The Good Spy Wife: A Christian Spy Novel

By Julia Allcut

The Good Spy Wife is a story of aging FBI agent, Gunter Martini, as told by his wife, Bootsie. The saga begins with her suspicions that the next-door neighbor, Alexander, is a Russian agent. The reader is drawn into the drama as the story explodes along with the cigarette boat when Gunter dares to venture out for a boat ride to Bomb Island on the 50,000 acres Lake Murray on the night of a impending hurricane. His drowning is dubious, as no body floats to the surface. The wife trusts in God and believes that he is alive. When he reappears later in the Soviet Union he invites his wife to join him as he works toward an assignment involving the elimination of the American president, as the Soviet country believes the President of the United States and his democratic ideals stand in the way of progress for the Soviet Union. He must die, as the current leadership in America is an affront for growth of the new Russia.
Set during the Cold War in the late 1980s, Bootsie and Gunter struggle with separation during difficult times in their own marriage. Bootsie grows spiritually through the unexplained meeting of strangers who appear to her as angels, and through drawing on her own strengths when alone. Ultimately, after many twists and turns of the story, the couple realizes that God is the only help for the frailty of their lives, and each makes plans to rebuild his or her life around their new beliefs. However, will this turn out to be the happy conclusion? One can only discover this knowledge through reading the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491845660

Julia Allcut

After a lifetime of traveling with her husband in his military and government careers the author, Julia Elaine Allcut, returned to her roots in rural South Carolina. Planning to retire from bedside nursing, she acquired a master’s in nursing at the University of South Carolina and taught nursing courses at a technical college in nearby Newberry. After more than a decade of teaching, she retired and set the writing of her first novel as her next goal. Prior to writing and publishing The Good Spy Wife the author penned children stories, numerous poems, as well as researched and wrote about the nursing concept: The Theory of Touch as related to bedside nursing. The Good Spy Wife results from five years of gaining knowledge in the art of writing through conferences, writers’ groups, and research into the world of the Federal Bureau of Investigation agent and his antithesis, the Soviet spy. She learned much about the world of espionage firsthand from observing her husband, as well as from living as a spy wife in the suburbs of New Orleans; Washington, DC; and Columbia, South Carolina throughout the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Her newly released book is also the result of a lifetime of learning, seeking for knowledge of God through his word, and using parallels from her own life when telling an amusing fictional story that she hopes will be interesting and inspirational to others.

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© 2014 Julia Allcut. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    04/15/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4568-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4567-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4566-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013923303

