“Mr. President, Mr. Dulles. With respect. It’s not fading yet. Khrushchev is saying the plane went down below Sverdlovsk—right in the middle of the damn country—nowhere near Pakistan or Turkey or Afghanistan. So if it ‘strayed,’ it strayed a thousand miles from the border—which makes our position less plausible. Reporters are going mad at the White House demanding that we clarify this.”

  The president cringed, a few breathy swear words escaping as he rubbed his forehead. He announced he would like to run through the rest of the morning’s agenda—the review of the national civil defense drill preparations—as quickly as they could. But he and Goodpaster would not stay through the two p.m. sirens: they would get back to the White House to sort out how to respond to Khrushchev’s latest assertions with the press team.

  Within the hour, a cursory review of the systems at High Point was completed, staffers touring the visiting group through the bunker, reassuring them that systems and processes were tested regularly. If the seat of government needed to be moved in the event of a disaster, the High Point facility and the hundreds who worked there were fully prepared. Talbot was not the only member of the group who found that scenario far less remote than it had seemed only a week earlier.

  The room was tense as the meeting adjourned, Dulles holding a whispered conversation with Goodpaster, followed by one with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Talbot and Bissell stood off to the side, clearly not invited into the conversation, Talbot thinking about how wrong he’d been when he’d anticipated a week full of approbation and acclaim for his magnificent work on Grand Slam. His conversation concluded, Dulles waved them over and the three men headed to the helipad.

  In succession, the phalanx of helicopters took off to ferry Washington’s brain trust back to the city. Talbot stared out the window, taking in the varied greens of the Blue Ridge Mountains, already so vibrant for May. His mind puzzled through his next steps—bracing for how he would defend himself and his team for their obvious miscalculation about the Soviet ability to shoot down a U-2. As his chopper touched down gently on the tarmac at Andrews, he thanked God for two things: that his had been a safe landing—and that the U-2 pilot’s had not.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Thursday, May 5, 1960

  Washington, DC

  Talbot trudged through the next few days, sensing a sort of inertia within CIA, he and his colleagues waiting to see if the Soviets would have more to say or if this thing was losing steam. NASA continued to dutifully assert that a weather plane had gone missing north of Turkey while the autopilot was engaged. They trotted out the repainted U-2 for the press to see, full of weather gauges and equipment they insisted were just like those on the lost plane. Deprived of oxygen, they said, the pilot likely passed out, the plane ran out of fuel, and went down. Members of Congress made themselves less available, those who’d been briefed on the U-2 program wanting to avoid any direct questions. Reporters continued to pester the White House press team for information on the weather plane’s original flight path, apparently the only cohort in Washington eager to keep the story in the headlines.

  Settling into her new role, Bridgie proved cooperative and eager to please, Talbot refraining from seizing on perfectly good double entendres given the current crisis. The lack of sexual undercurrent made him feel even worse, producing an office atmosphere he found listless, stale. For once, he came to work only to work, something he hadn’t done in years. He encountered no fallout from Helen’s transfer. She hadn’t tried to contact him and he stopped worrying about how she’d gotten into his office because no one up the chain had made an issue of it.

  On Thursday morning, just as Talbot stepped into his office, he was summoned to Director Dulles’ office.

  “New reports are coming down the wire,” Dulles said. “Another speech by Khrushchev to the Supreme Soviet. Get up here.”

  When he arrived, the director’s office was a tomb. Dulles’ secretary sat with an elbow on her desk, gnawing her nails. When Talbot announced himself, she simply pointed toward her boss’s office.

  Dulles stood at his desk, a teletype sheet in his hands and others scattered over his desk. “Talbot. Here’s what we know. Khrushchev just said he needed to amend his statement from two days earlier. Made a real show of it, apologizing for not providing more details of what happened on Sunday.”

  “Details? Shit. What details?”

  “Well, the plane’s intact. And apparently in pretty good shape. And so is the pilot. Frank Powers is in Soviet custody—the exact scenario you and I claimed could never, ever happen.”

  Talbot shook his head. “No. Oh no. That goddam pilot was not supposed to survive if something… He knew the deal. What in hell? Do we know if he’s conscious? If he’s said anything?”

  “Oh, he’s conscious. Conscious and talking, interpreting the flight logs they found in the plane, confirming he was using a high-powered camera to take photos of Soviet military installations. Khrushchev described the survival kit to a T: the Russian phrase book, 1500 rubles, the message written in multiple languages promising a reward for help, the pen loaded with poison—no question he’s got his hands on it. ‘Why, would a weather plane be equipped with such things?’ he asked his comrades during his speech—and they just laughed and laughed. The whole room of ‘em. He claims Soviet radar tracked the plane all the way across the Russian steppe. They saw it coming and shot it down.”

  “Saw it coming? They don’t have that capability.”

  “Apparently they do, Talbot. How did you not know their radar has improved to that extent—and the range of their missiles? We’ve been taking all these pictures for years—apparently of the wrong things.”

  The search for a scapegoat was on, Talbot realized. Well, there was nothing they could pin on him.

  “On top of that, you initiated this mission on May Day. MAY DAY, Talbot, their big military holiday when there’s not much flying over the Soviet Union, making the U-2 that much easier to see.”

  “The timetable slipped because of weather but given the altitude…” Talbot began. Dulles waved him off.

  “I offered my resignation, but the president wouldn’t take it. But he wants answers. This is about to get real ugly, given a few other things that have popped up. Return to your office and get yourself squared away. I’m sending Chamberlain to speak to you.”

