I took my time removing my jacket, needing to soothe some of Perlo’s jagged enthusiasm. “I’m not sure what’s hit Stalin’s desk, but yes, the aircraft production specs were especially helpful with their distribution by country and theater of action.” Perlo had sent Earl Browder documents he’d claimed couldn’t wait in the interim before our introduction, and I’d looked them over before coding them and sending them off to the Center. Now I settled into the folding chair across from Perlo and crossed my ankles. “In fact, all intel suggests that the Allies will be making a big push against Hitler’s western flank this summer. It’s about time, don’t you think, since the Russians are making inroads following their victory at Stalingrad?”
My question had two goals: first, to establish to these men I was fully abreast of the war. Second, to ask their opinions.
(All men love to be asked their opinions, Catherine, especially when it comes to war and politics. It makes them feel important.)
“The Russians won this war at Stalingrad, even if the other Allies won’t admit it.” Perlo tapped his twitchy fingers on his knee, and his compatriots nodded in unison. “So, you believe aircraft will play a large part in this new push?”
I smiled dotingly. I could already tell Victor Perlo was the fervent, revolutionary sort of spy who wanted to believe he held the key to turning the tide of history. All the better—the adventurers in it for the thrill were unreliable, and “bought” agents were dicey since a foreign intelligence service could always lure them away with more money. Without a doubt the best contact was motivated by patriotism or idealism. Just like Victor Perlo here.
“According to the intelligence you passed along,” I said, “it certainly looks that way.”
“And today, we have fresh information.” Perlo’s sharp nod prompted the three other men to shift on their folding chairs and make their offerings to me. I hadn’t expected anything earth-shattering, but my head started reeling as one glorious tidbit after another fell into my lap, until I felt like a child in the largest candy store east of the Mississippi.
Dates on industrial production from the War Production Board along with minutes from its recent meetings.
Information from congressional investigations on multinational corporations.
Documents on trade policies following the war.
Reports on commodities in short supply in America.
OSS plans for the postwar occupation of Germany.
I gave a Cheshire cat smile once the men were done. “Thank you, gentlemen,” I said when it was time for me to leave. “Every bit of this information is invaluable for the war effort.”
Which in turn, I mused as I walked down the stairs from the apartment, my floral knitting bag bulging as it bumped against my thigh, makes me invaluable.
Or so I thought.
13
JUNE 1944
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
That was a lesson both the Center and I would soon learn.
The Perlo specs—and a priceless photograph provided by Lud Ullmann of the schedule for D-Day—had been spot-on, and shortly after, the Allies successfully stormed the beaches of Normandy, which meant the whole of America—from sea to shining sea—was in a cautiously celebratory mood. However, Al didn’t waste time telling me all manner of bad news when he arrived half an hour late for our rendezvous at Chase’s Cafeteria.
“Due to the stupidity of one of my subordinates, I went to the wrong place. I am not used to such inefficiency—the man who committed this blunder will pay for his mistake.” He glared around Chase’s Cafeteria, which actually made his lip curl in distaste. My own lips that day were painted Victory Red—dealing with Al felt akin to marching into battle, so I’d decided to wear the color to meet with him. “I am also not accustomed to this sort of base establishment, Miss Wise.”
I’d insisted on Chase’s this time—I was sick to the gills of swanky restaurants where an entrée cost enough to pay my apartment’s monthly rent—and had ordered the cheapest item on the menu: a glass of tap water and a BLT. (Sadly, no hot dogs were to be found.)
Whatever happened to the revolution, I silently asked myself when Al ordered both chopped liver and pork chops, to ending bourgeoisie excesses and bringing economic equality to all?
Not only that, but despite his cover Al was so damnably Russian—the caviar, the Tokarev pistol like Yasha’s that I’d caught hidden beneath his jacket, and even an ushanka hat I’d seen him wear on one rainy evening—that he seemed to revel in being the bearer of a Dostoevsky-esque tragedy.
