“You’d better do the lineup to make sure,” Groves broke the silence, addressing Latham. “After the other briefing.”
“Yessir.”
Groves checked his watch and stood, motioning us to stay put. “I’ve got a meeting off base, so Colonel Latham will take it from here, Voigt.”
“Yessir.”
With that the general left. I was so relieved Groves had approved the lineup that I didn’t think much about the reference to “the other briefing.”
But I should have.
CHAPTER 26
LATHAM REMAINED SEATED BEHIND GROVES’S DESK. HE NODDED AT Dahlen, who finally spoke.
“We need you to report to our office in Santa Fe.”
“Aren’t we here already?” I asked, confused.
“No, this office is in the city itself. All civilian personnel go there first for briefings before coming up to Site Y. Dorothy McKibbin is in charge, she’s been here since Day One. We want you to tell her about the voice of the man you overheard in Washington. This’ll help with the lineup.”
“All right. How do I get there?”
“You’ll take a jeep from the motor pool,” Latham answered. “Dahlen will walk you over there after you get a security badge. You’ll report back here at fourteen-hundred—we’ll be ready to do the lineup by then.”
Dahlen stood, and I followed him out of the building. Still cool, but the sun had risen. Clods of dirt crunched and broke under our shoes. To the west was the compound of buildings I had glimpsed while the corporal was bringing me to Groves. A tall barbed wire fence surrounded these structures. A protected base within a protected base—was this the brains of the operation? Dahlen gave no sign that he was interested in chatting, so I lit a cigarette and tried to make sense of the just-ended briefing. A lot had happened, much of it troubling. General Groves had approved the lineup to identify the Automat spy, but …
What if the spy was working at a different secret base? I’d assumed Site Y, here in the remote New Mexico desert, was the only location for the weapons project, but now I wasn’t sure. He has to be here, I told myself—otherwise, why had the Russians released me the night they tortured and interrogated me? Because they knew their man was in New Mexico, and they believed I was going to help them get their missing data. But …
The Russians didn’t trust me, and neither did Groves and Latham. Sending me solo into Santa Fe was a ruse. If Dorothy McKibbin could be helpful, Latham would send for her so she could be present at the lineup. He didn’t need her help to draw up a list of the civilians who were off the base in early May—as the head of security, he already had those records. He and Groves were sending me into Santa Fe to see if I would meet with anyone. They were having me watched and followed, every move, every minute, while I was in Santa Fe. Paslett’s endorsement hadn’t sufficed; Groves and Latham wanted to see for themselves if I was squeaky-clean.
I hid my dismay with another cigarette as Dahlen and I continued our silent hike to another nondescript wooden building, where a private from the Signal Corps took my photograph for my security badge. He snapped two pictures and we waited while he finished the badge. At the motor pool, Dahlen gave my orders to a sergeant and handed me an inexpertly drawn map with a circle around an address, 109 East Palace. He told me I’d find Dorothy McKibbin there and reminded me to return by 1400.
The drive to Santa Fe forced me to think about subjects other than my predicament. Such as when the jeep’s brakes had last been checked. Or if it was possible to leap out of the driver’s seat if a wheel went over the side of the guardrail-less, narrow, rutted cow trail mistakenly called a road on my map. At first the descent wasn’t too steep, but in second gear the engine started to whine, hard; I killed it trying to find third. Had to ride the brake to keep from rolling while I fired the ignition and started over. A gentle curve, the unpaved dirt road lined by junipers, soon turned mean, then downright wicked. On my right was a craggy embankment tufted with scraggly weeds; on my left, a breathtaking vista of a steep hill, dropping to a ridge, dropping to a cliff, dropping to a thicket at least one hundred feet below. Not that I could afford more than a panicked, second-long glance, but that look was more than enough to take my breath away. I managed to find third gear, the jeep picked up speed, I started pumping the brake. Wrestled the stick back into second, told the protesting engine to shut up, and just managed to come to a stop for the hardest left turn I’d ever made, a switchback so sharp I was certain it defied the laws of geometry. The steering wheel fought my frantic pulls, the engine conked out yet again.
