Authors: David Hagberg
Without Honor (27 page)
“Something happened to you in Mexico City, Evita,” he said. “Before you moved up to Washington. Before you got pregnant with Juanita. I think it's important.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she flared.
She was crashing from her coke high, and already she'd gone too far with him, answered too many of his questions, revealed too much of her past to him for her to stop now. Her resistance had very nearly totally collapsed.
It was a strange year during which she had tried to ingratiate herself with her family, she said. She spent a lot of time with her mother and with her sister. But it wasn't the same any longer, and she'd known at the time that she had crossed some invisible bridge, not only because she had married an American, but because of her infidelity. Her mother had looked into her eyes and had seen as clearly as if it was written there. It was a thing she was incapable of hiding from someone who had known her so well. Her sister knew or suspected, too, that something was amiss. She became terribly busy that year, too busy with her own family for Evita, which added still another burden in a load that was rapidly becoming impossible to hold up let alone carry. “Get on your knees and ask forgiveness from God,” her mother told her. But by then she figured it was already too late for her. She was a spy and an adultress. How could there be any forgiveness for her? For a time she traveled, moving from their city house to their mountain chalet, where she would stay for a month or a week or sometimes for just a day. Then she would pack a few things in her sports car and drive recklessly fast down to their house on the sea, where
she would isolate herself even from the house staff, sometimes remaining in her room for days on end, eating only a small meal every second or third day so that she lost a lot of weight. She began to be sick all the time. Her movements became erratic. She traveled all over Mexico. Sometimes staying at their homes, sometimes in luxury hotels, sometimes in terrible, dirty, bug-infested village inns from which she would come away even sicker than before. She was trying to find herself. Trying to make some sense out of her life. And not doing a very good job of it.
she would isolate herself even from the house staff, sometimes remaining in her room for days on end, eating only a small meal every second or third day so that she lost a lot of weight. She began to be sick all the time. Her movements became erratic. She traveled all over Mexico. Sometimes staying at their homes, sometimes in luxury hotels, sometimes in terrible, dirty, bug-infested village inns from which she would come away even sicker than before. She was trying to find herself. Trying to make some sense out of her life. And not doing a very good job of it.
McGarvey didn't know how he could help her. He wanted to reach out and take her into his arms and hold her close and tell her that those times were long past, that memories alone could not hurt her, not really. But he suspected she was beyond even that sort of comfort.
Evita was staring past him into the fireplace, her eyes filling, tears running slowly down her cheeks as she relived the personal hell she'd been subjected to. She could have been alone in the room for all that she was aware of his presence.
“Evita?” he said gently.
She blinked and nodded.
“I was no longer a mexicana, don't you see?” she said. “I had lost my country, but I hadn't found a new home. Not yet. I was alone. Drifting. Darby and Valentin had both left me, though I hadn't realized it yet.” She closed her eyes.
“What happened to you down there?”
“I got my education, didn't you hear?” she whispered. “I saw my family and my country as a gringo would see them, as a foreigner would see them, and what I found wasn't very pretty. Especially the part where everyone was looking back at me. I had become a stranger in my own land, and my own people looked at me like I was a foreigner. I'd been to the north and to the south. I'd been west to the
Pacific and to the ancient East. But there was nothing left for me. Nothing at all.” She held out her glass. “I'd like more champagne.”
Pacific and to the ancient East. But there was nothing left for me. Nothing at all.” She held out her glass. “I'd like more champagne.”
“Don't you have a show tonight?” McGarvey asked.
“More.”
McGarvey poured her another glass of wine and brought it back to her. He lit her a cigarette. He was getting a little worried about her. Between the wine and the cocaine she was very strung out.
“What happened, Evita?” he asked. “What did they do to you down there?”
“I walked in on Valentin and Darby,” she said. “They were together in my bed making love to each other.”
