The Spy Who Loathed Me

By Chris Westphal

Meet Terrence Tillberry — FBI agent, hopeless romantic, and completely, ridiculously obsessed with a woman he’s never even met. Unfortunately for him, she’s a deep-cover Soviet spy.

In this absurdly sharp and deliciously twisted satire, The Spy Who Loathed Me launches us into a world of espionage, obsession, and Hostess Fruit Pies. Terrence is assigned to surveil the mysterious Pamela Goldfarb (codename: Mourning Dove), but it’s not long before the lines between duty and desire blur in the stickiest of ways.

Scroll down to read Chapter One. Warning: may cause uncontrollable laughter... and a sudden craving for cherry pie.

---

ONE

Terrence Tillberry knew he was in love with Pamela Goldfarb, and he’d never even seen her. But he had heard her voice on a series of random covert recordings, and that was enough. With its Russian accent and faint musicality, Goldfarb’s voice sounded like the sensual trill of the mourning dove, full of lament and mystery, and Tillberry was enchanted.

The calls he had listened to were unremarkable: a chat with her Korean manicurist, a brief one with her hairdresser just to make an appointment, and another to her office when with a raspy voice (the phlegmy vowels conjured in his mind a smoky nightclub) Pamela said she would be staying home. Terrence listened to the recordings until he had memorized them. With each repetition, he was more infatuated—and more confused. It wasn’t just her voice, but the way she formed the words that so besotted him. Certain words, when spoken by Pamela Goldfarb, sent an erotic jolt through his body, and he played them over and over again.

Anticipation. The last two syllables stretched out, revealing the essence of the entire word.

Wonderful. A lilt at the beginning of the word hinted coquettishly of forbidden delights.

Crust. She trilled the “r” ever so slightly. Crust. The word itself had texture. Terrence could almost taste it.

Tillberry tried to suppress his feelings, not just because they were irrational, but because Goldfarb was a deep cover Soviet spy, and he was a Special Agent for the FBI, and he knew nothing good could come of it.

Unfortunately, Tillberry’s feelings only grew. When he was summoned to discuss the case with Roger Curtis, director of the FBI’s L.A. office, he could have confessed, and his torment would have been over. But Tillberry decided to impress Roger Curtis instead.

“I’ve got a good code name for her,” he said eagerly, moments after he’d sat down across from Curtis. The best cases often had catchy code names, he thought. “How about Mourning Dove?”

Curtis sawed a finger across his sparse moustache. “What difference does the code name make?”

Terrence gulped. “Well, I… I just thought—”

“Let me put it this way. The code name doesn’t matter, Tillberry.”

Terrence knew the smartest thing to do now would be to shut up. He suspected that Curtis was only considering him for the assignment because it was a low priority, and the office was shorthanded. But he hated to see the moniker shot down without fair consideration. “The thing is, Mourning Dove is symbolic,” he said.

“I don’t care about symbols.”

Terrence squirmed in his chair, thinking. “I get that,” he offered.

“Good.”

“So maybe symbolism isn’t the right word.”

Roger expelled a long, tired breath and drummed his fingers on the desk.

Terrence interpreted this as interest. “Maybe it’s more, uh, thematic,” he offered.

“Symbols? Themes? This is starting to sound like ninth grade English.”

Terrence forged on. “The thing is, I did a little research and discovered that the mourning dove is the most hunted bird species in America, and I…” Terrence’s voice trailed off as he noted Roger’s baleful expression and realized, simultaneously, that spoken aloud the idea really did sound stupid and Roger Curtis wasn’t interested in it at all.

Curtis leaned forward. “You what?”

Terrence gulped. “Well, I thought that if Pamela Goldfarb is the, uh, quarry, then I’m—”

“Elmer Fudd?”

Terrence had thought of himself as a hunter, but now the image was ruined. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Roger. “So let’s move on. What I’m after here is gathering intelligence on Goldfarb. I need someone to track her every move. I want to know what she does and who she sees, and I need someone totally dedicated to her surveillance.”

“I’m your man, Roger.” Roger was about to speak when Terrence added, “She won’t be able to pee without me knowing how much toilet paper she uses.”

Curtis sighed. “Why do you say shit like that, Terrence?”

“Sorry. It’s just… I’ll be thorough, that’s all. I promise.”

