by C. W. Saari
“I failed to mention to you, Lillian, that I live five minutes from here in the opposite direction from the Lusthaus. If you wish, we could stop at my place. I could offer you a health drink or coffee. Besides, it would give me an opportunity to get your opinion on the cookbook layout I’m working on.”
“That sounds like a plan. Let’s do it.”
After a short walk, Andre pointed to his three-story apartment building. The exterior was ornate and exceptionally clean, even for Vienna. “It was built in 1907, in the Jugendstil style,” he said. “You probably know it better as art nouveau. It may seem rather bold and overly ornate on the outside, but wait until we’re inside.” As Andre held the door for Lillian, she entered a small lobby whose floor shone with bright blue-colored tiles. The light from a large brass chandelier with frosted glass-iris globes softened a wall mosaic depicting a view of a park fountain. On her left, Lillian saw an ornate curving staircase.
“We’ll take the stairs,” Andre said. “I live on the second floor.”
Lillian was immediately impressed with Andre’s apartment and its spaciousness and lighting.
“Did this come furnished like this?”
“No. I picked out everything in the interior. I thought modern, sleek furniture in a combination of black and chrome would offer a striking contrast without offending the period architecture.”
On a glass coffee table in front of a black leather sofa, the cookbook project was laid out. There were photographs of prepared food items and a large white notebook with loose pages of recipes.
Andre prepared his coffee maker for a fresh pot. He put on a couple of CDs. The last one he chose featured twelve-string guitar selections by Andres Segovia.
Lillian took a seat and looked through the photos spread out on the top edge of the table. “Did your friend take these pictures?” she asked.
“Yes, he did all his own photography, and many of the recipes are his original creations. He enlisted my help with all the writing—you know, jacket cover, chapter introductions, and anything else requiring a creative flair.”
“This project really looks promising,” Lillian said.
“I wonder if it will be as promising as reading your palm. Please, let me see your hand.” Andre reached over and tenderly placed his palm beneath hers. “This is your life line,” he said, pointing to a line halfway between her thumb and index finger. Do you see how this line curves downward toward your wrist?”
“Yes.”
“This contains details of your lifespan, which indicates you will live to be a very old woman,” Andre said.
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
“The line that also begins between your thumb and index finger, which connects with your life line, and moves across the top of your palm, here, is your head line. Do you see it?” he asked, tracing the line slowly across her palm. “This line indicates your state of mind. What I see are very strong emotions in conflict with each other.”
“Oh, really?” Lillian said with an arch of her brow.
“Do you see this line, here, which is parallel and above your head line? It spans the space between your little finger and index finger.”
“Yes.”
“This is your love line.”
“And what does mine say?” Lillian asked as she slowly moved the tip of her tongue between her lips.
Andre folded her hand in his and their eyes met. Lillian’s eyes were moist. “What’s wrong? Have I done anything to upset you?” he asked.
“No,” Lillian said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “For the past few months, I’ve just felt so isolated. I don’t know what it is. I’ve been staying busy, but even with all the people around me, it’s as if I don’t see or hear them.”
As Andre put his arm around Lillian, he could feel the tension in her shoulder. “If you wouldn’t mind, let me help you relax.”
Lillian said nothing and allowed Andre to turn her back slightly toward him. With his hands, he began a slow, gentle massage of her shoulders and neck. They said nothing, as they listened to the rhythmic chords of Segovia. After a few minutes of Andre kneading her muscles, Lillian slowly rotated her head in a circle, then Andre leaned forward and brushed her hair aside as he began kissing the back of her neck. She felt his warm breath and realized she couldn’t even remember when she’d last felt this way. She knew it was wrong but felt powerless to resist. Her heart began racing as her breathing quickened.
Lillian knew the next move was hers: to continue or retreat. Andre’s kisses took her choices away. She slowly turned to face him and looked into his eyes. Her unspoken question was met with his unspoken answer. He leaned in and kissed her. One kiss led to another, then another, each more passionate than the one before. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. Was this really happening?
At the foot of his bed he stopped and said, “Aren’t we entitled to continue and enjoy ourselves?”
Lillian didn’t respond as a torrent of thoughts and emotions entered her head. Had Andre planned this from the beginning? He was so handsome. His actions toward her were those of a gentleman. Was she just another conquest for him? What if she was? She didn’t care. It’s my life to live as I want.
Lillian removed her blouse and let it fall to the floor. As she unfastened her bra, she exposed her breasts and placed Andre’s hands over them. In their hunger for each other, they disrobed simultaneously, swept up in a wave of desire.
They fell onto the bed and showered one another with hot, moist kisses. As Andre reached for the nightstand where he kept his condoms, Lillian pulled his arm back towards her. He was too caught up in the heat of the moment as his body hovered over hers. Lillian entwined her legs around him and pulled him inside. There was no turning back.
Time seemed suspended. They both enjoyed exploring and being explored. It was obvious to Lillian that Andre was experienced as a lover. She knew she should feel exhausted, but all she felt was a pulsing sense of being alive and free.
