I love Spy stories, so I always wanted to write one. This is my go at it. A romantic espionage story set in Central Europe at the height of the Cold War.
I want to give a very special shout out to
LaRascasse
for editing this story.
This story is a work of fiction. The characters are fictitious and certainly not intended to represent any living person. All characters are eighteen or older.
Kirby and the Spy
My interrogator adjusted his glasses, kept his gaze focused down on a thick dossier.
"Ms. Sawyer, I don't mean this as a threat, but your answers here today do matter."
His accent was a smooth Southern drawl, so he was an American. I had not seen him before so he must have flown here to Vienna from the states. An FBI agent perhaps.
A newspaper sat in front of me. He slid it there at the start of the interview. Not meant for me or him to read, only to set the tone. A grainy black and white photo. A body bent in funny ways, blood soaked into the carpet beneath, saturating it so thickly that it glistened in the camera flash. Above the photograph in bold headlines the words: "AMERIKANISHCER DIPLOMAT TOT IN WIENER WOHNUNG AUFGEFUNDEN" - American Diplomat Found Dead in Vienna Apartment.
The font was offensively bold, making a dramatic caricature of the murder.
We were in a nondescript, egg-white room. Also in the room, a pair of microphones on the table, one in front of each of us, a tape recorder, and an ashtray heaped with ash. The overhead fluorescent light produced a steady electric hum. Moments earlier, he had walked in with two cups of coffee in his hand.
"Cream, no sugar, right?" he had asked as he put the plain white mug in front of me. I didn't touch the mug. The cream swirled in it like a small hurricane.
My interrogator looked to be in his forties. Balding at his crown. Square, thin framed glasses, and a thick mustache, a wrinkled collared shirt at least a size too large and might as well have been government-issued. Same can be said for the mustache. At first, he avoided my eyes, focusing his attention instead on the tape recorder, tinkering with buttons to get it to work. Shortly, the twin reels spun.
He took a cigarette out and lit it and dragged thoughtlessly on it, scratching his furrowed brow as he flipped through a thick dossier.
"Can I get a smoke?" I asked.
He nodded, pulled a fresh cigarette from his pocket and handed it to me. He handed me a lighter too. I wasn't much of a smoker, but I figured it would calm my nerves. I wheezed as I took my first drag. He didn't notice. He was completely engrossed in whatever was in that dossier of his. As he finished reading, he sat back in his chair and studied me silently. I smiled, trying my best to appear cool. I could sense some compassion in his tired grey eyes. This relaxed me a bit.
"Ms. Sawyer, I would like you to state it again for the record: Why are you here?"
"Sure." I cleared my throat and spoke carefully into the microphone. "I'm here because I'm acquainted with the man that was murdered... and the woman that murdered him."
"Who's the man that was murdered, Ms. Sawyer?"
"George. I just know him as George."
I added, "I'm not sure if it's his real name."
He didn't react in any way except to scribble quickly on his notepad.
"And the woman?
"Lara."
"Full name?"
"Don't know it."
"Describe her for me."
"Light green eyes, strawberry blonde hair. Tall, beautiful, a regular Jerry Hall. She said she's from Prague."
"She's Czech?"
"Yes. Russian too. Her father is Russian. At least that's what she had told me."
"What makes you think she's the killer?"
"I saw her do it."
He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray, placed it back in his mouth. The smoke from it rose patiently.
"To be clear, it was George who --"
He put his hand up to cut me off.
"Before we get into that, why don't we just start from the very beginning. Start with how you first met Lara. I advise you to be completely candid with me."
"What's your name, sir?" I asked.
"Call me Frank."
"Ok, Frank. Sure. Of course, I'll be candid. Well, I suppose I met her at the start of the summer. It was the middle of June. I remember it was a Wednesday afternoon. I remember the café well..."
*** Lara ***
Summer rain in Vienna is a sort of cozy loneliness I enjoyed. Breezy, droning, a welcome freshness against the normally stifling late afternoon humidity. The cars whooshed past, spitting water from their tires to the curb, and the trams packed with people played a ringing melody with their cheerful bell sounds when they came to the crosswalks, their metal wheels singing on the rails.
The book I had in my hand was Doctor Zhivago. I tried reading, but the soft pattering of the rain on the terrace canopy lent more towards people watching. The waiter brought my coffee. A mélange, a popular Viennese coffee not unlike a cappuccino.
Vienna was a fresh start for me. A year prior, I had gotten out of a messy marriage to another foreign service officer. His name was Paul. The State Department always tries its best to accommodate the careers of two married employees, but sometimes, they simply can't. By the very nature of the job, when two married officers in the same cohort rise through the ranks together, they inevitably find themselves at a crossroads. Often one must sacrifice their career for the other. Paul asked me to quit. He dreamed big. He imagined being a senior diplomat, maybe even an ambassador someday. I imagined the same for me. I didn't want to be the ambassador's wife. We fought venomously about it, and, in the end, went our separate ways. He asked for Bangkok and got it. I asked for Europe and got Vienna.
Doctor Zhivago once belonged to Paul. Given to him by a mentor in D.C. He hated it, so he left it behind. I took it with me. One of the few things in my possession that reminded me of our short, irreconcilable marriage. But it was something to read. So far, it wasn't a terrible book.
A woman came running out of the rain and sat opposite me. Her bright yellow summer dress soaked in rain, clung wet and tight to her body. Likely, she had been out enjoying the sun and was caught unsuspecting by the afternoon cloudburst and had fled here for shelter.
She squeezed the water from her rain-matted hair. The waiter came and she ordered an espresso. She caught me staring, so I stuffed my nose back into my book. But I couldn't help peeking over the top of the pages to steal quick glances. There was something unordinary about her. Her face was sharp, soft, and pleasant, conveying all at once playfulness, mystery, and importance. Her lips painted a faded red, delicate eyeliner highlighted her eyes. Her eyes were the most striking part about her -- muted celadon green, curious and awake to the world as if she were the only person who truly was.
She put a cigarette to her lips, and stuffed her hand into her purse, searching fruitlessly for a lighter. Seeing this, I pulled mine from my purse. I didn't smoke at all, but I was advised by someone somewhere to carry a lighter in Austria. Being able to offer people a light was great for starting conversation, meeting new people. It served me well now.
I motioned to offer it to her. She considered me for a moment with cautious eyes, stood up, walked over and leaned down with the cigarette in her mouth. Her green eyes watched mine as I sparked a light. I blushed. She puffed a long curl of smoke, smiled and said, "vielen dank." Her voice was smooth like my mélange. Immediately I recognized her accent as being from somewhere in the Eastern Bloc.
She pulled out her cigarette pack and offered me one. Her strange allure prevented me from refusing. I took one and lit it in my mouth. I sucked the sharp vapor into my lungs and coughed.
