No Work for a Woman

by Lynda Calkins

  She went up the stairs, found the room, and stood in the center.

  Ilya’s voice was quite clear, although he was speaking in a low conversational tone. “The Pasha found this very convenient. And, remember, this is three hundred years before Watergate.” She chuckled. There was a silence, then Ilya said, “Jessica, there is someone coming. I think I will join you.”

  He tiptoed into the room, his finger on his lips as she frowned at him questioningly. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. They listened as footsteps crossed the hallway and entered the room Ilya had just left. There were two voices speaking a mixture of Bulgarian and Russian; at the sound of the third voice Ilya stiffened.

  “I believe we could work together on this to our mutual benefit,” the voice was saying. “If Christov were removed and the American agent were responsible, it would accomplish both our aims.”

  The voice of the Russian was apologetic. “Unfortunately, we are not at liberty to remove the American agent. Nor to allow her to get into the kind of trouble you are suggesting. It is not our wish, you understand, but our orders were explicit.”

  The voices rumbled on, Micha Borov reminding them of help he had provided at other times, help he would certainly be able to provide in the future, but the Russians were adamant. No matter how much they might wish to accommodate Borov, their orders would not allow it.

  “You would think you were yourselves working for American intelligence,” Micha Borov said angrily. He strode out of the room, leaving the two Russians disgruntled. “Now we are going to have to watch him as well,” Panov said in disgust. “I would much prefer to carry out his plan; we could add to it and get rid of the American as well. That woman is causing more trouble than she is worth.”

  “She sings well,” the other voice said mildly.

  “If she would stop singing, and do her job, we could go home.” The voice was tart. It was clear there was no love lost between the two men. They moved out the door and could be heard leaving the building.

  The two upstairs did not move. Jessica could not look at Ilya. She did not want to be there to witness his humiliation. She moved closer to him until her shoulder touched his. It was all she had to give him; they had lost their language again.

  “He is godfather to my sons,” he said finally.

  She nodded.

  They stood in silence until Ilya burst out, “He has been like a father to me.”

  “And he thinks you’re a kid.”

  “This morning you said I was getting old.”

  “For some things. But to Micha Borov, you’re just a kid.” She hesitated. “Ilya, have you ever done anything you were really ashamed of professionally, I mean something morally repugnant, but necessary?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Right. Neither have I. But I’m beginning to think we’ve been awfully lucky. And that’s precisely why Micha Borov and the other old partisans are afraid of the younger men. They’ve had to face these dilemmas and have made the choices and had to live with them.”

  “He thinks I am weak?”

  “He doesn’t know. That’s the problem. He thinks you’re untested.”

  “He’s certainly taking care of that!”

  She shrugged. He turned to look at her, frowning. “Did you notice anything odd about that confrontation?”

  “I thought Micha had a point.”

  “They think you’re looking for something. Are you?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  She hesitated, then said slowly, “I think so.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Do you want to know?”

  He thought about that, shook his head. “No. You’re right.” He paused. “Would you have told me?”

  “No. It has nothing to do with Bulgaria. You have my word on that. Aside from the fact that we’re all in this together. And that Micha Borov has chosen to make it personal. At least we know where your memos are stopping.”

  “We certainly seem to have had a shifting of alliances there. Russian intelligence owes more to Micha than to me. Their refusal had nothing to do with me, only with you. Are you sure you know who you’re working for? It appears that your memos may not be stopping,” he continued.

  She looked at him levelly, not speaking. “They certainly seem to need me. I don’t think they’re going to be quite so friendly when I actually find it.”

  “You think they will move then?”

  “Don’t you? They only need what I’m looking for, they don’t need me. They didn’t say anything about my going home, you notice. At least it means I can choose the site for the showdown.”

  “We can choose the site.”

  “‘Ilya, you can’t get involved in this.”

