Title Page

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Lady Under The Bed

A novel by

Chris R. Beals

 

 

 

 

Table of Contents

Prologue — Hungary, 1956

Chapter 1. New Home

Chapter 2. New School

Chapter 3. Meeting the Little Old Lady

Chapter 4. The Cigar Box

Chapter 5. Burglary

Chapter 6. The Puzzle

Chapter 7. Old Lady Under The Bed

Chapter 8. Holidays

Chapter 9. The Search

Chapter 10. Diplomacy

Chapter 11. Graduation

Prologue — Hungary, 1956

There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom and ye have not died in vain.

— Thomas Campbell

 

Leaning over the balcony, György tossed a Molotov cocktail onto the tank. It broke, splashing burning gasoline onto the turret, but missed the open hatch. The alarmed Russian soldier jerked the hatch cover down. György's incendiary was followed by several others. The fires burned furiously, buckling the paint on the armor. The tank drove on.

 

Another tank appeared at the corner, turning its main gun toward the balcony of the apartment building. György was already gone, rushing down the stairs and out the back, when a thunderous explosion shook the neighborhood, throwing a thick choking cloud over everyone, rebels and bystanders alike. The dirty film on their clothes and in their hair would make them all grist for the ÁVH goons who were sure to follow.

 

There was nothing for it now but to run, until they found shelter, more gasoline, and more bottles. György wished he had a pistol, like Károly.

 

<Maybe János knew where to find one,> he thought, <Yes, go find János.>

 

György joined Károly in the alley behind the apartment block. Together they ran from the sound of the tanks. Panting, he urged Károly, as they ran, to help him find János.

 

"János has fled," Károly spat, "just like András."

 

"András said we should have run too. He said he had friends, in the West."

 

"Just because he has the privilege to cross into Vienna doesn't mean he knows anyone. What would we do in Austria? I don't know German. I don't want to learn it. We stay! We fight!"

 

Early the next morning, before the morning sun would throw musty shafts of light into the filthy cellar, they were roused from fitful sleep by shouts and crashes. Strong lights blinded them; soldiers were rushing down the steps. A piercing beam illumed Károly, his pistol glinting darkly in the light. Shots rang out. Károly crumpled to the floor. Strong arms harshly grabbed György. A rifle butt stunned him. He was dragged up the stairs and into the street. A soldier stood in front of him; György could see the hatred in his eyes.

 

<I am going to die.>

 

An officer appeared next to the soldier, growling instructions. György understood a little Russian; he was to be taken for interrogation. The soldier roughly shoved him toward a canvas-covered truck, where his hands were bound behind him. Several soldiers hefted and tossed him into the back. He fell on others who grunted in pain when he landed on them.

 

After what seemed an eternity, two soldiers got into the back, and the truck started off, bouncing along the littered street. When they arrived, soldiers pushed them off the truck onto the pavement. György fell hard, cracking his head. Blood trickled over his eyes, blurring his vision. Just before the guards started pushing them into the building, which György recognized was State Security Police Headquarters, he thought he saw János, with some of the ÁVH men, pointing in their direction. Then his group was bundled inside.

 

Nobody came to see to their wounds, but after the ropes were cut off, another prisoner did what he could for György. They lay in the large cell, twenty of them, without food or water, all through the day, and all the night. The following morning more were herded into the cell. These appeared to have been arrested individually. They were cleaner.

 

Presently one of the new group approached György. His eyes were clear now, he recognized Lajos. György was plainly surprised to see him.

"

What are you doing here? You weren't fighting the Russians!"

 

"No, but they're taking everyone. Our whole class has been arrested. They sent the women somewhere else. And," Lajos continued, "András was arrested too."

 

"I thought he ran."

 

"He came back. He was in the group I was brought in with."

 

"Where is he? I want to talk to him."

 

"He's not here. They took him someplace."

 

A volley of shots coming from the courtyard interrupted them. Then some soldiers entered the cell. György and Lajos were pulled up and taken to the cell door. An ÁVH officer was there with a clip board. He looked at Lajos, and told them to send him back into the room.

 

Sitting huddled against one wall, Lajos heard more shots. He never saw György again.

Chapter 1. New Home

O Woman! …Uncertain, coy and hard to Please

And variable as the shade

By light of quivering aspen made

—Sir Walter Scott. Marmion

 

As their plane circled over Dulles, Kurt Retten glanced at the form next to him, rousing, squinting, startled at the snow blanketing Virginia, then slumping into fitful sleep.

 

How different, after living three years in Panama. He had considered requesting an inter-theater transfer to Germany. Then the orders came: National Capitol Area, running a resident office. He presumed it was because of Panama, but that could never be acknowledged. It was too secret—it must be lost to history, by mutual agreement between Torrijos and Carter.

 

<’Good patriots, who for a theory risked a cause.’ Ah, Jimmy Carter! You’ll probably pay for your courage with losing the presidency! And the hostage crisis in Tehran.>

 

He gazed lovingly at the figure next to him, her head cushioned by a pillow against the window, looking exactly as he discovered her that day three years before in Monterey: She was more than the arrestingly beauteous face—high cheek bones and pouting, alluring lips—framed by mahogany hair falling in soft flowing cascades over impossibly bright emerald eyes onto her shoulders. An airline blanket wrapped her long dancer’s legs. Gently he adjusted the one that covered most the rest of her perfect body. Those startled eyes glanced at him, then shut.