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

PART 1

Chapter 1     Dead Men Tell No Lies

Chapter 2     The Grieving Widow

Chapter 3     Dog Days of Summer

Chapter 4     Reliving the Nightmare

Chapter 5     Rev. David Gentry

Chapter 6     Next-Door Neighbor, Skippy

Chapter 7     Detective Johnnie Blocker

Chapter 8     Bentley and Bevin

Chapter 9     The Polygraph

Chaper 10    Jezebel’s Café

Chapter 11   The Empty House

Chapter 12   Scary Mr. Terry

Chapter 13   Mike, the Private Investigator

Chapter 14   Raven, the Lifesaving Daughter

Chapter 15   Back to Pleasure Cove

Chapter 16   The Nosy Neighbor

Chapter 17   The Phone Call

Chapter 18   An Angel Appears

PART 2

Chapter 19   Hurricane Remembered

Chapter 20   My Friend Stefan

Chapter 21   The Language of Spies

Chapter 22   Meeting the KGB

Chapter 23   Mr. Bitoff Takes Over

Chapter 24   Learning to Trust Again

Chapter 25   The Unsafe Safe House

Chapter 26   Train Ride to Vladivostok

Chapter 27   Finding God in a Godless Country

Chapter 28   Sleepless Nights and Long Days

Chapter 29   Meeting with Alexander

Chapter 30   Help Me, God, to Be a Good Spy Wife

Chapter 31   The Church without Walls

Chapter 32   Prisoner in Siberia

Chapter 33   The Walls that Talk Back

Chapter 34   Bootsie, Get Your Gun

Chapter 35   The Escape

Chapter 36   The Truth Comes Out

Chapter 37   The End Is Near

Chapter 38   Heading toward Trouble

Chapter 39   Threat to the President’s Life

Chapter 40   One Hundred Yellow Roses

Acknowledgments

I wish to express a genuine thank you to all of those who edited and gave me valuable feedback on The Good Spy Wife. Included are my dear friend, Brigitte Bradford, my neighbor and retired New York cop, Tom Commins, my lifetime friend, Karen Tyson, and my niece, Kim Kee. All contributed many creative suggestions.

I wish to thank the writers at Chapin Writer’s group for helping me to keep focused on the right path and for listening so attentively to my readings over the past three years. I so appreciate the input of Cathy FitzGerald, Vonnie Fulmer, Ellen Menzo, Sue Cryer, Laura Lanni, Madelyn Garcia, Arlene Westermeyer, and especially, Edith Hawkins, who provided the photographs of the purple martins on Lake Murray for the front cover and the sunset for the back cover.

What progress, you ask, have I made?

I have begun to be a friend to myself.

Quote by Greek philosopher Hecato

I dedicate this book to my husband, Greg, who is my own real-life spy and my inspiration in life.

Part 1

Chapter 1

DEAD MEN TELL NO LIES

I think Skippy Alexander is a Russian spy," Bootsie blurted out from the dock. She deflected her green cat eyes away from her husband and over to the neighbor’s house. Silently, Gunter lowered the boat down from the lift into the clear lake waters. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he cranked the engine and smoothed back his hair so the long salt-and-pepper strands wouldn’t blow in his baby blue eyes. His wife climbed awkwardly aboard.

After completing a boating course, she knew how to handle the watercraft. Most of the time she just helped Gunter park the boat. She was in charge of tying the boat to the cleats at the dock. Although short in stature, standing only five feet four, Bootsie was proud of how she looked in a bathing suit. She wore her brown hair short, streaked with blonde highlights. The tan she kept during the summer months was partly due to her olive complexion, but also from the intense South Carolina sunlight. She loved being outdoors.

Clumsy by nature, she spent much of her time on the boat trying to maintain her balance. The bass boat took off without a hitch. While Gunter slowed down near the quarry, the two searched for a good spot to cast a line. Gunter always had his map with the best places marked. He pulled out the dog-eared map with water stains and searched until he decided on his favorite place. They both knew the coves in and out, and all the places where fishing was best for striped bass or crappies. Bootsie unwound the rope and asked Gunter if he could throw out the heavy anchor while she steered the boat.

Moments went by without the Martinis speaking. Time seemed to stand still. Fishing was boring at times, but Gunter’s number one rule was, No talking. Gunter thought the fish were scared away if there was a conversation, or words spoken. How the cold-water vertebrate could understand English is beyond me, she thought. Moments became hours, and finally Bootsie’s barometer to withstand the pressure of silence reached a limit. Again, she blurted out, only louder this time to be sure that Gunter heard, I think Skippy Alexander is a spy.

Gunter dropped his pole in the water. He made a lunge to retrieve it before it floated away. Watch your mouth. Why did you say such a thing? Skippy is a good friend and my fishing pal. We have spent unlimited hours together on the lake and cleaning fish. Nothing he has ever said or done is proof of him being anything other than a crusty old sailor, he angrily replied.

Why? Maybe because Skippy Alexander has had no life since his wife died; he has no children, relatives, or friends. I have not even seen anyone visiting him. The man smokes like a sailor, drinks like a fish, and is always asking me questions about you. His only interest in being my friend seems to be to get information about you.

Not wanting to call him merely Skippy, as Bootsie did, Gunter always referred to his so-called friend as Alexander, his more formal last name. Skippy was a pet name Bootsie gave him. She had decided on their neighbor’s nickname because he didn’t walk; he skipped. Bootsie thought his walk was cute. Her own name was an innovation her family gave her when she was a child.

