Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  “What did they want from you?”

  “To share too much.”

  “Secrets?”

  He nods almost imperceptibly.

  “From the Project?”

  “Yes.”

  “And part of that information helped them build their bomb, didn’t it?” she asks softly.

  “Yes.”

  What she feels is ice. Ice from her heart to the follicles of her hair.

  “It wasn’t just me. Fuchs was part of it, I now know, and others too.”

  If he did sell those secrets, he deserves to die.

  “Others we know?”

  “Why do you care?”

  She shrugs. “I want to know if someone influenced you. I want to know who else was involved.”

  “I suspected two people at Los Alamos, but I couldn’t approach them . . .”

  “Because they could have turned you in if you were wrong?”

  He looks pinched. “They were careful not to let any of us know who else was involved. But since I gave only a portion of the information they needed, others were clearly sharing.”

  “When was this? After Hiroshima, Nagasaki?”

  “No.”

  “Before?”

  “In ’44. A year before we dropped it.”

  She sits back, stunned. “And there I was assuming you and I were so close . . . and I had no idea.” Yet she recalls the Saturday afternoons he disappeared, the times he had that abstract look that made her uneasy. The cloud that would block their sun . . .

  “What did you give them?”

  “Bomb-construction sketches. Dimensions . . .”

  The blood is pulsing in her ears. She closes her eyes.

  “With all the security at Los Alamos, how could you get anything out?”

  “Well, for instance, the construction sketches I copied very small and slipped them under the insole of my shoe. I took the bus to a dentist in Santa Fe. There was a girl. A courier.” He shows no emotion, and his eyes don’t quite meet hers.

  “And?”

  “She scheduled an appointment in the same dentist’s office, sat beside me in the waiting room. I slipped off my shoe, pretended to shake a stone out of it. I passed her the plans when I got up to see the dentist.”

  “Did you actually have your teeth cleaned that day?” she asks.

  “I assume she did too.”

  “You passed state secrets and both had your teeth cleaned?” There’s venom in her words. “Such good oral hygiene.”

  “I knew you’d hate me.”

  “You were a spy and I had no idea.”

  “I wasn’t a spy,” he says. “They were spies. I was an asset. I just gave them what they needed.”

  “You’ve shared a lot more than what you’ve just told me, haven’t you?” Roz hisses.

  He blows out smoke, stubs out his cigarette.

  “A lot more.”

  She’s overcome by sudden rage. She gets up and begins to gather her clothes hurriedly.

  “What are you doing?”

  Some man is shouting outside. She slams the window shut. Too quickly. Too loudly. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she slips on her underwear, pulls on her blouse, buttoning it as fast as possible. She would like to hit him. Hurt him. Even she is astounded by her rage. Shouldn’t she have expected it? Didn’t she know he’d say these very things? Why do her feelings seem so outsize, so out of control?

  “There’s a lot more to confess, if it would keep you here.”

  She didn’t know she was capable of such anger. It fills her chest. Aches. He grabs her wrist. The burn of his skin matches the heat of her fury.

  “Roz, I’ve done things I regret, and in a year or two or three if I’m lucky, I’m going to die. I see it as cause and effect. Crime and punishment . . .”

  “Crime and Punishment. A Russian novel,” she says hoping the irony will sting. She yanks her hand away.

  “I hate that that’s how you’ll remember me when I’m gone: the man who gave America’s secrets away.”

  “That’s exactly the way I’ll remember you,” she hisses, pleased to see her words hurt.

  “Please. Stay.”

  “Tell me one thing,” she says. “What did you mean when you said it wasn’t your choice to marry Clemence?”

  “I meant they made me leave you to be with her,” he says. She notes that his voice doesn’t waver. Lying has become second nature to him.

  “How could they make you?” she persists.

  Will he confess? He’s already told her his worst sins. This is his chance to reveal that he was already married when they met. That Victoire is Clemence.

  He stops to light a new cigarette. “Clemence was a Soviet agent. She was meant to control me.”