Al lifted a bite of chopped liver to his fleshy lips. “The Center has at last decided what to do about all the contacts Golos handled. You cannot, obviously, continue to handle them; the setup is too full of holes and, because of your connection to him, might endanger the entire apparatus. You will therefore turn them over to me; the Center and I will look into their backgrounds and decide which ones to keep.”
Like hell you will . . .
I folded my hands in my lap. “I’ll do no such thing.”
Al set down his fork and slitted his eyes at me. “Miss Wise, I had thought you a rare breed—a Yankee with brains.” He drew out the last syllable on Yankee: Yank-eee. “Now I see I was mistaken. I’ll have you know that the Center just intercepted a letter that Victor Perlo’s ex-wife recently wrote to President Roosevelt. You know Victor Perlo, of course, having recently met him against our wishes.”
I stopped, my BLT suddenly suspended midair. How the hell did Al know about that? It didn’t matter—Perlo was my contact, given to me by Earl Browder. “Oh? What sort of letter?”
Al took his time chewing, lips glistening with enough grease to make my stomach roil. “The sort that outlines in great detail all the espionage her husband has been committing. Also, the sort that mentions by name every single member of the Perlo group.” He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin that was obviously beneath his dignity. “And a certain Miss Wise.”
If that was true, it was likely only a matter of time before the FBI came sniffing at my door. God damn it.
My mind whirled, but I kept my expression placid. As placid as the eye of the storm in an impending hurricane, but all the same . . .
“Why would Perlo’s wife do that? What’s in it for her?”
(Because, Catherine, I’d learned that everyone—even the most heinous villain—has reasons for breaking the rules of life. Reasons that let them rationalize their wrongdoing and convince themselves they’re in the right.)
Al dropped the wadded paper napkin on the table, lit a fresh cigarette with his trademark golden lighter. I noticed for the first time that it was embossed with a unique sort of double eagle, its wings spread wide. “Apparently,” he said, “the Perlo divorce was very recent and very bitter. They’re currently fighting for custody of their children. Victor’s wife must have decided reporting on his espionage was the best way to destroy her husband.”
I could have written Al’s next lines myself.
“The Perlo group is dead in the water, Elizabeth. We’re putting you on ice.” He dragged in a mouthful of smoke, exhaled it with sensuous pleasure. “This is precisely why we frown on American handlers, especially the sort who don’t follow protocols. Such irresponsible freewheeling on your part will not be tolerated in the future.”
“Which protocols did I break?”
He leaned forward, tapped an angry sausage-thick finger on the table. “What protocols don’t you break? You never vet your contacts before meeting with them, you refuse to clear new contacts with me and instead meet with multiple contacts at a time . . . Name it and you’ve done it, Miss Bentley.”
Thank providence he didn’t know anything about Mary Tenney and all I’d done for—and with—her. Al would have blown a gasket right there on his stool at Chase’s Cafeteria.
“So”—heart thudding in my throat—“does this m
ean that I’ve been burned? That I’m out?”
A tiny part of me almost wanted him to say yes, to end this sorry chapter in my life. But I recalled Yasha’s steadfast dedication to his ideals and the intricate plan I’d made with Mary. I couldn’t forsake either of them.
I had to stay with the Center, for now.
So, I forced myself to keep breathing while I waited for Al’s answer. He shifted on his stool before deigning to respond. “Not yet, but you are barred from meeting with Perlo or anyone from his group ever again.” He shook a finger at me. “I informed the Center that your life would lose meaning without this assignment, but I cannot help you if you don’t start playing by the rules.”
I couldn’t help it—I let out a chortle of relieved laughter. Al gave me a look as if I was the village idiot before he continued. “This unfortunate episode has only reinforced in my mind the need for you to hand over the names of your other contacts. Muse, especially.”
It was probably the firebomb that was the Perlo letter that made me less concerned, or perhaps I really was the loose cannon Al claimed. But I looked him in the eye, spoke more calmly than I had in my life. “Muse is retiring.”
