As Head Research Librarian at the Arlington Public Library, Eleanor helped formulate a proper budget and hire new staff. And when that paperwork needed to be delivered to city hall, Eleanor was happy to do so, letting Rémy know ahead of time so they could enjoy a neighborly visit. It was their habit to take their paper bag lunches to a bench outside and discuss privately all the things they missed about Europe. Eleanor wished they still lived next door but knew their split-level in McLean better accommodated the five Auclairs.

  She had no visits to city hall on the day’s agenda, just a couple of meetings scheduled with patrons who needed very specific research questions answered. It wasn’t the complexity of the questions they had but the demeanor of the patrons that determined whether Eleanor got involved. The difficult ones—often retirees who no longer had secretaries to summon—objected to anyone but the Head Research Librarian handling their requests. These, Eleanor invited into her office, closing the door to accomplish what they most needed—for her to listen and take them seriously. “Yes,” she nodded solemnly, as they explained why they needed a bit of information. “Very important. I understand,” she assured men who needed factual support for the fiery letter they were sending to The Washington Post, or to set straight a golf buddy who had his facts wrong. She had learned a lot from these patrons, often retired government employees who hadn’t quite let go of their former jobs and still had a driving need to exercise influence. Her gift was turning them from angry skeptics to happy patrons who might even entertain the notion of supporting their local library with an annual donation.

  Arriving well ahead of the library’s nine a.m. opening, she greeted the girl at the Circulation Desk and climbed the stairs to her office.

  “Morning, Mrs. Bentley,” one of her juniors called out. “Phone message for you. It was ringing when I walked in. She said she tried to reach you at home.”

  The woman handed Eleanor the note. A call from Helen, requesting she return the call to an unfamiliar phone extension. Probably calling to commiserate, thought Eleanor, because she just loved being in the middle of things, being the one who knew the most about Tal’s comings and going. Unless. Unless something’s happened to Tal.

  Eleanor entered her office and closed the door. She picked up the phone, paused, then returned it to the cradle, deciding she didn’t wish to speak to Helen, that it was probably improper for Plucky Helen to call her. Eleanor wanted to wait until she heard from her husband.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Monday, May 2, 1960

  Washington, DC

  Bridgie’s fresh face, her very presence, tamped down Talbot’s anxiety—but just for a moment. He walked through the door to his office and adjacent conference room and began scanning for anything out of place, signs that anyone had been in to slip cameras in the overhead lights or listening devices on his phone. His eyes ran across his bookshelf once, then twice, before settling on Trotsky’s biography of Lenin. And there he saw the slightest gleam from the spine of the book, a lens, smaller than a baby tooth embedded in the “o” of Trotsky. The counter-intelligence team covering all the bases. He wondered how long it had been there. It drew his eye when he moved around the room, the lens catching and reflecting the merest ray of light, depending on where he stood. Amateurs, he thought as he moved smoothly around to his desk chair, the bookcases at his back, to begin his morning routine, wondering if they knew, that he knew, that he was being surveilled.

  His already-acidic stomach heaved when he saw Helen’s farewell message. How had she gotten inside his office? Her clearance didn’t permit her anywhere near his files without him present, yet she’d obviously been at his desk. He turned toward the bookcase, a confused, concerned look on his face to communicate to those monitoring the little camera that he found all this highly improper. If they questioned him about it, he could honestly say he had no idea how she got in. They might even have pictures of her doing it. “See you around. You can be sure of that,” she wrote, the line producing in him a flash of anxiety he hadn’t truly experienced since his OSS days in Turkey.

  His mind worked to solve this puzzle as his face remained placid, neutral, businesslike. He reflected on the intense months of planning for Grand Slam and wondered if he’d overlooked something. Had Helen, or any member of his team, dug a little deeper for information than job duties required or asked questions that went beyond the scope of the project? Had he said too much to Helen who, it now seemed, had access to his office and could match up a stray comment with facts in his file cabinet? She would not do that, he told himself. She was not a particularly complex person and her mission, recently, had become gluing herself to him, making him happy. She could not think that interfering with his work would bring her closer to her goal. He’d have to get a message to her, feel her out and continue this thing a little longer until he was sure she’d had no role in the mission mishap.

  Talbot considered the other members of his team. Intelligence work attracted a different breed, men and women who enjoyed the risk, the exhilaration that comes with pulling off a complex operation. But within the walls of CIA, where supervisors took their measure and Congress exercised oversight, intelligence officers colored within the lines. Talbot had followed each strict requirement in putting the planning team together and formulating the action steps. He’d set approvals in sequence and neither Bissell nor his peer assessors had objected to these latest overflights. Had one of them let something slip? Spoken too freely, in an elevator or a taxi or a restaurant and someone clever had pieced things together? And had those conclusions been furnished to the Soviets as highly placed intelligence?

