“Very generous.” I refolded my menu, pushed the useless thing away when the waiter arrived with oysters and drinks. Champagne, naturally, of some vintage more accustomed to kings and emperors. I set mine aside.
“Let’s get straight to business, shall we?” The restaurant was full of chatter, and there was something harsh around Al’s eyes that I hadn’t noticed at first and didn’t particularly care for. “We are still deciding what to do with Golos’s contacts—sadly, it’s only clear now that he is dead what colossal work he has done for us. However, due to the circumstances of his death, it has come to our attention that you worked far more closely with Golos than previously believed. It is imperative that you share what you know about his list of contacts. Especially the woman known as Muse—she must be handed over immediately. It’s the Party’s wish that she report directly to me.”
Muse . . . The Center finally realized how critical Mary Tenney is. And how dangerous.
I was never so thankful that Yasha had kept his intelligence reports so well coded that not even the NKVD or the CPUSA knew their identities. The Center understood that Mary knew all their secrets, but if they learned the full truth about Mary and her trip last year, the truth that I hadn’t even told Yasha . . . Well, then they’d hold a guillotine over her head. Or worse, a dose of strychnine or an ice pickax.
Despite the harsh thud of my heart, I didn’t respond, merely pretended to sip my champagne. Here was the same demand the NKVD had made of Yasha, the stress of which had helped kill him. “Actually,” I finally said, “Muse is in a highly nervous state and won’t be any good to you now. Earl Browder and I agreed that she needs to stay right where she is. With me.”
Here’s your gauntlet, Al. Enjoy.
I could see from the way a vein throbbed in his neck that he hadn’t expected resistance against what was supposed to be an easy turnover of contacts. Which made some perverse part of me enjoy this all the more.
“Perhaps the chain of command here is unclear, Miss Bentley.” Al’s use of my real name failed to intimidate. He stubbed out his cigarette and nudged his champagne glass aside, even pushed his oyster knife to the edge of the table as if clearing the way for some sort of tournament, one I planned to win. “You take your orders from me, not Earl Browder.”
“Earl Browder is the head of the Communist Party of the United States.” I kept my voice down and my expression playful. For all anyone at the next table knew, I was thoroughly enjoying a date with this arrogant, dandified walrus. “And he’s always been my superior.”
“If I was you, I’d do my best to distance myself from Browder. I can assure you that Moscow grows less and less enamored with him every time he opens his mouth about how the US and USSR are equal allies.”
That was news to me, not that I planned to take Al’s advice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a position to ride into battle carrying Browder’s standard while also fighting to protect Mary. “Be that as it may, Muse is fragile. She won’t work with anyone else.”
(To be fair, Catherine, if Mary was assigned to a different handler, there wasn’t anything she could do to change things, save quit and spend the rest of her life hiding from the Center’s possible retribution. After all, it wasn’t as if you could file a formal complaint with the CPUSA or the NKVD. Recall, arrest, or execute, remember?)
“Muse is a honey trap, one we’ve been very patient with because she attracts so many well-placed flies.” Al’s casual tone at the Party’s treatment of Mary made my every hair stand on end. Worse, it made me want to break my chair over his well-coiffed head. “We want Muse and we want her today. If Golos had possessed half a working brain in that head of his, he’d have turned her over ages ago.”
Al’s words sent an explosion on par with the Hindenburg over my entire vision.
“Let me ask you a question, Al.” Voice dangerously level, I leaned back in my chair and slitted my eyes at him. “Explain to me precisely what roles you believe I’ve held in the underground all these years.”
“You began by gathering low-level—mostly useless—intelligence from the Italian Library during Mussolini’s rise—”
“A position I created out of thin air.”
“Then you were assigned to Golos, worked as his mail drop and picked up documents for him, worked at US Service and Shipping and met with his contacts. An unorthodox arrangement at best, given that it breaks every NKVD rule for contacts to meet with more than one handler at a time. It’s not difficult to see how Golos managed to compromise his own position.”
(Catherine, I nearly eviscerated the tub of lard where he sat right then and there. Let the NKVD try to explain that to the news outlets. Or to Stalin. Instead, I committed a different crime of passion.)
“Let me fill you in on one or two details you might be missing.” I ticked off each statement on my fingers, my voice growing tauter with each one. “First, you may tell your Moscow superiors that Jacob Golos wasn’t just my handler. And yes, I knew his real name long before his funeral yesterday. In fact, I was his closest assistant, the one person in the world from whom he had no secrets.”
I pressed on, not giving Al a chance to respond. “You think you’re so wise, but you still can’t figure out the names of Jacob Golos’s sources. Well, I’m the one who ran all of Golos’s contacts these past two years following his indictment. Muse and all the rest are my contacts, and you must be out to lunch to believe I’m going to hand them over to a shadowy organization that doesn’t even have the wherewithal to pinpoint my existence all these years.”
I wished I had a camera to capture the slack-jawed expression on Al’s face. No self-respecting spy should ever let their eyes protrude in such a telling and unattractive manner.
