Spy in a Little Black Dress

by Maxine Kenneth

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Romance; Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

Inspired by an actual letter in the John F. Kennedy Library written by Jackie and revealing her job offer from the newly formed CIA When young Jackie Bouvier receives her second assignment from the CIA, she knows it will go better than her first. She managed to survive the Paris job-while looking her best in Givenchy, no less-but now she's completed her official CIA training. So she's excited to show her boss exactly what she can do for her country. Her new mission: Go undercover in sultry Havana and investigate a young revolutionary named Fidel Castro. But before Jackie can infiltrate the communist cabal, she's in past her hemline in danger. In another exciting adventure, she colludes with Grace Kelly, dances with Frank Sinatra, and flirts with an up-and-coming congressman from Massachusetts. As the international intrigue escalates, Jackie must use all her finely honed skills to stay ahead of her enemies . . . and make sure spying never goes out of fashion.

Release date: October 2, 2012

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 340

Sample

“SPY IN A LITTLE BLACK DRESS is such a charming and engaging story that I’m hooked. Jackie makes a terrific spy—I’ll follow her to Cuba, Paris… anywhere!”

—Ellen Sussman, author of New York Times bestselling French Lessons

“Mix spies, gangsters, Cuban revolutionaries, a treasure hunt, and a libidinous young Jack Kennedy, shake but not stir, and you have one potent historical cocktail featuring cub reporter and CIA neophyte Jacqueline Kennedy as the appealing heroine. Let’s hope Maxine Kenneth keeps Jackie’s adventures coming for many books to come.”

—William Dietrich, author of The Emerald Storm

“A sexy, suspenseful, and endlessly entertaining novel that combines superior storytelling with impressive research, portraying the era, its iconic heroine, and a fascinating cast of supporting characters in a book that is clever, credible, and utterly irresistible.”

—Deborah Davis, author of Strapless: John Singer Sargent and the Fall of Madame X

“In SPY IN A LITTLE BLACK DRESS, Jackie B. is as feisty, fun and fashion-forward as she is fearless.”

—J.J. Murphy, author of the Algonquin Round Table Mysteries

“Pull out your little black Oleg Cassini dress and oversized sunglasses. Turn up the mambo, pour a cool minty mojito, and get ready to accompany sassy (but always chic) secret agent Jackie Bouvier on her adventures to Cold War Cuba. SPY IN A LITTLE BLACK DRESS is an entertaining page-turner about Jackie’s spy escapades before she became a Kennedy.”

—Susan Elia MacNeal, author of Mr. Churchill’s Secretary and Princess Elizabeth’s Spy

“SPY IN A LITTLE BLACK DRESS features an ingenious conceit, a neat line in cameos, and a string of exotic locales. An inventive spy romp that’s fast, playful, and fun.”

—Chris Ewan, author of The Good Thief’s Guide to Venice

“Great fun! Makes you want to buy big sunglasses and fly to Paris.”

—Rita Mae Brown, New York Times bestselling author of the Mrs. Murphy mysteries

“JFK loved Ian Fleming’s creation of James Bond, so this intriguing novel may not be as far-fetched as you think.”

—Kitty Kelley, New York Times bestselling author of Jackie Oh!

“A bold book that makes you rethink one of our most beloved twentieth-century American icons.”

—Mark Medoff, Tony Award-winning playwright of Children of a Lesser God

“In her last year as an editor, Jacqueline Onassis was actually working on an espionage story that intersected with her own life at key points. I can imagine her paging through PARIS TO DIE FOR with a wicked smile.”

—William Kuhn, author of Reading Jackie: Her Autobiography in Books

“PARIS TO DIE FOR is a frothy romp through the City of Love with a determined young Jackie Bouvier. It goes down with a tickle, like a fine champagne.”

—Rebecca Cantrell, award-winning author of A Game of Lies

Granada, Nicaragua, October 13, 1856

Maria Consuela heard the pop-pop-pop of musket fire coming from beyond the convent walls and knew that the day of liberation had arrived.