 

He had spent long minutes gazing into those eyes since that day her found her stranded on the side of the road.  <She is Psyche, so beautiful that Eros himself fell in love with her!>

 

Her expression was troubled. The frown that could be mischievous or daunting betrayed her fear of flying—and knowing their cat Chakri was shivering in the hold.

 

He had seen the other passengers, particularly the men, casting glances at her, but was past noticing. With Clare, everybody stared.

 

He reveled in her brilliance and her musical laugh, less so her maddening willfulness.  <…and French accent, come by honestly, California girl. You speak so much French at home it's affected your English!>

 

He continued to muse, regarding his petite amazon—wondering if he should have introduced her to martial arts. He chuckled at the shocked surprise when that bully in Panama discovered that she was accomplished, and had a mean streak. The tough was still limping, despairing his knee would ever heal enough to play football.

 

He shifted in his seat, silently chafing, uncomfortable in first class; they would be staying in a penthouse suite. The travel and per diem wouldn’t begin to cover it. Of course, she would be paying; she didn't care.  Clare had pleaded, “Kurt, you know I hate flying! I want to get drunk, up front, where I can stretch out and sleep it off until we land. Anyway, it's my money!“  Their agreement about living on his salary was in tatters  <Well, you handed the checkbook to her years ago, now live with it!>

 

He recalled the argument. She announced that she had had enough of living within his means. She had a lot of money, and intended to enjoy it.

 

“You’re my love and partner, but not the ‘bread winner,’ Chér.”

 

After stewing about it for an hour he gave her his checkbook. Since then he never asked about money.

 

<Well, she’s good that way. Who else can turn $50,000 into millions by the time you’re 25, betting on the Market? 'A poor man who takes a wealthy wife, has a ruler and not a wife.'>

 

He acquiesced. When those gorgeous eyes flashed, she always got her way.

 

Clare was excited at the prospect of starting at American University to pursue her masters in French literature. She enthused about living near the Capitol! All the museums, restaurants, Kennedy Center, and Wolf Trap! She was disappointed that there would not be time to take a vacation, to run up to New York where Natasha was studying, and living with her boyfriend, or back to sunny California to visit her former roommate, Maureen, now married to that physicist.

 

The fasten seatbelt sign blinked on; a steward took the drinks from their tray tables, his eyes on Clare.

 

“Chakri! We’ve got to get him!” she exclaimed, rousing.

 

“We'll get the cat as soon as we’re on the ground.”

 

Arriving at Dulles just before New Years, they stepped out onto the street to the waiting limousine amid wet sidewalks and dirty piles of calf-high, slushy snow. What a change from Balboa! The Siamese in the cage bristled at the cutting wind, but made not a sound.

 

The penthouse suite Clare had reserved atop the high rise hotel was beyond extravagant. He didn’t say anything about it; she was not fond of ‘roughing it’, and would protest that it was only temporary while they looked for a ‘nice little place’. She teased Kurt about just staying there for the whole tour, but satisfied herself with watching his stolid expression, disappointed that his face didn't redden.

 

He tried not to look glum as the porter conducted them up the elevator. While Kurt fished the tip from his wallet, the porter gaped at her.

 

When the door of the suite closed she looked at her husband, who she described as her ‘bard'. She saw a man just shy of six feet, fit and slender like a swimmer, with dark hair cut longer than Army regulation above a high forehead and twinkling, steel-blue eyes. Despite a square chin, his face was boyish; the lips seemed always turned up in a grin, but not right then.

 

He knew the look on her face, as she fussed over the cat, making sure he had food, water, and fresh litter.

 

First, she insisted, they both needed cars. She had sold hers when they left Panama, and his T-Bird—well, that asshole had trashed it.

 

“OK, you get what you want, but I only need a beater.”

 

“I have no intention of being seen in a…beater! Since Daddy gave us that nice wedding present—a little late, but that’s Daddy!—it’s no problem.”

 

She looked at his expression. “Don’t be cross,” she pleaded, taking his hand, “let’s not fight over money! Besides, I want the world to see my man in a nice car!”

 

He smiled weakly at her, wondering if he would end up like her father, who was a tiger in business but emasculated at home.  <Well, I won’t let that happen.>

 

After they got in the back seat of the taxi, he turned to her.  “Make you a deal, honey. You don’t become your mother, and I won’t become your father.”

 

She gave him a sharp look, but only directed the driver to the nearest Mercedes dealer.

 

When they arrived Kurt paid the cabby while Clare marched into the showroom. She was quickly flanked by two salesmen, the younger of whom ceded his position, with a silent huff, when Kurt joined them. Kurt hardly listened while the senior of the salesmen tried to interest her in a large sedan. She shooed them away, just long enough to walk over to a new 280SL roadster.

 

“OK, I want one of those. What colors do you have? No—I’ll just have a white one.”

 

Turning to Kurt, she spoke to the salesmen, but for his benefit, “Oh, a used something for him—have to economize somewhere! Chér, maybe we’ll go to the Jaguar dealer.”

 

Kurt remained stoic while the younger salesman protested that they had a year old XJ6, motioning him to the door leading to the used cars, and following him into the blustery December air.  He showed Kurt a black four door sedan. Walking around it, Kurt found a small scratch on the back of the trunk, just above the bumper. He ran his finger along it, noting that it went through the paint, but not the primer.

 

To the bemusement of the salesman Kurt quoted a familiar line, “…tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve.”  Turning to the quizzical face, Kurt smiled.  “I would like to drive it.”