Andre lay on the bed, slowly stroking her head and hair. Looking into her eyes he said, “You are a wonderful lover.”
“I wish I could describe how you made me feel, but I don’t have words,” was all Lillian could say.
While Lillian used the shower, Andre went to the kitchen and pushed the on button for some freshly brewed coffee. When Lillian joined him in the kitchen, he handed her a cup of coffee, and she said, “Since I’ve been married, you’re the only other man I’ve been with.”
“Are you regretting it?”
“No. I should, but I’m not. You made me feel desired, that I was special. You made me feel like a woman.”
Thoughts were flooding through Andre’s head. He didn’t regret the sex, but he could kick himself for violating one of his own rules. He hadn’t used protection. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it. It was just that the passion Lillian had aroused in him was so intense he couldn’t stop the desire rushing through his body. Only now did he recall a Russian proverb which translates: ‘when a man’s organ starts to rise, his brains fall into his ass.’
Lillian broke his train of thought. “Will I see you again?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Andre said. “I would love to see you tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. But I do have to work. Regrettably, for the next two weeks I have business out of town.” This was a lie. Andre knew Lillian would be thinking about him in the coming days. He knew her imagination would make him into something more than he was, and he wanted her excitement to grow. Operationally, he needed time to document moving her from a “developmental contact” into a “new source.” His superiors would need to review his plan for their next rendezvous.
“Let me give you my phone number,” Lillian said. “If you reach my voicemail, just say you’re trying to re-schedule our tennis lesson, okay?”
Andre hated the United States, but he loved his work. He was focused in his efforts against his American targets. His superiors rated his previous successes as exc
eptional. He was particularly skilled at recruiting women. If they didn’t fall in love with him, they certainly became infatuated. He was skilled at balancing relationships. All his agents were still active, and none had yet been caught. He knew Lillian could be a valuable source for identifying vulnerabilities of US Embassy personnel. She could pinpoint who had drinking problems, and who were womanizers. She could tell him which couples were heading toward divorce, and who might be in financial trouble. She would have access to official lists and addresses. Information she had access to could help confirm the identity of CIA and defense intelligence employees. To get this information from her would take time, however, and the clock was working against him. His assignment in Vienna was ending in two months. He would then return to Moscow for thirty days of briefings, paperwork, and additional training before his next posting to Washington, DC, as a correspondent with TASS, the official Russian news agency.
When Lillian got the call from Andre two weeks later, she could barely keep the excitement out of her voice. It was she who proposed they have dinner that Friday. She told him her husband had to travel to Amsterdam again for a conference and would not be back in Vienna until midweek. This wasn’t the first time Felix was leaving on a Friday for a conference that started on a Monday. Why would he want a free weekend in Amsterdam? But this time she didn’t care. She knew Felix never gave a moment’s thought to what she might be doing.
Andre had agreed to pick Lillian up at the entrance to the Hotel Sacher near the Vienna Opera House. He’d made dinner reservations at the Korson, a restaurant known for flawless service and memorable meals. Andre pulled his car into the circular drive in front of the hotel, and a white-gloved doorman held the door open for Lillian when she came out.
Andre had dressed for the occasion. His dark blue suit with banker’s stripes draped over him rakishly. His white Oxford shirt was accented with a burnished gold tie. Lillian was wearing a black evening gown with lace décolletage. A string of opera-length pearls drew attention to her not-so-subtle breasts. Tonight, she didn’t care if anyone stared. She felt provocative. She didn’t wear her rings but carried a luxurious black-knit shawl and a gold-chained purse. On the drive to the restaurant, she had awkwardly offered to treat him to dinner, but Andre insisted she was to be his guest for the entire evening.
The Korson was a romantic restaurant done in quiet taupe tones. A small fountain in the entrance displayed a bronze statue of a maiden set amid an impressive floral arrangement. Venetian glass lamps, strategically placed around the dark furniture, sent warm inviting light across each table. Comfortable armchairs with high backs were upholstered with discreet stripes of maroon and gold. Heavy sterling flatware and quality china were accented with fresh red roses in crystal vases.
Andre gave the maître d’ his reservation, and the couple was directed to a quiet booth. A waiter and sommelier appeared simultaneously to explain daily specials and assist with the selection of an appropriate wine. Andre ordered a glass of champagne for each of them. As they flirtatiously stole glances at each other and sipped their aperitifs, they pretended to concentrate on the many entrees listed in the green leather-bound menus. Lillian, perhaps to show her intended submission to Andre, suggested he order for both of them.
Looking at the other couples in the restaurant, Lillian assumed many were there celebrating an occasion. Well, she too was celebrating something special, and the night was just beginning. When the waiter returned, Andre ordered eggs with shaved black truffles. For their main course, he ordered seared scallops with chicken dumplings in a chicken jus and a bottle of Pouilly Fusse. They would complete the dinner with the restaurant’s signature chocolate truffle mousse with raspberry sauce.
