by Lyn Cote
Relief made Bette almost weak in the knees. “Thank you, Mrs. Hoover. This is what I’ve observed.”
The next day after work, Bette didn’t board the bus for Georgetown. Through the early dark of winter, she made her way back to the same small white-frame house. Within minutes, Mrs. Hoover, in a dark green dress, had greeted her and led her to the parlor again. “Miss McCaslin, this is my son.”
The head of the FBI, almost six feet tall with wavy black hair and black eyes and a determined jaw line, stood facing her. Bette forced herself to return his firm handshake with a confidence she was far from feeling. He must think this is worth his time or I wouldn’t be here. Or maybe he was just being polite, because of Mrs. Lovelady.
Next to Mrs. Hoover, Bette perched on the sofa, her knees tightly together. Mr. Hoover stood in front of the fire burning on the hearth. “Mother told me of your visit here yesterday. Are you quite sure you are the only one who touches those files? No higher-ups come down and help themselves?”
“No, sir.” Bette knew she would have only this one chance to make her case, so she tried to sound as businesslike as he did. “It’s been my experience that the higher-ups at the War Department are very keen on following procedure and I am the only one who touches the personnel files. When I assumed that position, my supervisor made it quite clear that no one was to touch the files but me.” She tried to hide a little shiver that went through her.
“Also, sir, I can only release them to people who are on an authorized list and only after I receive a written and approved request. I take out the files, then personally deliver them, and pick them up to put them back when they are done. My supervisor said that the files would become disarranged if too many people had access to them.”
“Makes sense.” Mr. Hoover looked down into the glowing embers and then back up. “Has your supervisor ever accessed the files when you were out of the office, say sick or away?”
“No, sir, he has enough to do, he says.” Her heart wouldn’t slow down. “The work just waits for me until I return and I’ve rarely missed work over the past three years. Also, whenever I have to leave my office—even during work hours—I lock my door.”
“Why is that?” His sharp eyes seemed to be piercing her mind.
She steadied herself and went on: “I think most of the people at the department want the privacy of what’s written about them in the files carefully guarded. I didn’t start at the department in this job. I worked in two other areas before I was moved up to this position of trust.”
“I see.” He sat down in a floral chintz wingback chair opposite her and leaned forward on his elbows. “From what Mother tells me, you think someone is going through the files at night.”
Again, his serious manner reassured her. “Yes, sir, at first I noticed that some files weren’t put back neatly as I always do. I asked my supervisor if he’d needed any of them and he said no. That puzzled me because he and I should have the only keys to that area—except of course for the Secretary of War.” She grinned then. “Or the custodian.” She started again: “Then on two other occasions, I noticed that some of the files were out of order.”
“So you decided to test your theory that someone was tampering with the files?” Hoover prompted.
“Yes, sir.” The words were coming easier now in spite of his intent stare. “I put the little dots of paper from my paper punch into several files in different file drawers. The files fit very tightly together.” She demonstrated this by pressing her palms together. “I put the dots in the same place in each file. I wrote down the names of the files and locked up and went home for Christmas.”
“And when you got back, you found that some of the files had been moved,” he carried on the story for her.
She nodded. “To make sure, I did this three more times in the next two weeks. Once there was no evidence that the files had been touched, but on the other two—”
“They had been.” He steepled his fingers and gazed at her over their peak. “Very interesting, Miss. Is there any chance that you’ve kept track of the files?”
“Yes, sir.” She opened her black-leather purse and pulled out a folded sheet of typing paper. “I have a list here of the name on every file that—to my knowledge—has been tampered with.”
Hoover leaned over and accepted the list from her hand. “Has anything been changed on the files, do you think?”
“No, sir, I checked that, too. If something had been changed, I didn’t notice.”
His forehead wrinkled, Hoover studied the list. “You think this might be espionage?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Bette sat forward a bit farther. “But I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. I had to put it before someone who knows more than I do.”
Hoover eyed her. “Why not your supervisor?”
“What if he lied to me and he is the one tampering with the private files?”
Hoover nodded. “You’re thinking clearly.”
This heartened her. She gave him a tremulous smile. “Mr. Hoover, I took seriously your comments last fall about the Trojan horse of Nazi spying.” She’d gained confidence as she finally allowed herself to voice all she’d been feeling, struggling with, to someone who looked interested. “I don’t think there’s any doubt that we’re headed for war with Germany and maybe Italy, Japan, and Russia. I don’t want any negligence of mine to put my country at further risk.” Her heart pounded with her own audacity.
Hoover rose in one fluid moment. “Miss McCaslin, I want you to say nothing of this to anyone. I will look into it and discover if it is anything we need be concerned about.”
“Thank you, sir.” Bette recognized his dismissal and rose to shake hands. Just as she turned to follow Mrs. Hoover back to the door, she paused. “Mr. Hoover, will you please let me know if it is anything. I mean,” she stammered, “you don’t have to tell me anything I shouldn’t know, but I’d appreciate knowing if this just wasn’t my imagination.”
“I will, Miss. You have my word.”
