Pagan's Spy

by Matt Eaton

  Edna met the man on several occasions in her capacity as a researcher for Senator Irving Ives, at whose side she now stood dutifully. Everyone in Ives’s office was well aware that Taft’s death was an opportunity, not that anyone was saying it today. Ives was now the ranking Republican expert on labor management.

  “Would you like a drink, Edna?” Ives asked her.

  “I really would,” she admitted. She felt like a fish out of water in a room full of sharks.

  Ives nodded in understanding and headed for the bar, but she watched as he fell into a conversation with Vice President Nixon and knew she might be waiting a long time.

  “Good to see you again, Edna.” She turned and smiled, recognizing the voice of Hoyt Vandenberg, but was shocked to see him looking so unwell.

  “Hello, General. How are you?” she asked tentatively. Menzel had told her he was sick, but he had the gaunt pallor of someone staring death in the face.

  “No comment,” he said. “This is all a bit too close to home. I just wanted to pop my head in briefly to pay my respects. I wanted to tell you I was sorry about Rome. I can’t help feeling responsible. We shouldn’t have sent you in there.”

  “It’s good of you to say,” she told him quietly. “I do feel like the whole operation was doomed from the start.”

  Vandenberg nodded in solemn agreement, then silently shook her hand with a disturbing sense of finality. As Senator Ives reappeared with her champagne, she watched ruefully as Vandenberg beat a rapid retreat to avoid an awkward encounter with the President’s entourage, which had been moving in Edna’s direction for some time.

  “Poor old Hoyt,” said Ives. “He’s next, from what I hear.”

  “Senator, good to see you.”

  Another all-too-familiar old man appeared before them. “General Donovan, how are you?” Ives inquired, shaking Donovan’s hand. “Let me introduce you to my research assistant, Edna Drake.”

  “The General and I have actually met,” said Edna. “Back when I was a newspaper reporter.” But Ives wasn’t listening — the President had caught his attention. The room had become so crammed with important people it was hard to know where to look.

  Donovan grabbed her by the elbow and leant in close to speak so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Just quickly, I have a name for you. Eloise Page. She’s well-connected in the agency. Knows about MJ-12. I trust her with my life and I told her you’re on the level. If you ever need help, every Sunday you can find her at the Christ Episcopal Church in Georgetown. Go to the nine o’clock service. She’ll find you.” He was gone a moment later. It was a remarkable disappearance, calculated to avoid presidential scrutiny. It was almost like he’d never been there at all.

  Donovan still had impressive tradecraft. She’d had no idea he was still in the country. But there was no time to think about why he felt the need to deliver the message because Eisenhower’s chief White House assistant now caught her eye. He was holding out his hand by way of introduction. “Sherman Adams,” he said, like there was someone in this room didn’t know that already. She offered him a firm grip. “And you are Edna Drake.”

  She nodded, impressed both by the handshake and the recognition. “A pleasure, Mr Adams. But you know, I’ve been trying to speak to you for some time.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding sagely, “I do know. Needless to say, we’ve been busy. I am an admirer of your boss.”

  For a moment, she thought he meant Menzel. “Ah yes... Senator Ives is a progressive employer.”

  “And a man of his word. A rare thing in Washington these days, I find.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know that I am aware of your situation.”

  “Well sir, that’s the thing. I’m not entirely certain you are fully aware...”

  He nodded somewhat impatiently like he already knew what she was about to say. “We’ll talk soon. I promise.”

  Nobody could get near President Eisenhower without going through Sherman Adams. He’d been described in the press as Ike’s “Abominable No Man”. She dearly wanted to take this opportunity to nail him down to a time and a place, but she’d already lost his attention; he was speaking to three other people at once.

  She noticed Eisenhower was listening in. It was almost like Adams was the man in charge.

  TWENTY

  Monday August 3, 1953

  Edna realized Benjamin Franklin was staring at her over the top of his bifocals, rather like he was wanting her to say something. His portrait gazed knowingly out across the President’s Room and she wondered what incredible moments this figure had witnessed over the years. How would this most revered of the Founding Fathers view the world in which they now found themselves? She found it hard to believe any man so dedicated to the pursuit of truth and knowledge would condone the secrets now kept from the world in the name of peace and national security.

  An arm hooked through hers and spun her around by the elbow. She found herself facing a young woman with pale cheeks and light brown hair, lips painted deep red and sparkling eyes that demanded attention. “Edna darling, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Edna was wracking her brain trying to remember who this woman was, but she didn’t look at all familiar. There was a vague hint of a European accent hiding beneath her Long Island lockjaw. She could have been Katherine Hepburn and Marlene Dietrich rolled into one. She leant in close. “Polina. That’s my name. You haven’t forgotten it darling, don’t worry. We don’t know one another. At least, not yet.”

  Edna decided to play along, but alarm bells were already ringing. “Hello, Paulina.”

  “No darling. Po-lina. It’s Polish.”

  Her nationality was her calling card. Sister Josephine had said she was Polish.

  “I heard about Rome,” Polina said, leaving Edna in no doubt.

  Edna pulled her arm free. “I don’t think we have anything to say to one another.”