“Excuse me?”
“Retiring. As in, done with spying.”
“Explain. Now.”
I had only one shot to get this right. For Mary’s sake, if not my own.
“With Golos gone, Muse feels that this is an opportune time for her to bid the Center a fond farewell. Exit stage left and all that.” I hoped that line sounded natural, nonchalant even. “It’s for the best, Al. She’s unstable.” I tapped my temple. “You know what I mean.”
It was a gamble that was also patently false, but it was the best chance of killing the Center’s interest in Mary by playing on their vestigial fear of a contact cracking and spilling everything to a psychiatrist. Better to eliminate the Center’s interest so they would release her now than have them feel required to eliminate her later on.
Of course, that was banking on them having qualms about killing their own operatives. Which still remained to be seen.
I didn’t so much as breathe while I waited for Al’s demand that I turn Muse over anyway. Instead, he merely pulled out a dollar bill, tossed it on the table. “Fine. But before we go, you will hand over your contacts Robert and Dora, along with the Army photographer they work with, the one that gave you the specs on the B-29 Superfortress and the schedule for D-Day—we know that the three of them are connected. No questions, no arguments.”
Now that I hadn’t expected.
Robert and Dora were Nathan and Helen Silvermaster, and Lud Ullmann was the photographer who worked out of the darkroom in their basement. Between the three of them, they were my most prolific informants.
No arguments, my ass.
“I’ve controlled that ring since 1941. If you think I’m going to hand them over—”
“This is not up for negotiation.” Al’s eyes narrowed, and he gave a sharp inhale, the kind people give before delivering news of the fatal variety. “You think you’re irreplaceable, Elizabeth, but the truth is, your contacts won’t care if you’re swapped out. In fact, they’ll probably prefer someone who plays by the rules. Those three sources are too valuable to lose now that you have been exposed—”
“I haven’t been exposed; Miss Wise has been exposed—”
Al held up a hand, nostrils flaring. “I smoothed over this Perlo business when I could have easily had you terminated. Now you tell me that Muse is out of operation, when I think perhaps you’re hiding something. Maybe she’s gone turncoat—”
“She hasn’t—”
“Or is it you who has gone traitor? Do you perhaps wish to end up like your old comrade Juliet?”
“Juliet? Do you mean Juliet Glazer?” Ice-cold dread spiraled down my spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Except, suddenly, I did.
Al’s grin was serpentine as he leaned forward. “Juliet Glazer was terminated, Miss Bentley. She is six feet under, by my orders, actually, after she decided to burn herself. Yes . . .” He nodded as the horrible truth of my new situation unfurled in my mind. “They never found her body, but I know exactly where her bones are buried. You see, I used to be the man behind the desk in Moscow, reading all Golos’s reports. Before that, I was NKVD here in America, and one day I’m going to receive the Order of the Red Star for all I’ve done for the motherland. If you don’t care to join Juliet and you don’t want me tracking down your precious Muse, I want the real identities of Robert and Dora and that photographer. And I will have them before you leave this table.”
Terminated. Six feet under.
If Al truly was as highly placed as he claimed—I was being forced to operate blind about him, but every fiber in my body screamed that he was telling the truth—then he could have me liquidated with a snap of his fingers. It went without saying that I could never voluntarily leave the underground, but it wasn’t a stretch to imagine the alternative: that Al would have me killed, and then, with his single-minded focus, he’d track down Mary Tenney. If I refused to give in on this one thing, I would leave this restaurant forever keeping one eye over my shoulder.
And I would put Mary in terrible danger.
Perhaps Al was right—my newfound Perlo group had slipped through my fingers the moment Perlo’s ex-wife wrote to FDR. And perhaps the Silvermaster trio wouldn’t care one whit if they were assigned a new handler. Certainly, Helen would find reason to cheer.