 

While the salesman went for the keys and temporary plates, Kurt went inside, finding Clare ensconced in the salesman’s office, sipping tea.  “I’ll have the cars by the time you get back,” she said, waving him away.

 

Kurt was not thrilled with sitting in a sedan, without even a sun roof. The salesman was touting that the car had the largest 'six' that Jaguar made.  Kurt nodded, wondering if there was a place nearby where he could put it through its paces, maybe even a j-turn. It handled OK, so he was soon making his way back to the showroom, with salesman helping him navigate the streets.

 

When they returnedClare was standing next to the roadster. She walked around the Jaguar. They would leave now in the Mercedes—the Jaguar needed some significant cleaning up, and she expected them to have it done and delivered to the hotel the next day. Handing a set of keys to Kurt, she bid the two salesmen a flirtatious adieu. As they drove away, Kurt regarded the two still standing behind them as they left.

 

“You enjoyed that,” he said after getting onto the street.

 

“Yes, I’ve always enjoyed leading men around by the…dollar.”

 

Kurt intoned, waiting for the fist on his arm, “Her pleasure in her power to charm.”  It did not come; his sidelong glance caught a smug smile.  "You know, Saki said that 'beauty is only sin deep.'"

 

“You do know the way back to the hotel?” she asked, ignoring the dig.

 

He glanced at the instrument panel. “We’ve got a full tank of gas. Unlikely to get lost as long as we stay this side of the Potomac.”

 

After two wrong turns he pulled up to the front of the hotel. The sky was gray, with some orphan flakes in the air. Instead of getting out she suggested that they needed to get some heavier coats. She was freezing in that thin thing she brought up from Panama; their other clothes and furnishings wouldn’t arrive until after the first of the year. He had seen a department store on his way so he turned around.

 

“No insisting on a ‘high class’ place—I don’t remember the area well enough. Let’s just get you a coat and go back until we know what the afternoon offers.”

 

She could have been insulted, and was, which she soon forgot as she went through the women’s departments, looking at everything except coats, then finally selecting one in knee-length cashmere, after teasing him with a walk through the furs. They left the store with her in her new camel colored warmth, while he carried her old coat in a bag. Outside she espied a Polynesian restaurant, making a beeline for it.  Inside they were soon warmed by the ambiance and the Mai Tais.

 

“You know,” he mused, taking a bite out of the pineapple garnish, “this kind of outlay could get me investigated. I investigate people for less.”

 

“Oui, but they don’t have a spoiled rich-girl wife, do they?” she rejoined cheerfully, leering at him.

 

“Non. Often they have spoiled wives and need the money to afford them.”

 

“Well,” she said, putting her hand on his, “I can afford you, my toy-boy! You don’t hardly cost a thing!”

 

“No, just my paycheck for the rest of my life!”

 

“Oh, that’s for just making change,” she said dismissively. Then her expression changed, “Aren’t you glad we’re out of Panama?! I miss my students, but oh! It was so tense!”

 

He put his hand on hers.  “I wondered whether you would leave.”

 

She smiled, her brow knitted, “I know. I almost did. But it wasn’t you. It was the place! And what happened!”

 

He looked steadily into her eyes.   “Nothing. Nothing happened in Panama. Nick being shot was an accident.”

 

She gazed back, muttering, "Nothing happened. No threats against the Canal, no murders."

 

She heard him murmur the words; a tiny smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she listened.

 

Deeds

Above heroic, though in secret done,

And unrecorded left through many an age.

 

She covered his hand with her own.  “You are still my hero. And Nick too.”

 

Back at the hotel, he asked if she planned to look at places the next day. She thought not. There would be plenty of time once he went back to work. That led to questions about what she had in mind.

 

“I thought Georgetown. It’s closer to school.”

 

“It’s also got prices in the stratosphere.”

 

Her response was that hard look. He knew he was sunk, and said so. She hit him when he said he was a ‘kept man’, but it was with a pillow. In the end nylons and dress ended up on the floor. When she jumped on top their passion turned to laughter because Chakri, coming out from hiding, jumped on him too, to defend his Mommy.

 

 

Up early, Kurt stewed on the exercise equipment; finally deciding to just give in to her, and stick to his job. He knew he had no choice, if she was going to stay. Clare was used to living on Daddy’s money, and then her own. After the blow-up in Panama when they visited, John Stores and Clare’s mother, Cora, waited for their little girl to get tired of her soldier. After three years they realized that Clare meant it; Kurt was the one. Just before they left Panama, putting the cat on the plane, she showed Kurt the check Stores had sent her, with the note that it was their wedding gift, almost three years late. Kurt swallowed hard at the zeroes and said nothing. Later, on the plane, he told her “Do you remember that night in Boquete, when I told you something was none of my business?”

 

She remembered. “It was about old boyfriends.”

 

“Your money is none of my business either.”

 

When Kurt got back from the exercise room Clare told him that there was a realtor coming to help her find a place. She said that for his job Georgetown was on the wrong side of the river, so she was looking in Rosslyn—‘a compromise, right?’

 

The call from the desk came just after they got back from breakfast. Kurt went down. When he arrived there were two people there, one was a stranger—a pretty woman in her 30’s—and the younger of the Mercedes salesmen, holding the keys to the Jaguar. He had a ride back, and hoped that Kurt would enjoy his car, the man said, his eyes on the woman, slight disdain in his voice. Kurt thanked him and introduced himself to the realtor.