If she only knew what I thought of him—I wish the man was dead, or at the very least would keep his mouth shut, Gunter said silently.

Finally, he answered his wife. "Naw, this time you are wrong, honey, because Skippy Alexander has the hots for you. Did you know I did a background check on Alexander I? He was the first emperor of Russia and the son of Paul I and Catherine the Great.

The grandmother married her young grandson to a fourteen-year-old Princess Louise. The couple of teens were unhappy from the beginning. Legend has it that he didn’t die; also, he never had an heir to take over the kingdom.

And you telling me all this historical information—why? she asked. Here’s the kicker; then you will understand. Many think that he is still alive today, at least according to ancient legend. The opening of his coffin in the 1900s revealed no human remains! Maybe your friend, Skippy Alexander, is the ancient Alexander I who’s alive and well and living next door to Bootsie Martini.

Bootsie’s mouth flew open when she realized he was jesting. She reached up pretending to slap him. Ah, so now you’re in a teasing mood, trying to throw your wife off the scent of adventure. Naw, you’re the one who is wrong, Gunter. Our good friend and neighbor Bevin Meade: she is the one who has the hots for you.

He grinned back at her sheepishly, but only he knew the truth—or so he thought.

Pointing toward the gray skies looming above the water, he added, more soberly this time, Look out at the horizon. Those are storm clouds coming. With alarm in his voice, he cranked the boat and turned it around. We better head on back to shore.

Chapter 2

THE GRIEVING WIDOW

F or the grieving widow, the storm clouds came along with a painful memory. I remember the first time I tried to kill myself, the widow said through her sorrow and pain. A hush fell over the room. Everyone turned to look at the person sitting next to them; the expressions on their faces contorted into confusion. The audience waited, anticipating an explanation.

An elderly woman bent over to speak to the next of kin and whispered, Bootsie Martini is theatrical, but no one knew she’d tried to kill herself. No one knew, except her deceased husband, Gunter. After all, she exuded an appearance of good wife, doting mother, and competent nurse.

Why, her husband was a rock, a role model for young men of the community. Her husband … why, to know him was to love him, with his endearing boyish grin and equally engaging personality. He could light up any room he entered, the voices said to one another.

Bootsie waited for the voices to die down. She wanted the listeners to process each word she said. Confidently looking around at the room, she searched with hazel eyes for any nonverbal response from those sitting in the church pews. This was the most difficult of all days.

Returning to her story, Bootsie continued, "I need to tell y’all about that day that I wanted to die. It was in the 1980s, and I took too many sleeping pills. I had difficulty sleeping, and went to a doctor to get a prescription. Having a phobia about overdosing, I cut the pills up into two or three pieces.

One day, Gunter came into the bedroom of our apartment and saw me taking sleeping pills on a Saturday morning. He knocked the pills out of my hand, grabbed the container, and emptied the contents down the toilet. Then, without a word, he left. She paused a moment so the tears in her eyes would not reach the brim and then fall over the lower lid onto her face and script.

He always had the need to run errands. Sometimes, I think that was how Gunter dealt with life. If life got complicated or confusing, or even boring, then, go run errands. He was very task oriented.

A brief hush ensued and was almost palpable in the room. She waited a few seconds, before continuing with her story. "After the door closed behind him, I bent down and looked around the bathroom floor. There were many bits and pieces of pills around the toilet. I picked up the pieces and stuffed them in my mouth, swallowing each tiny piece—this time in haste and without water.

"Time passed. I went into frenzy, cleaning everything. If something was out of place, I threw it away. I discarded the mail, even the unpaid bills, and carried the garbage to the dumpster. Although I felt calm, I actually was daft. When I had finished cleaning, I looked at my handiwork. Wow, the small, two-bedroom apartment was spotless. Then I slept.

