I could tell from the gleam in both Agent Spencer’s and Agent Kelly’s eyes that they wanted to believe me—desperately, fervently desired nothing more—but also that they needed more from me.
* * *
* * *
Upon unlocking my apartment door, I froze when I retrieved the slips of paper from where I’d hidden them between the door and the frame. The numbers were out of order, no longer arranged to the day of Yasha’s death. My room had been tampered with, no doubt about it.
The switchblade came out of my purse, blade drawn. I slowly opened the door the rest of the way, left it open as I threw on the lights.
Everything else was in its place, just as I’d left it that morning. Almost.
“Who was here, Vlad?” I asked my dog, but he only followed me from room to room, inscrutable. Why, oh why, hadn’t I gotten myself a fearsome guard dog instead of this charming pile of fleas who had probably begged for an ear rub from the masked intruder?
The dark strands of my hair that I’d strategically placed atop my folded linens, along my shelf of books, and even in my sock drawer had all been disturbed. All the pieces of Scotch tape I’d attached to dresser drawers and even the bathroom medicine cabinet had been broken.
“Not the NKVD, then,” I murmured to Vlad. “Right, boy?”
For if the NKVD had visited my room, they’d never have left so blatant a calling card. No, if they’d been here I’d never have known until a garrote was around my throat.
This was the work of the FBI, a black bag job to see if there was anything that would prove or disprove the claims I’d made to Agents Buckley and Jardine.
Unfortunately for them, there was nothing to find, no bona fides. Fortunately, they’d missed the proof I planned to show the FBI, hidden away beneath a floorboard I’d jimmied loose beneath the bed.
* * *
* * *
The next day as I strode down the corridor of the Manhattan hotel where I’d agreed to meet the FBI, it was reassuring to feel Yasha’s switchblade, which I’d taken to tucking into the strap of my brassiere; I also had the proof the FBI sought hidden in the deepest cavern of my knitting bag. I knocked on the door—three times, as agreed—then ironed out my features to discover that a man in his late thirties draped in an ill-fitting brown suit and a well-worn fedora had joined Spencer and Kelly.
“I’m Thomas J. Donegan,” said the fedora agent. “Head of the Major Case Squad.”
Major Case Squad . . . I liked the sound of that. High enough on the ladder to be worth my attention. And high enough to show that the FBI was taking me seriously. Very seriously.
“Everyone in the office calls him the Hat,” Spencer piped up. “Because he’s always coming or going, no time to take off that god-awful fedora.”
I merely removed my coat and a fabulous new angora hat I’d treated myself to. I nearly confronted these agents with their messy ransacking of my room, then thought better of it. Let them think they had the upper hand. Instead, out came my proof, which I tossed onto the hotel bed.
“Here’s some Moscow gold,” I said by way of greeting. “Two thousand dollars.” I affected a perfect mask of insouciance as Spencer thumbed through the crisp bills with bulging fly-eyes. (Still a hefty sum today, back then it was nearly three times a working man’s yearly wage.) “A gift to me from Al, or Anatoly Gorsky, as you know him.”
Donegan—the Hat—ignored his junior colleague. “One question, Miss Bentley: Why would the Russian rezident give you two thousand dollars?”
His accusation hung in the air. There were many reasons why the NKVD might give someone that much cash, none of them good.
“It was a thinly veiled bribe meant to buy my loyalty. And potentially entice me into accepting a Russian husband who would take me back to the motherland and spy on me until one of us offed the other.”
“I assume the bribe didn’t work?”
I fluttered my left hand at him, where Yasha’s gold-and-ruby ring glinted. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Well, Miss Bentley.” Donegan cracked a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “If this is indeed from the Russians, it’s the only money we’ve ever gotten back from the Lend-Lease program.”
I smiled at the agent’s little joke. “Keep it as evidence if you want. Also, do you want me to keep or cancel the meeting I have scheduled with Gorsky? It’s four days from now.”
