theamericans | Fic: Safehouse

I wrote this for

alba17 for the

rarewomen exchange. She asked for Elizabeth Jennings; her prompt: "Anything about the dual nature of her life and (how) she emotionally handles it; anything about her relationship with Phillip and how incredibly complicated it is."

Title: Safehouse
Author:

wendelah1
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 2328
Warnings: none
Summary:
It was a recent photograph, taken in a department store portrait studio. I recognized them. They were perhaps ten years older than the last time I'd seen them; there was some gray in his hair, more lines on her lovely face, but they were still a striking couple. It was a long time ago, but it was an unusual case, plus I'd taken care of Elizabeth for nearly two months. "You want to know about Elizabeth and Philip Jennings. May I ask why?"

The man began to shake his head but the woman put a hand on his arm. "Yes. After our government changed hands, some of the records went missing. We're interviewing everyone who was involved with the illegals program, even peripherally, to try to piece some things together."

Author's note: Spoilers through "Comrades." Thanks again to

theladyscribe for the beta.

Link to AO3

Safehouse

Everyone has a role to play in changing the world, and mine was an important one, at least that's what my recruiter told me. But that was many years ago now. So many things have changed. None of the old rules apply.

When they came for me, it wasn't what I expected. It wasn't even about me. I couldn't quite put my finger on why, but I knew as soon as I opened the door where they were from, even if I didn't know why they were here. A man and a woman, dressed like business people in a resort town? They're either the KGB or Jehovah's Witnesses and I've already had a visit from the Holy Rollers this week.

"Hello," I said calmly. "Would you like to come in?"

They didn't seem surprised by my welcome, or if they were, they covered it well. After I settled them in the living room, I headed back to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. I don't keep a lot of snack food around—it tends to settle on my hips—but I had a package of shortbread which I opened and arranged on a plate. I set the cookies on the coffee-table in front of the sofa where the agents were perched. Before sitting down in the chair by the window, I threw open the shutters. There's a view through the trees of the lake which I hoped would be distracting, plus the back-lighting provided a little bit of camouflage for my facial expressions.

After I sat down, the woman took a folder out of her briefcase and removed a photograph. "Do you know these people?" Her English was good, but faintly accented.

I looked carefully. It was a recent photograph, taken in a department store portrait studio. I recognized them. They were perhaps ten years older than the last time I'd seen them; there was some gray in his hair, more lines on her lovely face, but they were still a striking couple. It was a long time ago, but it was an unusual case, plus I'd taken care of Elizabeth for nearly two months. "You want to know about Elizabeth and Philip Jennings. May I ask why?"

The man began to shake his head but the woman put a hand on his arm. "Yes. After our government changed hands, some of the records went missing. We're interviewing everyone who was involved with the illegals program, even peripherally, to try to piece some things together. "

I could well believe things at the Center went haywire. The whole damn country fell apart at the seams. But except for the essentials—allergies and so on—and what one gleans about a person while nursing them, I don't know much about the individuals I took care of while in their employ. It was safer for everyone concerned. And why were they asking specifically about the Jennings? "Everything I know about them is in my reports."

"We...no longer have access to those records. We know it's been many years but anything you can tell us, anything you remember could be helpful."

"I'll try." The kettle was whistling so I got up to make the tea and collect my thoughts. I needed to sort out what I had to tell them and what was better kept private.

~/~/~

Just like always, the call came in the middle of the night. Emergencies have no respect for a woman's beauty sleep.

"We have a client for you."

I struggled to consciousness, sat up and rubbed my eyes. "Okay, can you tell me anything more?"

Silence. "We'll fill you in on the specifics once you get here. Can we count on you?"

Oh. So it was going to be one of those cases. That was fine. I didn't need to know the whys and wherefores. My discretion was unqualified. I'd find out what I did need to know soon enough. It wouldn't be pretty; these—situations—never are.

"Of course you can," I snapped. I'd been doing this for over ten years now. Surely I had earned the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, she'd woken me out of a sound sleep.

"Good. You come highly recommended. My name is Mrs. Sheppard." The woman rattled off an address, a codeword, and hung up without saying goodbye.

The address was in northeast Washington DC. I think I decided to make a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long day.

When I arrived, "Mrs. Sheppard" was nowhere to be seen but an exhausted looking man let me into the building—after I'd given the proper password. Blackbird. I wondered if they were working their way through Audubon's Birds of North America. A couple of years ago, I'd had to use Meadowlark, a year or so before that, Raven. The man was medium height and build, dark wavy hair, maybe in his early forties. While we walked through the passageway, he explained that my patient had been shot in the abdomen, which perplexed me thinking back, as there was no exit wound. Miraculously, the bullet had missed all of her vital organs. Her. That was a first. Meadowlark and Raven had both been men.

She was lying on a metal bed, covered with a sheet and an army surplus blanket, in what looked like an old underground garage. That bed, plus a small table for the medical supplies, a re-purposed office desk equipped with a hot plate, and a couple of folding chairs, was all they'd managed to bring in for her care.

"Hello. You may call me Frances. I'm going to be looking after you." She didn't reply, just smiled wanly.

He shook his head. "Sorry, I'm Michael. This is Karen."

She wasn't as bad off as I'd expected, just weak and pale. She had a naturally slender build, but she was now painfully thin. Her face looked drawn, but maybe that was from pain. They'd taken decent care of her, all things considered. She was past the worst now: off the IV, off the morphine shots. Taking liquids. They'd left the catheter in to keep pressure off her bladder but according to Michael the doctor said it could come out in a day or two. There was a small wound with packing that would need to be changed three times a day. He handed me two large bottles, one an antibiotic, the other for pain, which I put into a zippered compartment in my handbag. There was no bedpan in sight. I made a mental note to pick up a laxative.