Today the convent gates were thrown wide open, and she and her sister novices ran out into the street, as uncharacteristically giddy as young schoolgirls on holiday, to greet the conquering heroes. There they were, the norteamericanos, or the filibusters, as they were known back home in America, supporters of her country’s Democratic faction. They wore no uniforms, but instead a rough collection of motley outfits: swallowtail coats and middy jackets, stovepipe hats and cloth caps. Some had bandoliers strapped across their chests; others had leather or burlap ammunition pouches slung over one shoulder. All of them carried their rifles and pistols casually at their sides, raising them occasionally to shoot at the odd Legitimist sniper popping up here and there.

Joining the crowd in support of the liberators was just the excuse Maria Consuela needed to say good-bye to the convent behind whose walls she had lived for so many years, like a prisoner resigned to her fate. She had been forced by circumstance to trade one stifling existence as the dutiful daughter of middle-class parents for another as the young novitiate dedicated to Christ. And now, this liberation of her country was her chance to leave both lives behind and make a fresh start. She would never return to the convent, she promised, even if it meant becoming a campesino’s wife and working in the fields from dawn till dusk.

Maria Consuela and the other novices joined the joyous crowd and skipped alongside the filibusters as they marched—strolled, really—through the narrow and twisty streets of Granada, the former Legitimist stronghold. The young women pecked the soldiers daringly on the cheek as a show of thanks for freeing them from the oppressive Legitimist regime and showered them with flowers as a kind of benediction.

One very young soldier caught the flower Maria Consuela boldly threw his way, removed his cap, and put the flower in his hair. His fellow filibusters laughed at him, but he looked at Maria Consuela and winked at her, as though they were sharing a private joke. To Maria Consuela, this soldier, with his thick rimless glasses, looked more like a librarian than a member of a conquering army.

Suddenly, Maria Consuela heard the sound of a single rifle shot coming from above the street and watched as one of the soldiers fell to the ground, his chest exploding in a bright red spray of blood. She had never seen anyone killed before, and it horrified her.

A second rifle shot immediately ensued, and Maria Consuela mistook it for an echo of the first. But when a second soldier collapsed in a shattered heap, she realized just how much danger the crowd was in.

“Sniper,” someone called out. And all the soldiers and their well-wishers melted away into the nearest doorways or alleyways, seeking protection from the shooter lying in wait on a rooftop overlooking the street.

Maria Consuela wanted to move to safety too, but found that her legs wouldn’t let her. She was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.

Then a third rifle shot sounded in the street, and a little spray of earth erupted right in front of her. Something must be wrong, Maria Consuela thought. The sniper couldn’t be such a bad shot that he missed her so completely.

Before she could react, a fourth rifle shot cracked the air, and dirt from the ground spat up to her right.

A fifth, and a clod of dirt sprang up to her left.

Then, with a chill, Maria Consuela realized that the sniper wasn’t a bad marksman. He was merely toying with her, using her as a staked goat in order to lure some of the soldiers out of hiding so he could finish them off. He knew that sooner or later someone would come to her aid, and then he would hit his target with deadly accuracy. Unless he got tired of waiting, at which point she was sure to become his next victim.

Maria Consuela cringed, knowing that the next breath she took might well be her last. Please, God, she pleaded in the throes of desperation, let me live, and if you do, I will return to the convent and pledge the rest of my life to extolling your glory.

But in the interval between the last rifle shot and the one sure to come, a man appeared in the street. He was diminutive in stature and wore a black frock coat with black trousers and a black, flat-brimmed hat that made him look like an undertaker or a fire-and-brimstone preacher. From a holster cinched around his waist, he whipped out a pistol and began calmly and methodically firing it up in the direction the shots had been coming from. Spurts of dust pocked the ground around him as the sniper alternated between returning the gunfire and ducking for cover. But the black-clad little man remained heedless of his own safety and refused to flinch. Instead, he just kept on firing until his pistol was empty and he was forced to reload.

With the echo of the man’s last shot still reverberating in the narrow street, Maria Consuela heard a clattering sound from above and watched as the sniper’s rifle rolled down the tiled roof and fell to the street. A moment later came the sniper himself. His lifeless body tumbled down the slanted roof and struck the ground within an arm’s length of his weapon, landing with a resounding thud. The filibusters and their wellwishers emerged from their hiding places and approached the body to make sure that the sniper was well and truly dead.