Over two months later, Bette received a written invitation from Mrs. Hoover inviting her to play bridge at her home two evenings later. Bette called to accept and wondered if she were going to play bridge or if she were going to—finally, at long last—be told if her dots had added up to anything.
The evening arrived and Bette made her way from the bus stop through the early spring evening. The robins looked happy as they tugged fresh worms from the greening lawns. A little girl was roller-skating on the other side of the quiet street. The skates rhythmically jarred on each sidewalk crack, almost clacking like a freight train on distant tracks.
Mrs. Hoover opened the door for her and Bette had her answer when they entered the parlor and no card tables had been set up. Mr. Hoover and a tall blond young man in a dark suit stood waiting for her. “Miss McCaslin, may I introduce you to Ted Gaston, one of my agents.”
Bette felt her pulse skip and hop as she tried to shake the young man’s firm hand as if she were accustomed to meeting G-men every day.
From his place by the hearth, Mr. Hoover motioned her to sit down where she had on the last visit. Mrs. Hoover sat down beside her and opened a cloth bag and took out her needles and yarn. She began knitting a half-finished black sock. Mr. Gaston remained at Mr. Hoover’s elbow. Mr. Hoover handed Bette a local newspaper opened to a page. “Did you see that story three days ago?”
Bette glanced down at the sensational story. “Yes, my neighbors were horrified.”
Gaston chuckled. “I’ll bet they were. A raid on a house of ill repute in Georgetown.”
Mr. Hoover frowned at the young man. “I don’t like to discuss this type of thing with a respectable young woman like yourself, Miss McCaslin. But you deserve to know that this raid was the result of what you started when you planted those little dots.”
Bette stared at him, momentarily robbed of speech. Me?
“The Abwehr was targeting War Department officials,” Hoover began, “who had important information abo
ut new weaponry.”
“What’s the Abwehr?” Bette interrupted and then blushed.
“Nazi spy agency,” Gaston murmured.
“Yes,” Mr. Hoover cut in, “we believe they have been planting ‘sleepers’—spies awaiting orders—since 1933. The madam of this house of ill repute has relatives in Germany and is a fascist herself. After a detailed interrogation, she’s admitted visiting Germany in 1935 and being recruited by the Abwehr.”
“She says,” Gaston took over at Hoover’s nod, “that the Abwehr bankrolled the house last year and threatened to imprison her relatives if she didn’t cooperate. But we don’t think she took much persuading.”
“But what has this got to do with my dots?” Bette couldn’t put it all together.
Hoover gave a brief grin. “We tailed the men on your list. All of them had access to critical military information and all of them were invited, lured to this very house.” He pointed to the newspaper.
“Where they indulged themselves,” Gaston said in a pleased but grim tone, “and also fell into debt at the roulette wheel at the . . . house. Photographs had also been taken of them in . . . compromising circumstances.”
“I think that’s as explicit as we need to get.” Hoover shot a glance at his mother, who was concentrating on her clicking knitting needles.
“But who was invading my files?” Bette asked.
“One of their first victims managed to get an impression of your boss’s key, have a duplicate made, and he was the one who was picking out victims.”
Bette wanted to ask this man’s name, but Mr. Hoover’s expression stopped her.
“Anyway, Miss, you have done your country a great service. I have given the president a full report on this and he told me to tell you, ‘Well done.’”
Bette goggled at Mr. Hoover. She felt blood rush to her face and neck and heard a ringing in her ears. The president? She held it all in. Finally, she was able to breathe normally again. “I’m happy to have been able to serve my country.”
“I was hoping you would say that. I’ve had you thoroughly investigated.” Mr. Hoover watched her.
Bette looked at him in shock.
Mr. Hoover’s eyes narrowed. “Because although I don’t approve of women as spies or agents, I think you are just what the FBI needs right now for a specific investigation.”
Near the Tidal Basin where the gloriously pink cherry blossoms were in full April bloom, Bette strolled beside Curt. Just another Sunday afternoon together. But it wasn’t. She had to let Curt know—or rather, she had to lie to the man she loved. Mr. Hoover’s words went around and around in her mind. And she’d almost blurted them out to Curt several times this day. How could she not tell him? But she’d been sworn to secrecy. This was a matter of national security. This can’t be real. It can’t be happening to me.
“You’re unusually quiet today,” Curt said, tugging at her hand.
She turned to him, hoping her worry over keeping secrets didn’t show in her eyes. “I have some news for you.”
“What kind?” He stopped and faced her.
“I’ve been offered a new position.” She adjusted his collar, which needed no adjusting, letting her fingers stray against his neck.
“Really? A promotion?”
“Kind of.” In reality, she was taking a leave of absence from the War Department. She’d given her supervisor the excuse of pressing wedding plans. And that she’d return in two weeks. She rested her palms against Curt’s chest, feeling his crisp shirt under her fingertips.
“More pay?”
Bette nodded. Yes, and perhaps danger into the bargain.
“Well, you don’t look happy. What is it, sweetheart?”
“I’m going to have to do some traveling with my new boss.” She let her very real dismay over this surface in her tone. “So I’ll be gone for the next two weeks.”