 

The woman, Ann, greeted Chakri with delight, and said that she was sure she could find a place for them and the cat. Clare wanted something preferably right there in Rosslyn; a house, not a townhome. When Ann pressed her about the tax advantages of purchasing in a more desirable neighborhood, Clare’s response was ‘tosh.’ She knew all about tax advantages.

 

Ann found them a house situated between other similar homes, on a long narrow lot, with garage below and steps up to the front door. Kurt knew that Clare would choose the place when he went into one of the upstairs bedrooms where the owner had mounted a barre on the wall in front of a large mirror, he guessed for a daughter. Clare was there, doing ballet exercises while talking to Ann.

 

He liked the garage. It was unusual. Not quite a car and a half wide, it had more than enough room for two cars, one behind the other. It was the length of the house, starting almost even with the kitchen, but following the incline so it ran under the master bedroom. There were two doors, one in back for entering, and one on the street, so the car could be driven straight out. The drive from the street was on the opposite side of the house, curving across the narrow back yard to the rear garage entrance. The backyard went back another 150 feet, abutting the lot behind them, which faced the next street. There was a patio with a brick barbecue, a gazebo, and a small outbuilding, for storage. The yard would be cool in summer, shaded by trees which would be leafy and pleasant after the winter snows melted.  Chakri would enjoy the yard once spring came. It was convenient to everything, but he wondered aloud if they needed five bedrooms.

 

After returning to the hotel Clare sat on the couch making over Chakri and looking pretty satisfied with herself.

 

“Are you through throwing your money around?” he asked, a little sardonically.

 

“Only one tantrum a day,” she scolded, but would not be put off her mood. “It’s perfect, the house!”

 

The phone rang; it was a man, for her. With raised eyebrows he gave her the phone She immediately started barking instructions—buy this, sell that.  "Yes, I'm sure about Chrysler!"  Before ringing off her voice softened to a ‘have a happy New Year!'

 

“Ah, your broker. ‘We have heads to get money, and hearts to spend it.’”

 

“Yes, I like that. My head, and my heart too! You wouldn’t spend a shekel!”

 

“Never had many of those to spend.”

 

She put herself into his arms. “You’ll never need any.”

 

“I’ll still sign a pre-nup.”

 

She hit his arm—hard.



 

Nick Hendrik came home grinning. Opening the back door he found Sandra in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He took his new bride in his arms, spinning her around, then stepped back to feast on her slim waist, long lashes; her pretty brown eyes framed by light brown hair that she kept just long enough to fall on her shoulders. The contours of her nicely turned legs were highlighted by tight fitting jeans, as was her bottom, which had fallen on him that snowy day in Wisconsin, before…before they caught the man who tried to kill his daughter, Liza.

 

“I have such good news!” He pulled out a folded paper. “My application for the FPS position was accepted! Unfortunately it is in Washington. It’ll be very expensive.”

 

“I don’t care,” she enthused, “It’s a good job, we’ll get by. And…aren't Kurt and Clare there?”

 

He allowed that they were.

 

“I’ll write Clare.”

 

“You want to put that away? We’ll go out tonight.”

 

She shook her head, still smiling, back at the stove; he followed, sliding his arms around that tiny waist. “No. We’ll do something this weekend. With Liza.”

 

Just then the girl came in. Nick looked at his daughter, whose hair had grown long and shiny, blond tresses cascading past beautiful blue eyes and over her shoulders. A frown stole across his brow; Liza at fifteen was blossoming into a stunning young woman, to her father’s dismay. His little girl was growing up too fast.

 

Her expression was stern, standing akimbo, in slouching blue jeans that accentuated the curves, and a raggedy top which now bulged with maturing breasts. Nick realized that she was, in that way, like her mother. The woman who couldn’t stay with a policeman.

 

“Are you going to humiliate me?! My friends are in the living room! Mom! Sandra! Make him stop pawing you. The girls might see!”

 

They couldn’t suppress their grins, but Nick let go.

 

“I’ll get changed,” he said, making a mock leer at his wife. “Oh, Liza—I thought you might want to know. We’re going to Washington. I have a job there. We leave next month, right after New Years.

 

She wrinkled her nose.  “You’re dragging us up, where there’s winter?! I had enough of that last year!” Then she smiled. “It’s OK. I knew we had to leave. Better than Alaska!”



 

There was one advantage to living at the top of the posh hotel on New Year’s Eve. Kurt didn’t have to drive to take Clare dancing. She complimented him that his technique had greatly improved—she said that he might actually learn how, someday.

 

He could tell that she was relaxing, allowing several men to take her onto the floor, although she ‘clumsily’ spiked one, who imprudently got a little familiar. When it happened, Kurt, who was watching closely, was on the dance floor, ready to cut in. He sent the injured man limping away while he finished the dance with his wife.

 

After midnight, when Clare had had a few too many, an elevator ride took them up to their suite, where Kurt poured her into bed. He was feeling tired himself, but went into the front room, sitting with a finger of brandy.

 

<Well, tomorrow I report to work.>

 

In the morning he got up early, kissed the sleeping beauty without disturbing her, and crossed the bridges before the roads clogged with the thousands making their way to work. The drive to 902nd headquarters was busier than he remembered, and busier than anything in the Canal Zone. It would take some getting used to. Passing a sign for a Metro stop, he regretted that neither the house nor the office would be within walking distance of the subway; it would have been restful, to read the paper on the way instead of fight traffic.

