Washington Spies: A Historical Espionage Thriller Read online

  Ronnie laughed, poured another glass of whiskey. He held the bottle over her glass. “Another for you?”

  “No, thanks. Joe will come home wondering why I was drinking in the afternoon. I don’t like to lie.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s tough, sometimes in our job, trying to explain things to loved ones. Joe’s an agent himself and should understand when things seem inexplicable.”

  “He does, most of the time.”

  “Most of the time?” His eyebrows arched in question.

  “He still suffers from battle fatigue, sir. That Romanian assignment nearly did him in. He has the occasional episode and not always at convenient times.”

  Ronnie nodded solemnly. “Yes, I understand. It took many brave men and women to defeat the enemy. We didn’t all come back in one piece. Is he receiving the treatment he needs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, good.” He drank down his whiskey and stood up. “I need to leave before he gets home. My presence would be too hard to explain.”

  Phyllis grinned. “I’ll say.”

  “Walk me to the door.”

  “The front door, sir?”

  “It’s the way I came in. Your neighbors might suspect you’re having an affair if I sneak out the back.”

  She ducked her head to hide the blush she knew was creeping across her face.

  Ronnie stopped to pull something from an inside coat pocket. “I brought this for you, Miss Bowden.”

  “Mrs. Schneider.”

  “You’ll always be Miss Bowden to me, Phyllis.”

  He opened his hand. “Take this.”

  She looked at the object in his hand. “But I have a compact already.”

  “Not like this one. Take it.”

  When she had it in her hand, Ronnie continued. “Open it and move it around to see what you see.”

  Phyllis moved the mirror to different angles until a message appeared. Startled, she asked, “What’s this?”

  “Directions to the safe house where you’ll be taking the target. Keep it on you always.”

  “I thought I would be receiving this and other instructions next week.”

  “You will, but the safe house was mine to give you. I want you to come back safe and sound, so Major Simpson gave me the honor.”

  She smiled at him. He was really the best of men. “Thank you, sir. It was an honor to work for you.”

  “With me, Phyllis. You worked with me.”

  With that, Col. Ronald Lawrence, Military Attaché in the American Embassy in Oslo, Norway, pulled out a cap and smoothed it on his head. “How do I look?”

  “Like a man about to hop in his sports car.”

  “More’s the better for the deceit.” He paused to take her in once more. “Godspeed, Mrs. Schneider.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  He slipped out the door, probably as quietly as he had slipped in. Leaning with her back against it, Phyllis breathed deeply and wondered, not for the first time, just how dangerous her upcoming assignment would be. She shook her head of unwanted thoughts. This was her job. This is what she was trained to do.

  Glancing at the grandfather clock in the hallway, she knew she had another job to do right now: dinner. Joe would be home shortly and she had to maintain a normal composure, through her excitement and anxiety. If not, Joe would know her secret.

  And that just wouldn’t do.

  She noticed it when he walked in the door. Joe didn’t call out to her, as he usually did. His footsteps down the hall were all she heard of him.

  He was so habitual that any slight change in routine signaled that something was off. Glancing out the kitchen at him, she watched Joe stop before going into the bedroom to pull a limp hanky from his pants pocket. She could see the perspiration dripping down his face from a few feet away. He wouldn’t want her to see him like this, so she popped back into the kitchen. She washed the two glasses used by Col. Lawrence and herself, and left the whiskey bottle on the kitchen table, placing a new glass beside it. Joe might not want her to know what had happened, but he would soon realize she’d learn anyway. There were no secrets between them.

  Until today.

  She got out a pan, making more noise than she usually would, and placed it on the stove. Gathering ingredients for a pot roast, she hastily set about slicing potatoes, carrots and onions. She clunked the pan with a spoon unnecessarily, filling the kitchen with more culinary noises. Just as she was sprinkling the beef with salt and pepper, Joe stepped into the kitchen.

  “Oh! Joe! You’re home!” She tried to keep her expression light, but he wasn’t fooled.

  “Which you knew, honey. You saw me in the hallway.”

  “What? Have you eyes in the back of your head?”

  “No, but there’s a mirror right where I was standing. I saw you clear as day.”

  “Joe, I—”

  He took out his handkerchief again to mop his sweaty face. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She moved closer to take the hanky from him. Gently blotting his face, his arms went around her to pull her close.

  “It’s okay because I’m here with you.”

  “Did you have an episode today at work?”

  He nodded. “Someone dropped a glass at a meeting, which triggered it. The glass splintering into a thousand pieces nearly had me splintered. I had to go to the men’s room to get myself under control.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I stuck my head, as far as I could,” he added when she smiled, “under a faucet in the sink. It was ridiculous, but brought me back around.”

  Phyllis tucked the hanky back in Joe’s pocket. Her eyes skimmed his handsome face. Clear blue eyes with a hint of sadness, his downturned lips and dark hair already tinged with gray told the story. Joe Schneider had suffered much in the war as a British agent. After that grueling incident in Bucharest, he’d thrown in the towel and admitted he couldn’t do the job any longer. She knew when they’d married that he might always suffer from the battle fatigue symptoms he’d acquired after that last assignment. But being young, she figured they could work anything out together.

  Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Maybe their love wasn’t the panacea Joe needed. He was going to a therapist on a regular basis, but, after more than a year of therapy, Joe’s episodes didn’t seem to be lessening. He needed something else; something they hadn’t thought of.

  Joe drew her in closer. When their lips met, all thoughts went out of her head. As their kiss deepened with love and gratitude, her eyes moistened at the thought of possibly losing him. She grabbed him tightly and held on for dear life.

  No. It was unthinkable.

  She looked away when their lips moved apart, so she could hastily wipe her eyes.

  “Phyllis? Are you crying?”

  “No! Of course not. I just cut up an onion for the pot roast.”

  Although his slight frown signaled, he didn’t believe her. Joe let it go.

  “What time will dinner be ready?”

  “We have an hour.”

  “Good. I’m going to change clothes. Let’s have coffee out on the deck.”

  “It’s getting cold outside, Joe.”

  “The coffee will warm us.”

  She opened her mouth to complain, but he smiled and left the room. When she heard water running in the bathroom, Phyllis put the roast in the oven and set the controls. She glanced at the whiskey on the table. Maybe she’d put a tumbler in their coffee.

  Tidying up, she remembered sitting in her mother’s kitchen talking about her day at school. Hurtful slights from other children had wounded a young Phyllis, but they seemed trivial compared to her life today. Being snubbed by Trudy What’s-her-name in the fourth grade cut deeply when she was nine years old. But was that any different than being patronized by George Martin now that she was approaching thirty?

  Both cuts wounded her psyche and made her doubt her value as a person. Hadn’t she learned anything in twenty-some years
of living?

  She could see a lot of her mother in herself. Phyllis’ father was ill for a major part of his adult life with one problem after another. Now cancer was slowly draining the life from him. But she’d watched how her father’s illnesses drained the life out of her mother over time. Constance Bowden had died of a heart attack at only fifty years old. Sliding a wet cloth along the kitchen countertop, Phyllis wondered how her mother was able to deal with illness day in, day out.

  And where was she now when she needed her mother’s advice so badly about Joe? Was she turning into her mother? Was her life with Joe becoming a repeat of her mother’s life?

  Phyllis shook her head. She threw the wet cloth in the sink a little harder than she meant to. Constance had done her duty by her husband, yet much of life had passed her by because of it. She was most proud of her two daughters. Phyllis had gone to college and had taken a job at the Pentagon just before her mother died. Her sister had married and given birth to two children, which had thrilled their mother.

  Phyllis’ chin jutted out. She was not becoming her sainted mother. She and Joe would put the battle fatigue behind them and live their lives the best way they knew.

  An errant thought crossed her mind: children.

  She and Joe had never discussed having children. Maybe it was time to start. The smile she caught reflecting off the shiny coffee pot turned to a frown. Here she was an agent with the Central Intelligence Agency about to go on a dangerous assignment and she was thinking about having a child? Was she nuts? She was certainly losing her focus.

  Phyllis got a pot of coffee brewing just in time to hear Joe’s call.

  “Honey? Ready with the coffee?”

  “Just about, Joe. I’ll meet you out back.”

  She snagged a sweater from the hall tree, poured two cups and walked down the hallway to meet him.

  “So how was your day?” asked Joe when she passed him a cup.

  She was saved momentarily from answering when he sipped his coffee and his eyes widened comically. “Sweetie, did you put whiskey in this?”

  Phyllis didn’t have a ready answer for either of Joe’s questions.

  Once they were settled in the swing on their back porch, Joe coughed and took a gulp of his coffee. His infectious grin was immediate.

  “You should buy this brand of coffee always at the store, honey. It’s a big improvement on that stuff you usually get.”

  His teasing relaxed her.

  “It’s chilly out tonight. I thought a little whiskey would warm you up faster.”

  He licked his lips. “I’m plenty warm now. Thanks.”

  That was one answer to his questions. What could she say about the other?

  “So how was your day, dear?”

  “No, you first. I already mentioned the meeting when I had a small episode.”

  She stalled. “Surely that wasn’t the only thing that happened today.”

  “Phyllis, you can’t hide from me. I’ll tell you all about my lackluster day, as soon as you come clean about yours. Come on. Tell me.”

  Wracking her brain for a suitable distraction, she finally hit on it.

  “I was two minutes late coming back from lunch today and George Martin made a scene about it.”

  Joe set down his cup. “What did he say?”

  “That he was bothered by my lateness and he fretted over me more than his other employees.”

  “He said that? Out loud with others listening?”

  “He did.”

  “What an ass.”

  “I thought so too. I told him I’d stay two minutes over quitting time, which I did, but he was gone and wouldn’t know if I left a half hour early.”

  He thought about that, took another sip of his cooling coffee.

  “I suppose Linda and Barbara had something to say.”

  “Sure. They pointed out, with everyone listening, that I had great credentials from my past postings.” She took a sip. “It was kind of embarrassing how they went on and on.”

  Joe laughed. “Oh, you love it and you know it.”

  That earned him a smile. Phyllis wondered how to bring up the Tennessee assignment. She’d need a cover story for the reason she’d be going there.

