Mac escorted Betty Pack the two blocks to Fifth Avenue, and the three blocks south to the Sherry Netherland on Fifty-Ninth Street, as Mrs. Pack slipped her arm under his. Mac was already taken by her charm and beauty, but he figured that was the point, wasn’t it? The web this pretty spider spins stretches all over Europe, across the ocean to South America, and now back to her home country, America. He was determined not to be one of her conquests, as if she would want him anyway. His heart was still with Sara. She was about the same age as Mrs. Pack, and she was just as beautiful. And she too was a spy. One web entanglement was enough, but he had to wonder if Sara was using her wiles the same way as Betty Pack.
Upon entering the Sherry Netherland, Mac directed the alluring woman to the small, intimate restaurant off the lobby, rather than accede to her coy suggestion of room service in her suite. The grandly constructed hotel impressed Mac, particularly with the high relief carved limestone panels that had been taken from razed the Vanderbilt mansion across the street. Mac thought the lobby, consisting of vaulted ceilings reminiscent of the gilded Italian Renaissance era, massive marble veneered pilasters of brown marble, and inlays on the walls of ornamental frieze roundels, was a bit overdone. He understood that Louis Sherry, the noted restaurateur, ran the restaurant itself, which was built during the height of Prohibition.
Mrs. Pack made up for not getting her way by ordering a bottle of their best vodka, and a mound of beluga caviar. She besieged Mac to join in the festivities; after all, his firm was paying for it. He tasted the salty caviar, which he had never tried, and he washed it down with a crystal tumbler of straight vodka, which he had. After a few of those cocktails, both he and Betty, as she preferred to be called, loosened up, and began to be less guarded with each other.
Betty told Mac the salacious details of how she had saved her lover from prison outside of Barcelona, during the Spanish Civil War. She told him stories of how she purloined Hitler's plan of European conquest, maps, and all, through another lover in Poland. She told him of her conquests in Chile, and most recently in Cuba, where she yet again provided her adopted homeland with secrets to which no one could ever have been privy.
“So, what are you telling, me, Betty? You will sleep with anyone for your country?”
Betty smiled tolerantly at Mac, patting his hand on the table.
“My dear boy, you are so young. A dedicated spy does whatever she has to do. We call it ‘discreet entertaining,’ my dear. Both parties to the dalliance get what they came for, no? We have a saying in the business, “the last person to whom you say goodnight is the most dangerous.” Your motives for doing this must be sincere. And you must be incredibly careful. Spies put their lives on the line for money, ideology, coercion, or excitement. We in the business refer to it by its acronym, MICE. My lust is for the excitement, Mac, not necessarily in the bedroom, which is admittedly, at times, an agreeable byproduct, but for the thrill of it all. I live to be alive, Mac. Do you live to be alive? Do have what it takes to make the thrill not only the most important thing in your life, but also the only thing in your life? I put my marriage on hold; hell, I even put my children second to my duty. I cannot live without living. I am no good to anyone unless I feel my thirst for excitement quenched. Do you know what I mean?”
“I get it, Betty. I, too, live for excitement, perhaps above all else, now that you have me thinking about it. But don’t you realize that as you play these men, they are playing you?”
“You are very smart, Mac. It took me years to realize that. That it was not only me who is playing a game. People play each other, no? All the time!
You don’t need to be a spy to be in the game. That's called life. There is a tacit understanding that plays out. Both sides get what they came for, be it sex, information, advancement, or excitement. With me, it is the excitement. I live my life on the edge. I take no quarter, nor do I ask for it.”
“I get it; each of you use each other, both fully aware that you are being used.”
“Not necessarily. You must assume that you are being used for something, whatever that might be, whether it is true or not. The first question I ask is, what is in it for him? When I figure that out, I then have him. I know what buttons to push. I play to what he needs, and then I wait for the reward, information that I can pass on. That is the game, Mac.”
“So, how does a guy like me get started? They want me to send back information I can glean from what I see and hear.”
“Oh Mac, don’t be so provincial. The more embedded you get, the more they will celebrate their good fortune. I started out as merely a “watcher,” as I spoke about at The Room. But the more chances I took, the more they asked of me. You will see. Once they get the taste of what you can deliver, it will never be enough. It will never be enough for you either. You will both want more, always.”