And so, in order to save my skin—and Mary Tenney’s—I offered up the Silvermaster ring on a freshly polished platter.
* * *
* * *
To make matters worse, two weeks later, I had to introduce Al to the Silvermasters and Lud Ullmann myself, which only rubbed lemon in the raw mess of my wounded pride, especially when Lud bragged about his coup regarding the date for the Allied invasion of Normandy. “I had a bet with one of my coworkers,” Lud announced proudly to Al. “The poor sap owes me twenty greenbacks.”
To which Nathan excitedly added, “And now we have the currency printing plates that the United States is preparing for use in the German occupation.”
I couldn’t miss the way Helen Silvermaster cooed like a Russian dove under Al’s attention, as if she were some sort of predator who could sense my weakness and was happy to join the pack baying for my blood.
It didn’t matter that I’d forever lost the Silvermasters. I’d bought Mary and myself some time. Except I hadn’t heard from Mary in weeks.
Radio silence was not part of our plan. So, I went to her apartment.
There was no answer when I knocked and rang the bell, only a terrible feeling settling deep in my gut. It took me two minutes to jimmy the lock with the pick disguised as a prayer card Yasha had once given me for Valentine’s Day.
The sight that greeted me made a sinkhole of my heart.
Every room: empty.
Each closet: bare.
Every wall: desolate.
I raced from room to room, praying I’d find a note or something, anything. But the only thing I discovered was the loose brick in the fireplace she’d shown me—her white chess queen.
The signal that she’d put our plan into motion. Except it was missing the rest of the message.
The queen is the most powerful piece, she’d repeated that night we’d crafted our plans and set up our codes. This will be our Queen’s Gambit.
Mary had initiated our plan on her own, had cut me out of the opening maneuver and disappeared without a whisper of warning. Straight from plan A to plan Z.
I thought we’d been friends, confidantes. But now she was gone, and I had no idea where to find her.
I’m not ashamed to say that I crumpled down onto the kitchen linoleum right then and had myself a knock-down, drag-out cry, the sort that leaves your face blotchy and eyes looking l
ike a bruiser’s for the rest of the day.
I’d lost Yasha and now I’d lost Mary. I was truly, totally, and wretchedly alone.
Again.
Except this was worse than after my parents died. This time, I knew what I’d lost.
When I arrived back at my building, I checked the mail out of habit. Out of hope.
Nothing. No word from Mary.
In the hours and days that followed, I found myself slipping into dreary old habits, talking to myself or Vlad while my heart caved in on itself. My apartment echoed, and all the color had been leached out of life. It wasn’t until two days later that I received a package without a return address. I held out hope against hope that it was from Mary, that she wanted to continue contact with me. Inside was the wooden chess set—all save the white queen—with the scratched board that Mary had taught me to play on.
It didn’t make sense that she’d taken time while skipping town to mail this.
Unless . . .
I’d learned from Yasha never to accept items at face value. A jacket’s button sometimes contained a coded message on its back, a shaving cream canister could conceal a roll of film, a spy’s sketch of a butterfly might disguise plans on fortifications and positions of armaments.
A chess set might even hide a secret compartment . . .
Sockets had been drilled into each square for the wooden playing pieces.
What I needed was a toothpick or a paper clip. Lacking both, I rummaged through my knitting bag. My needles were too big, but the hatpin at the bottom was just right.
It was one of the center squares that contained the hidden mechanism, which released with a satisfying pop.
The base of the board separated from the top to reveal a secret compartment. I wondered if Mary had created this herself, or whether perhaps Yasha had helped her with it. Inside was a coded letter on tissue paper addressed to E.T.B.—the initials I always used on my personal correspondence—and clearly written in Mary’s familiar handwriting. It took less than thirty seconds to retrieve the shared copy of the one-time pad we’d chosen that I’d hidden away in my hollow copy of War and Peace, less than two minutes to decrypt the jumbled mess of letters that made up Mary’s message.
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