  Talbot felt he’d already endured a long workday when the Inspector General arrived at precisely eight-thirty. Larry Horne seemed an unimposing man, a quiet accountant who used his training to ensure CIA budgets were not exceeded and procedures properly followed. His demeanor belied a history few at CIA knew: he’d been a member of 99th Pursuit Squadron—a Tuskegee airman—who’d escorted bombers over Europe in the war. Shot down over Ploesti, Romania, he evaded capture and made his way to the coast, where the Soviet Army plucked him up and returned him to Ramitelli Airfield in Italy. His war exploits had pried open the door for him at CIA—he was among three Black officers—but rather than tap that resourcefulness, the leadership had consigned him a fairly circumscribed job at headquarters. Talbot was among those who privately dismissed Horne’s inquiries as generally superficial, non-complex. But Talbot and the others were unaware of Horne’s knack for pursuit.

  “Morning, Mr. Bentley,” he began, hand extended. “Is that the same secretary?”

  “Helen was so good at her job, she’s been promoted,” Talbot responded, palms up, nothing to hide. “Frances arrived this morning.”

  “Yes, sir. I see. Mr. Bissell isn’t joining—no need, really at this point. But may we sit in your conference room to review what we know?” Talbot led the way.

  The door closed, the men settled into their chairs, Horne pulling a legal pad and the CIA manual of regulations from his briefcase. Talbot asked if any new information had surfaced.

  “Nothing. Not a sign of anything to answer our questions. What do you think happened, Officer Bentley? Was there anything that worried you going into it?”

  “Just the weather and nobody had control over that. We pushed back a few days because of storms over the targets. The ‘go’ window shifted around until right before take-off. But no, I didn’t have a bad feeling in the least. Previous flights were uneventful. In and out. Got great photographs. Done and done.”

  Horne nodded. “Communication protocols. Did your team observe those, far as you know, sir? Is it possible someone on your team was careless—that details of this mission slipped out due to some chitchat in public?”

  “Slim to none. They know better.”

  “Sir, do you have any suspicion that anyone on your team, or serving in a support role to your team, took any steps to intentionally sabotage this mission?”

  “Absolutely not. Everybody’s a pro, Larry. Trustworthy and reliable.”

  “Ok, then. To this point, the Soviets haven’t said ‘boo.’ So our best guess is that the pilot Powers had engine trouble or his oxygen supply failed. He went off course and ditched in the ocean. Never to be seen again, unfortunately. We’re holding off notifying next of kin just in case something surfaces. Per Director Dulles, we’ll give it a few more days, then NASA will announce they lost a weather plane and ask the world to look around for it.”

  “What kind of read are you getting from the director? He and I haven’t spoken today.”

  “He regrets upsetting the president to this degree, but they all supported the surveillance program so we live with the results. Director Dulles will give a full brief to the National Security Council this week—the president, the VP, Secretaries of Defense and State, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. You know, we’ve got the big national civil defense drill, and as a part of that, the Council will convene at High Point. Director Dulles will share the latest with the team there.”

  “Ironic that the drill is this week. Millions of Americans practicing taking cover in case the Soviets send over their ICBMs—from all those sites we’ve got pictures of.”

  “Well, maybe the summit with Premier Khrushchev will produce some kind of agreement. Maybe before long, we can end these drills and people won’t have to buy cans of green beans to stock the fall-out shelters they’ve built in their basements. That’s the hope, anyway.”

  “Let’s hope. Disposition of the files?” Talbot asked.

  “Please keep them here, your file cabinet locked, and I’ll have them picked up next week for archiving. Thank you, Officer Bentley. I appreciate your time.”

  . . .

  Talbot felt immeasurably better—regretful of the loss of life, certainly—but Horne’s perfunctory interview seemed to indicate this thing was manageable. No mention of Helen getting into his office, no scapegoats identified, the weather plane cover story ready to roll out. Horne had his answers and he could fill out his little report and move on.

  Talbot emerged from his office to find his new secretary sitting at Helen’s old desk, sorting through the stack of newspapers and documents that had arrived while he was meeting with the IG.

  “Bridgie, how’s it going?” he asked.

  She turned and gave him a wide smile. “Well, other than not having a clue what I’m doing, good I guess! How ‘bout you?”

  She was bright and enthusiastic, more confident than Helen, younger and prettier, appealing in a schoolgirl kind of way. He considered for a moment if he should ask her to bring up lunch from the cafeteria so they could eat together in the conference room. He could continue her orientation to her new job as they ate, get to know her a little better. But he suddenly pictured Eleanor as he left their bedroom earlier—the unwavering belief she seemed to have in his integrity, her certainty he had not mishandled this mission. And at that moment, the connection to his wife seemed the more important thing.

  “Finished my meeting and I’ve got some more calls to make. For now, just continue to play traffic cop for me. If I’m on the phone, take a message and keep a list. I’ll be in and out of my office this afternoon.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bentley. Will do.”

  “Take lunch when you like. And tomorrow: I’ll be out most of the day—so maybe bring a magazine to keep you busy.”

  At this, she laughed. “You trying to get me in trouble? You’re not going to find me doing that. Ever. I don’t bring personal stuff into the office.”