“So, I should just live life, provide what they want, and see where it takes me?”
“Yes, that is a good way to put it. Live to be alive. If you crave the excitement like I do, your path will become clear. If it means discreet entertaining, so be it. Either you do it, or you don’t; that's your choice. If it means something different for you, decide whether you can stomach the risk, or the reward, for that matter. Was it worth it to you to do what you did to get what you have gotten in return? When you do it for the excitement, like me, I win irrespective of whether I bring home the needed information. That is the bonus, when it happens. But that is not necessarily why you do it. Are you ready to put yourself out there, Mac?”
“Yeah, I’m prepared to do whatever is necessary for my country. I’m not shy, that's for sure. And I’m smart enough to figure out what needs to be done, what buttons need to be pushed. I guess you’re right. You’re right; the thrill is in the game itself. But the motivation is my love for my county. I will do whatever it takes.”
“Mac, you are clearly very bright. Obviously, you are also very handsome and charming. Understand that women will throw themselves at you. Some women will be married to important men, or will be their mistresses, their sisters, their mothers. They can be a tremendous source of information. Looks and charm open many doors. Patience is what makes me successful. I open the door, and I wait until it happens. And it always does. Men love to talk, about themselves, about what they are working on. Women, they love to complain about their husbands, about his work. Just listen and wait. Push it only if you must. The biggest secrets will come when the teller is relaxed, and soothed, most likely after sexual relations. Women are the same, Mac. They call it pillow talk. Just lay there and listen.”
“Thank you, Betty. I am not sure whether I should believe you or not at this point,” laughed Mac. “You are quite the charmer yourself, and incredibly smart. You could be playing me right now.”
“Very good, Mac. Now you are learning. But don’t flatter yourself. You have no information I can use, so why would I want to charm you? Unless I really want to be with you,” Betty smirked. “The game within the game.”
“And how would I know that is true?”
“You won’t,” giggled the pretty woman. “But why would you even care? Just enjoy it. That is what I am telling you. Open up, and let life come to you.”
Betty hit Mac playfully in the arm, as she gave him her best come hither look. Mac laughed again.
“You can resist this face?” asked Betty seductively. “You would be the first, pretty much.”
“We’ll see. So far, I seem to be holding my own, no?”
“Well, if that is your pleasure, go for it.”
They both laughed, as the waiter came with their dinners. After Betty took a few bites of her poached salmon with mustard sauce, she looked at Mac sheepishly.
“I can’t believe you can resist me,” she pouted. “I must be losing my touch.”
“Not at all, Betty. But now that I understand the game, I too can play. I am going to wait for you to fall for me.”
“Very funny. I am only here for one night. Tomorrow, I go to Washington. I want to go out on the town,” chirped Betty, changing the subject on a dime. “Can we? Come on; let's go out? It is early.”
“Sure, why not? I’m up for it. We have a good start on it already. Your choice, do you know where you want to go?”
“How about the Copacabana? I understand it is Latin night, and it is right around the corner. Ever been there?”
“Betty, it just opened this week. Tough to get in, I would imagine. But come to think of it, I do know one of the owners. I think I just might be able to get us in.”
Mac had just read in the New York Times that Frank Costello was one of the owners of the newly opened Copacabana. It was opening that very week, and it had received a lot of publicity. Mac was dying to go see for himself what was being described as the place where the city's elite come out for an unforgettable night out on the town.
“Oh Mac, could you do it? I would be forever grateful.”
“We would have to change our clothes. I understand it is very dressy. Do you have appropriate clothing with you?”
“Come upstairs with me. I will change. I have eveningwear with me. I just came back from Newport. I spent a couple of weeks there, wining and dining with the rich and famous.”
“Nice try, Betty. You get yourself dressed. I will go home, freshen up, and change. I will be back to pick you up in a couple of hours, say ten o’clock. Be ready, I am not coming upstairs to your room.”
“Yes, sir. You’re tough. I will be ready. Have the concierge call me when you get here if you do not want to come up. I am in room 2411, if you change your stubborn mind. I am not going to attack you, Mac.”