  “I’m already involved,” he said indignantly. “It is my death Micha Borov was suggesting. I believe that gives me some interest in the proceedings. And I can hardly afford to have dead American agents littering the landscape.” She grinned. “And,” he continued soberly, “If it weren’t for you, I’d never had known how Micha felt.”

  Until it was too late.

  “OK,” she shrugged. “You’re right. “Well,” she grinned again, “Here’s my plan.”

  She outlined for him the moves she had decided on and he nodded. “First, however, I think we’d better get out of this place and make a rather splashy entrance, don’t you?”

  He looked puzzled.

  “The Russians are obviously following us. By parking where we did and arriving on foot, we managed to get in without their seeing us, but if we don’t arrive soon, they’re going to be a little antsy.”

  He looked puzzled again.

  “Nervous. We’ve got to make an appearance here, dammit. Dear, I hate to complain, but where did you take your training for this job?”

  “There is very little need for me to have training. Micha Borov knows whatever goes on in Bulgaria and the Russians take care of most of our international needs. We have very little leeway, Jessica. That is one of the things I would like to change.”

  She looked at him for a moment, sensing for the first time the extent of the gulf between him and Borov. God, she and Ilya were an unlikely pair of babes in the woods to take on the establishment. Oh, boy.

  “Well,” she said briskly, as was her wont when she was flummoxed, “The first thing we have to do is stay alive. Is there a back door? Surely the sultan didn’t provide just one entrance to this place.”

  Sure enough, there was another entrance and they made their way back to the Jeep and drove up to the main entrance with little attempt at concealment. Au contraire, as Jessica noted dryly, everything but the trumpet section. She got out, voiced her amazement at the size and splendor of such a place in this isolated spot, and they went inside. Once they got in, they were more subdued, and it was difficult for them to spend as long as they felt they should. They managed, however, and finally emerged after what they could only hope was a decent interval, and started back toward Sofia.

  It was nearly eight o’clock by the time they reached the city. They had stopped to exchange the heavy duty vehicle for an unobtrusive, ubiquitous black Volga. She turned to face Ilya as he stopped the car in front of the hotel.

  “Goodnight, sweet prince.”

  “We’re back to Romeo and Juliet?”

  “According to you, we never left. And, since you’ve already denied your father…just remember, their downfall was a lack of communication.”

  He reached over and laid his hand lightly on the top of her head.

  “Benedicite,” she murmured.

  “Are you Catholic?” he said in surprise.

  “No, but I think we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Amen,” he said fervently as the doorman opened the car door and she went into the hotel.

  Two men watched as Jessica entered the lobby and went to the desk for her key. Although the
y had grown up thousands of miles apart, they were strikingly similar. The Russian, Leontov, had been bred in the same sort of middle class, privileged environment as had Sandy Carson, and their views on many things, including their careers, were not far apart. They were both tall, broad-shouldered, and aggressively handsome, characteristic, both, of their nationalities. They shared another characteristic…beneath that too right exterior, they were both very ordinary young men. Jessica had discovered this about Sandy Carson early on and had grudgingly found it rather endearing. She had no difficulty in concealing this from Sandy.

  He had been sitting in the lobby most of the day, waiting for Jessica to appear. He had no way of knowing that she had gone off with Ilya, and his emotions had varied from anger to worry, back to anger and now, as she appeared, to resignation.

  He waited five minutes, then followed her upstairs. Standing outside her door, he was an extremely nervous young man. He was still new enough to view any assignment with enthusiasm, but he had several questions about this one and none of the answers had increased his self-confidence. A confidence which only seemed to falter around Jessica.

  He had been told to “keep an eye” on her. He had stared at Bob Rogers in horror. “Good God, is she thinking of defecting?” Bob Rogers had been smooth and comforting. “Of course not, it’s just that she might be in over her head on this one.” He was not to rile her, or to get in her way, just keep an eye out for trouble.

  As he had chewed that one over on the plane, it seemed even less likely that he had heard right. Sending a twenty-five year old rookie, as sharp as he obviously was, to keep an eye on one of the oldest operatives in the agency? He had protested one more time.

