Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,2
the most simple assignment for the CIA could metamorphose into something with complications, ones that could lead to injury or even death. All she had to do was think back on her recently concluded assignment in Paris to recognize how true this was.
As she sat on the passenger train barreling north from Washington, D.C., to New York City, she acknowledged that things were slightly different now. In Paris, she had been a neophyte, completely out of her depth in the world of spies, counterspies, and assassins. Now that she was beginning recruit training at the Farm, the CIA’s code name for its spy school at Camp Peary, she had actual training to draw on. But she still had a lot to learn and worried that a situation might come up that she wouldn’t be able to handle. At the same time, she had faith in her natural instincts and native intelligence to get her out of any scrape that might arise.
Once the train arrived at Pennsylvania Station, Jackie exited the building on the Seventh Avenue side, admiring the beaux arts architecture that made it one of the most beautiful railroad stations she had ever been in, and that included the Gare de Lyon in Paris. It was a beautiful spring day, and she was wearing a stylish black dress that caught the attention of many a male passerby on the busy street.
Following directions, Jackie walked up Seventh Avenue and found herself right in the middle of the Garment District, where men pushed wheeled racks of clothes through the streets at breakneck speeds, secretaries ran errands to the staccato tempo of their high heels striking the pavement, and rag merchants argued volubly right there on the sidewalk with the intensity of Talmudic scholars. She located the address she was searching for and entered a building that looked like it had already been old around the time of the Draft Riot during the Civil War. Inside, there was a cage elevator, obviously newer than the building but still looking old and rickety, so Jackie decided not to risk it and took the stairs instead.
On the third floor, she sought out the office in question, knocked, and entered. The room held several battered pieces of office furniture that looked like they might have gone a couple of rounds with Jack Dempsey. Standing by one desk was a balding, bulbous-nosed, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit. On the desk in front of him were a pitcher of water and a bottle of seltzer. As Jackie watched, he poured some water into a glass, then picked up the bottle of seltzer and spritzed a little into the water, which he stirred with a spoon. He then held up the glass to her and said, “Would you care for a two cents plain? It’s very refreshing.” There was the hint of an Eastern European accent to his speech.
“No, thank you,” said Jackie, “I never drink seltzer. It gives me gas,” wincing at the other half of the nonsensical password.
The man drank from the glass, then put it down. “This is for you,” he said, opening a drawer and taking out something that he placed on the desktop for Jackie to see. Francophile that she was, she recognized the object immediately. It was a classic leather Hermès sac à dépêches handbag, which the company had been making since the midthirties. Was this the package she had come all this way to retrieve, Jackie wondered to herself. She could hardly believe it.
The man opened the bag to show that it was empty. “Now, please,” he said, “put your bag in here.”
Jackie had also been instructed to bring with her a small bag or purse. She now placed her bag inside the Hermès bag, glad to see that it fit perfectly.
The man looked intently at her. Jackie wondered if she had done something wrong. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Have you ever done any runway work? Because I could always use a new model. We’re showing our winter line in a few weeks, and we’re short a model or two.”
“Sorry,” Jackie said, “but I already have a job. I’m a photographer.”
“Then maybe you’ll come back and take photographs of our show.”
“Maybe,” Jackie said in as noncommittal a fashion as possible.
She picked up the Hermès bag and said, “Thank you,” then headed for the door. As she turned the doorknob, the man called out to her, “Be sure not to lose it.”