booze, to cars, and everything in between. The CIA was hesitant at first, but when Hurley explained that the venture would generate a profit and also enable them to find out which Communist Party officials were on the take, the powers that be back in Langley, Virginia, got out of his way.
LeFevre was amazed at the clubs he took her to. She did not think such places existed outside of Paris or New York—never in Moscow. After consuming large amounts of vodka they ended up back at Hurley’s apartment. Neither was very inhibited where sex was concerned, so they were naked within minutes. The next morning the reporter in LeFevre kicked in, and she began to ask a lot of questions. Hurley didn’t think his apartment was bugged, he knew it was bugged, and the people who bugged it knew that he knew. That was the way the game was played. After a few hand gestures he got her to understand that it wasn’t safe to talk in the apartment, so they went for a walk, and it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship that to Hurley’s great surprise ended up being about much more than just sex.
LeFevre was an intellectual dynamo with a tireless thirst for the truth and a mind that could quickly dissect the incongruities in an argument, movement, or philosophy. He remembered her saying on that walk, “If communism is so wonderful, then why must they force people to participate? If it is so wonderful, why do they control the press? Why do they have to spy on their own people?”
Hurley would have asked her to marry him right there on the spot, but he was already twice divorced and had come to the conclusion that marriage was not an institution he should participate in. His life was full of too many lies, too many late-night phone calls, too many sudden business trips where a long weekend turned into months away from his family, and worst of all too much death. LeFevre had somehow managed to make it work. She’d been married for eleven years and seemed to be happy, which sometimes irritated the heck out of Hurley.
He snagged a fresh cigarette and asked, “So how is your husband?”
Without bothering to look, LeFevre smacked him in the shoulder. “The last time I saw you, you promised you would put your jealous ways to bed.”
“I said I wanted to take you to bed. I never said anything about putting my jealous ways to bed.”
“You always want to take me to bed, so that is nothing new. As for my husband, he is fine.”
“And he’s home tonight . . . ?”
LeFevre folded her arms across her chest and leaned back. “Where he is, is none of your concern. I have told you before. We have an open relationship. He has his mistresses and I have you. As long as we are discreet there is not a problem.”
Hurley did his best to look wounded, and she laughed him off. “Are there any other men that I need to know about?”
“I have lost track, there have been so many, but you are definitely in the top five.”
Hurley felt his cell phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He snatched it out and looked at the caller ID. It came up as private. There was a good chance it was Stansfield. Hurley closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. He didn’t need HQ ruining a promising evening. Looking back at LeFevre, he said, “I’m sorry, where were we?”
“You were about to tell me about all the women you have been sleeping with.”
Hurley laughed. “There’s only you, baby.”
“I am not so naive. I know you too well. You are a very thirsty man. It would be impossible for you to be so saintly in between our rendezvous.”
Hurley was about to reply when the phone began to vibrate again. He checked the small screen and again it came up as private. He grunted disapprovingly and silenced it again. These new phones would be the end of him. Hurley detested the notion of his bosses’ being able to get hold of him whenever they wanted. He was used to going days, weeks, and sometimes even months without checking in with them. These phones were nothing more than a leash, and he had known it the first time they gave him one. He closed the phone, stuffed it back in his pocket, and forced a smile on his face. “I’m sorry, darling. I hate these things.”
“You are a man of international intrigue,” she said with a thin smile. “I would imagine the call might be important.”
“Not as important as you.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.” The phone began to vibrate for a third time. The smile melted off Hurley’s face and his chin dropped in frustration.
“I don’t want to see you this way,” Paulette said. “Take your call. Get it out of the way. I will go to the washroom and when I get back you will be relaxed again.”
Hurley nodded, knowing she was right. If the phone kept ringing he might kill someone. “Thank you.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and watched her slide out of the booth. Flipping it open, he pressed the green Send button and said, “This had better be good.”
The metallic voice on the other end said, “Don’t be a prima donna. I didn’t send you over there to ignore my calls.”
It was Stansfield. “And I’ve done just fine all these years without you snapping my leash every time the wind blows.” Hurley listened to silence for a long five seconds. He hated these damn phones. The call had probably dropped. He was about to hang up when he heard an uncharacteristically angry Stansfield begin to speak.
“Things have changed,” the old warrior snapped. “I’m on my way over in the morning. I want you to pull Victor and the boys immediately . . . stick them in a hotel and tell them I don’t want them to move unless I say so. Have I made myself clear?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got things under control. I don’t need any help.”
“And I don’t need you second-guessing me. There are things you don’t know. I will explain in the morning.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing,” Stansfield said. “Consider it an order to be followed precisely, as you should have done back in Beirut all those years ago. If there are any decisions that countermand my order between now and tomorrow morning you are done. Am I understood?”
