sent to a dreary office across the street from the Frankfurt railway station where he spent his days with the Third Directorate, Intelligence. Rather than cloak and dagger, his tools had consisted of computers, satellite photos, Central European newspapers and equally humdrum equipage.
In 1989, Lang had seen his future in the Agency shrunk by the much-heralded Peace Dividend and changed by shifting priorities. Even the grime-encrusted office with a view of the
Bahnhof
in Frankfurt would be a source of nostalgia when he was forced to learn Arabic or Farsi and stationed in some place where a hundred-degree day seemed balmy. Dawn, his new bride, had drawn the line at including a floor-length burka in her trousseau.
He had taken his retirement benefits and retreated to law school.
Gurt, an East German refugee, had been a valued linguist, analyst and expert on the German Democratic Republic, who was also stuck in the Agency’s Third Directorate.
Gurt and Lang had joined several couples for a ski weekend in Garmish-Partenkirchen. In his mind, Gurt would always be associated with the Post Hotel, Bavarian food, and the slopes of the Zugspitze. The resulting affair had been hot enough to burn out a few months later when he met Dawn on a brief trip back to the States.
To Lang’s surprise and chagrin, Gurt had seemed more relieved than jilted. They had shared a friendship ever since, though, a relationship renewed as scheduling and posting allowed: an occasional drink in Frankfurt, a dinner in Lisbon until his resignation. By that time she was due a promotion to management, a result of the Agency’s begrudging and Congressionally mandated sexual egalitarianism more than her acknowledged abilities. Her talents were not limited to language but ranged from cryptography on the computer to marksmanship on the firing range.
On mature reflection, perhaps it was just as well Gurt did not take the end of their romance too seriously.
When Saint Peter’s was only a couple of blocks away, Michelangelo’s dome filling the northern horizon, Langlooked for a pay phone. He was thankful he wasn’t in one of those European countries where public phones are hoarded like treasures, available only in branches of the national postal system. In Rome, pay phones were plentiful if functioning ones were not. He had chosen this part of the city from which to phone. A trace of any call made from here would lead to one of the most heavily visited places in the world. Though not impossible, it would be difficult to pinpoint the specific location of any one phone quickly enough to catch someone involved in a conversation of only a couple of minutes.
If anyone were tracing the call.
He dialed the embassy number and listened to the creaks, groans and buzzing of the system.
When a voice answered in Italian, Lang asked for Ms. Fuchs in the trade section.
The voice smoothly transitioned to English. “May I tell her who is calling?”
“Tell her Lang Reilly’s in town and would like to buy her dinner.”
“Lang!” Gurt shouted moments later. If she wasn’t happy to hear from him, she had added acting to her list of achievements. “What carries you to Rome?”
Gurt still had not totally mastered the English idiom.
“What brought me here was seeing you again.”
She gave a giggle almost girlish in tone. “Still the
Shiest
. . . , er, thrower of bullshit, Lang.” He could imagine her cocking an eyebrow. “And have you brought your wife with you to see me?”
No way to explain without staying on the line a lot longer than he intended. “Not married anymore. You free for dinner?”
“For you, if not free, at least inexpensive.”
She had mastered lines that died with vaudeville.
They had no common history in Rome, no place hecould designate by reference in case someone was monitoring the perpetual tap on all Agency lines. Lang’s choices were a secluded place where he could be sure neither had been followed or a very crowded spot where
In 1989, Lang had seen his future in the Agency shrunk by the much-heralded Peace Dividend and changed by shifting priorities. Even the grime-encrusted office with a view of the
Bahnhof
in Frankfurt would be a source of nostalgia when he was forced to learn Arabic or Farsi and stationed in some place where a hundred-degree day seemed balmy. Dawn, his new bride, had drawn the line at including a floor-length burka in her trousseau.
He had taken his retirement benefits and retreated to law school.
Gurt, an East German refugee, had been a valued linguist, analyst and expert on the German Democratic Republic, who was also stuck in the Agency’s Third Directorate.
Gurt and Lang had joined several couples for a ski weekend in Garmish-Partenkirchen. In his mind, Gurt would always be associated with the Post Hotel, Bavarian food, and the slopes of the Zugspitze. The resulting affair had been hot enough to burn out a few months later when he met Dawn on a brief trip back to the States.
To Lang’s surprise and chagrin, Gurt had seemed more relieved than jilted. They had shared a friendship ever since, though, a relationship renewed as scheduling and posting allowed: an occasional drink in Frankfurt, a dinner in Lisbon until his resignation. By that time she was due a promotion to management, a result of the Agency’s begrudging and Congressionally mandated sexual egalitarianism more than her acknowledged abilities. Her talents were not limited to language but ranged from cryptography on the computer to marksmanship on the firing range.
On mature reflection, perhaps it was just as well Gurt did not take the end of their romance too seriously.
When Saint Peter’s was only a couple of blocks away, Michelangelo’s dome filling the northern horizon, Langlooked for a pay phone. He was thankful he wasn’t in one of those European countries where public phones are hoarded like treasures, available only in branches of the national postal system. In Rome, pay phones were plentiful if functioning ones were not. He had chosen this part of the city from which to phone. A trace of any call made from here would lead to one of the most heavily visited places in the world. Though not impossible, it would be difficult to pinpoint the specific location of any one phone quickly enough to catch someone involved in a conversation of only a couple of minutes.
If anyone were tracing the call.
He dialed the embassy number and listened to the creaks, groans and buzzing of the system.
When a voice answered in Italian, Lang asked for Ms. Fuchs in the trade section.
The voice smoothly transitioned to English. “May I tell her who is calling?”
“Tell her Lang Reilly’s in town and would like to buy her dinner.”
“Lang!” Gurt shouted moments later. If she wasn’t happy to hear from him, she had added acting to her list of achievements. “What carries you to Rome?”
Gurt still had not totally mastered the English idiom.
“What brought me here was seeing you again.”
She gave a giggle almost girlish in tone. “Still the
Shiest
. . . , er, thrower of bullshit, Lang.” He could imagine her cocking an eyebrow. “And have you brought your wife with you to see me?”
No way to explain without staying on the line a lot longer than he intended. “Not married anymore. You free for dinner?”
“For you, if not free, at least inexpensive.”
She had mastered lines that died with vaudeville.
They had no common history in Rome, no place hecould designate by reference in case someone was monitoring the perpetual tap on all Agency lines. Lang’s choices were a secluded place where he could be sure neither had been followed or a very crowded spot where
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