Finally, I got smart and shifted into neutral without touching the ignition. Growing up in Chicago, its terrain as flat as a table, my experience with inclines was limited to sledding on a hill at the lakefront. I’d sled this jeep to Santa Fe or die trying.CAUTION: TURN AHEAD! a wooden sign exclaimed as the jeep picked up speed on a straightaway. Spinning the steering wheel, I realized that the “ridge” I’d seen from above was actually the road, which meant I was now on the edge of the cliff. Drops of sweat blurred my vision, my legs and arms ached, I desperately wanted a cigarette; but I didn’t dare take my white knuckles off the wheel.
I reached Santa Fe as wet as a fever victim. Rattled, I walked by 109 East Palace twice before I noticed it. Were Latham’s men already watching me? Did the Russians know about this place? I pushed these questions aside, trying to gather my wits before I went in. The entrance was an iron gate opening into a shaded courtyard with a brick path. No sign, just the address numbers above the doorway. The building looked like a residence, a tourist’s colorwash postcard of a historic New Mexico home. Thick adobe walls, sienna roof tiles, small square windows, French doors. The courtyard featured pale lavender flowers in clay pots and rows of gray-blue grass. I knocked hard on a heavy plank door. The clatter of typewriters and cigarette smoke drifted through an open window.
“S’open,” a male voice shouted.
The door creaked on its hinges and I entered a low-ceilinged, raftered room packed with mismatched wooden desks arranged into T shapes to make the most of limited space. A stout man, his black hair mussed, didn’t look up from his Underwood, his fingers dancing over the keyboard, ash dangling perilously from a jutting cigarette.
“Straight ahead, friend,” he said through immobile lips.
I thanked him and picked my way through the crowded room. A brightly colored tapestry hung from a knurled rod set between the windows. The wooden sills and panes were painted canary yellow. In the corner, a fireplace with glazed tiles was piled high with boxes of office supplies: stationery, typewriter ribbons, envelopes. I ducked beneath a wooden beam to enter a small room with just one desk, behind which sat a middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair cut short. She wore a collarless blouse and a wooden bead necklace. She had a pleasant, soft face—people probably told her she reminded them of their favorite grammar school teacher.
Looking up from a sheaf of typed papers, she asked, “Are you Lieutenant Voigt?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Have a seat.” She took in my still-shiny brow and the sweat-darkened patches on my uniform. “Drove yourself down, did you?”
“Wouldn’t call it driving, ma’am, but I’m here.” I eased into the wooden chair in front of her desk.
“Call me Dorothy, and tell me about the man you saw in Washington.”
I had to answer carefully. At the Automat, Himmel had questioned the authenticity of the information he was receiving. What, a Ph.D. in physics from Yale at twenty-two isn’t sufficient bond? the man had challenged Himmel. I’d told no one this detail. If I had, there was no reason to send me to Santa Fe—Groves and Latham could easily identify the spy without me. And, of course, I couldn’t admit I’d seen him and knew what he looked like. So I only described the sound of his voice.
She scribbled notes. Then, rapid-fire questions.
“Did he speak with an accent, foreign or regional?”
“No.”
“Did he sound educated?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say where he came from?”
“He mentioned the ‘desert,’ nothing more.”
“Did he say how long he’d been traveling?”
“No.”
“Did he mention any names?”
“No.”
“Did he use any technical vocabulary?”
I hesitated—Latham hadn’t told me how much I could share, or not share, with McKibbin.
“S’all right, Lieutenant, this briefing has Colonel Latham’s full approval.” She smiled tersely and waited.
Was Latham setting me up? Did he want me to tell her about the Uranium-235 just so he could tell Groves I was blabbing classified information? But if I didn’t answer, I’d look like I was hiding something.
“Yes, he did,” I responded. “Just before he handed over an envelope, he said, ‘To diffuse the Uranium-235, use uranium hexafluoride and a metal filter with submicroscopic perforations. Do not use a mass spectrometer.’”
If that meant anything to McKibbin, she didn’t let on, just wrote it down, in shorthand.
“Anything else you can tell me, Lieutenant?”
“Yes: This man is self-assured and confident, so much so that it wouldn’t surprise me if those who work with him find him cocky, even arrogant.”
