If there was any justice in the world, William Remington would have burst into flames there on the stand. As it was, the handsome, all-American would-be linebacker just strode back to his seat unscathed.
And I was recalled.
Feeling the threat of that quicksand again, I elaborated on my story, gave the Senate everything I had about Remington, even upped the ante of the synthetic rubber formula he’d given me—which I’d told the FBI was probably of no value even to a chemist—into quite a complicated thing that could have been used to build entire atom bombs.
(Catherine, my degree is in fourteenth-century Florentine poetry; I have no idea if rubber is even used to make atom bombs. But I held those salivating senators in the palm of my hand, and that was all that mattered. Because Remington was a Communist, and there was no way I was going to allow him to keep feeding the Center American secrets.)
From the way those men balanced on the edges of their seats, I might have told them Remington had given me instructions on how to make a hydrogen bomb from a paper clip and a helium balloon. And they’d have believed me.
Perhaps it was a bit of smoke and mirrors. But I’ll go to my grave maintaining I did what I had to in order to protect myself. And my country.
* * *
* * *
The NBC secretary for Meet the Press cleared her throat, peered at me through severe horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her good looks. “May I help you?”
“I’m Elizabeth Bentley, here for my interview.” I gave what I hoped passed for a sunny smile, suddenly wished I’d had more than the two martinis I’d downed at the bar across the street. I’d agreed to this interview to keep my profile high, but the knot of nerves in my belly suggested I’d made a mistake. “Where shall I sit?”
The secretary gestured to the couch opposite four chairs. As usual, I’d arrived early—seventeen minutes this time—so I could be prepared. Unfortunately, the martinis had done little to soothe the jangle of nerves in my stomach before I appeared on national television.
Correction: on live national television.
I watched with rising hackles as the four renowned Meet the Press journalists wandered in, heads bent together over disposable coffee cups and looking like the walking definition of a good old boys’ club. Well, except for Inez Robb, world-famous and eminently fashionable press juggernaut who eschewed slacks (she claimed women in slacks looked like the back ends of hacks) and had left off her infamous white kid gloves today.
Nelson Frank (writer for the World-Telegram and anti-Communist special agent with US Naval Intelligence), Inez Robb (World War II correspondent and one of the world’s top newspaperwomen), Cecil Brown (CBS war correspondent and Peabody Award winner), and Lawrence Spivak (cofounder and producer of Meet the Press). Their credentials were enough to float an entire newspaper.
These were the big guns. Which meant they’d be able to smell a lie a mile away.
“For weeks, the front pages have been full of stories of two congressional investigations.” Lawrence Spivak addressed Camera 1 once we were seated and the cameras were rolling. (None of the journalists had so much as offered to shake my hand, which told me we were in for rough sailing. Or at least I was.) “Names were printed in bold type that shocked the nation. And at the roaring center of all this was one American woman. Is her fantastic story true? Could all this be a figment of her imagination?” He looked at me. “Only Elizabeth Bentley can answer these questions.”
Don’t react, I told myself, but it was difficult not to grind my teeth or flick the double-headed eagle lighter hidden under the table. Of course my story is true, you nitwit. The important parts, anyway.
“Miss Bentley, these are pretty exciting times,” said Nelson Frank. “Are you scared?”
My eyes narrowed as I tried to glean the meaning from his question. Finally, I asked, “Scared of what?”
“Of suffering reprisals from the Communists. Scared of publicity, scared of anything?”
Scared of everything, you mean?
“I think you rather get accustomed to it.” I supposed that wasn’t a lie. Despite my fears, I was so accustomed to portraying myself as calm and collected, but a little vulnerability—no acting required—might counteract the slurs of my being a neurotic and menopausal woman with delusions of grandeur. “Although there are moments when you get a little shaky.”
“Elizabeth, every American now knows you as the Red Spy Queen from the recent House Un-American Activities hearings.” Inez Robb folded one impossibly long leg over the other. “We can see with our own eyes that the stories of the sultry blonde are utter fabrications. After those lies, is there anything we should know about you? Anything that’s true?”
I winced. The juggernaut’s white kid gloves might be off, but they’d been replaced by boxing gloves.
“It’s true I’ve been unmasked,” I said, “but in my line of work, you become accustomed to wearing disguises. I think of those newspaper descriptions as simply another disguise.” I paused, then smiled, remembering to look at the camera. “My life is now an open book, which is fitting as I’ve recently begun planning my memoirs. I hope to have them serialized soon.”
So far, no lies. The truth will set you free, and all that, right?
Brown had the next question. “We understand you’ve testified against several highly placed government officials. Would you be willing to repeat those accusations tonight?”
I tilted my head, wishing the lights weren’t so bright. Or so hot.
“Well, I’m afraid none of those people are in the audience tonight.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. It was one thing to accuse my former comrades from the Senate stand, where I was protected from libel suits, quite another to denounce those same comrades on live television. “And unfortunately, my transactional immunity expired the moment I left Capitol Hill.”
