Page 24 of Cry Havoc
What would she be wearing? A cocktail dress? A miniskirt that had become so popular a few years ago? Or maybe the more subdued Jackie Kennedy–type Chanel suit with matching hat? She tended to deemphasize her stunning figure. Knowing what was under those conservative clothes turned him on even more.
He knew she must have other boyfriends in Germany, but she never mentioned them and Allister never asked. He preferred the fantasy that she only had eyes for him.
Thinking that he would soon be enjoying what lay hidden beneath her Chanel suit made him start to perspire. He removed his brown felt trilby hat and set it on the passenger seat. It was from Dobbs of Fifth Avenue in New York. He had purchased it in 1963 after seeingFrom Russia with Love.Even though it had fallen out of style, he still liked it. If it was good enough for Connery, it was good enough for Allister Desmond. At the time he bought it, the hat had covered a head of thick brown hair. Now, the well-worn fedora concealed the bald spot that ran from his forehead to just below the tips of his ears. The hair that still grew on the sides andback of his head resembled a horseshoe. A supervisor had once called him Friar Tuck, and Allister remembered the laugh of the attractive secretary who had overheard it. Allister did all he could to hide his embarrassment, knowing his face had flushed a bright red, his humiliation on full display.
He had tried for months to impress that secretary, replicating the hat trick from the Bond films, lobbing his trilby onto the dusty and unused communal tree each morning on his way into the office, but she never responded with so much as a smile. After the Friar Tuck comment he had stopped. He had a much sexier prize now. That it was an illicit rendezvous made it even sexier.
He had thought of getting a toupee but then reconsidered; it would be just one more thing for his colleagues to gossip about behind his back.
Clara also called him “Des.” He had always wanted to be called the more masculine “Des” or “Al,” but Allister had stuck early on in life, and he had never managed to shake it.
He did not dislike his wife. She was the homemaker, plump and plain. He did feel guilty knowing he had betrayed her, but there was an excitement to living two lives that he couldn’t deny. Sex with Brenda lacked the enthusiasm that Allister desired; lights off in the missionary position during which she hardly moved. It was done more out of a sense of marital duty than any physical attraction or animal magnetism. Clara was a different beast altogether. The interest in his work, the passion with which she took him in the bedroom, in the shower, on the floor, or on the hotel room sofa, drove him wild. Afterward she would light a cigarette, making no attempt to cover her naked body. She was completely at ease walking around the hotel room in nothing at all, windows open, unafraid of her sexuality, perhaps even flaunting it.
Allister had not told her what he did for a living when they had first met. That came later, after they had met for a second time. Clara had been even more impressed as he held her in his arms, her perfect breasts pressed against him, sweaty and exhausted after the most intense sexualexperience of his life. That was when he told her of his work at the National Security Agency.
He passed over the Patapsco River, fighting the urge to drive faster imagining what awaited him after a drink or two at the bar.
Slow down. No sense in getting a speeding ticket.
His right foot, encased in a black leather Sears “Mile Hi” casual shoe, let off on the accelerator. The shoes were advertised as having extra thick, extra bouncy Searofoam soles, which supplemented his height. A man as vertically challenged as Allister needed all the help he could get. At $5.77 from the Sears catalog, they would not break the bank. He also liked how comfortable they felt on his pudgy feet. They complimented his dark gray worsted wool trousers and charcoal Harris tweed jacket. Both items also happened to be featured on the same page of the Sears catalog, which meant they must pair well together.
Allister loved spy novels. The British authors were particularly good: le Carré, Fleming, Deighton, O’Donnell, Greene, Ambler, Clifford, Hall, Gainham, Williams, MacLean, and Lyall. Having read all of le Carré and Fleming, he knew, as much as he tried to fight it, that he was more Smiley than Bond. Le Carré just depressed and confused him, though he suffered through the stories all the same. He shuddered at the notion of Brenda becoming Lady Ann Sercomb to his Smiley. Well, not tonight anyway. Tonight, he was going to be Bond with Clara Müller as his Daniela Bianchi.