  “Just like Victoire?” she asks.

  He doesn’t even blink. “I wanted out of the whole thing. They said I had to be with her or I’d be exposed. They also said . . . they told me they might hurt you.” He reaches again for her hand but she won’t let him have it.

  “They threatened to hurt me?”

  “It was suggested. Nothing is straightforward with these people.”

  “So let me be clear. The Russians say you’re to marry this woman and you did?”

  “They didn’t parade a line of attractive women in front of me and ask me to choose my favorite.” His voice is both weary and annoyed. This is his chance to clear up a lie of many years. Yet, no mention of his wife, Victoire, returning as Clemence. No admitting that he seduced Rosalind while still a married man. That he never intended to marry Rosalind, nor could he. He isn’t honest or brave enough to own up to that.

  “Turn yourself in,” she says, tucking her shirt into her skirt. “Have you ever considered it? If you honestly regret what you’ve done, talk to the FBI. They’ll go easy on you for information.”

  “Are you joking? They’ll string me up by my testicles. Is that what you want for me?”

  “Instead, you’ll die in your own sort of prison,” she says. “A prison of regret.” She reaches for the small bag she’s brought with her nightgown, her toiletries.

  “Please, don’t go. You can’t leave so late.”

  “What I can’t do is be with you right now.”

  “Look,” Weaver says, his voice rising. “If it makes any difference . . .” His irises are a bleached green like grass clippings that have dried in the sun. “I’ve already decided they’ll have to kill me because I won’t give them the information they’re asking me for now. I suspect they will.”

  She stares at him, wishing she believed a word he says. But how can she when she’s seen him tell lie after lie? And so she leaves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Once at home, she stays up for hours, pacing her apartment. The voices in her head are loud. Arguing. When she finally climbs into bed, she doesn’t sleep. She hates that she could ever have loved someone so misguided. A traitor. A hollow man who’s blurred the lines between right and wrong.

  Why is she the least bit surprised he’s sold secrets? Charlie warned her. Weaver’s been hinting at it. Why should hearing it out loud change everything? And yet her anger swells every time she thinks of it: The man she loved handed the bomb they so misbegottenly created to the Soviet Union. And he’s been personally betraying her from the very first day they met.

  Before dawn, she gets up to sit on the living room sofa, first folded over, her head in her hands, then for a long time staring out at the lake. Her rage at Weaver is a pain beneath her ribs, physical and impossible to ignore. It’s because of him that the world is holding its breath. Because of this man who broke her heart yet still owns it, that the world might end tomorrow. And they’d both be responsible.

  Just before dawn, she unhooks the necklace he gave her, the little box. She’s worn it all these years. Mad
e of fourteen-karat gold and platinum, it’s old and probably valuable. She could even get the buyer at Field’s to purchase it for her department. But she walks over to the garbage can in the kitchen and drops it in. It clatters against the side, and its top opens before it falls to the bottom of the can. She sees the little curl of parchment with the word “Patience” teeter on a wad of tissues and slip down beneath them, lost forever.

  * * *

  Charlie’s reading through a transcript of an interview with a Russian courier whom the New York office recently arrested. The mug shot reveals a woman with short blond hair, a hard, angular face. She could be a female grease monkey, or a bus driver, a woman with a man’s job. But no one would suspect her of shuttling messages to the Russians.

  “Who’s the tough broad?” A thick hand reaches down and grabs the folder. Charlie looks up to find Binder. His pug face is particularly agitated, a glowing mottled red.

  “She’s the courier we picked up in New York, sir.”

  “What a little sweetheart. She give us anything?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just reading through it for the first time.”

  Binder throws the folder back on Charlie’s desk and expels a cloud of smoke. Does the man have a waking moment without a coffin nail in his mouth?

  “Other than this ballbuster, what do we have?”

  “Not much yet, but we’re getting there on Weaver. I’m pretty sure he’s our guy.” Charlie hears the bald uncertainty in his own voice.

  “Pretty sure won’t buy fare for the Michigan Avenue bus.”