Though it took close to a week, Curtis gave the assignment to him, and approved the moniker, too. By then Terrence Tillberry had listened to the recordings hundreds of times more and thought that it was a good thing he had been put on the case because he was sure once he saw Pamela Goldfarb in reality, his infatuation with her would quickly disappear. He’d seen a blurred surveillance photo taken of her when she’d entered the country, and she seemed to be somewhat attractive, but the photo was taken from a distance as she strode through a crowd at LAX. It was hard to tell what she’d really look like in the flesh. Terrence hoped she would be stumpy and knock-kneed, a troll with mottled skin and stringy hair and a crooked nose, preferably with a hairy wart on the end. That would make it easier to forget about her and laugh at his silly fantasy.

But Pamela Goldfarb was even more beautiful than her voice predicted. Tall and curvaceous, she had long auburn hair, delicate features, and full, seductive lips. Terrence Tillberry instantly imagined them forming each tantalizing word he had heard so many times: Anticipation. Wonderful. Crust.

Terrence told himself, he would do his job anyway. He would be professional, objective, and thorough.

Now, three months into the assignment, Terrance Tillberry squinted through the windshield of his parked Crown Vic. Not twenty feet ahead of him, Pamela Goldfarb stood at the crosswalk, as she did almost every weekday at this time, waiting for the light to change.

Without taking his eyes from her, Tillberry plucked the sun-warmed Hostess Cherry Fruit Pie from the dashboard and peeled away the thin waxed paper wrapping. The dessert had a satisfying heft, but it was delicate, so Terrence took care not to crush it as he brought it to his mouth. Biting into the flaky pastry shell, he relished the way the hot, tart filling made the back of his jaw ache, and savored the combination of textures and flavors: the crunchy, mealy crust and the sweet, gooey filling laced with real cherries. Watching Pamela, he worked the food around in his mouth, appreciating every taste and sensation. He did not notice as a glob of red jelly oozed from the inside of the pie, trickled down his chin, and dripped slowly onto his tie.

The signal changed and Pamela straightened her back, thrust out her chest, and stepped into the crosswalk. She did not so much walk as prance, Terrence thought, her muscles rippling sensuously as she pointed her toes and stretched out her perfectly shaped legs. He was transfixed by each graceful, confident step, beckoned by the sway of her hips, and tangled in ecstasy as he imagined her shimmering hair falling across her naked golden skin.

He took another bite of the Fruit Pie, and the visual and sensual pleasures merged in his imagination. Pamela was the crust and the filling, the pie was her sun-dappled skin and short fluttering skirt. My god, how he loved her and how painful it was to not be able to be with her.

Over the course of his surveillance, he had studied her and discovered that her real name was Petra Tarasova, and that she had come to the U.S. along with the waves of Soviet Jews allowed to emigrate in 1979, although she was not Jewish. Through other sources, Terrence had learned that, like other deep-cover spies, Petra had been groomed since adolescence to infiltrate American society and undermine it from within. She was very good at her work, too. Weeks after her arrival in the U.S., she had gotten a job as a temp. In just three years, she had worked her way into the entertainment business, and had recently begun work as the personal assistant to Justin Black, a literary agent at International Artists Agency, IAA, which occupied several floors of a garish Art Nouveau-style building on Sunset.

Lunchtime was Terrence’s favorite part of each day, because that was when Petra walked from the office to Schwab’s and he was closest to her. Each day, she bought an egg salad sandwich on white bread, a Perrier, and a pickle, then returned to the IAA office.

Today, she bought her lunch and through the large plate glass windows, Terrence observed as she browsed the display of fashion and celebrity magazines. She emerged from the store, crossed Sunset back to his side of the street, and now was on the sidewalk about thirty yards ahead. Her hips swayed gently, and the white lunch bag swung languidly with each purposeful stride. Terrence watched until she was nearly out of sight, then started the Crown Vic, put it in gear, and blended into the traffic. Petra was only a few yards from the steps that led into the IAA building, and he had timed this part of his surveillance precisely. If he drove exactly 21 miles per hour, he would be abreast of her as she started to ascend the stairs. At the top, she would turn slightly and, as she pulled open the door her shape would be silhouetted against the smoked glass door, the arch of her back flowing with fluid perfection to the curve of her splendid posterior.

But this time, unexpectedly, Petra stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and knelt to fasten the buckle on her gold high-heeled sandal. Tillberry resisted the urge to slam on the brakes and continued at the same speed. Then, as he passed her, he glanced in the rear view mirror just to get a final glimpse before she turned.

For a moment, her kneeling figure, framed by the rear view mirror, filled his field of vision. He could almost see up her skirt. Then, Petra Tarasova aka Pamela Goldfarb aka Mourning Dove stood, looked ahead, smiled mischievously, and waved.

📘 Want more?
Buy The Spy Who Loathed Me now and dive deeper into this hilariously twisted tale of love, espionage, and Fruit Pies.
👉 Get the book here