 

Arriving before business began, he whiled away an hour in guilty pleasure, eating bacon and eggs at the mess hall. At headquarters Kurt delivered his orders to a personnel clerk, who told him that there was nobody available to meet him right then, and he would have to wait.

 

After almost an hour Kurt saw a familiar face.  “Sargento Mayor, ¿cómo está?"

 

“¿Que Tal Chief?!" Sergeant major Rosas replied happily.

 

Kurt continued in Spanish, "My commiserations. I didn’t realize you got bounced from the SF.”

 

"No, I wanted an assignment in the Washington area. This was all they had, unless I wanted to go to, yechh, Eustis.”

 

“Retirement tour?”

 

“Sí. The ol’ lady wanted to go back to Puerto Rico, but I need to be somewhere where I can find a job. Can’t live on half pay. So, what are you doing here?"

 

"Just arrived. I'm waiting to see the Colonel."

 

"Let me see about that."

 

In a couple of minutes Kurt was ushered into the Colonel's office. Rosas gave him a sly smile.

 

The Colonel pushed some papers around, making Kurt wait, standing at the desk. At length, he looked up.  "You were not my choice for command of the RO," he said brusquely, without preamble.  Without waiting for Kurt to respond, he went on, "Apparently you did something—remarkable—in Panama. What was it?"

 

Kurt knew that the man caught his faint smile. Rosas was still by the door, surprised and distressed by the Colonel's attitude.

 

“We gave the Canal back. Besides that…nothing.”

 

The colonel glowered. “I was told not to ask.”

 

“I’m sorry, sir, I have nothing to tell you.”

 

"I know what happened in Nuremburg. The BND was furious."

 

"Then you have an advantage on me. I don't know what happened in Nuremburg."

 

The Colonel regarded him for several seconds. Rosas was becoming worried.

 

“I read your file, what they would let me see. What's so special about you?"

 

"Just a soldier sir." Kurt kept his demeanor stolid.

 

"Well, Rosas, what about him?"

 

"I only knew him, uh, casually, in Panama. He was a good soldier in Nam."

 

The Colonel harrumphed.  "Lots of people got silver stars."

 

Kurt and Rosas exchanged glances. Neither said anything.

 

"Where are you living, Retten?"

 

Kurt told him.

 

“I know that neighborhood. How do you afford it?”

 

Kurt didn't care if the man caught his displeased microexpression.  "It's where my wife wanted to live. She has her own money. I’m sure you’ve been told that.”

 

The Colonel stared at him, then looked down at papers on his desk. After some moments he waved Kurt away with the back of his hand.

 

Outside Kurt and Rosas exchanged looks.

 

"What was that about?" Rosas asked.

 

Putting a hand on his shoulder, Kurt shrugged. “He’s peevish and jealous of the young fellows,” he said, with a quick grin.

 

 

The Resident Office was a dingy affair on the ground floor of a multiuse commercial building. Once host to a financial firm, it had a vault in the back.

 

The outgoing Special-Agent-In-Charge Grayson Lee welcomed Kurt when he arrived.

 

Kurt was struck by the name. It had been the family name of one of the criminals they caught in Panama.  <Well, didn’t catch. Officially, there were no criminals, and no crime.>

 

Lee introduced the other three agents, Shawn McCloud, Derek Freeman, and Steve Krupp. Lee said that they were due another, brand new agent, just out of school. He was supposed to arrive in the next few days. He was driving out from Fort Huachuca.  “He just got promoted to sergeant. He’s not only a deep olive green, he’s still wet behind the ears!”

 

After they laughed, Kurt asked, “Where are you headed?”

 

“Ah, this is my retirement tour. I finally got a posting to Germany. No more Korea winters for me!”

 

Lee didn’t offer where in Germany he was being assigned. Perhaps it was something not to be asked.

 

"You spent time in Germany, right?"

 

Kurt admitted that he had.

 

"Which unit?"

 

"Ah…different ones."

 

"Oh."

 

"It's all right," Kurt assured him, "You know."

 

Lee nodded; he really didn't know, but wasn't willing to admit it.

 

Lee completed the briefing, then asked, “Anything else?”

 

“No. I will probably have a ton of questions—after you’re gone.”

 

“You better hurry. The movers pack us out tomorrow.”

 

“Ah, a long overlap!”

 

“Not enough of us to go around. They wanted me gone before you got here. I managed to put it off until after New Years.”

 

“I appreciate that. I guess I need to read up on your open cases. We do much background investigating? You didn’t talk about that.”

 

“No. The 509th is providing some agents to help DIS. They’re snowed under. But not us. We do training, investigate screw-ups, and—we get some oddball cases from the ACSI, that they don’t want the regular dets to handle.”

 

“I’ll look forward to that, unless of course it was a Grayson Lee specialty.”

 

“Not that I know of. They handed the cases to me when I arrived. I've only done two or three.”

 

“Where’s your nut case file?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“You know, the special people who show up or call about Martians attacking, and whatnot.”

 

“You have been around.”

 

“I cut my teeth at the Pentagon, working for the woman who kept all the cases.”

 

“You worked for Mabel?”

 

Kurt nodded. “I got to read them. Quite an education for a psychology major.”

 

Lee went to a cabinet, pulling out a thick folder. “They’re all in there. Except…” he pulled out another thick folder, “except for this one.” He handed the folders to Kurt.