She noted that, too. Then looked up and asked, “When are you supposed to report back to Site Y?”
“Fourteen-hundred.”
She looked surprised. “It’s not even eleven. You’ve got some unexpected leave, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
I pretended to happily agree and asked where I might get something to eat. She recommended Joe King’s Blue Ribbon Bar, just a few blocks away. I thanked her and walked out, well aware that Latham’s men were following me, marking my every move. No way to pick out my shadow. Was he the elderly man sitting on a wooden chair under the awning of a grocery store, newspaper folded to the crossword, or was she the young woman carrying a shopping bag across the street? An innocent man wouldn’t look over his shoulder or scrutinize passersby, so I kept my gaze forward and my gait leisurely. Santa Fe seemed like a pleasant town, its streets lined with one- and two-story stucco and brick buildings, but I was too anxious to enjoy the view.
Despite the early hour, the Blue Ribbon had customers. Several workmen in dusty overalls leaned against the bar, beer glasses and sandwiches in front of them. At a table, three young women dressed like stenos were chatting. The barmaid was listening to one of the workmen tell a joke as she rolled a cigarette. She looked to be on the right side of forty, slender, her hair tucked beneath a colorful bandana. She wore a baggy chamois shirt and dungarees as well as that fixed look of patience all good barkeeps put on for the joke they’ve heard a thousand times before.
I sat on a stool at the end of the bar and took in the place. My uniform caught nothing more than a quick glance; no doubt the regulars were used to seeing servicemen since Site Y opened. Standard-issue watering hole: high-backed booths, wooden tables and chairs, jukebox and a telephone booth, tin beer signs, hand-lettered placards touting daily drink specials and the sandwiches. The back bar featured rows of whiskey and tequila bottles and taped-up postcards. I lit up, inhaled with relief. The barmaid came over, her hand-rolled already half smoked.
“What’ll you have, hon?”
“A ham and cheese sandwich and a root beer.”
She nodded, walked over to a reach-in cooler, and took out a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich and a bottle.
“Wanna egg, they’re right there,” ticking her head at a large jar to my right.
“Thanks,” I said, dropping a dollar bill. I unwrapped the sandwich and took a big bite.
The cash register da-dinged, she brought my change. The workmen were entertaining each other; the young women were still talking happily; and the bartender didn’t say anything more to me. No one was looking at me, and I was sure no one would strike up a conversation or buy me a drink, as often happened to a man in uniform rubbing elbows with civilians in a tavern. The locals might spend endless hours guessing at what went on up in the mountains, but by now they knew better than to ask questions of newcomers. But were any of the patrons plants, there to watch me for Latham? Dorothy McKibbin had to know I was being watched, so she likely had called Latham as soon as I left 109 East Palace to tell him I was going to the Blue Ribbon. The three young women, the workmen—they all looked as if they’d been in the Blue Ribbon for a while, but I couldn’t be certain. A good shadow always fits in, looks natural, never draws attention.
Rules that don’t apply to someone trying to find you. A woman wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed sun hat slid onto the stool next to me.
“Mind if I join you?” Mara asked, smiling.
CHAPTER 27
JESUS H. CHRIST! WHAT WAS MARA DOING HERE—HOW IN THE HELL did she know I had come to New Mexico? My mind raced as I tried to keep my composure. The N.K.V.D. must have sent her to keep an eye on me. Shovel-face had gulled me into thinking they were dumping Mara after she failed to dope me. I’d come up with a half-cocked scheme to keep Mara on a string, not realizing the Russians had another mission for her. But what? Flash: Mara as honey bee. She’d told Shovel-face we’d slept together again, or he’d guessed it. Does he love you? he’d challenged her. A’course, selling it. The Russians had peculiar views of love and sex in the States; they believed we Americans were hopeless romantics, gripped by passions straight out of Pushkin, flinging ourselves into torrid, doomed affairs. Figure Shovel-face wanted Mara to vamp me but good here in New Mexico, get me in the sack, dope me right this time, and I’d come to lashed to a chair for another live wire dance to verify I was being a good boy, doing their bidding and only theirs. Even if I could dodge that, how was I going to explain to Latham who Mara was? I had no choice now but to acknowledge her—giving her the cold shoulder would look awful suspicious. Could I manipulate our encounter in some way to shield myself? It was my only angle, and I had to hope—pray—Mara was sharp enough to follow my lead.