“You’re very sincere and passionate about your position, Miss Bentley.” Al spoke slowly once he’d recovered and worked to crack open an oyster, one hand gripping his oyster knife so tightly that I worried he’d snap it in half. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure it had been wise to poke a stick in this particular hornet’s nest. But what choice did I have? “If all you say is true, then it appears Jacob Golos fed the Party half-truths in order to preserve his own power. I’ve never heard of a case where an American citizen handled American contacts—as you can imagine, there would be far too many opportunities for one to turn double agent. I guarantee this won’t sit well with Moscow.”
His diatribe made me stop just short of rolling my eyes so hard they’d hit the ceiling. As if I’d suddenly turn double agent now, after I’d fully identified myself. Except, I’d just revealed that I knew too much. I would have to make that work out in my favor, convince the Center of my worth. “I won’t be persuaded to stop what I’ve been doing these past two years,” I said. “The intelligence my sources have gathered has been solid.”
“Then it seems we are at an impasse. For now.” Despite our lack of lobster, my new handler retrieved his bulging billfold from his jacket pocket and dropped a couple crisp twenties on the table. I’d never eaten such an expensive meal in all my life, not that I’d actually eaten anything. “I’ll speak to Moscow about your contacts, but do not under any circumstances take on further sources. Do you understand?” At my nod, he continued. “In the meantime, we should meet again next week.”
“So, everything remains status quo?”
“For now. You’re an important asset to the Party.”
My heart leaped. Had I actually preserved my contacts? In just one dinner meeting?
“Miss Bentley.” Al’s tone deflated my excitement like a child’s week-old helium balloon. “Don’t expect things to remain this way. I’m sure the Center will have plans for you.”
“What plans?”
But the walrus merely left me sitting at the table, the detritus of a tray of half-finished oysters littering it.
I stayed and I ate every bite of that damned lobster.
* * *
* * *
<
br /> I double- and then triple-checked that I wasn’t being followed the next day when I headed for Greenwich Village, looping around the bohemian district’s many theaters enough times that I was almost dizzy. Only when I was sure there were no NKVD shadows nipping at my heels did I approach Mary Tenney’s new building, which was conveniently located near my own Barrow Street apartment now that she’d recently moved to the city. Tonight’s was a surprise visit—I couldn’t call ahead and risk being bugged—and I felt unsettled, still needed to wrap my mind around Al’s threats last night.
What plans will the Center have for me? What will I do if I can’t—or won’t—carry them out? And how will I shield Mary from Moscow?
I recalled my early entrance into Communism, Juliet and Marcel insinuating that they’d lose more than their souls if they left the Party . . . Juliet had simply vanished without a trace shortly after she’d introduced me to Yasha, begging the question of whether people ever left the Party. Voluntarily, at least.
I heard masculine voices when Mary—in the glamorous guise of Helen Price tonight—opened the door of her ground-floor apartment, her svelte figure draped in a stunning Chinese silk wrapper. Her mascara-laden eyes widened to see me, and she put a finger on her lips. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight,” she whispered. “I’m entertaining two men from the Office of War Information. They dropped in by surprise.”
“I need to talk to you.” I glanced over her shoulder, recognized the pale, cold-looking man with a face like a sleepy fish from my old Communist unit at Columbia University. “I’ll wait outside,” I said. “Until you get rid of them.”
It was two hours before Mary’s visitors finally departed, during which I heard through the open window in great detail exactly what a honey trap did. Drinks, laughter, flirting . . . And then the party moved to Mary’s bedroom. During which time I took a walk around the block. A long walk.
When I was sure she was alone, Mary answered my triple knock, then ushered me inside and bolted the door. It occurred to me that life as a spy often meant living as a rat, scurrying inside hidey-holes and cowering away from strangers. Those of us who worked in the underground had no respite, no rest, no relaxation.
“I’m sorry, Mary. This couldn’t wait.” I turned off all the lights save one and glanced outside before lowering the blinds and turning on the radio. Standard procedure. And it never hurt to be too careful, especially with Mary living so close to me now. “I just met my new handler.”
She moved a plush pillow to her lap to make room for me on the overstuffed sofa next to her chess table, where a game remained in play. Her face was scrubbed clean, and I could still smell the tang of Noxzema cold cream. “I’m sorry. That must be difficult, so soon after Timmy.”
I was touched that she was concerned for my feelings, but we had more important issues to face. Together. “They want me to hand you over. In fact, my new handler requested you specifically. They want Muse.”
Mary’s perfectly chiseled cheeks blanched the color of curdled milk. Suddenly, she was in front of me, eyes wide. The sleeves of her wrapper fell away, and, not for the first time, I winced at the pale scars slashed across her wrists, each bracelet telling a terrible story of heartache and loneliness. I considered it a wonder that she hadn’t added to the collection since I’d taken over her case. “Did you tell them about me?”
“Of course not,” I answered. “I came to warn you that they’re hot for you.”
“I don’t care if they’re chasing after me like bitches in heat. I’d sooner quit than have my strings pulled by the Center.”
“Just like that?” I raised my hands to this new apartment’s lush surroundings. “And how will you afford all this?”