 

“This one, she’s a real nice old lady. They left her in quarters on Fort McNair, after her husband died. He was a general. Not normal, I know; special consideration. I recommend you read that one first.”

 

Kurt looked at the front page inside the folder. It had a picture of the woman.

 

“Nice face. When she was younger, I bet she was a beauty.”

 

“Anyway, she’ll call about every three or four weeks. ‘There’s a spy under my bed,’ she’ll say. We send over the junior agent. He’ll do a cursory check on her house, enjoy some tea and cakes, and assure her that we’re watching the house.”

 

“I’m familiar with that.”

 

“And,” Lee grinned, “whenever we have a rookie, we always send him over there cold. Then make him write up a report. Gives you an example of what they can do, under pressure.”

 

“Yes, no worse pressure than being judged on a report that you know is pointless.”

 

 

True to his word, the next day Lee was gone. It wasn’t going to be as interesting as his time in Panama, or as stressful, Kurt hoped. No Guardia frogmen threatening the Canal. No murders. Just old fashioned counterintelligence work, which meant, not chasing spies, just trying to get captains and colonels to take security seriously.

 

"Now that is a job for Sisyphus!" He heard himself mutter. “To the timid and hesitating everything is impossible, because it seems so.”

 

Steve, who was in the office writing up a security violation report, had come to his door just then to ask a question. Hearing the quote his original question was forgotten.

 

“Ah, Steve! Never mind me. I was just musing. You have a question?”

 

Steve’s question answered, and with Derek and Shawn over at the Pentagon, giving a security briefing, Kurt returned to reviewing the files.

 

He turned to the ‘old lady’ folder. It had been a long time since he had read a file like this. Her name was Cynthia Grover. Starting at the bottom of the stack, so he could read the oldest reports first, he found a flimsy. He assumed that the original had ended up on Mabel’s desk. He dimly remembered reading it, but it was a long time ago. Her husband was a war hero, OSS, completing his career in the Army, working in military intelligence. Just weeks before his retirement, after over 30 years of service, he died suddenly. The Secretary of the Army at the time signed an order allowing Mrs. Grover to remain in her quarters. The order was open-ended; perhaps nobody thought that she would just stay. In any case, the folder showed subsequent correspondence—it got kicked up to the Secretary of Defense, who issued an order that she was not to be disturbed, so long as she wanted to live there. She had a lady coming in three times a week now, to clean and look after her needs.

 

She had been in the house, alone, for about ten years. In 1977 she called the MI Group, which referred her to the Resident Office.  A young counterintelligence agent, his credential case still new and stiff, was assigned to visit her. She told him that a listening device had been placed in her bedroom.  He didn’t know what to make of her. An experienced agent went out, and quickly sized up the situation. The lady was, he guessed, getting a little dotty, but mainly just lonely. He called the newbie back to interview her in her living room, where the lady offered the two agents tea and cookies. She said that she was hearing noises in her bedroom, coming from under the bed. She explained that her husband was an intelligence officer during the war, and had told her that listening devices, if not properly tuned, sometimes emitted feedback which could be heard when it was quiet.

 

The senior agent sent the new kid into her bedroom, to look under the bed.

 

Fighting the dust bunnies he found nothing. He looked behind the mirror, the chest of drawers, in the closet. No bugs. When he came out, his supervisor was finishing a second cuppa. The young agent reported that he couldn’t find anything. His supervisor said that it was all right, they would send along the ‘tech guys’ in a few days. He then graciously kissed the woman’s hand and led his newbie out the door. Back at the office, he had the young agent write a report.

 

Kurt read the report with interest. It was straight up; no speculation about her loneliness or state of mind. Those observations were in the agent notes. He noticed that after the first few reports he was looking at the original copy; they had not been sent in. He also found no mention of a technical sweep of the house. There was a second thick folder with reports. Then there was just a log showing visits; the last being just under a month before.

 

He put the file aside, and scanned the other nut cases. All pretty routine, if amusing. One report stopped him; it was about the effectiveness of aluminum foil shaped into a pyramid and worn to protect your thoughts from Martians. That brought back a pleasant memory of one of the old timers he met when he was a brand new agent, assigned at the Pentagon. The man went by the name Bendix, but Kurt was sure he wasn’t born with that name. Someone with a name like Bendix didn’t speak Estonian with a native accent. Old Karl had fashioned a wire pyramid which he put over his potted plant in the office. Made it grow better, he maintained. Kurt had to agree with his boss, Harry, in whose opinion Karl was a little off. He thought that all those old time intelligence agents were a little strange. He recalled the time that one of them started a joke in English, switched to German, then Czech, then Kurt lost track, and told the punch line in Russian. What was amazing was that in the group of a dozen people, five laughed. He wished, in a way, that he could be working with them again!

 

Of course, since then he had had…other experiences.

 

On Monday their newbie arrived. Jorge Santiago looked to Kurt like nothing so much as a cherubic, smooth-faced Noriega. He would have to work hard to control the weight. Kurt decided he would invite him to the office early each morning, for some extra work. He was just getting to know him when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, Kurt faced an attractive young black woman, slender, light skinned, wearing a cheap suit, the hem a little too short, and a very nervous expression.

 

“May I help you?”

 

She pushed some papers toward him. They were orders.

 

“Priscilla…Case, Sergeant, to report to…I didn’t know I was getting two new agents. Come in.”