“Traveling?” Curt frowned, putting his arms around her shoulders. “I don’t know if I want you to go traveling around with some man.”
“It will all be quite above board.” She looked him in the eye. This was true. “He’s older than my father.” This was not true. She hated lying, but she didn’t want Curt to worry. “You know I wouldn’t go along with it if it weren’t on the level, don’t you?”
“Sure.” He leaned forward, obviously intending to kiss her. “I just don’t like the idea of your being away for that long.”
“It won’t be for long.” Bette welcomed his lips and savored the light kiss. “And besides, this is your last semester and we’ll be married in August and I’ll be at home then—your wife.” And all this will be far behind me, us.
“Maybe you should just quit. Why don’t you spend the next few months at home? I could come on the weekends—”
Bette pressed two fingers to his lips, stopping his words. Her heart pounded with dismay. Quit now? After years of typing and filing, something interesting pops up, and you want me to quit? Not that he knew what was going on with her job.
Curt captured her hand and lifted it away from his lips. “I really don’t want you traveling without me. Anything could happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“It just doesn’t look right.” Curt frowned. “What would people at home think of you—”
“I said it’s all perfectly above board.” Bette heard herself snap. She took a deep breath. “Curt, this is for our country, for the War Department. I was honored to be chosen.”
He studied her for several moments and then he nodded slowly. “Very well. Just this once, though. And I don’t want my mother to find out. She’s . . . she’s very old-fashioned.”
“All right. I can keep it mum if that’s what you want.” Tension drizzled out of her. She took a deep breath.
As though marking her as his, Curt pulled her into a tight embrace. “I can’t wait until I have you all to myself.” He kissed her again.
“That’s all I ever have wanted.” Her heart rose to her throat. “To be your wife. To be the mother of your children. That’s what I’m looking forward to.” She had always dreamed of a loving husband and children, at least three or four. A happy family. Just what she’d longed for as a lonely child living with her grandmother before her mother had come home and married her stepfather.
“Okay.” Curt exhaled his unhappiness. “I guess this could be a good experience for you. Where will you be going?”
“North along the coast. I may be able to visit Gretel.” Or not.
“Write me?”
“Of course, and I’ll be back before you know it.” But I may never be able to tell you what I’ve really been doing. And you probably wouldn’t believe me. I still can’t believe it myself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A week later at the start of May, Bette sat very close to the passenger door of a new gray 1940 Chevrolet. Ted Gaston drove them with practiced ease through northeastern Maryland. She’d dressed in a three-piece navy-blue suit with matching gloves and hat and navy-and-white spectator pumps and hoped she looked the part she was playing. She checked her lipstick with her compact mirror and added another coat of True Red before snapping the compact closed and slipping it into her white purse.
“I won’t bite, you know,” Gaston said without looking her way. In his tan suit and fedora, he looked so professional, so handsome.
She wondered if she looked as nervous as she felt.
There were many things she wanted to say, but she didn’t feel she could trust this man completely—like she trusted Curt or Drake Lovelady. The man beside her was an FBI agent and they were working together, but Ted Gaston wasn’t like anyone else she’d ever met. It wasn’t just his blond good looks and confidence. There was something about him that put her on alert, made her very aware of him. She never knew what he might say. Once, she’d even suspected he’d thought of trying to kiss her. He’d kept staring at her lips.
“I still can’t believe this is happening,” she answered. “Why did Mr. Hoover think I could do this?”
“He’s got a great eye for natural talent. And he knows I’m good at breaking in new agents.”
“You are?” She couldn’t keep from sounding doubtful.
With a grin, he continued, “There’s something I’ve got to teach you before we get to our first assignment.”
“What’s that?” She eyed him, wondering if he would say something provocative or even mildly insulting. He had that edge to him.
“You don’t flirt,” he said.
Of all the words that might have come out of his mouth, she’d never have imagined these. “What? Flirt? What has that got to do with our job of checking security at defense plants?”
He grinned at her, a wolfish grin. “Miss Bette McCaslin, you’ve come along for one reason, and one reason only: to flirt with the men while I see how easy it is or isn’t to gain knowledge about new weaponry being designed and manufactured here on the East Coast.”
Ted Gaston was unpredictable all right. “I don’t think we’re going to find out much.” She refused to address the topic of flirting. “I can’t believe that people just give away the secrets to their designs. Don’t they want to protect them? I mean they patent them, don’t they?”
“All we know is that the president of an aviation corporation up the coast reported some man with a pretty blond, claiming to be with an aviation journal, visited his factory while he was away. The blond flirted with the plant manager and got a free guided tour of the plant and was allowed to see the blueprints of a new aircraft, the B-24. Later, the president called the journal and found out they hadn’t sent anyone to do a story on the B-24.”
She turned to face him squarely. “You’re kidding me.” Mr. Hoover had given her just the barest minimum of details. He hadn’t mentioned the actual aircraft by number.
“I am not. And what’s worse, we don’t know precisely who the man or the blond are. All we know is they weren’t who they said they were—reporters from the aviation trade magazine.”