“I’ll give it up. I swear to God. I’ll drop it all and go into retirement.”
Now that was a surprise.
“Retirement?” I moved a black pawn on the board. “Or hiding?”
Because to the Center, it would be one and the same.
Mary’s movements became jerky. “If the Center finds out what I’ve done . . .” She looked at me, her pupils wide. “You know my secrets, Elizabeth . . .” Her beautiful face turned blotchy, and I could tell by the rapid rise and fall of her chest that she was struggling—and failing—not to panic. Her hands fluttered by her sides. Mary had always been delicate and perhaps even high-strung, but I’d never seen her like this. “You know the Center would hold my mistakes over my head, what horrors they’d make me commit. No, I won’t do it.”
(Trust me, Catherine, when I promise that if I had much to gamble in standing up to the Center, Mary had far more to risk. But let’s tell this story one problem at a time . . .)
“Mary, I’d sooner burn you than hand you over. I swear it.”
To burn her would mean taking her out of commission as an agent: ratting her out to the FBI, turning her over to a psychologist, that sort of thing. She’d never, ever be able to spy again. The trick was doing it in such a way that the Center couldn’t track her down and exact retribution. Against either of us.
A tall order.
Still, some of the tension melted from her shoulders. “You mean it?”
“I’ll swear a blood oath if you want.” I spoke in earnest as I touched my foot to her bare ankle. Even that part of her was graceful, sculpted like some ancient Greek statue. “Just say the word.”
She gave a nervous laugh and tugged at the sleeves of her wrapper in a vain attempt to hide the ugly scars there. “You and Timmy are just the same.” She moved the white queen diagonally to capture my knight. “Good people.”
I might have swallowed the lump that rose in my throat then, but I so desperately wanted—needed—to unburden myself after days of carrying the load of Yasha’s death and its fallout all by myself.
She turned to face me, one ankle tucked under her leg. “You must miss him terribly.” Mary pushed a stray curl behind my ear. “Anyone with eyes could see how much you meant to each other. So, tell me what you miss most about him.”
It was terribly personal, but then, I knew the worst of Mary’s secrets. I wondered then what she would tell me if I posed the same question to her: whether she would describe the heavenly scent of someone’s hair in the early-morning sunshine, the downy touch of their skin, the way their warm body felt curled into the safe harbor of yours.
“I don’t know if I want to—”
“Nonsense.” She cleared her throat. “Sometimes talking and remembering is the best thing you can do. The only thing you can do.”
So, I began talking about Yasha—really talking—about our first meeting, where I named him Levin instead of Timmy, the magic of our first kiss, the way he’d curl up with Vlad on his lap on rainy days, how I missed the sound of his even breathing next to me at night.
“You were lucky,” Mary said when I finished, a starched handkerchief of hers pressed into my palm at some point during the deluge. She’d poured us both glasses of scotch as we’d half-heartedly continued the chess game, and I’d indulged, wishing the burn down my throat could scorch away the pain that now haunted my every step. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”
I snuffled into her handkerchief, wiped my nose in the most unladylike way. But then, I’d never been a lady, not really. “God, yes. I did. I do.”
We sat in a companionable silence for some time afterward. I appreciated that she didn’t bother to ask if I wanted to stay the night instead of going home to my empty apartment that might well be under NKVD surveillance but merely brought me a pillow and blanket that smelled of her lilac perfume. “So,” I finally said, picking up the white queen and twirling it between my fingers. “If I’m going to burn you, we’ll need a plan.”
“Not just a plan,” she responded. “We need to take control of the board.”
I smiled. “A Queen’s Gambit then . . .”
* * *
* * *
Al had commanded that I not take on any new contacts, but how was I supposed to know that Earl Browder would request I meet with a tidy set of contacts he wanted me to take on after their current handler—some wishy-washy attorney for the CIO-PAC labor political action committee—had decided he could no longer be involved in espionage activities?
I could either play it safe or I could distract the Center from their obsession with Muse. If I proved my worth to the Center, I could also make them realize they couldn’t afford to shunt me to the side.
I was damned good at what I did, and the sooner they realized that, the better.
For both Mary and me. For my entire ring, actually.
The sky when I buzzed my way up to an empty apartment on that dreary March morning seemed exhausted, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in too long. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated a fraction of the Perlo group, a set of nine highly placed government workers (three worked for the War Production Board and others were staff members for senators) named for their undisputed leader, Victor Perlo. I’d instructed only four to attend the meeting today—still unconventional, but having all nine spies in attendance would have been too risky. Even for me.
“Miss Wise.” Perlo seemed to possess a frenetic energy as he bounded toward me, one slim hand outstretched beneath a face full of sharpened angles. (No fleshy Michelangelo or reclining Rembrandt, that one, just Picasso at the height of his cubist period.) “Thank you so much for agreeing to take us on,” he said. “Our skill sets haven’t been utilized in far too long, and we’re eager to get you all the Capitol Hill gossip. Has Uncle Joe seen what I sent you last week?”
A Most Clever Girl Page 22