 

She wobbled just a little on her heels as she crossed the threshold. He couldn’t decide if she was unused to the heels, or it was the nervousness. He turned his attention to the orders.

 

“You might be really assigned to the Field Office, or headquarters. Let me call.”

 

“Oh, the Sergeant Major was very emphatic. He said I was to report directly to Chief Retten.”

 

“Sergeant Major…”

 

“Rosas. He said you knew him.”

 

“Yes. I’ll call him.”

 

Just then Derek came in.

 

“Derek, we have…two new agents. Please find them desks.”

 

He went into his office and dialed up HQ, and got connected to Rosas.

 

"Kurt! Nice to hear from you so soon! How are you getting settled? I bet that’s not what you called about.”

 

“Uh no. I was expecting one new agent. I got two. Jorge Santiago and a…Priscilla Case.”

 

Rosas was silent for a moment. “Don’t have room for two?”

 

“Oh I’m fine. I have lots of room in the rafters. Do I need to know anything about these two?”

 

Rosas hemmed and hawed for a moment and switched to Spanish. “Well, I know that you’ll give Santiago good grounding. Up at the Field Office, well…” he hesitated almost so long that Kurt was tempted to say something, “and…Case. Frankly we have two problems with Case.”

 

“Let’s see if I can guess. One, a woman. Two, black.”

 

“No, not black. Too pretty. We’ve got, uh, an issue at the FO. She needs proper shepherding. She wouldn’t get it up here. And…” Kurt was finding the pauses trying. “The Colonel doesn’t want another issue.”

 

Kurt said nothing, waiting.

 

“Let’s just leave it that you’re the best one for new agents.”

 

“You know me. I’ll corrupt them. I’ll have them doing countersurveillances and servicing dead drops.”

 

“Ah…I’ll ask the Colonel. Maybe he’ll let me report to you.”

 

“I don’t think so. Together we’d probably start a war. OK, I have two more. You taking anyone away from me?”

 

The line was silent. Kurt strummed the desk, just once, and caught himself.

 

“We are short an agent. We were looking at Shawn, to report to the 902nd.”

 

“I don’t know any of them well enough yet to have an opinion. When do I expect to see the orders?”

 

After another pause, “Probably tomorrow”.

 

“Any other cheery news?”

 

“No sir…just…Case was going through CO school. Dropped for medical reasons. She was transferred into the CI course.”

 

“How far did she get? By the way, do I get to see her record?”

 

“Uh sure. I’ll send it right over.”

 

“Maybe I’ll just run up and collect it, along with Santiago’s. I’d like to see the others’ personnel files too. Well, maybe not Shawn’s. He’s already gone. Does he know?”

 

“No sir.”

 

“Can I tell him at least?”

 

“Yeah, that’ll be fine. He did ask for something.”

 

Kurt rang off. He wondered what the Sergeant Major did not tell him.

 

Looking into the main room he saw Jorge and Priscilla talking quietly. They seemed to know each other.



 

Clare arrived at the University Administration building. She had some trouble finding a parking space, and half expected to find the car booted when she came out. She wondered, though, if the campus police would think that her new Mercedes roadster was a student’s car.

 

Administrivia out of the way, she made her way over to McCabe Hall.

 

The building was red brick, multi-story, like most of the structures on the leafy campus. Inside it was straight hallways, pasted with fliers and bulletin boards, flanked by classrooms. Hers was on the fourth floor.

 

There were not quite a dozen students chatting in the room when she opened the door to a loud buzz which, Clare recognized happily, was entirely in French. As especially the men turned and saw her, however, the noise level fell off considerably. A woman in her thirties, attractive in a soft light blue silk dress, approached Clare, her light brown hair bouncing as she approached, her hand extended.

 

“Bienvenue. Je suis Marie Clermont.”

 

“Bienvenue. Je suis Clare Retten. You are the professor?”

 

The woman laughed, “No, but I hope to be some day, if my husband will stay in one place long enough! I seek my PhD, just as you.”

 

Another student, his face framed by frizzy blond hair and a sardonic smile, joined them.  “Hi! I’m Jeffrey Hatten.”  He took Clare’s hand, kissing it with a more élan than she cared for.

 

“Madame Retten,” she answered, retrieving her hand.

 

Marie laughed.  “Ah, Monsieur Hatten fancies that he must share himself with all the women!”

 

Jeffrey was unabashed, almost leering at Clare.

 

She withdrew from the two, going around the room introducing herself, and was with the last, a young blonde woman who would not be plain if she was given some pointers, when the professor arrived. As they took their seats the bearded, bow-tied gentleman’s eyes fell on Clare.

 

“Ah, our late-comer. Mademoiselle…”

 

“Madame,” Jeffrey interjected, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

 

He shot a look at Jeffrey, but continued, “Madame…” he looked at the roll, “…Retten. Are you German?”

 

“Non, my husband is Boche. Or as he would say, ‘verdamte Preuss’.”

 

The mot elicited blank looks; but the professor grinned.

 

“I am Doctor Galois, as everyone in this room knows. So, I see that you graduated from Stanford, uh, three years ago. And now you return for your master degree?”

 

“Oui, my husband and I were in Panama, until just last week.”

 

“Alors.”

 

He switched to Spanish, “you haven’t chosen Madrid’s tongue to study?”

 

She answered in French. “My Spanish is execrable. L’Homme is the Spanish speaker.”

 

Galois considered the answer. “A German who speaks Spanish.”