They savored their food, smiling and laughing, and occasionally touching hands. They talked about their families, where they grew up and where they went to school. She found out Andre was fluent in French as well as English and Russian. Lillian tried to focus on the conversation, but her mind kept whispering that they had so little time left. She didn’t want to say anything that would lessen the pure enjoyment she was feeling, but she heard herself blurting out that she and Felix were to return to Washington in six weeks, as her husband had orders to return to his section at the State Department. She waited for Andre’s reaction. With a slight smile, Andre revealed he had landed a job with a Russian news agency and also would be assigned to DC—he would report there in three months.
“Oh, Andre, that’s wonderful,” Lillian said a little too loudly, realizing she’d be able to see him again. “Have you been to the United States before?”
“No. This will be my first time. I really don’t know what to expect, but it’s a fantastic opportunity for me.”
He told her he still had reporting assignments in Zurich and Moscow and felt an obligation to finish writing the cookbook assignment for his friend. From his breast pocket he pulled out a business card and gave it to Lillian. On the card he had written an e-mail address he could check from any cyber café. Lillian reached into her purse and took out one of her diplomatic calling cards with only her name engraved on the front. On the back she wrote down a new e-mail address she had not shared with anyone else. It was reserved solely for him. As she handed him the card, her hand lingered lightly on his.
“When I’m with you, all my senses are heightened,” she said. “I feel like I could tell you anything.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
“This week I got a telephone call from my best friend in the States who naturally asked me if there was anything new in my life.”
“Did you tell her about us?” Andre asked.
“No. I can tell her just about anything, and I have in the past. But I couldn’t even think about mentioning anything about us. Right now what we have is so private. And special.”
Before Andre could say anything, their waiter returned to the table.
“I do hope the food has met your expectations,” he said.
“It’s exceeded them,” Andre said with a smile, and Lillian chimed in, “Everything has been absolutely delicious.”
As the waiter spun away, Andre asked, “So, what’s important to you in a friendship?”
“I guess finding someone who has interests similar to mine but who accepts me the way I am. Why do you ask?”
“You’ve cast such a spell over me. You’ve been in my thoughts every day. I’ve found it very hard to concentrate. You’ve just made me step back and think about what’s important.”
“And have you come to any conclusions?”
“I’ve only known you for such a short time,” Andre said, “but I feel as if I’ve known you for so much longer . . . like I’ve known you forever. I feel an inner peace when I’m with you.”
“I feel the same way. Somehow we’ve managed to compress time.”
“Men take so much longer to develop friendships and most guys are lucky to have one or two good friends they can talk to. Even then, they don’t talk to their friends like women do. You mentioned your best friend is in the United States,” he said. “How long have you known her?”
“We were roommates in college. I guess that makes it fourteen years. Do you have a best friend?” Lillian asked.
“I used to, but not anymore. My older brother was my best friend. He was killed in a helicopter crash.” For once, Andre was truthful.
“I’m so sorry,” Lillian said, not knowing what else to say.
“That’s all right. It’s been a long time. You’re lucky to have a best friend. Lots of people who are married believe their husband or wife is their best friend. But many of them are wrong. To work, your spouse has to be unselfish, be willing to listen to you and not judge, to genuinely care about you as a person. If you’re lucky enough to have that kind of relationship, then life can be wonderful. If you don’t, you’ll look to someone else with whom you can share your experiences.”
“You mean like us and what we experienced,” Lillian said smiling.
“Exact
ly. We shared something special, something that was missing from our lives. No one can take that away from us.”
As Andre drove them back to his apartment, Lillian could feel her body warming with expectation. Once inside, there was no small talk and no pretensions. Both knew what they wanted to do. Their desire had been simmering for the past two hours. They held each other and kissed deeply. Their hands explored each other, fingertips stroking each other with care and excitement. Their bodies melted into each other as they made love with no thoughts of tomorrow.
After the meeting with the Washington agents, Bannister returned to the task force. Agents Ramirez and Campbell were standing near their desks. Mercedes Ramirez and Ford Campbell were rookie agents who had been assigned to the task force six months earlier. Derek Barnes, a gruff and salty senior agent on the team, assigned nicknames to all new agents. He obviously didn’t care whether they objected or not. Ramirez and Campbell were dubbed the “Pit Crew” because they both had car names, and both were assigned a lot of dirty work the senior agents didn’t want to do.
Stu Peterson came out of his office. “Ty, grab your notebook and follow me down to Witt’s office.”
“What’s up?” Bannister asked as they walked toward the elevator.
“A new case. Witt just took a phone call and asked me to assign an agent to work an extortion. ”
Extortions usually went to the bank robbery squad. There had to be a different angle to this one to have it referred to the task force.
Witt was perched at his desk, talking on the phone. As Bannister and Stu walked in, Witt waved for them to sit down in two armchairs in front of his desk. He finished his call and looked at Bannister with his hawk-like stare. “I just took a call from Adam Kush, director of security for Global Waters Company. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes. We did some work for him during the ’96 Olympics.” Bannister had been to Kush’s office a few times since. He didn’t see the need to tell Witt that Kush’s personal assistant, Robin Mikkonen, was a Special Agent applicant recruited by Bannister. Mikkonen was in her final background stages, awaiting orders to the FBI Academy.
