“Mrs. Roosevelt,” I said, “how would one go about finding a Ukrainian girl who entered Canada?”
I briefly told her about Raisa, how we had found her living in the sewers, how she had been evacuated with other orphans.
“What a touching story,” added Miss Hickok. “You must let me tell it for you. People would love to hear it.”
“I would like to find out if she is all right,” I said.
“That would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt. “But I’ll have Tommy look into it.”
Miss Thompson, her secretary, made a note of it.
After a while, I thought about what Vasilyev had wanted me to do. I felt awkward doing this, using my friendship with Mrs. Roosevelt in this manner, but I considered gleaning information regarding some scientists to be less intrusive and far less of a betrayal than ferreting out details about her personal life.
“Speaking of refugees, Mrs. Roosevelt,” I said. “I recently read an article about a man from Italy. A scientist by the name of Fermi…”
Late that evening, I was having a cigarette between cars. The night was calm, the midwestern sky ablaze with a million stars. As we passed through small villages and hamlets, I’d see a light on in a window, occasionally the figure of a woman standing at a sink. In some ways, I envied these women, their quiet lives so far removed from all the chaos in the rest of the world. I imagined children asleep, a husband sitting at the table reading the newspaper. They would retire into the warm certainty of each other’s embrace. Had my own life ever been so peaceful, so reassuring?
At that moment, the door clanged behind me and I turned to see Captain Taylor step out into the night.
“Hi,” he said.
“Good evening, Captain.”
“Back to being so formal, I see,” he offered with an ironic smile.
“I think it’s preferable that we maintain a certain professional distance.”
“Is it because I got out of line with you the other night? I already apologized.”
As I looked up at him, I thought of our kiss, that wonderful, blissful kiss that had so confused and yet so thrilled me. “It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“Because of your husband?”
“No. Well, perhaps that too.”
“May I ask you a question? If you didn’t love him, why did you marry him then?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long war,” Jack Taylor said. He gave me a mock-serious look, which softened into a smile. He took out his pack of cigarettes, offered me one. As I inhaled, I glanced out at the passing countryside.
“I guess in part I married him because it was what everyone expected of me. My parents. Kolya. I guess even I did.”
“But you don’t seem to me someone who is easily talked into something she doesn’t think is right.”
He looked at me with an expression that suggested he was referring to more than just my marriage.
“I was young. I let myself be convinved it was the right thing to do. When the war came, I saw my husband off at the train station. It sickens me to confess this, but the truth is I felt a certain relief at his going. I even secretly hoped he wouldn’t return. Then I would be free. I know you must think I am a terrible person for such a thought.”
He shook his head. “No. Just honest.”
“When I got the letter saying he was missing, I felt somehow I owed it to him to wait and find out if he was alive or dead. Out of guilt or loyalty, I cannot say.”
We both fell silent for a while. I considered heading inside then, but I remained there, staring out over the darkened landscape.
“Jack?” I began. “What were you going to tell me the other day? You said you had something to confess.”
“Oh,” he said. He turned and stared at me, his eyes searching mine. Then he reached out and touched my cheek. “I was going to tell you that…well, that I love you.”
I pulled back from his touch. “You mustn’t say that.”
“But why? It’s the truth.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth or not. There are other things to consider.”
“Such as?”
“Duty. Loyalty. Honoring one’s word. When I married Kolya, I vowed to be faithful and I have.”
“I admire that. But you shouldn’t confuse loyalty with love. What’s in here?” he asked, touching the middle of his chest.
“What do you mean?” I said.
He leaned toward me so that our faces were only inches apart. “What do you feel? For me, I mean.”
“I…I like you, Jack.”
“Is that all?”
“I like you very much, in fact.”
He kissed me lightly on the mouth, then withdrew and stared into my eyes, a challenge of sorts.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to do that again.”
“I lied,” he said, smiling.
“You are courting danger, Jack. In more ways than you know.”
“I know.”
This time it was I who put my arms around his neck and kissed him, kissed him so hard that our teeth rattled against each other’s with the force of our desire. I felt his tongue slide into my mouth, felt his hand reach up and cup my left breast, felt myself yield to him. As we kissed, I sensed the night rushing by like something from a motion picture, frame after frame, the earth moving beneath our feet. Everything dissolving away save for his mouth on mine, his body pressing into me, his smell and taste and the feel of his warm skin against mine. I felt almost dizzy with desire, with wanting him.
I wondered if I should tell him what I felt. That it was more than simply liking him. And too I suddenly had an inexplicable urge to unburden myself to him completely, to confide in him all that Semyonov and Vasilyev wanted me to do. But I warned myself it would be dangerous, for both of us. Instead I said only, “We have to be careful, Jack. We are being watched.”
“What do you mean, watched?”
I hesitated, trying to figure out how much I could share with him without giving everything away and having it all blow up in my face.
“If I tell you, you must promise me you won’t say anything to anyone,” I told him.
“That all depends on what it is.”