Something told me my dodge and weave wasn’t going to work. Not with these four inquisitors.
Inez smiled, but Brown just leaned forward, stabbing the air with his cigarette. “So, without your immunity, are you still willing to name William Remington as a Communist?”
No, I’m absolutely not willing to point fingers publicly. Not when I have no desire to face the consequences.
If I’d been wiser, perhaps I would have said that out loud. Even after Brown asked me the same question a total of three times.
Instead, after the third time, I gave an exasperated statement that I immediately wished I could rescind. “Certainly. I testified before the committee that William Remington was a Communist.”
And now I had said it in front of all of America. On public television.
I wish I could blame the martinis. But I had only myself to blame the moment those words left my mouth. Because you can’t go slinging accusations of treason at fellow Americans, certainly not on a live national broadcast. So much for being clever.
Spivak interjected again. “It’s obvious from the testimony I’ve listened to that someone is lying—either you or Remington. Isn’t there some way that you can present intelligence that would prove beyond a doubt that the people you say are Communists really are, or is there no way, and is that the reason the grand jury was unable to take action against some of these people?”
Now I was getting annoyed. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, Mr. Spivak,” I said. “I only know that there are my facts, which I have, and that the FBI itself made a complete investigation.”
“And having been a Communist, what do you think of the US government now?”
No hesitation. “I think its freedoms and democracy make it the best government in the world.” I pivoted to face the camera, ignoring Spivak and the rest of this panel of harpies so I might appeal directly to the American people in their living rooms. “In fact, I hope the current members of the Communist Party will leave it and come forward to help. It isn’t enough to quit being a Commun
ist, as I know hundreds have. Come forward now and tell what you know while there’s still time to undo the damage we have so foolishly done.”
Yes, I might have originally gone to the FBI in order to save my own hide, but in that moment, I fervently wanted what was best for America too.
We were enemies with Russia. We had atomic bombs and other secrets those same Russians would have loved to steal. And I knew without a doubt that America was rife with Soviet secret agents working for the same organization that had thrown Yasha to the wolves, had threatened to kill me, and had slaughtered my own innocent dog in cold blood.
Now if only I could get America to believe me.
* * *
NOVEMBER 23, 1963
7:36 P.M.
Cat cleared her throat, halting Elizabeth’s reminiscences. “Bullshit.”
Elizabeth blinked, taken aback at the interruption. “Excuse me?”
“You wanted what was best for America?” Cat pulled a sour face like she’d eaten something far worse than bland tuna casserole. She wasn’t mad, more annoyed. “Please, Elizabeth—it’s obvious that you only wanted revenge against the NKVD and anyone who still worked for them. Not only that, you’re a hypocrite who accused William Remington of treason on national television. And you lied. On the stand.”
Elizabeth held up a hand. “Don’t start with all that talk of truth again, Catherine. I told the truth while on the stand. Mostly, at least.”
“No, you didn’t. According to what you told me only a few hours ago, you practically begged the Party to take you on once you began working at the Italian Library. And Yasha didn’t even care when you were fired from the library. I don’t think you were quite as important there—or maybe anywhere—as you like to think.”
It was a low blow, but Cat didn’t care. She’d agreed to listen to Elizabeth and had been waiting half a day for a confession, perhaps even some regret or remorse . . .
Only to find out that Elizabeth really was a despicable specimen of humanity.
Her finger itched for the trigger of the revolver, but Elizabeth kept talking. “It’s a game of semantics, Catherine. I was Yasha’s contact by then, and I couldn’t have backed out even if I’d wanted to.”
“Because you fell in love with him.”
Elizabeth’s love for Yasha was the only pure part of this story, but that certainly wasn’t enough to excuse her crimes after he was gone.
“I told the truth there, now didn’t I? Twisted it up a little, but I was under oath. Under the right circumstances, espionage and perhaps even treason can be acceptable behaviors. McCarthy and the rest of them wanted to paint me as a naive, star-crossed young woman. So, I let them.”
Cat scoffed at her insouciance. “No, you put on a show. And allowed innocent people to get caught in the cross fire.”
“Innocent? Please. The Silvermasters and Remington and every member of the Perlo group knew exactly what they were getting into—we all did. And I put on a show for a good reason—the FBI informed me in no uncertain terms that my testimony had to result in at least one guilty verdict. I thought it would come from the Silvermasters or the Perlo group—aside from Mary Tenney, they’d been my most important contacts. They all pleaded the Fifth, which told the world they had something to hide but also meant the Senate’s hands were tied. Never in a year of Sundays would I have guessed it would be Remington who would become our focus.”
“Meaning you were willing to let Remington take the fall. For you. For all of you.”
“I’m not sure I’d put it that way, but yes, Remington was the only source I knew personally who was still working for the feds by then. If we wanted to take down Soviet espionage in America, someone had to take the fall in order to prove that a vast network of spies had infiltrated the highest levels of American government. And Remington was the only one foolish enough not to plead the Fifth—he was young and intelligent and good-looking and thought he’d outsmart us another way and come away scot-free.”