"When Gunter came back from running his errands, he woke me; he was amazingly calm and wanted to see if I was alive. I groggily answered that I was just sleepy. Turning over, I fell back asleep. I slept the rest of the day and all of the night, waking the next morning.

You wonder now, why am I telling you this? I tell you this so you will know that next to Jesus Christ, Gunter was my Savior. My husband saved me from myself—not just that time but also many other times. I only wish I could have saved him, for Gunter was my hero, much as he is everyone’s hero. He was a man who fought for his family and for his country. He saved others, but he could not save himself.

Bootsie felt exhausted when she finally sat down in the front row pew with her two daughters, Raven and Wren. Continuing to wipe her dampening eyes, Wren got up to speak. Thank you, Mother; you told that story beautifully. She paused to gather her thoughts.

For those who do not know me, I am Wren Martini, and I am the youngest daughter of the deceased. She spoke softly but audibly, pausing only to give emphasis. A gifted speaker, her voice carried the emotion she felt. Bootsie watched closely, searching for strain on her daughter’s face while listening intently to her talk.

Wren was the strong one—stronger than either she or Raven, and the only one who could talk comfortably to the roomful of family and friends. Poised was the word others used to describe her. Presenting herself as confident and self-assured, she saw her own self as a female version of her father. Blonde, wavy hair graced her shoulders, and her baby blue eyes said, Trust me.

Thanks to all of you who traveled long distances to be present this day—loved ones, friends, and relatives from all over the United States. I see many of you who flew or drove from Colorado, Illinois, Virginia, Georgia, Wisconsin, and North Carolina. Welcome, she said graciously. "I also want you to look around and appreciate your surroundings. Isn’t this a gorgeous setting at the historic Macedonia Lutheran Church, this chapel in the woods! How appropriate that the church stands ten or more miles from the location on Lake Murray where our beloved husband, father, brother, and friend disappeared during the recent hurricane.

For the Martini family, my dad’s sudden demise was a tragedy of epic proportion. Teams of divers have searched for evidence of a drowning. Theories abound, and gossipy whisperings are still circulating and have been for several months, but none of the rumors are even close to the truth.

Bootsie sat quietly thinking. No one knew the truth. Everyone was well aware that Gunter was an adventurous man in both his professional and private life. Perhaps there had been foul play and an unclaimed corpse still lay at the bottom of the deep lake.

Nevertheless, Wren continued, "even the best frogmen in South Carolina slipped down into the depths of the drink, but no recovery team located anything other than bits and pieces of a red ‘go-fast’ cigarette boat. In addition, clothing that he had worn that day floats to the water’s surface. All viable clues suggest that he was a victim of an accidental drowning. Everyone has given up hope of recovering a body. Therefore, the agreement of our family was to have a memorial service, and let Gunter Martini rest in peace.

So—there lies a coffin in front of us, but no ‘body’ lies in the coffin. It is beautiful, but the coffin contains only memorabilia from his life, not for burying, but for saving. We have this, and we have the hope that Dad may reappear one day. Dad would have preferred an urn, a simple urn filled with a few ashes to sprinkle into the lake, the lake that he so loved. However, not only is there no ‘body,’ there is no urn nor ashes to place in that urn. She started to cry and paused to dab her eyes, her makeup and mascara mixed with tears.

Wren managed to pull herself together. Neither is there a burial with a twenty-one-gun salute, for this is what my father would have wanted. What I have described would be a proper ceremony for our fallen hero. She closed her statement with a thank you, and sat down next to her mother.

Raven, the oldest daughter, stood up and turned to face the audience. She had appealing warmth in her voice, and she showed determination and strength. Shorter than her younger sister, her blonde highlights caught the sunlight streaming through the windows. Thank you all for coming. My mother, sister, and I invite you back to the home for a light meal and a warm visit.

The gathering of people stood and walked silently back to their vehicles and followed the family back to the Martini home to celebrate the life of the fallen hero. Gunter Martini could have died in any corner of the world, but instead, he had foolishly died in an extension of his own backyard, in the huge lake he so loved.