“Why sure,” I answered her question about joining me at the bar. “I’m Ellis,” I added, quietly and quickly. We’re strangers, we never met, please please please play along—
“I’m Elizabeth,” Mara promptly replied. The Southern accent was gone, replaced with a barely noticeable mid-Atlantic inflection.
The barmaid came over, gave Mara a swift eyesweep. Was she Latham’s plant, or was she simply sizing up a new customer?
“Something to drink, hon?” she asked.
“I’ll have a root beer too.”
“Care for a sandwich?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you, uh, are you local?” I asked.
“Oh no, I’ve just come here to Santa Fe for a few days before I return home.”
“Vacationing, then.”
“Well, I suppose you could call my visit here a vacation, but I’ve been helping my sister—that’s why I’m here in Santa Fe.”
“Oh?”
“Elizabeth” proceeded to tell me all about her older sister. She had tuberculosis, needed a sanitarium, needed dry, hot air. So, Santa Fe. A good but obvious cover—I sure hoped the Russians had set it up for real. There had better be a “sister” in that sanitarium, and her story—every detail, every fact—had to match Mara’s. The Russians wouldn’t send Mara here blind, they had to know Santa Fe was crawling with Army intelligence, their eyes peeled for outsiders who called themselves tourists but who asked questions about that place up in the mountains. Could Mara brace her front after Latham’s boys hauled her in?
“Where is home?” I asked.
“Ohio. Zanesville.”
“When do you head home?”
She shrugged. “I’m in no hurry. Everyone in Santa Fe told me it’s just so pretty over here, and they’re right. Don’t you think so?”
“Pretty as a picture.” Which also described Mara. She wore a calico cotton dress, the hem hitched just above her knees, a sheen on her bare thigh. No careless
gesture, that; the etiquette matron at the finishing school would have drilled her charges on the necessity of always keeping a skirt pulled over a young lady’s knees. Muted, rose-colored lipstick and turquoise-tinted eyeliner accented Mara’s patrician beauty, the smooth planes of her cheekbones, her inquisitive blue eyes and thick lashes. She noticed me looking at the engraved silver band glinting on her left wrist.
“I picked this up from a delightful little Indian woman here, she says her husband makes them.” She held out her hand, I took it, my thumb lightly touching her palm as I gently turned her wrist to admire the piece.
“S’lovely,” I said, slowly releasing her hand, lingering as she almost imperceptibly squeezed my thumb.
“Thank you.” She dropped her hand to her knee. “I may be a visitor, but I already know not to ask what you’re doing here.” Was that a twitch of a smile on her lips? The woman had nerve, had to give her that.
“Like they say, you can ask, just don’t expect an answer.”
“But can I ask where you’re from?”
“A’course.” So I repeated the biography I’d shared with her the night we met. Chicago, Navy, war, Washington. Jesus, did those four words frame the canvas of my life? But the drab picture brush-stroked over my secrets. Spy. Traitor. Communist sympathizer. Soviet agent. Mara’s hidden portrait, too. How much of the truth about me did she know? She knew I was O.N.I., for real; she knew I was clandestinely working for the N.K.V.D. But did she believe I was feigning my allegiance to the Russians as part of my undercover work for Navy intelligence, or did she believe I was feigning my allegiance to America because I was a Soviet plant? Shovel-face wouldn’t have given her much, just her instructions. Is he following orders, is he getting what we want? The Russians wouldn’t tell her I was supposed to be collecting plans for the weapon being built at the secret base, but Mara was a bright penny, she must have guessed that. What could I tell her that would convince the Reds I was being a good boy without saying anything incriminating my shadows might overhear? How the hell was I going to explain this encounter to Latham? I could try to convince him she was part of my operation in Washington, that I was running a double game on her. Problem was, he’d immediately verify that with Paslett, and I’d never told the commander about Mara. Latham wouldn’t just cancel the lineup, he’d arrest me. There was only one way out, I decided.
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