“Just like you.”
“I can see I’m not going to convince you.” Elizabeth got up and began to pace, but the effort seemed to cost her. “You’ll be happy to know the rat got off without even a slap on the wrist. This time, at least. Had I kept any evidence on him, he would have gone down in flames then and there.”
“Lucky for him. Unlucky for you.”
“Luck is a fickle bitch,” Elizabeth practically spat out. “And as you’re about to see, she’s never cared for me.” Her impatient flick at the golden cigarette lighter caused a fine spray of angry sparks. “We don’t have much time left, Catherine, and I’m sick of hearing myself talk. Consider yourself my priest, for this next part contains all my darkest sins and secrets—the lies I told, the lives I upended, the people who died because of me. And after we’re done here, you’re welcome to kill me. And even if you don’t, I’m going to find the deepest, darkest hole I can hide in. And I’m never, ever going to tell this story again.”
16
With Remington and all my other contacts allowed to walk free, the press, who I’d hoped to control, suddenly turned on me like a many-headed Hydra.
Not a blonde at all . . . Elizabeth Bentley is a nutmeg Mata Hari.
(Nutmeg because I was from Connecticut, which was the Nutmeg State. You’d think they’d have worked a little harder at that one, although I was brown haired and, compliments of a steady diet of hot dogs and martinis, getting rounder by the day.)
That was relatively harmless, but many of the things they said struck deep. Others had me seeing red.
A sex-starved man-eating temptress. Or perhaps a sex-starved, man-hating spinster.
Her charges are those of a neurotic spinster . . . Joined the Party in a pathetic attempt to meet men.
Elizabeth Bentley is no more than an old biddy with delusions of grandeur who listens at keyholes.
The story—my story—had gotten away from me. And I had no idea how to rein it back in.
“We’re not sure that Congress can continue to use you,” Hoover said one day before the committee planned to resume. “We might have to put you on ice.”
“We?” I stopped riffling through my handbag at that. This morning I’d downed a martini breakfast to steady my nerves and needed mints to cover my breath. However, Hoover’s pronouncement meant my alcohol-soaked breath could wait. “As in . . . ?”
“As in the FBI. You’ve started this train down the tracks, Elizabeth, but it’s not going anywhere. You and I both need this investigation to gain traction. Congress appreciates your service thus far, but they need more.”
So, I’ll have immunity from prosecution?
Provided that your testimony helps us put away other Communist spies.
The insinuation was clear. I was the only spy who had confessed my crimes. Which meant it was only the American government’s good graces that were keeping me on this side of a jail cell.
I had to produce. Or else.
“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, Mr. Hoover.” The reel of my mind cast ahead to what I could possibly mean by that. I’d told the FBI everything I knew, had pointed them straight at Remington. How was it my fault that they—and Congress—were failing to put away card-carrying Party members who would potentially continue to betray America?
We were deeply entrenched in what was being called a Cold War against Russia. Just as I had during World War II, I wanted to help my country, but now I had an even greater motivation: to prove my own patriotism. (Catherine, that meant I unwittingly played right into the hands of the GOP, who wanted me to name names in order to discredit President Truman before the next election and give their Republican candidate the keys to the front door of the White House. But I didn’t know any of that—I thought I was putting away people who would double-cross the United States.) Only I had nothing else, and not a shred of proof of any of it.
Worry about that
later. Don’t let Hoover cut you loose.
“You just wait until my testimony today, Mr. Director,” I said.
“Good.” He adjusted his narrow tie so I wondered if it felt as tight as my buttoned-up collar. “After all, there’s no point in raising hell and then not being successful, right?”
That day in the Ways and Means Committee room with its banks of auditorium seats on either side of a central aisle, blinded by more klieg lights and on edge from the steady rattle of newsreel cameras—unlike the Senate, these proceedings were open to the media—I became the most important person in the room.
I began with the truth. I recited the familiar list of names, my voice cool and clinical.
Remington.
Silvermaster.
Perlo.
Ullmann.
All the usual suspects.
“Can you name any other individuals, Miss Bentley?” interrupted the junior representative from California. Behind his bronze nameplate, Richard Nixon sat like a young monarch on the raised platform for committee members in the front of the room. He had recently been elected after a smear campaign against his Democratic opponent, had been active in the HUAC hearings against the Hollywood Ten. A force to be reckoned with, that one.
Nixon and his colleagues would only stay on my side so long as I produced for them.
(I’m not proud of what followed, Catherine. People say to live a life with no regrets, but sometimes fear makes us do terrible things. And God, was I ever fearful in those days.)
So, like the coward I was, I caved. And I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
I watered down the truth until it was barely recognizable as the afternoon progressed, named at least a dozen names and alluded to perhaps another hundred in order to buy myself time and save my own reptilian skin. None of it could be backed up by a shred of truth. And none could ever be corroborated by another spy.
A Most Clever Girl Page 29