“Why don’t you take me along, darling? We could make love all night.”
“And bugger things up?”
She kissed him deeply and began to caress his penis, which had erected swiftly. She had that effect. To both of them, this time was known as the “quickie hour.” She kneeled, unbuttoned his pants, pulled them down, and began to administer fellatio.
He caressed her hair as she warmed to her work.
“Absolute wizard,” he whispered, feeling the full effect of her ministrations.
“In me, darling,” she said, after a few moments.
Then she moved to the couch, lifted her skirt, pulled down her panties, and inserted him from the rear. He seconded her quick climax, during which his hand covered her mouth. She tended to be a bit of a screamer, and they had worked out this method to ensure silence.
“I love it like this, darling,” she told him after they had rearranged their clothes. “So wonderfully impulsive.”
“Agreed,” he said.
Venue was always difficult in this crowded city, where living space was still hard to come by. She lived with two female roommates in an apartment house near Dupont Circle, and a hotel room would be too dangerously indiscreet. Their copulations of necessity took place in his car, his office, or on rare occasions, in apartments of his colleagues who were out on leave.
She had conspicuously avoided the L word, although her feelings were obvious. His were more physical than involving, and he loved burning both ends of the candle, regardless of gender. His discipline and focus on his mission were intense enough to quash any entangling and dangerous emotional involvements although he also knew he was prone to sexual risks. He supposed there were those in the embassy who suspected an affair, but her believable denials to her secretarial colleagues kept the confirmation unreliable.
“The first secretary is a family man; however, I would if asked.”
She told him this was her usual response when one or another of her colleagues broadly hinted at their suspected affair.
He knew, of course, that there were dark rumors that he was attracted to men as well. She had probed him on that point and would have gladly participated in a ménage à trois, but he denied the allegations. He had become very good at compartmentalizing, and Victoria was not the only extracurricular body he was involved with.
“You must have stashed another lover up there,” she would joke occasionally, about his frequent New York trips.
The joke did not hide a whiff of jealousy. He had the sense that her aggressive sexual repetitions on his return might be more of a test of his possible depletion than simple sexual enthusiasm. At those times, it was his turn to make jokes.
“Note that I always return with a full tank.”
“Contents noted. That’s why I always plan for a long drive when you return.”
“To prove speed,” he chortled.
“And endurance.”
His New York trips were not completely devoid of sexual experience. In his compartmentalized life, he saved New York for his taste for men. He had found that one gender actually enhanced the desire for the other.
One feasts on many flavors, he assured himself, proud of his capacity to perform.
His wife, Melinda, had been placed in yet another compartment. Their marriage had always been a bit rocky, but he did not want to upset that compartment, which might have caused unintended consequences. He was very careful about unintended consequences.
At this moment, he was priming Victoria for a special assignment. Churchill, who dictated his writings, including his speeches, had not, because of the personal expense, brought along his usual stenographers. He had, therefore, requested the services of the best typist and stenographer at the embassy. As first secretary, the request had come to him, and he seized the opportunity.
Victoria, whose stenographic and typing skills were superb, was a perfect choice for the role. She was also skilled and thick-skinned enough to take the old man’s legendary impatience.
Besides, he had been charged by his handlers to obtain a copy of the speech in advance. It occurred to him that at times unintended consequences were miraculous.
The early morning Congressional Limited to New York landed him at Penn Station at approximately eleven in the morning. In this period of transition, their method of communication was to meet at a series of out-of-the-way coffee shops in different parts of Manhattan. He was careful to arrange some appointments at the British consul’s office in the afternoon to add an official cover to his movements. If further discussion were needed with Volkov, they would meet again at a designated restaurant, but always in a public place. At night, he would sleep at his wife’s stepfather’s apartment on Park Avenue.
He had long ago developed a sixth sense regarding human surveillance and was well aware of all the accepted methods of physical avoidance. His mental antenna was always extended, and he never got careless or inattentive. Volkov, he knew, was a long-time Soviet operative whose cover was as a proprietor of a small stationery store in Greenwich Village, which Maclean had never visited. Nor was he curious as to how his information was transmitted to Moscow for analysis.
Volkov was thoroughly Americanized and, like Maclean, was a family man with two young children, a role that, if investigated, would be a perfect cover. While Maclean had never probed, Volkov told him he lived in a two-family house in a nondescript neighborhood in East New York. He admitted to having been born in Moscow and apparently had managed to get back a number of times both before and during the war. Beyond that, Maclean knew nothing of the man’s background, except that he was extraordinarily intelligent and well informed and undoubtedly, because of Maclean’s importance, held a very high rank in the NKVD.
Nothing was ever conveyed in writing between them, and they were extremely careful in their choice of conversational venues. Maclean was never addressed by his name, only his code name, “Homer.” Although obscure coffee shops and restaurants were useful, much information was always exchanged outdoors. Like Maclean, Volkov was equally skilled in countersurveillance. Both knew that American and British intelligence, while fairly sophisticated, could not match the Soviets in efficiency and scope. The Soviets had taken full advantage of their relationship with their allies. They were embedded everywhere.
They met at a coffee shop on Seventh Avenue a few blocks from Penn Station and slid into a back booth. New York was one of the few places in the world to have a plethora of coffee shops. Many had only counter service and were called “one-armed beaneries.” Some, like the one they were currently using, had a few booths available for table service. The agenda of their meeting was no secret to either of them.
“They are very concerned, Homer,” Volkov said, opening the conversation.
“Apparently so.”
“Above all, as I gather, they do not want public opinion to harden against us at this juncture.”
“Or at any juncture for that matter.”
“It is especially sensitive now,” Volkov said. “The Americans are still overwhelmingly pro-Russian. A change will come, I am sure, but at this moment, anything very negative is not propitious.”
When the waitress arrived, they stopped talking and ordered coffee and sandwiches, more as a cover than for eating.
“Have you his schedule?” Volkov asked.
“He will be staying at the embassy,” Maclean said. “The ambassador will not be happy; the man can be disruptive and imperious. Then he is set to go to St. Louis with the President by rail, then change trains to Jefferson City, then drive by car to Fulton to speak at the college on March 5.”