After an unbearably long day, the younger children of cousins and friends heard the reading of bedtime stories and the telling of Goodnight, followed by sweet kisses. Parents and grandparents uttered exclamations of Bedtime. Oh boy, and hoped the children would know how wonderful and exciting bedtime could be.

The adults lingered at the Martinis’ home, needing to be together with all those who loved the deceased. Afterward, when the crowd finally dispersed, the family sat around to talk.

I dreamed last night I was boating on Lake Murray, Bootsie said softly from her position on the sofa. The girls all strained to hear, and the two sisters twisted their faces into expressions of concern—real concern about their momma’s sanity, especially now that her touchstone, their beloved Dad, was gone.

With a starry-eyed expression on her face, Bootsie continued, In my dream it was sunset, and I was on our pontoon, riding toward the horizon. Moments after the sun actually set, the skies were ablaze with colors, awesome streaks of orange and red against the darkening sky. I wish I were there now, watching the birds circle around and around my head. Then, at sunset, I would see the birds all drop from the sky to nest in the trees. Why, a person would think it was all in their imagination. She turned to the girls. You have all been there, Raven and Wren, haven’t you?

Of course, Momma, we have watched the purple martins land many times. They nodded in affirmation of her memories. Bootsie’s love of birds had carried over to include the naming of her girls. She bent over and picked up her cat, Moonlight, and placed him gently in her lap, continuing her story. Not a bird would be in sight the moment the sky darkened. The birds’ description in bird manuals is one of aerial acrobats when flying. When roosting for the night, they dive from the sky with such speed, as if they are propelling through the air like rockets.

Bootsie continued her tirade as if no one else was in the room. Her voice was low but clear, her eyes appeared blinded, and she was in a hypnotic trance. The calls of the purple martin birds sound throaty and rich, ending in a succession of low, rich gutturals. She imitated their sounds, giggling afterward, all the while noting that no one laughed, or even smiled.

They think I am losing my mind. Maybe I am. She became increasingly aware that she was an embarrassment to herself and to her family. Why am I making a fool of myself? she said aloud. It was an awkward moment for everyone in the room.

Raven and Wren exchanged glances between them, rolling their eyes upward in an expression of saying, Momma is bonkers. However, aloud, Wren said, It is late; let’s put Momma and the rest of us to bed. Moonlight, the cat, purred while sitting on his adoring owner’s lap. She continued to stroke him until he fell asleep, perhaps dreaming of hordes of birds flying around the yard until the chase ended in purple martins succumbing to his jaws and claws.

That night after everyone left, Bootsie lay down on top of Gunter’s Mickey Mouse bedspread and re-created in her mind what happened to her husband. She thought she had a clear idea from the pictures the crime scene investigators had re-created for her, although no one really could be certain. Of one thing, she was sure; Gunter was still alive.

Repeatedly, she said quietly under her breath, Gunter is alive. Gunter is alive. Gunter is alive, almost like a mantra. She felt as if she and Gunter were of one soul, and a spiritual connection existed between the two. She imagined that part of her body, mind, and soul entwined with him when the boat exploded. The other half of her soul was missing along with Gunter and was still floundering in the dark waters. Her sources of fear were that of the dark, as well as of being lost or being alone. Now Gunter had endured all of these same horrors.

What was evidence in reports of that day revealed that several other boaters passed, but no one came forward to report a sighting of the explosion except for two lone boaters.

Police detectives had asked the men, without prompting, What did you see?

We saw a cigarette boat with about probably a 500 horsepower engine when he passed us on the right.

When did you see this boat?

We’re not sure about the time, but the birds were traveling toward the island, so it was close to sunset.

Where did you see the boat?

We spotted it about one or two miles downstream from Bomb Island.

Did you actually see the boat, or did you only hear the boat?