  “But I don’t speak the language. What if she lapses into Bulgarian?”

  Rogers had looked at him with what Sandy was awfully afraid might be compassion. “Your Russian will get you by. It’s very similar.” He had hesitated. “Actually, Carson, I think your problems are likely to begin when she lapses into English.”

  He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  She looked at him blankly for a moment. He was dressed in a black suit and clerical collar. “I’m in disguise,” he said cheerfully.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said surveying him from head to toe, “You’re impersonating a human being. I don’t think you’ve quite caught it.”

  “I’m an Anglican priest!”

  “How fitting. Haven’t you ever had the urge to impersonate a defrocked Pentecostal faith healer?”

  He looked at her a little blankly. “Well,” he said slowly, “No.”

  She nodded. “It figures. Come in…You’re a day late.”

  “Actually, I got here last night. I saw you sing. I came right from the airport and caught your last set. You were very good.”

  “Thank you. It’s just a sideline. My real love is brain surgery.”

  “You seem very different when you’re singing.”

  She frowned. “How so?”

  “Well, when I work with you, you’re tough and in charge; and I follow along and try to keep out of the way…”

  “Yes?” she urged, “That sounds good to me.So?”

  “Well,” he was foundering and she was perplexed.

  “I’ve rarely seen a Harvard man so inarticulate. You’re letting down the side, Carson. Spit it out.”

  “Well, when you’re singing, I want to protect you.”

  “From what? Irate composers?”

  “You look very defenseless standing there…it just makes me want to comfort you and take care of you. You look kind of lost.”

  She stared at him for a moment, the behavior of the people around her slipping into focus.

  “Oh, God, Sandy. You’re a genius.”

  He looked surprised. That had not been her assessment before. Maybe she was beginning to appreciate him.

  “You mean you want me to take care of you?”

  She came out of her abstraction long enough to look horrified. “For God’s sake, you can’t even take care of yourself!”

  At least he always knew where he was with Jessica. He was seriously reevaluating his generation’s unswerving commitment to honest relationships. He was beginning to feel a little subterfuge would be very pleasant.

  “If you hadn’t noticed this, I’d never have realized what was going on. You’re a great asset, Sandy. You have a common mind.”

  He was genuinely offended.

  “I was in the top ten percent of my class at Harvard.”

  She patted his hand. “You’ll outgrow it, dear. It’s painful, of course, but rarely fatal. You know,” she said musingly, “I’ve never heard of anyone who wasn’t in the top ten percent of his class at Harvard. I wonder what they do with the bottom ninety percent. Shoot them?” She walked across the room and perched on the windowsill. “Actually, they send them to the General Accounting Office where they spend the rest of their lives wreaking vengeance on their higher ranking classmates. Ah, it’s a jungle out there, Sandy. But you wanted to be where the action was, right?”

  “Well, so far I’ve seen precious little action,” he said tartly. “The most exciting thing that’s happened to me has been the training. Since then I’ve sat in the office reading reports and rerouting paper. It’s more boring than IBM.”

  “And, God willing, it will stay that way,” she said fervently. “Boring is good…boring is beautiful…boring means you’re doing it right. I hope we yawn all the way home.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve been blooded.”

  She looked at him in astonishment. “What a ghastly expression. Who told you that?”

  It was his turn to look surprised. “Well, I just assumed. You’ve been with the agency for twenty years. Surely in that time…” he trailed off as she shook her head.

  “Never.”

  “In twenty years?” He was incredulous. She could see her image crumbling. A good thing.

  “Never. For one thing, I spend most of every year just as you do, reading reports, sifting information, and pushing paper. The most important thing is to get the job done. If I had to shoot my way out of an assignment, I would consider that I’d failed. Get in, get the information, and get out. Don’t they tell you this anymore?”

  “Well, sure they said that, but I thought they were playing down the danger.”

  She sighed. “Yes, you thought there were going to be trick devices and beautiful desperate women intent on stealing your country’s most precious secrets with only you to prevent it?”