I asked for some morphine to give her some for the trip. It was a fair distance to the cabin and I thought she'd be more comfortable if she could sleep part of the way, but she refused.

"That won't be necessary. I'll take the pills. I'll be fine."

Michael looked frustrated but didn't try to argue. I guess he'd been down this road with her before. She'd find out soon enough that I wasn't going to be so easy to manipulate.

"Why don't you load up the car? I'll help her get dressed," he suggested.

She shook her head. "I can do it."

"Elizabeth. Please." He lowered his voice. "Let me help you."

So her "real" name was Elizabeth. As I packed up the remaining supplies, I watched them out of the corner of my eye. He cradled her in his arms as he assisted her out of bed.

"It's cold," she said, her teeth chattering a little.

He rubbed her arms and back reassuringly. "Yes, and you know it's only going to get colder. Good thing you're ready to get out of here. It costs a small fortune to heat this place."

"Aren't I worth it?" she tried to joke.

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer." He buttoned up her shirt, put on her socks, then helped her step into her sweatpants.

"These aren't mine," she protested. "They're huge!"

"I got you a bigger size. Dr. Frank said not to put pressure on the wound," he said patiently. "Damn. What do I do with this thing?" He nodded toward the drainage bag.

I set down the supplies. The bag was half full. "Why don't you start by emptying it?"

He looked chagrined. "Right." A couple of minutes later, mission accomplished, he looked at me expectantly. "Now what?"

I showed him how to gently maneuver the tube and bag into position, then fastened it to her pants with a large safety pin I took out of my purse. "It will do for the drive to my place."

He looked alarmed. "I thought you were taking her to another safehouse. They told me..."

"Michael, I am the safehouse. It's what I do, provide shelter and care for our people, when they need it, for as long as they need it."

"Sorry. I'm a little on edge." He smiled tightly as he apologized.

"Understandable. But we should get going. I'd like to get out of DC while traffic is light."

It was a long, slow walk through the corridors to the street outside the building. I waited inside with Karen while Michael took a quick look around. At 4:00 a.m. it was still dark and the warehouse district was nearly empty. They walked together to my car, his arm providing support and balance, as she was still quite weak. He settled her into the backseat where I had piled up several pillows so she could rest comfortably during the journey. Tenderly, he tucked a blanket around her shoulders and placed a second one over her legs and feet.

"She'll want to call home every night. We have two children..."

"You have a cover story?" I wondered what he was going to tell those kids. A gunshot wound...that wasn't going to be a quick recovery.

"Yes, an aunt who fell down a flight of stairs. Eli...Karen knows the details." He looked embarrassed at the slip. People under stress aren't always at their best.

"Michael, I need to get her home. I'll take good care of her, I promise you."

The last words I heard him say to Elizabeth were in Russian, but his meaning was clear. Her reply needed no translation. "I'll be home soon," she said softly.

He nodded. Then we drove off.

~/~/~

I didn't tell my interrogators very much. Instead, they got the Reader's Digest version. Naturally, they wanted to know more.

"Go on. What happened after that?" the woman encouraged.

"That was the last time I saw him. I took care of her until they called her back to work in January 1982." You know more about this than you're pretending to, lady.

"You thought they'd put her back in the field too soon," the man said a little too casually. His English was as good as hers but his Russian accent was heavier.

"I thought you didn't have my reports," I retorted. What sort of training did they give these people now?

"We don't have your day-to-day notes, just your correspondence with the Center," the woman said smoothly. "How did you find out their real names?"

Real names? I never knew their real names. "I told you this already. I heard Philip say Elizabeth's name. She wrote his name and their children's names on some postcards I bought for her and mailed. I was her nurse and she trusted me," I added unnecessarily. "To answer your first question, yes, I did think the Center called her back to work too soon. I was overruled, but I imagine you know that already. Look, it's obvious that you aren't telling me something."

The man and woman exchanged glances. The man looked put out, probably because I'm not as easily intimidated, as they'd expected, but the woman was harder to read. "We have lost contact with the Jennings. It's been over a month. This is important, Mrs. Cummings. We're trying to understand what happened, where they might have gone."

I couldn't hide my surprise. "You think they've defected."

The man scowled. "It is of vital importance that we find them."

Was it? I wondered about that. I knew for a fact that the Jennings were committed socialists, as was I. They'd made tremendous sacrifices to serve their country. But I hadn't a clue what these people believed in or what they'd given up—if anything.

I spoke slowly. "I can't tell you how to do that. Other than our one meeting, I never knew Philip Jennings. As far as I know, Elizabeth Jennings was a devoted KGB officer who loved her country." Philip Jennings was a devoted husband who loved his wife, but I kept that tidbit to myself.

I sat silently, waiting to see their next move. I had questions too, especially about the children, but I didn't dare ask. They would both be adults now, perhaps with children of their own. The woman looked thoughtful; her colleague seemed impatient, to be off or to off me, I can't be certain. To fill the time, I offered more tea, which they declined. Finally, the woman stood, and the man followed suit.

"That will be all—for now. We will contact you if we have any further questions."

"I've already told you everything that I know," I reminded them. She smiled politely; he stared straight ahead, avoiding my eyes.

After they left, I locked the deadbolt and stood by the door until I heard their car heading down the hill. There's a loaded shotgun that belonged to my father in my back bedroom closet, and a Glock in my dresser drawer under the sweaters. Like everyone in my position, I have an escape plan at the ready—I just never thought I'd be using it to get away from my own people.

If I'm right, I won't have much time. If I'm wrong, and I hope I am, I suppose I can always come back.