  “Smart girl,” said Talbot, wishing he himself had adhered to such a practice.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Tuesday, May 3, 1960

  High Point Command Post, VA

  Early Tuesday morning, Talbot climbed into a CIA staff car that took him directly to Andrews to catch a helicopter with Bissell and Dulles for a trip to High Point in the Virginia hills. Eisenhower, his staff secretary Andrew Goodpaster, and other top cabinet officials were scheduled to arrive later in the morning. No reports had surfaced overnight to contradict Washington’s story of the missing weather plane so Talbot’s worry had begun to abate, his trademark confidence reasserting itself.

  The leaders were convening as part of the country’s tenth civil defense drill—Operation Alert—a rehearsal to ensure if the Soviets launched a surprise nuclear attack, the American government could carry on. That afternoon, in cities across the country, emergency messages would blanket television and radio stations. Sirens would signal citizens to rush below ground into subway stations and bomb shelters, and children would duck under their school desks. Timekeepers would confirm whether Americans were getting better at this—if they beat last year’s times. Millions would likely die if the Soviets struck, but it was believed that rehearsals could improve the numbers.

  High Point was a facility built for COG—Continuity of Government—located west of Washington. If DC blew up, the president had access to everything he would need to run the country—sleeping quarters, meal service, and a staff of physicians, firefighters, engineers, and secretaries. The bunker could be sealed from blast radiation, allowing those inside to survive in the filtered air long enough for radiation in the atmosphere to dissipate. The usefulness of the elaborate facility was dependent, of course, on successfully getting the president there should the unthinkable happen.

  Dulles said little to Talbot on the flight, asking only for quick review of where things stood, a confirmation that nothing, to Talbot’s mind, had surfaced that might explain what had gone wrong and where the hell Powers was. Bissell jumped in to say that Powers had clearly done his duty—destroying the aircraft and losing his life in the process.

  “He was a patriot, I can tell you that,” Bissell declared. “Wife was a little looney, but he was solid.”

  Talbot agreed, saying he had reviewed countless times how the mission had come together and could discern nothing contrived or unusual among this team.

  Dulles nodded. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  The three men stepped from the helicopter into the clear sunshine, each looking the part with felt hats on their heads and briefcases in their grips. They were ushered into the bunker and through the maze of hallways to the war room, outfitted with the latest communications and computer gear.

  Once Eisenhower and his entourage arrived, Dulles suggested that with the heads of all relevant agencies in the room, they review the U-2 issue first. The president agreed. But as Dulles launched into the known facts and the successful release of the weather plane cover story, the teletype machines began to clatter, the bell on the United Press International machine signaling an urgent message. Within minutes, a young navy ensign brought a tear sheet and waved it before Goodpaster who read it then moved closer to the president to whisper a few words. Eisenhower stared straight ahead. The teletype machines rattled and rang as the men grew quiet.

  “Mr. President? What is it, Andrew?” Dulles asked.

  Goodpaster turned to the group and read from the tear sheet: “Dateline: Moscow. Soviet Premier Khrushchev, speaking before the Politburo this afternoon, announces his military has shot down an American plane that violated sovereign Soviet airspace.”

  Talbot felt heat rise in his face, the muscles in his neck draw taut. This was his project. He’d been the one to assure the president that this exact scenario could not happen because there existed no Soviet weapon that could shoot high enough. If there had been a mechanical issue in the plane, the pilot surely hit the destruct button. That’s what had to have happened—not a shoot down. Unless Talbot and his team had missed something.

  Dulles raised a hand, to silence the murmurs. “Our story still holds, people. Pilot lost oxygen supply, fell unconscious, and strayed off course. Nothing here contradicts that. We shrug and tell the world the Soviets overreacted to a weather plane.”

  Talbot cleared his throat and asked to speak.

  “I agree with the Director. There can’t be much left of the aircraft, Mr. President, plunging from the presumed altitude. Any debris—the guidance system, the cameras—is probably splintered metal now, which NASA can continue to say were systems related to the collection of weather data. Period.”

  “Disagree.” This from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “If there’s anything left of that plane that reveals what it was doing, the Soviets will say we’ve committed an act of war. We need to get out in front of this, prepare to provide a rationale for what we were doing if the truth comes out.”

  “Perhaps we should go ahead and admit we crossed a line,” said a defense liaison from the State Department, “but we frame it in terms of fairness. The president’s been advocating for the Open Skies Treaty, but Khrushchev won’t bite. We remind the world the Soviets can see just about everything we’re doing because we’re an open society. So maybe we admit we took a peek into what they’re doing to keep the world safer. Fair is fair.”

  “No, I think Bentley’s got it right,” said Dulles. “We don’t want to get into a back-and-forth. We want this whole story to just fade away. Evaporate. Deprive it of oxygen.” He turned to Eisenhower. “Mr. President, I recommend we stick with the NASA explanation and wait to see if Khrushchev makes any more noise. Mistakes happen. The plane flew off course. That’s that.”

  The ensign returned and leaned in to whisper in Goodpaster’s ear. The staff secretary blanched then stood to speak.