I desperately wanted to cancel, hoped never to see Anatoly Gorsky again.
“Don’t change anything about your regular schedule.” Donegan pocketed the envelope of cash, which left a telltale bulge beneath his jacket. I felt a sudden pang at its loss, my worry about the future increasing with every moment. “We need evidence, and we don’t want to tip our hand—or yours—to the Russians.”
“So, act natural?”
He patted his pocket. “It’s as if you’ve done this spy bit before.”
“Once or twice.” I waited for him to give me further instructions.
Unfortunately, his directions were the last thing I wanted to hear. “Well, Miss Bentley, I’m here to ask you to do something else for us. You see, we’d like you to play double agent.”
I couldn’t help myself—I balked. “You want me to spy for you? On the Russians?”
“Think of it as a little reconnaissance to ferret out the full extent of the relationship between the CPUSA and the USS&S, the Party here and the NKVD. That sort of thing.”
Everything went cold. I may as well have marched myself into Stalin’s office and announced my betrayal. Booked myself passage to the nearest gulag and shot myself in the head. “I can tell you most of that.”
“But without any proof. We need details—offices with clear paper trails that we can get warrants for, that sort of thing. Remember, Miss Bentley, we’re a democratic country that operates under the stance of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ We want to believe you, truly, but we need more.”
When a rat is on a sinking ship, it has no choice but to claw its way out of the waters. And my ship was sinking, compliments of the torpedo that I’d sent careening straight into its bulwarks. I’d cut my ties with the Center when I’d crossed the threshold of the FBI’s New Haven office and spilled my story.
I couldn’t go back, only forward. I needed the FBI and they needed me.
“Now that you mention it . . .” I swallowed hard, wondering how much I was going to regret these words. My tongue felt like a heap of gristle and my voice came out in a minor key, flat and dull. “I’ve always been interested in a career in counterespionage.”
About as interested as I’d always been in drinking cyanide or driving myself off the Brooklyn Bridge in Yasha’s LaSalle. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a choice.
* * *
* * *
Four days later, I found myself waiting outside Bickford’s restaurant on Twenty-Third Street for Gorsky, drilling myself to call him Al and not Anatoly, my mind skimming through the litany of information the FBI agents wanted me to glean from Russia’s most senior operative in America. The FBI and I had pieced together Al’s routine, that he’d fly to New York on Eastern Air Lines from Washington National. From there, he’d take the subway and then arrive on foot at Bickford’s. It didn’t escape my notice when Agents Kelly and Spencer—dressed in civilian-grade khaki and nondescript button-down shirts—passed by on the opposite street as Al approached. I, on the other hand, had no disguise, had merely made liberal use of my Victory Red Bésame lipstick.
Its shock of color on my otherwise pale face was violent and brutal. Savage, even.
My battle paint. For after all, this was war. And I intended to win.
“You seem well, Comrade Bentley.” Al’s oily voice shook me from my reverie as we walked away from Bickford’s. To my surprise, he started off the interview by presenting me with a gift box—no fur coats or air conditioners this time, just a lov
ely red flowered silk scarf from Saks Fifth Avenue that I looped around my neck. Following the war with its silk rations, the gift felt beyond decadent. “Think of it as an early Christmas present,” he said as he cupped a hand around a cigarette and lit it with that golden lighter of his. I’d finally realized its double-headed eagle emblem was from Russia’s coat of arms—and the damned thing’s sharp-eyed stare seemed honed on me tonight. Something told me if I failed tonight, I’d find something more akin to a vulture picking the meat from my ribs. “And who is this?”
I had Vlad on a leash, had decided to bring him as a way to focus on something other than my nerves. And perhaps also to keep from picking a fight with my handler as I had last time.
“This is Vlad.” I was surprised when Al reached down and ruffled my dog’s fluffy ears. “He’s kept me company since Yasha’s death. If you have a stick in one of those pockets, he’ll be your new best friend.”