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McGarvey had expected almost anything except that, but although he was startled he did not allow it to show on his face. Baranov was a powerful man. He'd heard it a dozen different ways now, and still he had not begun to suspect just how powerful and dedicated a man the Russian was until now. Baranov had got Yarnell to spy for him and had then cemented the relationship by seducing first his wife and then Yarnell himself. He had ruined them both as a couple and both, ultimately, as individuals. Yarnell the superstar had met his match, and Evita the naive little Mexican princess had succumbed simply as a matter of course. Her turning had to have been ridiculously easy. Hardly a challenge for the likes of Yarnell or Baranov. Yet they had taken the time and effort to do it. Why? Yarnell because he wanted an image during his tenure in Mexico. But why Baranov? What more could he have hoped to have gained by seducing first the wife and then the husband ⦠unless Yarnell had made a desperate attempt to control the situation instead of himself being controlled? If that had been his battle, he had
lost. Yet later, in Washington and then in Moscow, Yarnell had comported himself as the perfect spy. He hardly faltered. By then Baranov's control had probably been so utterly complete that Yarnell was no longer even thinking for himself. And poor little Evita had been left behind in the dust. So why pick on her again? She'd said Baranov had been here less than a year ago.
lost. Yet later, in Washington and then in Moscow, Yarnell had comported himself as the perfect spy. He hardly faltered. By then Baranov's control had probably been so utterly complete that Yarnell was no longer even thinking for himself. And poor little Evita had been left behind in the dust. So why pick on her again? She'd said Baranov had been here less than a year ago.
“He wanted Darby and me to get back together,” she said. “Because we both needed each other, we both were drifting and there was more to life than that. He came here in the middle of the night and let himself in. The first I knew he was here was when I woke up with him in bed beside me. And we made love. He still knows me. Knows my body, which buttons to push, which chains to rattle. And I enjoyed it, do you understand? It was wonderful. Had he asked me, I would have run off with him anywhere. Even to Moscow.”
“But he didn't ask.”
“No.”
“What then, Evita? Why did he come here? What did he want?”
She looked away.
“What did he say to you?”
“He told me about you.”
“By name?”
“No. He said that someone who had once been in the Company would be coming around asking questions about him and about Darby. He was specific in that you no longer worked for the Company. You don't, do you?”
“No,” McGarvey said.
“He told me that I should tell you everything. That I should be completely honest with you.”
“Except about his visit.”
She closed her eyes. “He never knew that I saw him and Darby together. He knows everything except
for that. It's been my own secret.”
for that. It's been my own secret.”
She was getting back at Baranov. Now, after all these years, she had finally struck a blow at the man who in her estimation had ruined her marriage. It was the real reason she had talked to McGarvey. Or at least one of the reasons. There was another. Fear.
“Now he wants Juanita, doesn't he?”
Evita opened her eyes. “You bastard!” she said with a lot of feeling. “You sonofabitch! You're all alike.”
“Darby will give her up to save his own position and you know it.”
“She's all that's left, don't you see? Darby went up to school and charmed her. She fell under his spell, and she never comes here anymore, never calls, never writes.”
“Then we'll have to stop them both. You'll help me.”
“It's impossible. They're old pros, both of them. What chance would I have? What chance did I ever have?”
“None, unless you try.”
“Try,” she said disdainfully. Her lower lip was quivering again. “You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know them. Darby alone could have held the Alamo. With Valentin's help they're impossible to beat. They know everything. They've each got their armies. Impossible.”
McGarvey could hear again Darrel Owens's words about his young protégé, bitter words that had still, after all that had gone on, after all the years, been tinged with open admiration. It was the same now with Evita. After everything that had been done to her, she'd still made love quite willingly with Baranov, and she still had a great deal of awe, fear, and respect for her ex-husband. Darby Yarnell was simply the very best there ever was, Owens had said. No one could resist his charm. What a powerful
weapon he'd been and continued to be in Baranov's arsenal. And now Yarnell had the ear of the director of Central Intelligence and the president of the United States. It was frightening. Such men did not fall easily.
weapon he'd been and continued to be in Baranov's arsenal. And now Yarnell had the ear of the director of Central Intelligence and the president of the United States. It was frightening. Such men did not fall easily.
“There can't be a trial, Kirk,” Trotter had said in Switzerland. “It would be ten thousand times worse than Watergate. It would tear the country apart. The CIA would go down the tubes, and even the president would suffer. We'd be years recuperating. Perhaps we'd never fully recover.”
“We're talking about murder, here, John, aren't we?” McGarvey had said. “About the assassination of a former U.S. senator. One of the most influential men in Washington.” It had only been a notion then, now it was becoming a dreadful reality.
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The band was still practicing downstairs, and Evita got unsteadily to her feet and went to the sideboard as she sang a few off-key words to the song. She poured herself another glass of champagne and then stood looking out the window at the street below.
“I think it is enough now,” she said without turning. “I'd like you to go. There's nothing to be done. Nothing I can help you with.”