  “So how was your day?”

  He shot her a side look. She couldn’t read his expression.

  Joe sighed. “I thought working as a temporary consultant with the agency until my US citizenship came through would be a piece of cake.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “My boss thinks going from being an MI5 agent to the CIA should be fairly easy and I would want to continue doing what I’ve done in the past. He was making noises today about sending me back in the field, once I get the all-clear.”

  “And you don’t want that?”

  He reached out to touch her face. “I’m liking my desk job a whole bunch, honey. It’s dangerous out in the field.”

  “You don’t trust yourself to do more than you’re doing?”

  “No. Honestly, I don’t.”

  She swallowed. “Okay, that’s your answer then. Tell your boss no.”

  “Could you say no to your boss?”

  “George Martin? Oh, yes.”

  Joe chuckled at her tough stance.

  “Yes, I believe you could. You’re much tougher than me, Phyllis Schneider.”

  “I’m a pussy cat and you know it.” She leaned over to touch his lips with hers.

  “You’re certainly a pretty one. I know that.” He kissed her back, taking time to settle their lips with familiarity.

  A wind picked up, blowing her hair around her face. Phyllis shivered.

  “Let’s go back in. It’s getting colder.”

  Long after dinner, when they’d gone to bed, Phyllis was startled out of a deep sleep by a shrill cry. Shaking off her sleepiness, she raised up to pull Joe to her.

  “Honey! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”

  She shook his shoulders gently, watching his troubled face. Whatever demons were disturbing his sleep had him well and truly in their grasp. She shook him until his eyes opened.

  “Phyllis?”

  “Yes, Joe. Are you awake now?”

  She waited until his unfocused eyes stared straight at her with recognition. When she knew he was seeing her and not the apparition in his head, she smiled and kissed him.

  “Joe? Honey? You all right?”

  Joe breathed deeply, glanced around the room. She knew he was settling back into his surroundings.

  “You okay? Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She kept a glass on the nightstand for nights like these. Reaching over, she brought the glass to him. He drank deeply.

  After handing the glass back, Joe sank back into the bed with a shivering sigh she felt in her bones.

  “All right now?”

  “I just told Dr. Thompson this afternoon that the episodes were lessening.” He shook his head, looked over at her. “But I was right back in that room tonight, Phyllis, being grilled by the Soviet spy and shot by the Romanian.”

  It had taken Joe the better part of a year to finally tell Phyllis the whole story of his captivity. Extended amnesia, after his release, let Joe avoid any explanations for a while. Once therapy began and his memory returned, his doctors gently suggested that he tell Phyllis as much as he was able. She had reacted the way she thought she would: she cried. Buckets. In his presence and when he was gone. His inhumane treatment caused her much grief, so much that she tried to wipe his words from her mind. It was a never-ending battle to clean that slate.

  Especially during times of incredible stress like now. Joe was suffering and there was little she could do to help him. But her presence seemed to have a soothing effect, and for that, she was grateful. So, she would be here for him.

  Wait a minute. How would she be here for him if she were in Tennessee?

  TWO

  COMPLICATIONS

  Her schedule for her first week of training w
as packed. She’d reported to level five of the main building of the CIA where security procedures were doubled and tripled. Her new badge apparently didn’t impress the guard on the fifth level, even though her picture was on it, along with her higher security clearance. He took his time checking her purse and briefcase as if she were the spy being discussed in all her top-level meetings.

  The first meeting of the first day was an eye-opener. Major Dick Simpson paced the length of the conference table back and forth, barely sparing the meeting’s participants a glance. His green wool jacket was laid on the arm of a chair. His dark tie was askew, as though he’d been tugging at it in frustration. She presumed a laundress had labored to iron his shirt, since it looked starched and crisp. However, perspiration stains circling the armpits showed Dickie’s obvious anxiety.

  “Sir? Do you need a glass of water?” Phyllis reached for the pitcher in front of her. Dickie stopped her.

  “No, Phyllis, but thanks. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Of course.” She sat back, waiting for him to start the meeting.

  Finally, Major Simpson sat stiffly in a chair near the end of the table, away from the three other people, including Phyllis.

  She wondered what was bothering him.

  “Tom?”

  “Sir?”

  “Would you begin your briefing?”

  “Sure.” Col. Metcalf, his Army uniform more polished than Simpson’s today, stood to hand out a small stack of papers.

  “This is Graham Gresham.”

  Phyllis took one of the sheets to observe the picture of a slim, dark-haired man wearing round, wire spectacles and an ill-fitting suit. He was standing by a table filled with other men, scientists probably, and a chalkboard in the background. The man looked as if he were seriously contemplating what another man was saying. A pipe stem poked out of his jacket pocket. His demeanor was so ordinary and professorial that she would never have figured him to be a spy giving secrets about the atomic bomb to the Russians.

  She laid the picture on the table and looked up at Col. Metcalf.

  “Gresham holds a doctorate in physics from the University of Oxford. He’s held posts as lecturer at several universities before being asked to participate in the building of the atomic bomb. He worked on the Manhattan Project for a while and then was transferred as a researcher to Oak Ridge.”