Undeceived (9 page)

Hate. My mind is filled with hate. You and your kind have taken everything from me. And now? Now, you’ve taken my love. Quite literally, taken her forever. Why did you do it? You didn’t have to do it. My handler has summoned me, but I’m not going to him. He says I’m still to bring you to him, but I don’t know if that’s possible anymore. I don’t know what to do with this rage inside me. But I swear on all that is holy, I will make you pay.

Chapter 14

West Berlin, twelve hours later

“Stupid, arrogant jerk!” Elizabeth Bennet muttered for the umpteenth time as she alternated between pacing the hallway outside the operating room and flopping into a chair and gnawing on the tip of her thumb, a childhood habit that reappeared under times of extreme duress.

Why didn’t he stay away from the drop like he was supposed to? Why didn’t he stay put in his apartment like Fitz said the deputy director told him? They had been less than five minutes away from him for Pete’s sake!

By a stroke of pure luck, she met up with Fitz barely a block from the little café across from Darcy’s flat. Somehow, he had obtained carte blanche from MI6 to provide Darcy assistance and rescue if need be. Fitz was the one who remembered the old safe house location, so thank God she had run into him. On her own, she might never have found Darcy in time. And who knows what would have happened to him? Or to her, for that matter.

Bottom line? He never should have gone to the drop in person. She could almost hear his haughty voice, “
Spy Rule Number Eighteen: Let the cutouts do their work, and you do yours.”
It was unlike him to make that kind of mistake. Unless, of course, it was no mistake.

This would be a black eye on the whole field office and taint her by association. She and Fitz had saved Darcy from the Stasi at least, but Fitz had to burn an asset, one of his precious border guards on the take, in order to do it. To add insult to injury, this particular border guard had been a Stasi-planted officer, put in the guard to spy on his comrades. That is, until Fitz had turned him into a British asset. It was a tremendous loss; that officer helped the British spirit a lot of people back and forth between East and West Berlin.

She put her hands on her knees and stood—resigned yet determined to face the music. It might not be her screw up, but she knew there would be consequences to this latest turn of events—significant repercussions on her career, regardless of what part she had or hadn’t played. She made her way to the elevator, descended to the lobby, and headed out into the night. After rounding the corner, she entered a public phone booth and made her call.

“
M
ü
ller
,” said a friendly female voice on the other end.

“Good evening. I need to speak with George Wickham,” Elizabeth said in German.

“Mr. Wickham is having his dinner,” the voice replied, considerably less friendly now.

“Well, tell him it’s urgent, will you?”

“Something wrong at the factory?”

“Fraulein, you can say that again.”

Elizabeth heard the woman cover the phone with her hand and call for George.

“Wickham.”

“George. I hope your pretty German mistress isn’t listening in on the line. She seemed none too pleased to call you to the phone.”

“Well, hello, darling. I thought I told you never to call me here,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

“Ha-ha. Look—we have a problem.”

“Oh? A problem with what?”

“With the target.”

“Did he muss his tuxedo? Spill his martini? Lose his medal?”

Elizabeth ignored the sarcasm. “As we speak, Single Man is in a West Berlin hospital in critical condition because an asset tried to kill him this morning. Damn near succeeded too.”

“You don’t say?” Wickham actually sounded intrigued at the news.

“In addition, getting him out cost MI6 one of their best border guards.”

“Unfortunate, but it happens on occasion.”

“Don’t joke about this! I could have been arrested today!”

“You’re right.” Wickham lowered his voice in an attempt to soothe her. “You’re absolutely right. Now, tell me what happened.”

“Darcy told me there was a sniper waiting for him at the drop, but the shooter missed.”

“Why was he at the drop anyway?”

“Why?” Elizabeth paused. “Hell, I don’t know why!”

“Piss-poor sniper if you ask me. Then what?”

“He went to his flat. That’s where he was shot.”

“By who?”

“The asset, Anneliese Vandenburg. At least, I believe it was her. Darcy called her ‘Natalia’ but—”

“What makes you think it was Vandenburg?”

“She didn’t show up for work today. Believe me, it would take some earth-shattering event to keep her out of that theater when she was the star of the show. I knew something was up, so I went to look for him. I saw the goons outside his building. I heard the shots, for heaven’s sake!” Her voice began to wobble.

“Okay, okay. So then you went into the flat?”

“No, Fitz and I found him in a safe house a few blocks away. Before he lost consciousness, Darcy tried to tell me there’s a traitor on the loose. He said his assailant said a name—Wilhelm.”

Silence on the other end.

“Did you hear me?” Elizabeth asked with impatience.

“I did.”

“You know what that means don’t you?”

“What do
you
think it means?”

“That this whole line of internal investigation is for naught. We’ve been barking up the wrong tree all this time—since Budapest.” She kicked the wall of the phone booth.

“Did we recover this dead Natalia? Can we verify her identity?”

