Chapter 1

 

Budapest, November 5th, 1956

 

She, bound in manacles, would be hanging from the ceiling if not for her precarious stance on either of two chairs; two chairs places as far apart as could be while still allowing a foot perched on each one. Knowing all along if she should slip, she'd swing by her arms, wrists cutting into the irons until her captor would decide to lower her back to the floor.

His whip cracked by her right ear. Despite knowing it would, sooner or later, she almost lost her foothold as she jerked to the opposite direction away from the sound

It was a large, if drab, office on the top floor of the dreaded address 60 Stalin Street, know to all as the house of terror; the address where dissidents are taken for questioning before they disappear. She was facing the window, looking on at the grey afternoon with the sun refusing to come out. There was a dying plant in the corner. Behind her was his desk and the coat stand by the door.

She couldn't believe this was all real; that this was actually happening to her. Just a few, short hours ago she was above it all, an American in a far off, exotic land. As an American, she had her privileges, packages from home containing western good, a generous stipend from her employer, and her faults were overlooked by the locals when she strayed from the unwritten party line. Yes, she enjoyed her time in Budapest. But, she realized how young and foolish she was when the secret police came to pick her up as she was leaving her apartment with one hastily packed suitcase. She regretted everything then, wished she could do it over as they led her away in handcuffs.

This time, she couldn't simply talk her way out with a smile as the Hungarian secret police, the feared AVO, turned her over to the Soviets occupiers. And they, in turn, passed her on to successively higher men until she found herself in the hands of their top officer who took the time personally to interrogate her.

He was a man with blue-grey eyes that pinned her in place whenever he looked directly at her. He moved with the natural grace of a predator as he pulled in his whip after the last crack. Briefly, she imagined his muscles, firm and defined, under his uniform.

His face was clean shaven and had no scars of battle, but he did have a sadness to him of living through too many campaigns. He appeared to be the right age to have been a young officer in 1941 when the Germans invaded the Soviet Union. No doubt he fought on the front.

“Come now, my dear.” He spoke in impeccable Oxford English but with a Russian accent hinting he had been far a field since his early days. This made him sound all the more menacing to her. “Just tell me who you are and we can clear this up.”

“I told you a dozen times already,” she sobbed. “I’m Anna Singer. I’m an aid worker on an exchange visa. I’ve been here in Budapest for only two months. And, I don’t know anything about this stupid revolution.” Then she added, “I come from Watertown, Massachusetts,” as if that would imply a working class upbringing and mitigate whatever Communist sin she had inadvertently committed.

“An aid worker.” His scorn was transparent, yet his voice controlled.

“My father knows the number of my senator,” Anna said. Her words hollow, far off the mark she’d hoped to convey. Petrified of him and his whip, she dared not turn to look at him as she spoke. “Why can’t you just let me go?”

She felt his eyes on her during his silence. It seemed an eternity ago that he’d removed her tailored grey suit jacket and matching skirt. Then he used a double edged knife to cut away her white silk blouse and slip. He left her wearing her brassiere, underpants, nylons with their garter, and her high-heeled shoes.

“I’m afraid there are a few discrepancies in your story, my dear.”

“You’re acting like I’m a spy or something!”

“A spy,” he echoed, “or something.” Then in his calculating voice he said, “If it turns out that you are a spy, you certainly wouldn’t be a very bright one, allowing yourself to be so easily apprehended.”

With all the emotions already churning within her, embarrassment was added to the mix.

“Look, sir,” Anna said, “my papers are in order. They can vouch for me at the children’s hospital.”

“Please, call me General Konstantine. Of course, if ‘sir’ suits you, go ahead. I suppose after we get to know each other better, I might permit you to address me in the familiar, at which time I’d let you call me Uri.” He walked up to her, admiring her fear of him as she stood frozen in place. “But we’re here to talk about you, Anna Singer. You, the idealistic little American girl who came to this backward land so far from home, overrun by us primitive Russians. Your cause to teach hygiene at the children’s hospital is noble.” Scorn filled his voice as he spoke.

A tear ran down her check. She was glad he was behind her and didn't see.

