by Matt Eaton
“I only have your word on that. For all I know, you could have shot yourself to fool everyone. You’re good at fooling people, aren’t you?”
“I’m part of an operation that functions above your clearance level and well above your pay grade, Mr Angleton. You’re the one making a fool of himself. I don’t think the President will be at all happy when he finds out about it.”
Angleton threw her a look of pity. “It was Sherman Adams who alerted me to your trip to California in the first place. He doesn’t trust you either. Told me to keep an eye on you.”
That caught her off-guard. Would Adams really do that? She trusted Eisenhower, but could his chief advisor actually be in bed with the CIA? “Did he tell you who I’ve been working for this whole time?”
Angleton was staring through a window at the darkening desert. “The Verus Foundation, you mean? Yes, I know all about your job with Verus... collecting secrets.”
“Then you’ll know why we were in Rome.”
“Nobody knows why you were in Rome,” he shouted at her. “That’s the problem. You were there without permission. Senator Ives certainly didn’t send you. The President didn’t know. Neither did the State Department, the CIA, defense intelligence — nobody. I’ve even spoken to Dr Menzel. He says you weren’t there for Verus either.”
It genuinely shocked her to hear that. If that was true, Menzel had told a bald-faced lie and hung her out to dry. But then she realized Angleton had overreached. It defied the law of probability that both Adams and Menzel were working against her.
“What business do you have at Edwards?” he asked.
“The President’s business. I have a letter of entry written on White House letterhead and signed by Dwight Eisenhower himself. Would you care to see it?”
“Let me rephrase the question then,” said Angleton. “What does the President want you to see in Edwards?”
She saw no reason to lie. “I want to examine the Roswell saucer crash wreckage.”
“There was no flying saucer crash at Roswell,” said Angleton. “It was a weather balloon.”
“Yes, same old cover story. Very good. Except I have a lot of documented evidence that tells me otherwise.”
“How exactly does this work? Do you inform Mr Adams immediately — or only after you’ve reported to Nina Onilova?”
For a moment, she thought he’d gotten his names mixed up. “Meaning Nina’s in Washington now.”
“Like you didn’t already know,” said Angleton.
“I just helped the police and the FBI arrest Polina Ilyin. Why would I do that if I was a Russian mole?”
“An ingenious way to cover your tracks. I might have even believed it if they hadn’t rushed in Sister Josephine to take her place. Who better to handle you than the woman who recruited you?”
She took a breath to calm herself down. “Do you have any idea how paranoid you sound right now?” But there was no point haranguing the man. Her only hope was to play him at his own game. “Look, I do understand. You see Rome as hallowed turf. It’s where you and Kim Philby became good friends, is it not?
Angleton bristled at the mention of Philby.
“We made a mistake going into the Vatican without agency sanction,” said Edna. “But it wasn’t my decision. Ask yourself how I got there, for starters. We took the same plane that’s sitting out there on the runway at Plant 42. Garrick Stamford’s plane. Are you saying he’s a Russian spy too?”
Angleton appeared to consider this a moment. “Stamford is a fool. The man’s not a good judge of character. He’d be in jail already if he wasn’t so well connected. Lee Tavon is the man who interests me. He’s even harder than you to pin down. Whenever I think I have him cornered, he pops up somewhere else.”
He was changing the subject to keep her off balance. “Nina Onilova didn’t try to recruit me,” she said. “But Polina Ilyin most certainly did. I might have even led her to believe I was considering it.” She had his undivided attention now. “For a Russian, she doesn’t hold her vodka too well. It makes her chatty. She told me something very interesting. For one, she confirmed your friend Philby is working for them. Something you might want to pass onto his masters in London. Unless you’d rather protect an actual Russian spy.”
It was a terrible risk throwing Philby under the bus, particularly if it wasn’t true. Polina hadn’t confirmed it directly but, in her gut, Edna believed it. Donovan had told her to trust her gut. And she knew it would give Angleton pause.
“You’re not getting into Edwards,” he told her. “I’ve given orders you be arrested on site if you turn up at the gate.”
“I might just have to call your bluff on that,” she said. “You don’t have the authority to have me arrested, otherwise I’d already be in jail. That’s a bit of a problem for you, I’d say, Mr Angleton.”
“How so?”
“You’re operating outside the law. You can’t tell the FBI what you’re up to because that means admitting you’re spying on American citizens. Maybe I’m the one who should go to the FBI. Tell them about you. I’ve become quite friendly with Agent Price Wilkins. How would that go down, do you think?”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” he said. “I could tell my men here to put a bullet in your head and bury you in the desert. Maybe then all my problems would be solved.”
She glanced at Tough Guy. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure of himself. Killing women in cold blood probably wasn’t on his list of things to do today.
“The Stalinist approach. How ironic,” she said.
It touched a nerve. Angleton turned his back on her. “Go on,” he said, “get the hell out of here. But make sure to stay away from Edwards. That road is now closed to civilian traffic.”