Allister glanced at the glove compartment where he stashed a Colt 1917 “Fitz’d” cut-down revolver. He had never even fired it. He could only take his fantasy so far. A fairly inexpensive military surplus gun, he bought it after seeing it on the cover of Fleming’s fifth Bond novel. Richard Chopping’s cover art featured a similarly cut-down Smith & Wesson revolver over a beautiful red rose. Allister had taken the book to a military surplus store to show the clerk what he wanted. He ignored the man’s scoff and handed over the $55.49 for the used firearm. He had put it in his glove box where it had lived ever since.
Passing signs for the University of Maryland, Baltimore, he took a right onto West Baltimore Street. This section of the city looked defeated, as if the rest of the country had moved on and forgotten about it. Less an exotic Bond location, it briefly reminded him of a le Carré novel, dark and brooding.
Tonight, you are Bond, not Smiley, Allister reminded himself.And you are about to get the girl. Smiley wouldn’t get the girl.
It was closing in on six o’clock in the evening when Allister pulled into the hotel parking lot. Knowing it did not offer valet service, he parked, put on his trilby, and adjusted it in the rearview mirror.
Very Connery,he thought.
He reached behind him and grabbed the handle of his Hartmann attaché case, finished in tweed and tan leather, before exiting the vehicle. He locked the driver’s side door and tested the other three door handles and the trunk latch to ensure they were all secured before marching toward the front of the Lord Baltimore Hotel, cautioning himself not to run and appear overly eager.
Play it cool.
Even from the outside, the once regal hotel that had opened in 1928 looked slightly dilapidated, a venue losing the battle to which all eventually succumbed.
He entered through the large double doors and took an immediate right into the dimly lit lounge. Just after working hours on a Thursday, the bar was filling up. The bartender and overworked waitresses scurried about delivering a variety of cocktails to patrons eager to dull their inhibitions.
It took only a moment to locate Clara amongst the crowd. She was seated alone at a high-top table in the far corner with two drinks in front of her. She was striking in a black skirt and form-fitting gold knit turtleneck sweater that accentuated the shape of her breasts. Geometric triangle-drop earrings dangled elegantly from her ears, their shape blending seamlessly with her black-framed cat-eye glasses. An understated single gold bangleadorned her left wrist. A wide leather belt that matched her shoes completed the ensemble. She looked exquisite.
Allister watched as a well-dressed and slightly inebriated man approached her, touching her shoulder and leaning up against the table. She politely indicated the second drink was for someone else and the man sauntered off in search of easier prey.
Allister twisted his wrist and glanced down at his 1953 Hamilton Cranston timepiece with a ten-karat gold case and subset second hand on a black pebbled leather band. He had been trying to decide between the Cranston and Boulton models when the secondhand jeweler had explained to him that the wider tank shape and rounded edges of the Cranston would look better on his beefy wrist. Allister remembered the jeweler’s disinterested sanctimonious tone. He was sure he had paid too much. Maybe it was time to switch to a Gruen?
Just after six. Allister should be home by nine so as not to arouse suspicion. That didn’t give them much time.
Allister took the two steps down into the lounge going unnoticed by any of the other patrons. He was used to being ignored in social circles. He fought the urge to run directly to her and instead intentionally cut a wider path to approach her from behind. He was sure she could feel his heart palpitations as he neared.
He slid his left hand across her eyes, briefcase still in his right.
“Guess who?”
“Des.” Her voice, a mysterious combination of French and German–influenced English, was music to his ears. He could tell she was smiling. Pure magic.
He stepped to the side, and she stood to embrace him. His shoes helped elevate him to five feet seven inches, which put them at eye level. As her breasts pushed against his chest, he felt a familiar arousal between his legs. She was wearing just the right amount of perfume. He remembered the fragrance from the first night they had met. He had never experiencedanything like it, an exotic blend of jasmine and rose with a slight hint of sandalwood. Intoxicating. He was ready to get her upstairs, but he took the chair across from her instead.