Ignoring the dead sniper, the man in black holstered his weapon and approached Maria Consuela.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. His eyes lingered for a moment on her petite form inside her novice’s habit, as if trying to assure himself that she hadn’t been injured.

Maria Consuela found herself unable to speak, trembling not with fear but out of a profound sense of relief. All she could do was nod, shaking the long, dark curls that stuck out on either side of her wimple. She looked into his eyes and was surprised by their intensity. They were blue and fervent as though lit from within by a holy fire, and his riveting gaze made her feel safe. Something akin to the first stirrings of love quivered inside her, like a cocoon vibrating right before the birth of a butterfly.

“Good,” the man in black said as he held out his arm for her to take.

Maria Consuela smiled at this gentlemanly gesture. Arm in arm, she accompanied him through the streets of Granada until they, along with the crowd of soldiers and their wellwishers, arrived at the large and imposing villa that was the former headquarters of the overthrown Legitimist regime.

As she stood next to him, a delegation from the Democratic faction swarmed around the little black-clad man and deluged him with gratitude.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, may God bless you for liberating our country,” they said, some with tears streaming down their cheeks.

He accepted their thanks with grace and humility, but Maria Consuela had the distinct impression that he also thought of this acknowledgment as his just due, like Caesar being rightfully rendered unto.

Maria Consuela noticed a man who was holding himself apart from all the others. Hat in hand, he approached the small man in black and introduced himself.

“My name is Domingo Goicuria, and it is my honor to speak to you on behalf of the country of Cuba,” he said in a deferential tone, bordering on awe. “I have traveled here to ask you to come to the aid of the Cuban people and free our island from Spanish rule.”

It was then that Maria Consuela realized that this man in black, her savior, was the generalissimo of the norteamericano army of filibusters. Despite his diminutive stature, this American Napoléon had liberated her people and, inadvertently, liberated her as well. His name was William Walker, and he had changed her life forever. On the spot, she abandoned her pledge to return to the convent if she survived the sniper’s bullet—a promise clearly made in a moment of foolish weakness. No, now there was no going back. Maria Consuela knew that from this moment on her life would be inextricably bound with this American, who would declare himself the new president of Nicaragua.

New York City, May 1951

Whether on duty or off, an agent must be aware of his surroundings at all times.

—CIA FIELD AGENT MANUAL

It was a courier run.

Her instructions had been very simple. Go to New York. Pick up a package. Return with the package to Washington, D.C. Spend the day in Manhattan doing tourist things as a cover for her covert activities. But based on past experiences, if there was one thing that Jacqueline Lee Bouvier knew for certain, it was the fact that even 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.”

“I won’t,” said Jackie as she went through the door. Back on Seventh Avenue, she plotted her next move since her orders stipulated spending the day doing tourist things in the city, making sure to hold the bag firmly under her arm so as not to risk losing it or having it stolen.

She walked over to Fifth Avenue and headed uptown. Her first stop was Charles Scribner’s Sons bookstore, where she fulfilled her tourist obligation by spending a brief time browsing. In the fiction section, she came across a mystery novel entitled Death in the Fifth Position, by Edgar Box, and smiled to herself. She knew that this was a pseudonym for her cousin Gore Vidal. It seemed that his second novel, The City and the Pillar, had scandalized the New York Times reviewer Orville Prescott with its frank depiction of a homosexual relationship. Prescott had placed a ban on reviewing any more books by its author. So to get around the critic’s embargo and continue to earn money as a writer, cousin Gore had concocted this commercial mystery novel and arranged for it to be published under a pen name. She bought a copy, thinking it would make diverting reading on the train trip back to D.C., and dropped it into the Hermès bag.

Back on Fifth Avenue, she wondered what was inside the bag that made it so important to the CIA. Was there something hidden inside it? Top secret papers, perhaps? Or a large sum of paper money sewed into the lining? Unfortunately, she was in the dark here because she had been briefed for this assignment only on a need-to-know basis.