But there was one last thing McGarvey had to know. Baranov was Yarnell's Soviet control officer, but Yarnell had someone here in Washington. He'd had someone in Washington all along. Someone within the CIA. At the upper echelons. Someone like Lawrence Danielle, who would have access to Operations, and who would also have a direct pipeline down to Archives. Someone who had been betraying his country all these years just as Yarnell had, or had perhaps unwittingly been a betrayer if he had simply been outmaneuvered as Darrel Owens had been. “There was someone else in Mexico City, Evita.
Another American. Someone Baranov had cultivated just as he had cultivated Darby.”
Another American. Someone Baranov had cultivated just as he had cultivated Darby.”
“There were many of them,” she said softly.
“This one in particular would have been young. Another whiz kid like Darby, perhaps. Someone for whom Valentin might have had a great deal of respect.”
She turned around. Her tears had stopped, but her eyes were red and her complexion wan.
“Maybe he was in Mexico City for a short time. Darby would have known him, or known of him. He would have respected the man. And Baranov would have treated him as a special case. Does that ring a bell, Evita? Was there anyone like that in those days that you can remember? Someone you met, perhaps, at a party or a reception? Someone Baranov may have mentioned, just in passing?”
She was remembering. He could see it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders. It was coming back to her. She was returning to those days and nights in Mexico, when her life at the start, to hear her tell it, had been a long fairy-tale dream that in the end turned into a nightmare. But for a while all of Mexico was at her and Darby's feet.
“There was someone else,” she said. “Just once. It was very early on. Darby and I had just gotten married, and we'd just opened our beach house north of Acapulco. There was a party.”
Her voice was soft. He had to strain to hear her. She came back to the couch and sat down. He lit her a cigarette, and she pulled the smoke deeply into her lungs, exhaling slowly. Her cocaine high had completely left her, and her eyes had grown dull.
“There were a lot of people at this party?” he prompted.
“A lot of Valentin's friends. Most of them I'd never seen. And there were girls, too. Always girls.”
“Girls?” McGarvey asked. “What girls?”
“Whores from Mexico City. High-priced call girls. Prime beef. The very best. Nothing was too good for Valentin's friends. Nothing. The best of everything.”
“Did this always happen? The girls at the parties?”
“Not always. But sometimes Valentin or Darby wanted to impress someone so they'd bring the women. At the time I was very naive about it. I thought they were models or movie actresses or something like that. I didn't know they'd been paid to go to bed with Valentin's friends.”
It had been the proverbial honey trap. In those days the Russians used it all the time. If they wanted to turn a man they'd arrange for him to be seduced (Americans seemed the easiest to burn), during which time they'd take photographs and make audio tapes of course. Outwardly, morality ran high in the States in those days, so that trap worked very well.
“And there was one American in particular that night?” McGarvey asked. “You met him? You were introduced? Perhaps you can remember a name, even a first name, or his face? Anything?”
But she had not actually seen the man, though she had heard his voice. It was late, probably after one in the morning when Darby, who had been talking with Valentin in the corner for nearly an hour, broke away and came over to her. The lights were low, the music soft and already a lot of the men had paired off with the whores, some of whom had gone out to the changing house by the pool, while others had simply wandered off into the gardens or down to the beach. The guest house in back was reserved always for special guests. The entire cottage was set up with the photographic and recording equipment, all of it evidently state of the art at the time. Anything that went on inside the cottage, even in the bathrooms, no matter the light conditions,
would be picked up. It was the perfect setup. “I saw some of the photographs that came out of that place, and let me tell you they left nothing for the imagination, nothing at all.” They'd burned a lot of people there, and they were proud of their accomplishment. “But I wasn't. I thought what they were doing was despicable. Of course, that was later, you understand. At the time we're talking about I had no idea what was going on. Darby just broke away from Valentin, came over to me, and we started dancing. He was holding me close, whispering in my ear, kissing my neck. It didn't take very long and we were upstairs on the balcony making love.”
would be picked up. It was the perfect setup. “I saw some of the photographs that came out of that place, and let me tell you they left nothing for the imagination, nothing at all.” They'd burned a lot of people there, and they were proud of their accomplishment. “But I wasn't. I thought what they were doing was despicable. Of course, that was later, you understand. At the time we're talking about I had no idea what was going on. Darby just broke away from Valentin, came over to me, and we started dancing. He was holding me close, whispering in my ear, kissing my neck. It didn't take very long and we were upstairs on the balcony making love.”
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