  Binder rarely leaves his office to walk the bullpen. When he does, it never bodes well. What can Charlie tell him? That they’ve discovered what looks like a murder scene for Weaver’s wife? That Rosalind’s place has been ransacked for no apparent reason? That Charlie’s “perfect asset” has brought them little information so far?

  “Miss Porter believes Weaver’s about to reveal himself. He’s dying, sir. Cancer. Probably from his work with radioactive materials.”

  “Is that so? Would serve the son of a bitch right.”

  Charlie blinks. “As long as he doesn’t die before he gives us the information we need,” he says. But Binder leans over the desk in a threatening, superior way. They’re face-to-face, but for once, Binder appears taller. He reeks of tobacco. His teeth are the color of cashews. “She’d better hurry up and get it out of him. I’m getting heat on this, Szydlo.”

  “From whom, sir?”

  “Hoover. Who else? The New York office is busy arresting, the DC Bureau is busy arresting, and it’s time I had a little raw meat to feed the beast.”

  “We’re moving as quickly as we can, sir.”

  “With that McCarthy ass accusing everyone and his sister of being a Communist, the Chicago office is looking pretty namby-pamby. We’re about to go down in flames and you’re taking your sweet time.” Binder straightens up and glowers at him. “Put the screws on the dame to get something out of the bastard now. I mean it. I don’t have time for you to jolly her about.”

  “Yes, sir.” Binder walks away, looking taller than the pug he is. His words, his strut, are so extreme, Charlie’s sure he’s patterned them on Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar. But his boss’s admonition has left him uneasy. Has he been too kind to Rosalind? Too patient? What would happen if he were harsher? Would she turn away or finally get the information out of Weaver? All he wants is to love this girl. If he were smart, he’d turn the whole damn case over to someone else. He’s startled when the phone bleats.

  “Szydlo here.”

  “Charlie . . .”

  “Rosalind?”

  “Can I see you?” His heart starts drumming. Partly with guilt for thinking he should be crueler. Partly at the sound of her oboe-clear voice. “I need your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Weaver said he thinks my apartment is bugged. His was. I wondered if you could find the devices, get rid of them for me? I know I should have told you before.”

  Why hadn’t it occurred to Charlie that they would bug Rosalind’s place just to keep tabs on Weaver? But it means something. Bugs are expensive, rare, husbanded. They must be sensing that Weaver’s moving away from them. And that he’ll spill all to Rosalind. Cold dread moves precipitously up his back and over his scalp. He has no idea how long the bugs might have been there. Have they heard Charlie in her apartment? Did either of them say the word “fingerprinting” out loud? If they knew he was with the FBI, why wouldn’t they have warned Weaver by now? Or hidden him? Or even killed him? They can’t want him leaking information to the FBI. The only reason to leave him in place is because they’re waiting for him to procure some new piece of information. And then they’ll simply get rid of him . . .

  “Are you still there?” Rosalind asks.

  “I’m just thinking things through. I’ll come and clear your apartment. You’re not calling from there now, surely?”

  “I’m in a phone booth at Field’s.”

  “Good. Listen, when I came to fingerprint, did I say anything aloud about being with the FBI? Did I use the word ‘fingerprinting’? I must have . . .”

  “I’ve wondered that too. I’m sure you must have said ‘fingerprinting.’ But maybe not the FBI. They might have assumed I’d called the police.”

  “Except you knew me . . . You called me to come.”

  “Yes. There’s that. I could have known a policeman, I suppose.”

  He’s sure she’s still keeping something from him. Why else would they ransack her place, surveil her? She has something. She knows something. He could ask Gray to sweep her apartment, pick up the devices. But he wants to see her. He needs to see her . . .

  “Look,” he says. “I don’t want them spotting me entering your building. I mean, they probably don’t have people watching all the time. But just in case, let’s face it, my height makes me identifiable.”

  “I suppose it would.”

  “I imagine they knock off for the night after you go silent. But in any case, would you be willing to have me come after they think you’ve gone to bed?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.”