FORTY SEVEN
Tuesday September 1, 1953
The CIA men hung on her tail all the way into Lancaster, making sure she stayed away from Edwards. They were quite brazen about it, though out here there was no traffic in which to hide.
Lancaster began life as a stop on the rail line from Los Angeles to San Francisco. It had grown steadily since the 1930s with the construction of Muroc Air Force Base (renamed Edwards in 1949). Most folks in town had connections of some sort with the Air Force.
It was after eight at night when she pulled up on the main street. There was a chill in the air; the temperature dropped sharply out here when the sun went down. She was only wearing a short sleeve shirt with light trousers and felt goosebumps rising on her arms. It reminded her she was a long way from home. She was relieved to see other people out and about. The Rendezvous café was right next to the liquor store in a line of shops that ran down Lancaster Boulevard. She resisted the urge to buy booze and instead made her way to a pay phone at the back of the café. While she waited for a cup of coffee, she made a call. Sherman Adams had given her his direct line. He picked up on the second ring.
She explained everything that had gone down, including the fact that Stamford was holding Lee Tavon against his will and that Angleton had dobbed him in as the man who double crossed her.
Adams groaned. “I take it you didn’t believe him.”
“Do you think I’d be calling you if I did?”
“What now?”
“I need to get back inside Plant 42 and see if I can help Lee.”
“That sounds like a really bad idea.”
“It’s why I’m telling you in advance.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer if you just sit tight until I can get someone out there to help?”
“There’s no time,” she said. “Stamford expects me to go back. If I don’t, he’ll know I’m up to something. It’s safer this way.” She wasn’t walking away this time.
“I’d tell you not to do anything stupid, but I think that ship has sailed,” he said.
“Mr Adams, you need to hear me now: you and the President have a problem. There’s too much secrecy. Too many people operating outside the law. If you let this continue, the US government will no longer be in control
of this country.”
“You just get yourself back here safely,” he said. “Write it up for me and we’ll talk some more.”
FORTY EIGHT
Tuesday September 1, 1953
If the Air Force guards at Edwards had been ordered to arrest her, the man at Plant 42 didn’t get the memo.
“About time,” he complained. “I expected you back hours ago.”
She’d expected trouble — not relief. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He opened the boom to let her in. “We don’t normally man the gate at night. Mr Stamford said I had to stay here until you came back. I was starting to have my doubts. Can you give me a lift back to the hangar?”
“Tell you what,” she said, “why don’t you drive?”
He padlocked the gate shut then jumped behind the wheel. As he drove into the hangar, she saw Stamford’s plane was still parked on the tarmac outside, gleaming in the flood lights that now illuminated the concourse. She stepped inside the main hangar, keen to get out of the evening chill, but it was pitch black in there and more than a little creepy so she remained outside where she could see what was happening.
By the time Stamford appeared, she was shivering from the cold breeze that was blowing across the desert runway. He ushered her back inside the hangar. It was still pitch-black inside. A light near the elevator was the only illumination. It was positively ominous.
“Did you have any success?” he asked, pushing the button that opened the elevator doors. She wondered if he already knew.
“I was run off the road by CIA goons. They said they’d have me locked up if I tried to go to Edwards.”
“How rude,” said Stamford. “Pity. I’d hoped you might actually pull it off.”
The elevator doors opened on the lowest level. The flying saucer was once more in the center of the chamber, locked into position by scaffolding on three sides. Like they were guarding against the possibility Lee Tavon would try to fly it away.
“Where is he?” she asked Stamford.
“You tell me, Miss Drake. That man is slippery as a sack of eels.”
“You mean he’s gone?”
Stamford reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal disc a little bigger than a quarter, holding it up for her to see. “I left him in a locked room this afternoon while you and I had lunch. He was still here when I returned. We spoke for some time. He told me he’d reconfigured the saucer’s operating system. I’m most grateful for that. But then I turned my back just for a moment and he vanished. No sign of him anywhere. This little disc was all he left behind. Any thoughts on what it might be?”
She suspected her liberty hung upon answering him truthfully. “It’s a device that opens a portal between two separate points in space. If he used it, he’s long gone.”
“A portal. Any idea how it works?”
“No,” she said. “You’re on your own there.”
“Pity.” He flipped the disc in the air like a coin. “We think this thing was single use. It’s no good to us now. All burnt out on the inside.”
“I know that feeling,” she said. “So, I guess we’re done here. Any chance of a lift back to Washington?”
“You know, Dr Menzel is not at all happy you told the President about us,” said Stamford.
“Dr Menzel needs to stop blaming other people for his own bad decisions. I might also point out Sherman Adams will have the FBI on your doorstep by early tomorrow if I’m still here.”
Stamford sighed in resignation. “I have a pilot on standby. You’ll be in Washington before dawn. Tell the President I am at his disposal.”