“Let me tell you something, my dear. These people already know how to wash hands.” He stroked the back of her neck, admiring how she tensed to his touch. “I think the real reason you are hear is so you can boast to your fellow students back in your pristine American university. You'd be able say ‘look at all the poor and primitive people I’ve helped’. No, I don’t have to check your papers, I’m sure they are in order.”

“So, what do you want from me?”

“The trouble is, I don’t believe you are and aid worker at all. Anna, tell me, who is Andrew Locket.”

“Who?” Her heart stopped for a moment. She felt the blood draining from her face. She was glad he was behind her and didn’t see her reaction.

But he did — her reflection in the window across the room gave her away. “Don’t play innocent with me!” he said as he grabbed her hair from behind. He pulled back, forcing her mouth to open and her back to arch. They locked eyes, seeing each other upside down.

“Anna, try to understand my position,” he finally said, letting go of her hair. “My responsibilities are many. Ending this uprising is just one of my tasks, albeit my primary one at the moment. I am also pitted against a most worthy adversary, one of your master operatives, Locket. He's here in Budapest, and I'm dying for a collegial chat with him.”

“I told you, I don't know any —”

“Anna, you don't mind if I call you Anna, my dear? You're a simple child. Perhaps simple isn't the right word. Naïve, innocent. This is your first mission, is it not? Perhaps you had a feeling of giddy excitement as you boarded the aeroplane that took you away from your home; and you felt that excitement once again at the border crossing with your made-up persona —”

“No!”

“You may have even thought you were doing something important for your cause as you filed your reports by a shortwave radio hidden in some attic —”

“You don’t understand —”

“Oh, I do. Locket, he's charming and charismatic. And, I'm willing to wager that he took you as a lover when you were posted here. I can imagine the thrill of that clandestine liaison. Or, perhaps he already seduced you before this mission?”

“You've got it all wrong. It's not like that!”

“Let me play a recording for you.”

Anna turned her head to watch him walk back to his desk and press play on the reel-to-reel recorder.

“The name 'Andrew Locket' doesn't ring a bell?” he asked again.

Anna just listened in silence, half knowing what would be on the tape, wondering what she'd say when it was over.

 

“Hello, Anna, it’s me.”

“Andy, Hi. I thought you were never going to call me here.”

“I know, I know. Listen, we’re pulling out. Meet me at the drop point at the agreed time.”

“Okay.”

“And one more thing Anna, stay low. And don’t answer the door, no matter who. I think the Soviets and the AVO are on to us. And another thing, don’t take any more calls — they may have the line tapped. And Anna,”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

 

General Konstantine cleared his throat.

“He’s just a friend,” Anna said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “He’s another American I work with at the hospital. This Andy, he isn’t the Andrew Loki of yours. He’s certainly not a spy. And neither am I.” She knew he didn't believe her. She wouldn’t have believe her either. And what was Andy thinking? calling like that, he knew perfectly well that she knew when and where to meet up.

“And Locket, what was he thinking,” the General yelled, “calling you when he should have known the phones were being monitored!” He was more upset at Locket's out-of-character incompetence than with anything Anna did.

General Konstantine walked back to Anna and stood in front of her. He still had his whip in hand.

“Anna, talk,” he said, almost imploring. “Save yourself from this.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” she said, trying to sound defiant, but coming across small and empty.

He ordered her to face forward and not to look back. He watched as she turned her head forward, focusing her gaze out the window. The muscles on her back tensed.

Anna heard the crack of the whip from behind and a moment later felt the sting on her left shoulder blade. Anna did everything in her power to not kick the chairs out from under her as she spasmed in pain.

He cracked the whip again, this time the throw landed on her right shoulder. “It's not too late to end this. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“I don't have anything to tell you!” she yelled back. Anna realized that she had to pull herself together. She understood now that until this point she'd been nothing more than a child. If she were to survive this, she'd have to grow up, and she'd have to do it now.

He asked where her handler was waiting for her after the next throw landed squarely on her back. She yelled the same response as before. Her resolve doubled with each lash, despite the cutting pain.

And his whipping continued.

He whipped her back, and then her bottom. When he stopped, he admired the artistry of his work — how he'd cut her black silk underpants yet barely marked her flesh beneath. Then, of course, he admired Anna's choice to wear silk.