Suddenly, Jackie felt a slight tingling sensation and glanced casually over her shoulder. A man she had seen in the bookstore was now following her down the street, or so it seemed. He was dressed anonymously in a blue seersucker banker’s suit and had an anonymous-looking face to match. But there was something about his manner that told Jackie it might be best to test out some of those evasive maneuvers she had been taught.

Fortunately, she was coming up on Saks Fifth Avenue. According to her training, department stores were excellent places in which to lose a tail. They were crowded with people and had many exits to exploit. Jackie entered the store, spent some time looking in the makeup department on the first floor, then took the elevator to the second floor to look at the new women’s fashions, not that she needed to buy anything. She then went to the ladies’ room to kill some time, hoping that the man, afraid of being conspicuous, would give up and move on.

After what she thought was a decent amount of time, Jackie left the security of the ladies’ room and walked out of Saks, using the exit on Fiftieth Street. Back on Fifth Avenue, she passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral, looking occasionally behind her for any sign of the man. She hoped that, if he had truly been following her, she had now lost him.

She headed up to Fifty-Third Street and decided to stop in at the Museum of Modern Art, where she paid her admission and spent her time there viewing a survey exhibition, Abstract Painting and Sculpture in America, which featured works by Mark Rothko, Willem de Kooning, Jackson Pollock, and others. Jackie found the paintings both shocking and exciting in their unusual deployment of colors and shapes that forced one to consider art—and life, for that matter—in a new light. But even more shocking was the sight of Mr. Seersucker, as she was now beginning to think of him, pretending to be gazing intently at a Franz Kline. Somehow he had managed to forestall her attempt to lose him at Saks.

With an escalation of that tingling sensation, Jackie looked at her watch while plotting her next move. It was one fifteen. She had enough time to make her way over to Times Square, where she purchased a ticket from a broker and attended a matinee performance of the sold-out musical Guys and Dolls at the 46th Street Theatre.

Before the house lights dimmed, Jackie’s mind kept turning back to that man. Three times she had seem him in three different locations. This was obviously too much to be a coincidence. What did he want with her? Was he after the Hermès bag? Just thinking about it made her clutch the bag even tighter.

Once the curtain went up, though, she was able to forget momentarily about the anonymous-looking man and lose herself in the musical antics of those characters who sprang to life from the pages of Damon Runyon’s short stories: There was hustler Nathan Detroit, scrounging to find a new location for his floating crap game, gambler Sky Masterson hoping to win a wager with Nathan by romancing the Salvation Army sergeant, Sarah Brown, and showgirl Miss Adelaide trying in frustration to get Nathan to the altar. Jackie loved the smooth and handsome Robert Alda as Sky, the earthy Sam Levene as Nathan, the comically winsome Vivian Blaine as Miss Adelaide, and the rousing Stubby Kaye as he led a room full of sinners in “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat.” And she thrilled when Sky whisked Sarah off to Havana for a romantic date and plied the straight-laced sergeant with “Cuban milkshakes” until she let her hair down, tipsily sang, “If I Were a Bell,” and kissed him. Unfortunately, during the cast’s curtain calls, her mood was spoiled when she looked several rows ahead and spotted Mr. Seersucker applauding vigorously along with the rest of the theatre audience.

After the musical was over, Jackie saw that she had more time to kill before she was due back at Pennsylvania Station. As she left the theatre, she looked around and was relieved to see that the anonymous-looking man was nowhere in sight on Forty-Sixth Street. She realized that she had skipped lunch and felt famished. Fortunately, there was a Schrafft’s nearby. Jackie entered the restaurant and was surprised to find it so crowded. A hostess informed her that if she wanted to eat dinner, she would have to be seated with another party. Jackie preferred to eat alone, but her stomach insisted on being fed now, so she agreed to share a table.

She was seated with a beautiful young woman whose casual clothing—sweatshirt and black slacks; probably a denizen of Greenwich Village—belied her regal carriage. Despite her bohemian appearance, this young woman was obviously used to having the best of everything, an impression that was confirmed when she opened her mouth to speak and addressed Jackie in a voice that was pure Mainline Philadelphia.