  “Charlie . . . last night . . .”

  He waits but she doesn’t go on.

  “Last night what?” he asks gently.

  “He spilled a lot.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  Her breath is staccato, hesitant.

  “He told you he’s the one who gave them the information?”

  “Not the only one. But, yes.”

  Charlie feels a sharp thrill. It’s what they’ve all waited for. Of course it’s Weaver. It had to be Weaver. “Did he give you details?”

  “Some. But I almost can’t see him anymore. I’m so angry. Angry about everything . . .”

  “You can’t back out now. Please.”

  “I know that . . . I know.”

  “Okay. We’re going to get through this together.” He’s ecstatic that Weaver’s finally talking but sad that she seems so pained about it. “If he’s opening up to you, I really should put a listening device in his apartment. It needs to be wired in. Did you say he found a Russian device there already?”

  “He found and removed them. But I don’t want you listening in on him. You’d be listening in on me too.”

  “Yes. That’s true . . .” The thought of hearing her making love to Weaver turns his blood to ice. “There are new listening devices that agents have actually worn on their bodies. They’re pretty heavy. But if you were willing, you could wear one.”

  “I won’t do it. I told him to turn himself in, not that he agreed . . .”

  “Rosalind, if he knew you had a tape of him confessing, he’d have to turn himself in. It might save him.”

  “I just . . . I can’t.”

  Charlie closes his eyes, sees a
flare of red.

  “Okay, let’s worry about the bugs in your apartment first, okay? Can you try to be home tonight?”

  “Yes. Unless something happens, I’ll be home.”

  “Let’s do this: If you know you’re going to spend the night at home, call my home number after nine, let it ring once, then hang up. Call again and hang up again. Your eavesdroppers will think you’ve called two friends whose lines are busy. You get ready for bed as usual—do all your routine things so they hear them—and then I’ll come up and silently remove the bugs just in case they’re still listening. It would have to be late.”

  “How late?”

  “When do you normally go to bed?”

  “Ten thirty. Eleven.”

  “I could come at eleven fifteen just to be safe.”

  “All right.”

  “Rosalind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any other reason you can imagine they’re following you? Something Weaver said or something he gave you? Until I know, I can’t keep you safe.”

  “I’ll . . . think about it,” she says.

  He sighs. “Yes. Do that. And, listen, if it’s not tonight, the same thing holds for tomorrow night, or the next. A single ring and hang up—twice.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Got it.”

  * * *

  All day, he’s mad with desire to see her, longing to hear what Weaver’s revealed. He comes home early and eats with Peggy’s family. Again, they’re happy to have him there. And the food is so good. Bigos, a complicated Polish stew his mother used to make. He helps clean up, then lies on his bed and listens to the Dave Brubeck Octet turned down low, finishes the Hemingway book. Not a great one. Coming home early makes the night crawl. And then the phone rings a single ring. A pause, and then another. Peggy opens the basement door and calls down the steps.

  “There it is. Your signal. I hope this isn’t some dangerous assignment.”

  “It’s nothing,” he tells her. “Besides, I don’t have to leave for an hour and a half.”

  No longer needing to wait for the phone, he climbs the stairs and steps out into the backyard. The trees sway against the last soft light of day. And the stars appear, pricks of pure, piercing light in the thick napped blue, far above the streetlights. Summer nights were magical to him as a kid, how long the sky swelled with daylight, allowing them to play seemingly forever before their mothers called them in. Until the fireflies began to flicker and blink. Kochanie, come. Come for your bath. Coming, Ma. How safe he felt, never imagining the world contained abuse and hatred. Never believing that someday he’d be imprisoned, half-starved, beaten, and disgraced. Even the world he lives in now, carpeted in secrets and power and lies, is it a world he could ever bring a child into? Would he dare? Or might it heal him to teach a boy or girl to be kind and peace loving, galvanized by his own hatred of war? Would it change him to have someone of his own to protect and cherish?