“No, we left her behind. Had to. We barely got him across the checkpoint still breathing.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Do you mean about the shooter left behind, the border guard lost, or about Darcy still breathing?”

“Tsk, tsk, Ms. Bennet. That’s no way to talk about our hero. Of course, I mean the girl. The border guard is MI6’s loss, not ours.”

“Just making sure I understand. Still not sure I believe you.”

“We still don’t have any information that would clear Darcy of suspicion.”

“Go on.”

“Here’s what I think
really
happened. I told you that day in West Berlin that Vandenburg was the one in danger, remember?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“So Darcy arrives in East Berlin and within days, he puts the Stasi on Vandenburg’s trail. She’s a traitor to her country, right? They’ll want her stopped. Over the next month or so, they plan to get rid of her, but then she gets wind that the Stasi are on to her—she thinks she’s being followed, sees her place has been searched—and she contacts Darcy for help. After all he’s American, he’s her lover, and she thinks she can trust him.”

“Yes, okay.”

“Now the Stasi have to move immediately. She’s getting ready to flee the country. So Darcy gets his orders. He has to dispose of her before she goes to the West again.”

“I suppose it could have happened that way.”

“You’re the cutout, but Darcy knows where the drop is, right?”

“Right, but the sniper—”

“Damn it, Lizzy! He
made up
the story about the sniper! The sniper was for Anneliese; he set the whole thing up to ice her when she checked the drop. But then the stupid sniper missed her. She runs to Darcy’s place, so he has to do the dirty work and finish the job himself. He kills her in the end, but she goes down shooting and takes a piece of him before she goes.”

Elizabeth considered. It made a certain amount of sense, but something felt off—from the vehemence in Wickham’s tone to his unwillingness to consider any other scenario. “Again, George, why? The name she gave him was Wilhelm. He told us that. If Darcy’s the double agent, why would he give us his own name?”

“A diversion—to throw us off his trail.”

“You didn’t see him today. I doubt he had the wherewithal to even consider his trail. He was going into shock when we found him.”

“My opinion? The KGB told him to kill her, so he did. Darcy is ruthless. Don’t forget what he did to Jirina.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the story.”

“You know what she meant to me.”

“I’ve heard that too, several times—how wonderful she was, how brilliant, how you loved her.”

“Darcy may not have actually pulled the trigger, but he was responsible for Jirina’s death nonetheless. He led her on with misinformation designed to cover his own tracks. He sent her on a wild goose chase that got her killed.”

She didn’t want to get him started on another one of those rants. “So what do you want me to do now? I can’t very well gather information on a comatose officer. Seems pointless.”

“You can, and you will. Wait around the hospital. See who tries to contact him. Guard him from the KGB. We want him alive so he can pay for his crimes when the time comes. I’m going to arrange it with the director for you to remain in West Berlin and follow our target wherever he ends up after he recovers—if he recovers. My guess is they’ll bring him back to Washington as soon as they can. Keep your secrets close to your vest. We don’t want to chance him knowing we’re so close to the truth.”

Elizabeth snorted in frustration. She was tired of this—tired of Darcy and tired of Wickham’s tunnel-vision vengeance. There was a real secret war out here, and instead of helping win it, she had spent the last eight months babysitting William Darcy, an egotistical, demoted station chief, and nursing the bitter spirit of George Wickham, a demoted case officer.

But Wickham—and the director—had plucked her out of a whole class of recruits for this counterintelligence mission, one that any new graduate would be thrilled to get. She owed it to them to finish the job, and finish it she would.

“I guess this means I’m going back to the States.”

“I’ll keep you posted. For now, just relax. You’re safe and sound in West Berlin.”

“You’re the boss.”

“I thought we were a team.”

“Sure.” But she was starting to have her doubts.

“Lizzy?”

“Yes?”

“Stay alert. Keep your eyes peeled. Keep those reports coming. I know it’s a lot of watching and waiting, but it will be worth it in the end. You’re serving the agency well. We need people with their heads on straight, and that’s you in a nutshell. Good luck.”

“Yes, sir.” Elizabeth hung up.

Exiting the phone booth, she crossed the street and entered a quiet pub. It was raining when she emerged from the hospital, and even though it had stopped, the street was dotted with puddles that reflected the streetlights like mirrors. As the cars went through them, the sound of water being displaced hissed into the cool dark.

Sitting alone at the window, she watched the evening traffic drift by. If Wickham was right about Darcy, they were closer to finally snagging an agency mole, someone who threatened the lives of every officer in the European division. So why couldn’t she dismiss this nagging apprehension in the back of her mind?

Sure, Darcy rubbed her the wrong way from the start. Like she’d told Fitz that day in Volkspark Friedrichshain, Elizabeth first laid eyes on him when he gave the lecture at The Farm. If she were honest, she’d admit she let her eyes linger on him too. She would have been dead
not
to notice the tall man with the rangy build, the brooding expression, and a rich baritone that rumbled in a girl’s ears. Then he insulted her and the entire class. Strike One against the London Fog.