“Then I shall have to remember a stick. For next time.” Al straightened and we continued walking, appearing to anyone who cared to look like two old friends enjoying an evening stroll. “I presume you are recovered from last week’s unpleasantries?”
Recovered enough to turn defector. “As well as can be expected.”
“Good. I wanted to talk about USS&S, Elizabeth.” No beating around the bush, then. “It appears you have yet to vacate your position at USS&S. Do you not understand the problems with retaining your place there?”
“I also wanted to discuss USS&S.” My palms were clammy, my mouth filled with cotton. When had I become so nervous? “You know, I’ve never really understood the relationship between our enterprise and the CPUSA. I assume we’re a cobbler of sorts—accepting false passports, diplomas, other official papers. We’re a front for the Party, but Yasha never went into the exact details—he focused on everything behind the scenes while I ran everything up front.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. And I was talking too damn fast. Even Vlad seemed to notice my discomfort, glanced up and cocked his head at me in question.
I continued, slower this time. “I’ve been wondering, how much money do we make for the Party? Does that all funnel back to the NKVD? Or does it go elsewhere?”
Gorsky looked askance, studied me just a little too long. I was rambling, which was out of character. “What brought all this about?”
Too much, Elizabeth. I was nervous at playing the double agent, and it showed. Change the subject, and fast.
“You know what they say about idle hands . . .”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“They’re the devil’s tools—you’ve really never heard that?” I needed to soften my cadence and inflection. “Al, I’ll be honest . . .” (For what it’s worth, Catherine, when you hear someone utter those words, assume they’re lying. Or hiding something.) “. . . I have no intention of leaving USS&S. You forced me to break off contact with all my old sources, and now I have nothing else left to do.”
“As I said, perhaps after your year is up, you might receive contacts. Until then, Moscow needs to know that you’ll play by the rules.”
Oh, I’m already playing by the rules, Anatoly Gorsky. My rules.
“Patience has never been my strong suit.” I kept my voice light, but Gorsky didn’t seem to catch the inflection.
“As you’ve demonstrated many times.” Al cleared his throat, glanced down the next street. “I’m afraid we must part ways here—I have another contact to meet. Proshchay, Miss Bentley. Good-bye, Vlad. Until we meet again.”
I returned the farewell, inwardly fuming that this meeting had been an utter waste of time—I hadn’t gotten a scrap of real intelligence to give to the FBI. Now I knew how my own contacts felt when they had nothing of substance to report, could finally empathize with Bill Remington and his recipe for rubber made from garbage. Next time . . .
Except there wouldn’t be a next time.
* * *
* * *
I showed up at the FBI office the following Friday morning to sign the manifesto that Kelly and Spencer had written up based on my full testimony. It was a colossal 107 pages—no light reading there—which I’d been informed J. Edgar Hoover himself would use to create a report about Soviet espionage in the United States. I’d unleashed something huge at the FBI, something they were planning to run with.
And that meant I had something to bargain with, even if I’d failed to gather any fresh intelligence last week.
“I don’t have anything to report from Al. Anatoly Gorsky, I mean.” I tugged at my scarf, the same Al had given me. It really was lovely and it matched my Victory Red lipstick, a combination that made me feel like I could conquer the world. “Our meeting last week was unproductive. Also, it’s odd—I haven’t heard from him this week. He’s usually more punctual than Greenwich time.”
Spencer gestured me to a metal chair across from his desk. We were in the interrogation room, the double glass at my back. I preferred it that way, liked to see who was entering without having to turn around. “That’s because there’s a mole.” Spencer ran a hand over his balding pate. “Someone may have exposed you.”
That didn’t make sense—not when I was the mole. “The Soviets couldn’t possibly know anything—I’ve been careful.”
“It’s possible one of the British intelligence birdwatchers may have gone rogue.”
“Wait, what?”