FORTY NINE
Wednesday September 2, 1953
It was only a 15-minute taxi ride from the airport to Clarence Paulson’s apartment in Columbia Heights. It wasn’t yet seven in the morning as she struggled wearily to get the key in the front door. The voice behind her came as a shock.
“Miss Edna Drake?”
It was a woman’s voice. Edna restrained herself from cursing as she turned around. “Who’s asking?”
“I represent the Congressional Committee on Government Operations. Are you Edna Drake?” Edna tried to turn the key but it wasn’t properly engaged in the lock. She couldn’t get away. The woman persisted. “Edna Drake I am serving you with a subpoena to appear before the Committee on Government Operations tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in the morning.” She held the notice out in front of her.
“What if I refuse?” Edna asked her.
“Senator McCarthy wouldn’t be too happy about that,” the woman said.
Edna took the subpoena. The woman turned tail and fled. She reinserted the key and the door opened first go. Of course. As soon as she was inside, she tore open the envelope. The notice declared that, pursuant to lawful authority, she was ordered to appear before the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations in the Senate Office Building in committee room 357 to deliver verbal testimony in relation to Communist infiltration among employees of the State Department and their links to staff and operations in the US Senate.
Until a moment ago she had been ready to collapse from weariness after the sleepless red-eye flight from California. But there would be no sleeping now. She needed to speak to Sherman Adams. She walked to the pay phone outside the corner store and dialed his office number, but Adams’ secretary said he wasn’t in. She left a message, gave the pay phone number and demanded a return call as soon as possible.
She bought herself a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes and began smoking and pacing the pavement as she waited for the call. The ground was littered with butts when the phone finally rang an hour later.
“I’m happy you’re back safe from California,” Adams told her.
“I was too until an hour ago,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to find out what they know,” he said. “McCarthy’s investigator Roy Cohn has the photos of you and Clarence in Rome. Looks like Angleton has cherry-picked the CIA’s intelligence and fed the worst of it to the investigations subcommittee.”
“Don’t you mean the CIA’s illegally gathered intelligence?”
“Yes, but they don’t need to reveal the source of their information. It’s enough for them to know you were conducting business in Rome without the knowledge of Senator Ives, your employer.”
“Employer in name only.”
“You can’t tell them that,” Adams said in exasperation. “You can’t tell these bastards anything. Remember, you have the Official Secrets Act to hide behind.”
“Christ Sherm, that’ll make it worse. The press would have a field day. Senate spy ring in bed with Russian agents. The whole thing is already a circus.”
“This is an executive session, which means the hearing won’t be public — thank God.”
“That could be worse. They can tell the press their version of events afterwards and they’ll still parade me past the cameras like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“I know you place a high value on the truth,” said Adams, “but that’s the last thing you can give them. It won’t go down well. I doubt they’d believe you anyway. And you need a lawyer with you.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” she asked.
There was silence on the line. “Right, so not you.”
“We can’t, Edna. How would that look?”
“Well, you can bet Donald Menzel won’t stump up the money. But come on, Sherm, you could shut this down, you know you could.”
“You weren’t in Rome on behalf of the President, Edna. We didn’t even know about it until you told us last month. We won’t lie for you. And we especially won’t lie for a foreign national.”
“Clarence is implicated?”
“We have to assume so, yes.”
Meaning deportation was a virtual certainty. “You guys tell lies all the time when it suits you.”
“That’s not fair, Edna.”
She took a breath. “No, you’re right, it’s not. But you don’t have to take responsibility. Just say we were o
n a classified operation working against the Russians — not with them.”
“Without CIA or State Department sanction? I’d be throwing the President under a bus. I’m afraid I won’t do that,” Adams said flatly.
He was throwing her under the bus instead.
FIFTY
Wednesday September 2, 1953
Donald Menzel waited for her in Crisfield in his usual place. Upon catching sight of her, he picked up his martini from the bar and headed for their table.
“I’ve already ordered,” he said. “For me, not for you. You want something, you pay for it yourself.”
She’d expected as much. “I’m not hungry.”
“They must be jostling for parking outside with so many people on your tail,” he said.
“Your name has been kept well clear of this,” she assured him. “If anyone asks, I’m just having lunch with an old family friend.”
“Friend, is it?” Menzel observed wryly.
“I came to plead with you to do something about Clarence. They want to deport him.”
Menzel’s expression darkened. “Another ruinous decision on your part, taking Clarence to the Jewel Box.”
She grimaced. “You’re right. By all means, blame me for that one. I certainly blame myself. But you need to help him, Donald. Pull strings. Talk to the Twelve. You need him.”
“Impossible. The damage is already done. I can’t intervene without alerting the FBI to our existence.”
“You might want to bear in mind that Clarence and I travelled to Rome on your order, despite the misgivings I expressed to you quite clearly at the time. It remains within my means to casually drop your name into the middle of this communist feeding frenzy.”
“I made a mistake trusting you to get it done in Rome.”
“It was a mistake to send anyone there. Donovan himself couldn’t have gotten it done. They were ready and waiting.”