  He grinned shamefacedly. “Well, I had hopes. All right, I knew it wasn’t going to be like that. But I did think it would mean matching wits against other professionals and putting my life on the line. I’m in more danger on the Capitol Beltway that I am in the field.”

  “Well, of course. Homicide on the Beltway is totally impersonal. Much more frightening. And efficient. Sandy, dear, while I sympathize with your aspirations, and I do-I’ve been there, I have the liveliest apprehension that when you finally are blooded, it’s going to be my blood. Your performance the last time out was not encouraging.”

  Again the grin. “I was just adding a little spice.”

  “You sound like an Indian chef trying to explain to a diner why smoke is pouring out his ears. Mrs. Crimmins does not need spice. She is milk toast and blanc mange. Your paying court so amusingly almost blew a character I’ve been working on for years. If you ever do that again you’ll get a kick in the groin. Mrs. Crimmins may be a lady, but when she goes into a phone booth, I come out. OK, Jimmy Olson?”

  “OK.”

  “Now the good news. You’re about to get your big break, kid.”

  “You’re going to let me take the information out?”

  She looked at him, shook her head sadly. “What have I done to deserve you?”

  She held up her hand, “Rhetorical. No, sport, you were so good making love to Mrs. Crimmins, you’re going to get a chance to woo her mother.”

  He looked blank.<
br />
  “Me.” Again the hand went up. “Hold it. You can’t do much about the Russians or even the Bulgarian professionals, but you can rid me of this claque I’ve acquired. You’re going to have to fall head over heels in love with me, make a real fool of yourself.” She smiled cheerfully, “You should be able to manage that—and be highly visible. And, Sandy, don’t ham it up. Serenades beneath balconies are out.”

  “Drat,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I never get to have any fun.”

  “I’ll bet the Hasty Pudding Institute really misses you.”

  “They’ve never been the same.”

  She nodded, sighing deeply. “I know just how they feel. Well, do your best. It’s a side of you I haven’t seen yet.” She was suddenly sober. “Sandy, it’s always nasty when civilians get caught in the middle of an assignment. You and I are being paid to take chances; they’re not. And to be brutal about it, they increase the chances of our coming a cropper. So let’s get them out and keep them out, OK?”

  He nodded, struck by her unusual gravity. “Where shall I start?”

  “At the beginning, I should think. Why don’t you come to the club tonight and discover me? We’ll play it by ear from there. Try to get near the front. I can’t see you otherwise. That damned spotlight is blinding. I’ll sing to you. You can be Clark Gable, and I’ll be Carole Lombard. Or Bogie and Bacall. Let’s try to avoid Laurel and Hardy.” She touched his shoulder lightly. “Break a leg, kid. You’re not much, but you’re all I’ve got. Now go off and let me get dressed.”

  “I thought you were dressed.” He looked at the slacks and shirt she was wearing.

  “No, dear. I have clothes on. When I dress, you will know it. Now buzz off and bless someone or something, and meet me at the club.”

  She emerged three quarters of an hour later, dressed. Wearing a black sheer linen dress whose only ornament was the tiny Nipon tucks on the shoulder, her hair in a chignon, she bore a striking resemblance to Audrey Hepburn. She surveyed herself with satisfaction as she waited for the elevator. No question about it, she looked like a million leva. If only she had violet eyes.

  The bell rang, and the down light glowed above the elevator door. She took a last look into the plain brown eyes gazing back at her from the mirror, winked. Keeping a low profile hadn’t worked. “No more nice guy,” she murmured and boarded the elevator in a cloud of Madame Rochas, smiling brilliantly at the stunned occupants. They were still standing in the elevator as she sailed across the lobby, past the doorman, and into the open door of the taxi he had just acquired for a group of Japanese businessmen. The doorman shrugged, closed the door, and raised his hand for another taxi. She gave the man the address of the club and settled back. “Strictly a yacht of the Defender class,” she murmured happily.