I need your help."
"Sir, I can't give you any help unless I have authorization from my group headquarters."
From a pocket in his commission book, Powers slipped out a laminated plastic card all Secret Service agents carried and handed it to Fuller.
"This is a copy of the Presidential Executive Order 1976 stating that any officer of the Military Services shall assist an agent of the United States Secret Service in the performance of his duties by providing service, equipment, and facilities whenever officially requested by any Secret Service special agent," Powers said.
Fuller studied the card for about a minute. "That's what it says, all right," he mused. "Come to think of it, I remember learning about the order in intelligence school."
"I'm officially requesting your immediate assistance under this lawful order from the Commander in Chief."
Fuller stood there for a moment biting his lip. He turned, picked up a metal clipboard from the front seat of his jeep, and handed it to Powers with a pen. "I want that in writing."
Without hesitation, Powers wrote the following:
August 24, 1996: I, Special Agent Jack Powers, U.S. Secret Service (badge #364), hereby request the assistance of Sergeant Fuller, U.S. Amy Intelligence, under Executive Order 1976.
Powers signed his name and handed the clipboard back. Fuller's lips moved as he read it carefully. He handed it to the MP. "You are my witness," he said. "Please initial this." The MP signed and handed the pen and the clipboard back to Fuller.
"The subject of the surveillance is a woman, a U.S. government employee with a Top Secret Security Clearance, and I have to find her," Powers said. "She left the Zum Goldenen Hirsch hotel within the last couple of hours. She's driving a rented brown Mercedes Benz." Powers reached into his shirt pocket for the matchbook on which he'd noted the car's license number. "Here's the license number."
Fuller stepped into the guard booth and picked up the phone. "This is Fuller. I'm calling a Blue Light alert. That's right, a full alert. I read: Delta, Foxtrot, and Whisky. Roger. Notify the colonel and stand by to monitor Romeo frequency. Out." He slammed the phone down.
"We'll take my car," he said.
Powers hurried to the passenger side and climbed in.
Fuller drove as they searched the vicinity of Kassel. The radio crackled with Southern and New York accents as military policemen exchanged information about the description and license number of Marilyn's car and gave instructions in military jargon. Occasionally, American military helicopters taking part in the search passed overhead. During the first hour or so, Fuller would, after exch
anging radio messages, meet up with military police units and give orders about the search. By the third hour, Powers had lost hope and was thinking about what he was going to tell Sullivan when he returned to DC.
As they drove back and forth through the city and countryside, black clouds had grown and now the smell of rain filled the air. As the first raindrops started to fall, they were cruising along a winding road in the vicinity of the old Iron Curtain, the dividing line between East and West Germany before reunification. Like most of the rest of Germany it was comprised of fertile, rolling hills and thick forests. For a moment, the horrid thought occurred to him that she might have defected-gone across the border into East Germany but of course there was no East Germany and no more Iron Curtain.
The sound of static came from the radio. "Foxtrot king, this is Blue Light."
Fuller grabbed the microphone. "Go, Blue Light."
"Niner Delta reports they have your brown Mercedes parked at 1532 Erlangen Strasse."
"Have them stand by. Repeat. Stand by."
Fuller executed a U-turn, nearly tipping the car over, and stepped on the gas. They raced through a section of highway shaded by tall birches leaning inward and creating a tunnel-like effect.
"Erlangen Strasse is by the City Haft," Fuller said.
Powers, consumed by the thought that his ability to judge people had failed him, kept his eyes on the road.
Fuller drove recklessly at what must have been about a hundred miles an hour during the short drive into town. Turning sharply near the railroad station, he wound through a mixture of cobblestoned and modern streets. At Erlangen Strasse, he slowed down to look for numbers. A Volkswagen bus with U.S. Military Police markings was parked at the curb behind the brown Mercedes Benz. Fuller stepped on the brakes and Powers grabbed the dashboard to steady himself. "Whoa, Nellie!" Fuller shouted.
Powers and Fuller stepped out of the car. The doors of the Volkswagen bus opened and two tall young MPs in full dress uniform climbed out. There was a violent crack of thunder and it began to rain lightly.
Fuller showed a badge. "Nice going, gentlemen."
As Fuller spoke with the MPs, Powers moved closer to the car. His stomach churning nervously, he touched the hood. It was cold. The windows were rolled up, and there was nothing on either the front or back seats. "I'd like to know what's around here," Powers said, staring at the car.
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