Spencer sighed. “The FBI shares frequent reports with the Brits—it’s a professional courtesy, since we’re longtime allies chasing the same bad guys. The leak about you isn’t on our end, which means it must be on theirs.”
“And what information about me did you share with them?”
“Summaries of your interviews, mostly.”
I gaped and bolted upright in my chair, suddenly electrified for all the wrong reasons. “That means they know everything.”
Spencer winced, ran a hand over his forehead. “It’s possible one of their operatives alerted Moscow.”
Terror squeezed at my throat. “The Center could come after me, you know. For retribution. Gorsky already threatened as much.”
“True, but that would be out of character even for the NKVD, given that you’re American, not Russian. Not even Stalin wants the headache of an international incident, and harming you would simply validate the importance of your claims. Plus, you’re now worthless to Russia since you’ve already told us everything you know. Don’t worry—we have an agent posted at your building, and we’re wiretapping the phones of everyone you named in your interviews. If one of them so much as sneezes wrong, we’ll hear. Plus, all Soviet transmissions dried up as of last week. It’s damn near impossible to pass out liquidation orders when you’re operating under radio silence. We’d know if they sent any orders about you.”
Liquidation. Spencer used the word so casually, but he wasn’t the one potentially being liquidated. Then I realized what Spencer had said, probably without even meaning to.
We’d know if they sent any orders about you.
I leaned forward, both hands splayed on the table. “Soviet codes are impossible to crack—I’ve burned through enough one-time pads to know.” Agent Spencer actually squirmed in his seat. “Do you mean to tell me that the same organization that just leaked the entirety of my interviews to Stalin has somehow managed to decrypt Russia’s code? How is that possible?”
Spencer didn’t get to answer—the office door opened and in walked a stocky agent in a department store suit, his neck almost as thick as his skull, hair close cut in a military shave. I knew him from his portrait that hung downstairs in the FBI office. In every FBI office, actually.
J. Edgar Hoover.
His face might have been that of a schoolyard bully in his youth and now belonged to a man who wouldn’t blink when ordering illegal wiretapping or flinch when interrogating members of the Mafia. Hoover wou
ld have made a formidable enemy; thank God and all the angels he was on America’s side.
Which meant he was on my side. For now, at least.
“Thank you, Agent Spencer,” Hoover said. “I’ll take it from here with Miss Bentley. Or should I call you Gregory?”
Gregory . . .
Umnitsa, Miss Wise, Myrna . . . and now Gregory.
Confidential Agent Gregory was my gift from the FBI in what was becoming an ever-lengthening list of my code names. The FBI had determined that giving me a man’s name would provide me an added layer of protection, but I wondered if this was just another sign that they—like the rest of the world—didn’t quite know what to do with a female spy.
I wondered what had prompted this appearance of the head of the FBI, how long Hoover had been waiting on the other side of the double glass.
I expected the red-blooded head of America’s intelligence agency to be contemptuous of a mere woman who had spied for our current enemy, but Hoover only straightened the knot of his striped tie before he sat in the too-small metal chair Spencer had just vacated. “I wanted to introduce myself personally and convey my gratitude to you for enlightening us about what was going on beneath our noses. Allying with Stalin was a necessary evil during the war, but now we need to look after our own interests. That means hunting down every Communist in America who sympathizes with the sickle and hammer. Miss Bentley, by informing on the Soviets, you single-handedly ended the golden age of Soviet espionage here in America.”
Well. I rather liked the sound of that. Except . . .
“Except I’m afraid you still don’t have any proof. I don’t have any proof.”
Hoover waved an unconcerned hand. “I’m confident we’ll be able to get the proof we need when we go to a grand jury.”
“Grand jury?” My throat suddenly constricted; I remembered the hell Yasha had endured when he’d been indicted. Was I doomed to follow in his footsteps? “May I ask who will be on the stand?”
A Most Clever Girl Page 26