Months later, when Elizabeth arrived in Budapest, she was determined to show him she had the right stuff to be a field officer. Oh,
she
remembered
him
from that day at The Farm, but when they met again at the Hungarian ambassador’s party, he hadn’t even recognized her. It annoyed her even more. Strike Two.

The first night in Hungary was memorable, an exercise in personal and professional embarrassment. She was in her first grown-up cocktail dress. Darcy wore a tuxedo and ordered a martini, like an overused spy novel trope. The beautiful ambassador’s wife at his elbow made the stereotype complete.

Just out of training, Elizabeth’s head was filled with her new orders from the director. Part of the cover story included Darcy “meeting” her at this party and striking up a conversation. That meant he’d have to publicly ditch the stunner with the flaxen hair and svelte figure, which was a stretch in Elizabeth’s opinion. Even though she never thought of herself as ugly or even just plain, men didn’t turn away blonde bombshells for cute, little Elizabeth Bennet with her ski jump nose dusted in freckles, and her average bust size and height.

Darcy played his part well, however, doing a double take when he saw her at the other end of the bar. She played her part too, pulling out a cigarette and turning expectantly to the portly bearded fellow beside her. The poor man blushed a bright shade of red and dug frantically in his pockets for a light, but it was Darcy, aka Darby Kent, who gallantly stepped between them and offered a burst of flame, both from his sterling silver lighter and his bedroom eyes. The small-town girl hidden inside the newly minted officer giddily accepted the light, the conversation he initiated, and the invitation to dance a few minutes later. She felt extremely proud of her undercover expertise so far.

But he ruined her spy-girl buzz when he tugged her close against him, leaned down and murmured low in her ear, “If you’re going to pretend to smoke one of those cheap, foul-smelling cancer-sticks, you’ll have to do more than sit there holding it while it stinks up the air around the entire table. For God’s sake, take a drag off the thing every once in a while.”

Strike Three.

Her look of shock must have been priceless, because he grinned at her and pulled her back against him, whispering, “Masterful expression of ‘shocked, yet intrigued.’ You look like I just proposed you do something salaciously scandalous.” He trailed his fingers down her bare back and flattened his palm against her spine just above her derriere, making her blood simmer.

Jerk.

After the dance, he led her off the floor, gave a flick of a gesture to his host, and hustled her out the door and into his car.

That was Elizabeth Bennet’s first up close encounter with “the London Fog.”

From that moment on, the tone of their interactions was set. He lorded his knowledge and experience over her head with all his stupid-ass “Spy Rule Number 8000 whatever.” She, in turn, needled him like an annoying insect every chance she got.

The first month had been rough, but over time, she thought he’d started to depend on her. He needed her to communicate with Hungarian assets and enemies, and he’d come to rely on her pithy wit for his amusement. At least, that was her impression because he appeared to enjoy goading her.

During the ensuing months they worked together in Budapest, and later in East Berlin, she had developed a grudging respect for Darcy’s skill as an officer, even if he might be a double agent. Most of the time, she didn’t know what to think. He often seemed on the up and up, but that would be the mark of a good mole, would it not?

And then there was the way he changed his entire appearance between assignments. That lean, dangerous, intellectual persona he cultivated in East Berlin fascinated her. She caught herself watching him as he talked to Anneliese outside the theater, or when he appeared suddenly to “walk her home” after rehearsals. Seeing him interact with Fitz brought out glimmers of a complex man underneath all the subterfuge. Darcy was arrogant, blunt, and dismissive, but he could also be kind, sympathetic, and complimentary. Who could blame her if she found all those contradictions sexy as hell?

Of course, Wickham always gave her a good dose of reality whenever she checked in. William Darcy played the espionage game better than almost anyone, and Wickham wouldn’t let her forget it. She was grateful for that reminder. It helped keep her priorities in line—and her naughty dreams at bay.

Darcy had almost gotten himself, and quite possibly her own self, killed today. “Stupid, arrogant jerk,” she muttered again, all her resentment bubbling back up to the surface like the sticky foam on her dark German beer.

Elizabeth finished her meal, paid her check, and made her way back to the hospital waiting room.

The doctor was speaking with Fitzwilliam—in a mixture of English and German—about Darcy’s condition. Fitz turned to her as she approached, and he nodded toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

“He’s still in recovery, but if you identify yourself to the nurse and the guard outside the door, they’ll let you in to see him.”

When she entered the room, the beeping of the monitors and machines filled the air. She approached him, taking in the long, lean form stretched out on a white hospital bed. Tubes came out of his mouth. An IV flowed from his wrist. Bandages covered his right side just below the rib cage, and his right arm was immobilized. He was deathly pale, his dark hair matted against his head, stubble just beginning to appear on his jaw.