“No, you must promise first. You must swear to me that you won’t say anything.”
“This sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“All right, I promise.”
I took a deep breath to quiet my pounding heart. “There are people who are spying on us. They’ve taken photographs of the two of us.”
“Who has?”
“Soviet agents.”
“You’re kidding,” he said, frowning.
“No, it’s true. I saw the photos with my own eyes. They must have had us followed that day in the city. They were pictures of the two of us in the park. At the baseball game. Even kissing.”
“Those bastards,” he said, slamming his hand against the metal railing.
“Maybe it was intended to scare me. I don’t know.”
“Are you in danger?”
I thought of telling him about Viktor, what had happened to him. Maybe it wasn’t too late to help him. Maybe he was still in the country yet. Also, I thought of telling him that they had pictures too of Mrs. Roosevelt and Miss Hickok. But I realized that it would place him in an untenable position, of having to choose between his loyalty to Mrs. Roosevelt and his promise to me.
So instead I said, “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Let me help you,” he said.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“Maybe there is. I have a friend who works for the State Department. He might be able to help us. And if not, at least he would know who would.”
I was struck by the way he said us. I hadn’t thought of my being part of an us in a very long time, perhaps not ever. I considered this proposition for a moment, but then I quickly realized if I did this, t
here would be no turning back. I would set in motion forces that would be irrevocable, and I wasn’t ready for that. At least not yet.
“No.”
“But why not?”
“Please, don’t do anything. Not yet anyway. I need to think it out first.”
That’s when I heard the train door open a second time. It was Dmitri.
“The boss wants to speak to you,” he said to me, glancing suspiciously at Jack.
“Good night, Captain,” I said.
Vasilyev was seated in his private compartment. He had his spectacles on, and he was reading a telegram when I entered. He was coatless, his tie loosened and askew.
“Have a seat, Lieutenant,” he instructed me, his tone somewhat curt.
When he finished reading, he removed his spectacles and puffed his cheeks with a sigh that was both weary and annoyed. He gazed toward the window, though I couldn’t tell whether he was looking out at the night or the dark reflection of his own hulking image.
“The son of a bitch” he cursed.
“Who?” I ventured.
“Zarubin. He’s got me by the balls and he’s squeezing hard.”
“What does he want?”
“He’s losing patience. He wants concrete information and he wants it now.”
“Tell him I am doing my best.”
“Unfortunately, your best is not good enough. Did you bring up the name with Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“I did, yes. She said that her husband had had a visit with him.”
“Did she say anything else? When they met? What they talked about?”
“No. Just that he visited the White House.”
Rubbing his jaw, Vasilyev glanced at me dubiously. Of course, all of this was pure fabrication on my part. I had brought up the name with Mrs. Roosevelt, but aside from having heard of him in passing, she said nothing about him. If there was more to it than that, she wasn’t saying.
“Semyonov will be pleased to hear this,” he said. “Did you know about Viktor?”
“Did I know what?”
“That he was planning on defecting?”
“No.”
“Would you have told me if you had?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Did he mention any names to you? Contacts he might have had here in America?”
I shook my head.
“You didn’t tell him about Enormous, did you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Because if you had, they will get it out of him,” Vasilyev said. “So I advise you to tell me the truth now.”
“I am telling you the truth. I didn’t say anything to him.”
“Semyonov is very upset over this Viktor business. He thinks you were in on it. I had to persuade him you knew nothing about his plans. But when they get him to talk—and they will, believe me, they will—and he says you knew of his plans or that you told him about the project, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“If Semyonov doesn’t trust me, let him send me back now,” I said.
“I wouldn’t call his bluff if I were you. Right now, he thinks you are valuable. If you cease being of value to him, he will send you back. And that isn’t something you would like, believe me.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Apparently, this Captain Taylor is not who he claims to be.”
“What?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “What do you mean?”
“For one thing, his name isn’t Jack Taylor.”
“How do you know that?”
“The only Captain John or Jack Taylor in the military is stationed in San Diego. He’s in his forties, married, and has three children.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said.
“There’s no mistake.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Vasilyev didn’t change expressions, just continued to stare at me.
“Who is he, then?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. In the meantime, be careful with him. And don’t let your emotions cloud your thinking.”
That night I lay in bed, considering what Vasilyev had told me. I tried to pass it off as just another one of his lies, intended to keep me from falling in love with Captain Taylor. Perhaps to keep me from doing what Viktor had planned on—defecting to the West. Despite this, I couldn’t help but wonder what it meant if it was true. If he wasn’t Captain Taylor, who was he? Why had he lied to me? Was he, like Vasilyev, just using me? I tossed and turned in my berth for the longest time. Finally, I threw my robe on and got up and headed outside for some air.
Now and then I would see a small silent town rush by or the glossy shimmer of a river meandering along the railroad tracks. I thought of my daughter. No doubt because of my having mentioned the girl Raisa earlier to Mrs. Roosevelt. In a rush, I recalled the softness of her skin against my cheek, the sweet yeasty odor of her breath as she kissed me, the shape of her mouth. She seemed suddenly so very close to me, as she hadn’t in so very long, and before I knew it I felt the tears running down my cheeks. Masha, I whispered. My little krolik.