 

“I know: ‘Das ist mir Spanisch.’ He’s from South Carolina, actually.”

 

Galois smiled, bemused.  “Ah, well, shall we get started? Madame Retten, do you have yet an idea about your thesis?”

 

“Yes. Something on Gautier, I think.”

 

“That’s interesting. Why?”

 

“My…husband got me interested in him.”

“Ah, this Prussian again. How so?”

 

“It’s…he learned some of his poems, to impress me.”

 

“Oh? What did he learn—to impress you?”

 

“Uh, ‘if your hand caress it…’”

 

A man’s voice joined hers; it was Percy, a thin African American, looking at the ceiling, closing his eyes.

 

…if your hand caress it,

And raise it for its sweet perfume,

Ere yet your velvet cheek shall press it,

'T will fade before a fairer bloom.

 

He was suddenly embarrassed. Clare favored with a disarming smile the shy black man with the mellifluous voice.

 

“Is that all it takes to impress you?” Jeffrey asked in mock credulity, “I must get a book of his poems!”

 

“You’ll need more than that,” Clare shot back, not quite keeping her voice light.

 

She saw his cheeks redden to the titters. Looking away, she did not see the seething microexpression.

 

The professor, wanting to get back on subject, harrumphed. Clare thought she saw a grin steal across his lips as he turned to the whiteboard.

 

“Today we’ll be looking at some poets from an earlier period. Clare, did you read anything yet?”

 

She had, and quoted from the first poem in the book without opening it. When the professor turned he saw the book lying closed on her desk.

 

“That’s very good! How many have you memorized?”

 

“Only that one and a couple more. Self-defense. My husband is likely to reel off a poem or a epigram at any time.”

 

“Your husband is a very interesting man—for a diplomat.”

 

She just smiled, choosing not to disabuse him—yet.

Chapter 2. New School

Learning teacheth more in one year than experience in twenty.

Roger Ascham. The Scholemaster

We learn not in the school, but in life.

Seneca

 

Sandra accompanied Liza to the high school for enrollment. This time, Nick told her, there was no need to confide in the principal about Liza’s harrowing ordeal, two years before, even though it had affected her grades, which caused her to be lumped in the general population—no honors classes for her. Sandra, although disappointed, assured Liza that if she worked hard, then her junior year would yield advanced placement. Liza didn’t tell her step-mother that she wasn't disappointed about the easy ride. Finish the year, enjoy summer, then buckle down.

 

The papers signed, Sandra left the self-assured daughter to the administrators, who showed her to her first class: Algebra One.

 

The boys craned their necks to get a look when she came in. The teacher, Mr. Sanford, was a thin, balding, effeminate man with a slight stammer. He put her in the back, handing her a math book.  Leafing through it, she grinned when she realized that they were about a year behind Panama, and Wisconsin.  <Yes! I’ll max this course!>

 

“Miss, uh, Hendrik, please come up to the board.”

 

<Ugh! He’s testing me already.>  She got up and, feeling the eyes following her, walked to the front, stopping at the white board. The board itself was a complicated affair with multiple sliding sections. Sanford now pushed one of the boards aside, exposing a problem he had put up before class. Peering at the equation, she recognized it from last year. She looked at him uncertainly; he pointed at the problem with his chin. She went up to the board, thought back to the algorithm, and then quickly reduced and resolved it.  Turning toward the teacher, feeling a little smug, she was taken aback by his expression, and the low murmurings from the class.

 

“Miss…uh, Hendrik. You’ve seen this problem before?” She admitted that she had.

 

“I see. Go take your seat.” She walked back, uncomfortable under the stares; the boys were plainly ogling her.

 

After lunch she found the room where she would take Spanish. The teacher was a mature, kindly Hispanic woman, thickening from her own cooking. Liza greeted her in the language. After a few exchanges, the woman stopped her.

 

“You’ve got a…Panamanian accent, and you speak Spanish way too well for this class.”

 

She went to her desk, wrote a note, which she handed to Liza. “Go to this class. It’s senior Spanish. That’s probably not advanced enough for you either, but it’s all we have here.”

 

Liza was stricken; this was the second class that she was transferred out of, and might be from others as well, because she was plainly ahead of her classmates. Unhappily she trudged to the top floor, to find Señor Ruiz’ class. When she arrived one of the students was already talking while another was at the board, writing. Ruiz came to the door, and read the note.

 

“Class, this is…uh, Liza Hendrik. She’s transferring in…from Panama.”

 

The boy who was standing, a big senior with full wavy surfer blond hair, said, “You, Liza, Panamanian? With a name like Hendrik?”

 

Liza could feel her ears burning. “My father was transferred up from Panama.”

 

“That’s all right, Liza,” Ruiz interrupted, “go take a seat there,” he said, pointing to one near the back, between two girls. “Señor Hunter, continúa.”

 

Liza settled between the two, the black already overweight, in a tight top, and a scrawny white girl with limp brown hair. Her cheeks still burned; other students were sneaking looks her way.

 

The Hunter boy was stumbling over the passage.

 

“Uh, señorita Hendrik—Liza,” the teacher asked, “do you know the story?”

 

“Siento, I don’t have the book.”

 

“Marcy, lend her your book. It is open to the right page, eh?”

 

Liza took the

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Chris R. Beals
Bildmaterialien: Public domain
Cover: Chris R. Beals
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 26.03.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7438-6551-8

Alle Rechte vorbehalten