  But Polina took hold of her elbow and subtly but forcefully pulled her close. “Don’t be too hasty, darling. We’ve only just met.”

  “What do you want?” Edna hissed.

  “To talk. About your quest for the truth.” Which Edna took to mean the Verus Foundation. “Sometimes it’s good to talk to somebody who understands,” Polina said.

  “Is that right?”

  “I know you feel the same way. It can be so lonely, but we have much in common you and I. A sympathetic ear is hard to come by. I’ll be at Shulman’s Market, tomorrow afternoon at three.”

  Polina ambled away without looking back. It was an odd gait, favoring one leg like she was trying to hide a limp.

  TWENTY ONE

  Tuesday August 4, 1953

  Edna couldn’t work out how Polina made it into the room. Secret Service agents were on the door — she’d recognized Agent Elmer Deckard from their first meeting in the bowels of the White House. And even though he knew her, he had still insisted upon seeing her identification. Surely Russian diplomats would not have been invited to Taft’s wake. The funeral, maybe, but not the wake. Which meant Polina had fake American credentials. That would explain the Long Island accent and her brazen approach.

  Shulman’s Market was a corner store in a predominantly black area of Southwest D.C. that had also become popular with the Russian immigrant community. Edna made her way cautiously along an alley known locally as Union Street, past broken-down tenements and crumbling brick rowhouses where small boys played ball in the street and men sat on wooden crates smoking and watching for something to distract them from their terminal boredom. Many people felt unsafe wandering these streets, but this was Edna’s old neighborhood and she felt right at home. It was actually one of the safest places in D.C. and many people didn’t even bother locking their doors — most of them owned nothing worth stealing.

  But that vibe was changing fast. Many of the houses looked empty now. Families were being forced to move ahead of the wrecking crews coming soon to begin so-called urban renew
al. There was a feeling of despair in the air and she was starting to wonder if it had been a good idea coming here today without letting anyone know. She’d considered calling Menzel, but wasn’t sure he would want to discuss the matter over an open telephone line. And he’d made it clear he didn’t want to see her back at Verus HQ. She’d gone it alone, hoping to show him she didn’t require his approval at every turn.

  She reached Shulman’s Market and stepped past a black teenager bouncing a ball on the front stoop to glimpse a woman vanishing behind the counter and into a back room behind the shopfront. She figured it had to be Polina.

  The teenager, who had followed her inside, tapped her on the shoulder. “Follow me.” He led her through to the back room, behind the counter and away from the gaze of other shoppers. Polina was sitting at a small table alongside a balding man Edna assumed was the store owner.

  “My name is Dimitri,” he told Edna. “Would you like coffee? Or a vodka perhaps?”

  “Coffee is fine,” she said.

  Dimitri glanced at Polina who nodded to indicate she would have the same.

  “You came,” Polina said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Color me curious.”

  “We are safe here. I have eyes on the streets outside. And I assume you know you’re being followed.”

  “No,” said Edna, caught off-guard. “By who? Your people?”

  “No darling, by yours. My people don’t know I’m here.”

  Edna scoffed. “Come on, let’s not kid one another.”

  “I didn’t come here to tell you lies. On this you have my word,” Polina told her solemnly. “You know, I was in Berlin too at the end of the war,” said Polina.

  “You and a million other Russians.”

  “I think you were gone by the time I arrived. What a hellhole. I’ve never seen such destruction. And the people —as ruined as the city itself. No safe place for a woman.”

  “Were you ever attacked?” Edna asked her.

  “No. Our soldiers protected Russian women. They took out all their frustrations on the Germans. I must confess that for a long time I had no sympathy for the frauleins. I saw them as worthy of punishment. Their men had slaughtered so many Russian soldiers, and they kept killing us for weeks even when they knew their situation was hopeless. But in the end, it was Russians who showed them what it means to never surrender.”

  “What your soldiers did to German women made me sick to my stomach,” said Edna.

  “Your soldiers too,” Polina reminded her. “Berlin was a corpse and the survivors were wild dogs fighting for their pound of dead flesh. To Russians, those women were already dead.”

  It was to be expected that Polina could forgive the crimes her own men committed. Nobody ever believed their own side guilty of war crimes. Using rape for vengeance during the occupation had been an abomination, but it was also true that everyone was more cold-blooded back then. Edna had never been able to find the words to describe what it was like near the front lines in the months after D-Day. How surviving amid so much pain and death so profoundly altered one’s perspective on life. How hatred for the Germans developed into an all-consuming passion once the full extent of their atrocities became clear in the aftermath. This was the first time since returning to America she’d come face-to-face with another woman who’d lived through it.

  Dimitri returned with two strong black coffees and a pot of sugar. “Sweet is best,” he said. Edna took one sip and thought it was the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted. Two sugars took an edge off the bitterness.

  “How long were you there?” she asked Polina.

  “Two years. Working in intelligence.”

  “Much longer than me. I don’t know how you could stand it.”

  “I was alive and, for the most part, safe. I had food and a roof over my head. So many Russians had already lost these things.”

  “I try hard not to think about the brutality of it,” Edna said. “Sometimes it feels like it all happened to someone else.”

