We said a very polite good-bye, almost as if we scarcely knew each other. I took my Kit and a single suitcase and climbed into my car. There was a fresh breeze blowing and the street was filled with whirling storms of red and yellow leaves.
Louise came out of the house and I wound down the car window. “I’ll call when I get there,” I told her.
She nodded, but said nothing.
“You know that I haven’t stopped loving you, don’t you?”
“Love doesn’t mean anything without trust, Jim.”
“I’m sorry. I never wanted to have a double life. I just wanted to spend all of my time with you.”
“You can’t, though, can you?”
“No,” I admitted.
I sat there for a little while longer. Louise started to shiver, so I started up the engine and said, “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”
“No you won’t.”
At Christmas I flew out to San Diego to see my father. Earlier that year he had sold the house in Mill Valley and moved south to Rancho Santa Fe, a small retirement community in the hills near Escondido. It was very quiet here, and the weather was always warm, and there was a strong fragrance of eucalyptus in the air.
He lived in a small Spanish-style cottage with a walled garden filled with flowers. He was white-haired now, but the sunshine and the gentle lifestyle had been kind to him. We sat on the red-tiled veranda on Christmas morning, drinking champagne and orange juice.
“You don’t want to get the sun on those burns of yours,” he cautioned me.
“They’re healing, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”
“Still can’t tell me what happened?”
“Secret stuff. Sorry.”
“Goddamned oppressive interfering government. If a son can’t even tell his own father how he ended up with burns all over his mush. ”
“Just like you never told me the truth about what happened to Mom.”
He looked at me over his half-glasses. “You know about that?”
I nodded. “Let’s just put it this way. what I was doing in England, that was connected with that. And a debt got repaid. That’s all I can tell you.”
“I see. Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t see.”
He sipped his champagne and orange juice for a while. Then without another word he got up from his chair and went into the living room. It was cool in there, with a draft that stirred the zigzag-patterned drapes. Most of the ornaments and pictures were familiar to me from the house in Mill Valley, although there were quite a few photographs that I didn’t recognize.
Dad sat down at the piano and started to play.
“ ‘Who made doina?
The small mouth of a baby
Left asleep by his mother
Who found him singing the doina.’
Remember that one? Your mother loved that one.”
On top of the piano stood a framed photograph of a handsome-looking woman in a smartly pressed US Army uniform. One hand was raised to shield her eyes from the sun. The other was holding the collar of a glossy-looking bloodhound.
“Who’s this?” I asked my father.
He carried on playing — very softly, his wrinkled hands barely touching the keys, as if he were remembering the music in his mind, rather than listening to it. “That? That’s Margot Kettner. Friend of your mom’s, during the war.”
“That’s a bloodhound. A man-trailer.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know. All I know is, Margot Kettner and your mom, they were very close.”
“I never heard her mention any Margot Kettner.”
“More than likely you weren’t listening.”
I put the photograph back on top of the piano. “No, Dad, you’re right. I probably wasn’t. You know me.”
A Postcard from England, 1961
I settled down in Kenwood Hill, Louisville, under the name William Crowe. They gave me a new social-security number and a new bank account and even a new passport. I started up a freelance business consultancy, pretty much along the lines of the work I had been doing before I was sent to England.
I made friends, I joined a couple of local charities, I played golf at Quail Chase. I dated a few women, and with one of them (a vivacious redhead called Mandy Ridgway) I had a long and serious relationship that almost went as far as marriage. Somehow, though, I could never bring myself to make the commitment. Every time I thought about marriage I thought about my Kit, lying on the top shelf of my bedroom closet, and the possibility that I might be called on to use it again.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Mandy, one September evening in 1961, as we sat in Stan’s Fish Sandwich on Lexington Road, eating rolled oysters.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s always like there’s something on your mind. Something private. Something that’s worrying you.”
“Such as what?”
“You tell me. But wherever we go, you’re always looking around you, like you’re checking everybody out. Look — you’re doing it now. You’re not looking at me, you’re looking over my shoulder.”
“Sorry. It’s a bad habit, that’s all. Guess I’m just nosey.”
She reached across the table and held my hand. “There’s something else, too. A couple of times lately you’ve been talking in your sleep.”
“Oh, really? Don’t tell me I’ve been calling out another woman’s name.”
“Not unless ‘Duca’ is a woman.”
The next morning, I opened up my mailbox and found a plain yellow envelope in it, postmarked Washington, DC. Inside was a compliments slip from MI6 in London, and a picture postcard of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, with an improbably blue sky.
The postcard was dated June 12, 1961, so it had taken nearly three months to reach me. Presumably it had been vetted by MI6 and then by US counterintelligence before it had been decided that it was harmless, and that they could send it on.
The writing was loopy, in smudged purple ink. “Dear Jim, Even after all this time I still think of you. I am so sorry for the way things turned out. Poor Bullet died late last year. I would love to know how you are. Yours, Jill.”
I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach, very hard. I sat down at the kitchen table just as Mandy came in, tightening the belt of her robe. “Jim? Are you OK?”
“Sure. I’m fine.”
“I was thinking maybe we could go to Shakertown today. You’ve never been, have you? It’s really fascinating. Actually, I have an unnatural craving for a slice of their lemon pie. I hope I’m not pregnant.”
“Not today, Mandy, OK? Something just came up.”
She came over and sat on my lap and kissed my ear. “I certainly hope so,” she said, suggestively.
It was Jill herself who opened the front door. Her hair was different, flicked up like a tulip, and she was wearing a tight white sweater and a russet-colored tweed skirt. She looked even more beautiful than I had remembered her — dark-skinned, with those dark feline eyes, and those full, suggestive lips.
“Jim!” she said, in total shock, and clapped her hand to her mouth.
“Hey, I got your postcard,” I told her, holding it up. “I thought of writing back — but then I thought — nah, I’ll come over to see you instead.”
She rushed out of the doorway and threw her arms around me and kissed me. I felt like I was in one of those ridiculously romantic TV commercials. But she felt so good, and she smelled so good, and she seemed to be so delighted to see me, that I really didn’t care.