We saw and heard the boat. Whoever it was sure seemed to be in a big hurry. What we heard was a roaring sound, as if a train was driving past us awfully fast.

The answers received from the two observant strangers indicated the approximate location was ten or fifteen miles downstream from Gunter’s home.

Did you see the boat explode? Apparently, the revved-up engine reached the maximum capacity and then exploded and disintegrated. Is that correct?

No, the men replied. We did not see or hear an explosion. Unaware of any problem, the boaters moored the boat down the lake, trying to get home before nightfall and before the storm clouds above turned into the predicted hurricane. Further information was not available. The rest of the investigator’s story was mere speculation.

Chapter 3

DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

I t was August of 1985 when all the trouble with Gunter started, almost two years before he actually disappeared. There had been nothing more important to think of that day than the oppressive heat. This was normal for the South, but what was not normal was that he blurted out, Honey, I may disappear one day.

Gunter said those words just as if he might say, Today is Tuesday or Perhaps we’ll get rain today. The Federal Bureau of Investigation should have classes, Bootsie thought later, for agents to learn how to phrase these statements when informing their spouses about huge lapses in time when they are planning to go MIA—missing in action.

All I can think about right now is the heat, Bootsie answered, only half-listening to what he said. She continued to fan her face, anticipating when she would be finished with gardening and return to the comforts of the air-conditioning inside their lakeside home.

Recalling the conversation later, she wished she had rethought the flippancy. However, the desire to survive the 100 percent humidity and matching temperature was far too overwhelming for this southern- transplanted family. She thought she would be getting used to it by now. After all, she was the one who had grown up in the low country. Gunter was the snow bunny.

The dog days of summer were what most southern people called the days from July 24 to August 24 when daytime temperatures usually reached a scorching 99 degrees or higher. Now the back porch steps burned her bare feet when she tried to walk on the stairs. She had recently read that the ancient Romans sacrificed a brown dog at the beginning of the Dog Days to appease the rage of Sirius, believing that the star was the cause of the hot, sultry weather. She was glad she had a white cat and not a brown dog!

She banged the screen door and went inside; she decided to stay in the air-conditioned house for the rest of the day. Just before she shut the inside door, Gunter ambled down the stairs, mumbling, I’m going out and ride around to cool off. He liked to just cruise at times and watch the other boaters on Lake Murray.

By evening, Gunter had spiraled downward into his relaxing mode and was lying in his recliner, sipping his wine. He was oblivious to anything but the television blaring in front of him. From the kitchen, she yelled at him, Turn the blasted TV down. The weird neighbor next door is going to call and complain.

Bootsie was sure Gunter had suffered hearing loss after flying helicopters and all of the noise of shooting rockets in Vietnam in 1969-70. However, the US Army completed a thorough physical examination upon his arrival home and declared him physically healthy. Thank God, he came home without a scratch. After that, the FBI insisted on yearly physicals for the remaining nineteen years.

Gunter only had four more years to work for the bureau, and he could retire. She walked into the great room and looked down at him for a long time, with her hands on her hips. What do you want to do about supper tonight?

I would like to eat it, he replied.

Don’t be an idiot; I’m not in the mood for your brand of humor. Do you want to eat now, or would you like to wait until after the news is over?

Let’s wait ’til Tom Brokaw is over. Fine with me, she said.

Gunter turned his attention back to the TV, and Bootsie looked down at him for a long moment, wishing he had suggested they go out for dinner tonight. She longed for the days of the past when he found her more interesting than the evening news. There was a time when he could not get enough of her. Twenty-two years of marriage did not ensure anyone of living happily ever after, but she still loved him. At times, though, she wondered if it would be easier to just walk out the door and keep on going.

After supper, her mate seemed to sense her tense mood. He walked over to the kitchen sink and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Thanks for cooking, he said.

Thanks for eating, she replied to his back. She was alone to load the dishes in the dishwasher, same as usual. Gunter went out the door. His pattern after supper was to go downstairs and begin puttering around his office. She