  “We have this in common. We know things, but cannot talk of them.”

  “What do you want from me, Polina?”

  “Just this — to talk. Is good, yes? To get these things off your chest, as Americans like to say.”

  “I have nothing I need to get off my chest,” said Edna warily, guessing Polina planned to shift the topic of conversation from Berlin to Rome. “But if you’re keen to talk, I’m all ears.”

  Polina smiled. “I can help you,” she said. “You’re all alone now. No-one to trust. In the cold, is that the right expression? I came to you to offer a friendly ear. I’d like to think we could be friends.”

  “That’s never gonna happen.”

  “You have your priest, yes? Your father confessor, though I’m not sure staying the night in a woman’s room is proper behavior for a holy man.”

  They were watching her hotel.

  “Nina Onilova has told me things about the priests that would make your toes curl. But today I want to tell you this, Edna Drake — your position at Verus is untenable. This will not end well for you.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I know everything about you. Your trip to Italy was unsanctioned. You will be blamed for its failure.”

  “What makes you think my own people are following me?”

  “I have seen them myself. They are not the same men who follow me — mine are FBI. Yours, I think, are CIA.”

  “And this is the part where you try to use that against me.”

  Polina simply shook her head. “No. You can walk away right now — I won’t stop you.”

  Edna stood up and immediately headed for the door. She’d heard enough.

  “Bartholdi Park, by the fountain,” Polina called after her. “A week from now, if you want to talk more.”

  Edna kept walking. The street outside was empty. Nobody watching that she could see, but she felt like she’d made a terrible mistake coming here. If the CIA really was on her tail, they would know about Polina now.

  Only traitors held unsanctioned meetings with Russian agents.

  She was in over her head. She’d come here because she actually liked the idea of having someone to talk to about it all. But Polina would never be her friend. In matters of politics, Russians were all the same; they acted without remorse and they most certainly never played fair.

  TWENTY TWO

  Wednesday August 5, 1953

  The owners of Crisfield clearly had no interest in making the place pretty for diners. It was more café than restaurant, but the seafood was trucked in fresh daily from Chesapeake Bay and virtually every dish on the menu was to die for.

  It was rather inconveniently located at Silver Spring in Maryland, just outside the D.C. limits, but that was to their advantage in this instance. Edna found Donald Menzel perched on a stool at the bar. He rose to his feet and immediately led her to a table. “I’m starving,” he explained, “let’s order first and talk later.”

  He went for a dozen fresh oysters, with Lobster Norfolk to follow. She opted for clam chowder and a shrimp salad. The place was very noisy, which also suited them perfectly. Nobody else would hear what she had to say. Thankfully, out here they were far were just be another two faces in the crowd. It had become abundantly clear that Menzel was embarrassed to be seen with her in public.

  Aware embarrassment might soon escalate to enmity, she kept her tone firm and sure as she outlined her meeting with Polina. The food arrived halfway through her story. He quickly began shoveling oysters into his mouth. He finished the full dozen, sighed in satisfaction and eyed her calmly. “You did well. Exactly what I would have suggested — if you’d thought to come to me beforehand, though I understand your reason for not doing so.”

  “She claims the CIA are on my tail.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “I had to pass it up the chain that your operation in Rome had failed.”

  That really pissed her off. “For God’s sake — up the chain? It was your
idea not to tell them in the first place, why tell them now?” He stared back at her unmoved. Her chowder arrived, but she had suddenly lost her appetite.

  “Eat,” he told her. “I understand that you’re angry, but you can’t let it put you off your food.”

  “Up the chain to who, Donald?”

  “MJ-12 — to Wally Smith.” The former CIA director. “He passed it along to Dulles, his replacement.”

  This was an unsanctioned spy operation run illegally inside the Vatican. Shots had been fired. A Russian agent had been killed. This was the sort of information that could ruin anyone associated with it. Suddenly Polina’s prediction was starting to seem remarkably credible. If news of the failed operation reached the ears of anyone close to Senator Joe McCarthy, it would destroy her.

  “Have you had any response from Dulles?”

  “Roscoe is briefing him on MJ-12 and Verus this week. I’d think we’ll hear back from that meeting soon enough.”

  “Does that briefing extend to FS-1?”

  Menzel winced slightly at mention of the flying saucer program, then shook his head. “No. We’ve decided to quarantine that from CIA oversight.”

  “Quarantine... what does that mean?”

  “We’re going it alone.”

  “Meaning they won’t be told what Clarence and I were actually doing in Rome.”

  “No,” Menzel agreed. “As far as the agency is concerned, you were conducting research in the Vatican archives and the Russians tried to kill you. That’s all there is to it.”

  “We’re lying to the CIA? Let’s hope that doesn’t come back to bite us. Hell, what am I saying? It’s not ‘we’, it’s you. Yet strangely it’s my head on the chopping block.”

  “This is what we do, Edna. I’d have thought you understood that by now.”

  She took a long, slow breath and sipped her chowder. It was good. She could taste three different types of seafood, and it was balanced salt and tang without either flavor overpowering. She knew there was no point arguing; the damage was done. And he hadn’t completely thrown her in the deep end.