“Hello,” the young woman said.

“Hello,” Jackie responded. She sat and put her Hermès bag on the edge of the table, where she could keep her eye on it. The woman was reading a book while waiting for her meal to arrive. Jackie glanced at the title and saw it was The Philadelphia Story by Philip Barry.

“Let me guess,” Jackie said. “Tracy Lord?”

“How did you ever know?” gushed the blonde, putting down the book. “I so identify with her.”

“So do I,” Jackie concurred. “You look like you could play her.”

“Thank you. I’d love to. If they ever revive the play. Or remake the movie.”

“I’d be afraid to compete with Katharine Hepburn.”

“So would I,” the blonde confessed, after a brief hesitation.

“So you’re an actress?” Jackie asked.

“How’d you guess?”

“That’s a Samuel French edition you’re reading,” Jackie said, pointing to the printed play script with its distinct yellow cover.

“Guilty,” said the actress, laughing. “My secret is out.” Jackie noted that she even had the laugh of a true Barry heroine down pat.

“Jackie Bouvier,” said Jackie, sticking out her hand.

“Grace Kelly,” the actress said, taking it.

The waitress came, and after a brief perusal of the menu, Jackie ordered a toasted cheese sandwich, a salad with green goddess dressing, and an iced tea.

“So how’s your career going?” Jackie asked the actress.

“It’s going,” the actress replied. “I’ve done some live TV… been directed by Delbert Mann. Oh, and I have a small role in a movie called Fourteen Hours.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Jackie.

As she waited for the food to arrive, Jackie looked around and was dismayed to see Mr. Seersucker seated at a table by himself. Her heart sank at the realization that she still had to deal with him. He had lulled her into a false sense of security by not resurfacing until now. Her train of thought was derailed by a question from the actress.

“Is that an Hermès bag?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jackie said, adding with a slight twinge of paranoia, “It was a gift from my favorite uncle.”

“I’d love to have one of my own.”

“Well, maybe one of these days…”

“Yes,” the actress agreed, “when I become a famous actress.”

They both laughed over that. Their dinners came and they started eating. But Jackie could barely taste her food. All she could think about was her tail, looking so calm and collected several tables away, with a pot of steaming-hot coffee just set down in front of him. She had to figure out a way to lose him once and for all. And as she took another bite of her sandwich, an idea occurred to her.

“Excuse me, Miss Kelly—”

“Call me Grace.”

“All right—Grace. I’m Jackie. You see that man over there?” She directed the actress’s attention to the man seated several tables from them.

“Yes?”

“He’s been following me all over town this afternoon. I’m afraid he might be some kind of masher. Or worse. I have to get away from him. But that will require some assistance. Would you be willing to help me?”

“Of course,” said the actress with relish. “We Tracy Lord fans have to stick together.”

“Good. Now, this is what I would like you to do.”

In a low voice, Jackie briefed the actress on her plan. When she was finished, she held out her hand again.

“It was very nice meeting you, Grace.”

“Nice meeting you, Jackie.”

“The best of luck with your acting career.”

Jackie left the actress some money to pay her bill, then abruptly picked up the Hermès bag, got up from the table, and headed swiftly toward the door. It was past rush hour, and outside there were plenty of available cabs coming down the street with their roof lights on.

As Jackie scooted out the door, Mr. Seersucker stood up quickly, threw some money down on the table, then prepared to follow her.

At the same time, the actress stood up and called out to Jackie, “Oh, miss, you forgot your—”

She then rushed to the door, putting her on an interception course with the man, who was still trying to rise from the table. As she came level with the table, the actress reached out with her hand and deliberately knocked over the coffeepot, spilling its steaming contents all over the lap of the man’s trousers. He let out a scream of pain followed by a series of curses as the scalding-hot liquid soaked through the material of his trousers to his skin, his stream of invective shocking the secretaries and elderly society matrons seated around him.

Instantly he was surrounded by waitresses attempting to blot the stain with napkins taken from nearby tables. Mr. Seersucker tried to extricate h. . .