We arrived in Chicago the next day. I gave a speech at a large auditorium at the University of Chicago, a speech that Vasilyev, or someone at least, had written for me. Afterward, I met with the press, and that was followed by a dinner with dignitaries in a large hotel ballroom. Several times during dinner I chanced to meet the gaze of Captain Taylor. He would smile at me and I would find myself smiling back. I thought about our meeting on the train, his declaration of love. I thought too of my own unexpressed feelings for him. What I felt for the captain confused and frightened me, and yet it also made my heart rap fiercely in my chest. I was in love for the first time in my life. But then I would start to think of what Vasilyev had told me about him. That his name wasn’t Taylor. I told myself that Vasilyev was lying, just trying to manipulate me, as he always was. Still, I had an uneasy feeling about it.
During dinner, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I was looking into the mirror when I heard someone say, “Vy lyubite ego?” It was Mrs. Roosevelt. I don’t know where she picked it up, but she was asking me, “Do you love him?”
“Whom?” I replied. But her smile told me she saw through my pretense.
“Captain Taylor,” she said. Then she touched my uniform right above my heart and asked again. “Vy lyubite ego?”
Finally I confessed. “Da,” I said, nodding my head and giving in to a smile.
At the news, Mrs. Roosevelt’s face lit up with delight. She said something to me, which I knew was a form of congratulations. Then she hugged me the way my mother had when I told her I was getting married to Kolya. With gestures, she somehow managed to ask me if Captain Taylor knew how I felt. I shook my head.
She said something in English and raised her hands, palms skyward, obviously inquiring why I hadn’t told him. I didn’t know how to answer that, not only because of the language barrier but also because I wasn’t sure myself.
Back at the table Mrs. Roosevelt said something to the captain, and with a frown, he translated for me.
“Mrs. Roosevelt wishes to know what you plan on doing regarding what you and she talked about.”
“Tell her that I shall have to give some thought to that,” I said, glancing over at the First Lady. She gave me a conspiratorial grin. Then she said something else.
“She says not to think on it too long,” the captain translated for her. In an aside, he asked me, “What did you and she talk about?”
“It was private,” I replied.
Sitting there I felt what I’d often felt since being asked to spy—a gnawing sense of guilt over my betrayal not only of Mrs. Roosevelt’s friendship but of those feelings I had for the captain too. One part of me wanted suddenly to tell Jack everything, come completely clean with him. I had also reconsidered his offer of help, though I wasn’t thinking of me so much as Viktor. I thought perhaps of asking the captain to use his contacts to find out if Viktor was still in the country, and if so, maybe the American govern
ment might be able to help him, maybe even offer him asylum. But another part recalled the warning Vasilyev had given me, that Jack Taylor wasn’t exactly who he claimed to be, that I needed to keep my emotions under check. That part of me remained cautious, wary of confiding anything to him. Dare I trust him? I wondered.
Still, near the end of the dinner I tore a piece of paper from my notebook, jotted down a message, and slipped it to the captain when no one was watching: “We must talk. Come to my room tonight. Please.”
That night in my room, I waited anxiously for the captain to appear. I wondered just exactly what I would tell him about Viktor, and what and how much of the rest of it I would confide in him. When a knock on the door finally came, my heart jumped and I ran to it and threw it open.
“Jack—” I started to say but stopped short when I saw a stranger standing there. He was a tall, thin man, middle-aged, with thick glasses from beneath which cool blue eyes stared out at me. Before I could say anything, he shouldered his way past me and closed the door behind him. “I am Larin,” he said. “You have something for me.” From my suitcase, I retrieved the envelope Zarubin had entrusted to me and I gave it to this man. He took it and shoved it into an inside pocket of his coat. I was glad to have it taken off my hands. However, I’d hardly given it over to him than he took out another envelope and handed it to me.
“In San Franciso, you are to deliver this. His code name is Kharon. He will be in touch with you regarding further instructions.”
Instead of taking the envelope, I held my hands up, almost in a gesture of surrender. “No,” I blurted out.
The man frowned. “What?”
“I don’t want any part of this.”
“You don’t have any choice.”
“I can refuse,” I said.
At this, he grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard.
“Let go. You’re hurting me.”
“I’ll do more than that, you shlyukha. If you know what is good for you, you will take this and do as I say.”
Finally I accepted the envelope and he turned and left without another word.
I stared at the letter I held. I felt myself being sucked down into a whirlpool of deception and subterfuge, of code names and secrecy, and I had no idea what I was doing or how I could stop it. I was a soldier, I told myself, and soldiers took orders. And yet I knew that what I was doing was wrong. If not wrong between nations, at least wrong because of the betrayal of friendship. I hid the letter in my suitcase. Not five minutes later, another knock sounded at the door.
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