  “Chamberlain? Counterintelligence? Why on earth?”

  “Why? Because, as you’re well aware, your secretary got into your office. Sat at your desk. The IG has moved this into Chamberlain’s court.”

  It struck Talbot that Horne’s interview with him might not have been so cursory after all.

  . . .

  Herbert Chamberlain was a retired army lieutenant colonel and lawyer who had honorably served throughout the European theatre. He’d opted to retire in 1949 when it became clear that despite the valor he’d displayed from Normandy to the Rhine, he’d never make full colonel. His and Talbot’s paths had crossed when both were stationed in Italy after the war, Talbot impressed by his ability to suss out the facts of a situation quickly and mine nuance to arrive at the truth, or something close to it. Chamberlain was the top deputy to James Angleton, the head of Counterintelligence who operated under the belief that the CIA was rife with Soviet moles. Chamberlain served as something of a check on Angleton’s zealousness, applying sound investigative tactics to assuage Angleton’s endless suspicions.

  Chamberlain and his team arrived within the hour at Talbot’s office, equipped with a thermos of coffee, cigarettes, and a tape recorder. Chamberlain directed Bridgie to manage Talbot’s calls for the rest of the day, saying that if they went past six, she was free to leave.

  Seven hours? Talbot thought. This interview could run seven hours? He ushered Chamberlain, two assistants, and a secretary into his conference room. Chamberlain gestured for Tal to sit at the head of the table then pointed to one of his assistants.

  “Jerry? Go ahead and set up.”

  Jerry Engwall heaved a tape recorder from a leather suitcase, placed it at the center of the table, and began running wires to place microphones on the table.

  “We don’t want to miss anything,” Chamberlain explained. “But I’ll remind you that you’re here voluntarily, consenting to this interview pertaining to the loss of an aircraft dispatched through your task group. Not that you or your group did anything wrong or illegal. But we need to understand how the Soviets intercepted this aircraft so it doesn’t happen again. Fair enough?”

  If only it were that benign, thought Talbot. There would be tremendous political pressure to find the culprit, identify an error—accidental or otherwise.

  “Sure. Of course. I want to understand what happened as much as anybody.”

  “I’m sure you do. We rolling?” Engwall nodded. “Ok, we’re here with Officer Talbot Bentley, lead on Operation Grand Slam. First, Mr. Bentley, tell me about your team. Let’s start with your deputy.”

  “Derek Knox—I’ve known him for ten years. Met him right after the war. He was an early recruit like I was. Excellent case officer. His analysis is always thorough. He was on the team for the Guatemalan thing—missed a few details and that got a little messy.”

  “What do you mean? Which details?”

  “Well, if you remember, the idea was to slip in and dislodge a president who’d gotten too friendly with the Communists. And now we’re paying millions to keep a different clueless idiot in place who threw out his country’s Constitution and became a dictator. So, our intel on the guys on our side lacked some depth—Derek made some wrong assumptions because there was a lot we didn’t know given the limited operations we’d run in Latin America. We’d kinda assumed they’d be as reliable as the Brits and Aussies were in the war. Our mistake.”

  “Did Derek Knox ever mislead you?”

  “No, no. Never misdirected me or gave me false information. The analysis has been wrong at some points, but that’s part of the game.”

  “The game. Right. How did you settle on the date for the mission? This will probably scuttle the Paris meeting. So, anybody especially keen on this day, so close to the summit?”

  “We were just watching the weather. We wanted good pictures and the forecast was for clear skies so it could have been twenty-four, thirty-six hours later or earlier. The Pakistanis agreed to let us use their base to launch and we didn’t want them to change their minds. So this was the moment. Three previous flights this year were flawless. Milk runs, except at the end of the last one, when a few MIGs chased us near the border. We thought they’d just gotten lucky— stumbled on us—because we had no signs, no chatter, no photos that indicated improved Soviet capabilities. Based on that, the president told us to carry on, so we did. We thought we could continue to get in and out.”

  “Except you didn’t.”

  “No. Obviously. Do you know how the pilot is doing?”

  “Powers? Eyes on the ground say he’s banged up and in a Soviet hole for who knows how long. Said way more to them than he was supposed to, based on what they’re saying to us. So we’re investigating more of his background, why he’s being so cooperative.”

  Over the next few hours, Chamberlain asked Talbot about each member of the six-person team, what Talbot knew of their backgrounds, their work experience, why they’d been assigned to this project. He asked about their private lives—anything Talbot knew about troubled marriages, financial issues, unmet career aspirations that might have proven frustrating. Talbot had little to offer.

  “We just didn’t discuss all of that, Herbert. If Knox, or Scholls, or Mendicino had some kind of agenda, if they were steering this across a timeline one of them wanted, it’s news to me. The goal was surveillance to collect intel on ICBMs so Khrushchev couldn’t lie to Ike. We knew we would raise Soviet eyebrows at the summit, when the president trotted out the numbers and the data. But hell, by that point, it wouldn’t matter because we’d force the Soviets to negotiate from a more honest position. If anybody on the planning team was pissed and felt passed over or under-appreciated—well, that got past me completely. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “Oh, we are, Officer Bentley. My juniors are in with all of them, separately, right now, asking them the same things I’m asking you. There is one more employee, however, I need to ask you about. Helen Sizemore.”

  Shit, Talbot thought. Shit. Shit. Shit. He withdrew a cigarette from his case to buy some time, mind racing to defend what Chamberlain might ask.

  “Helen?” he said lightly. “She’s been my secretary for about a year. Until this week. She’s been promoted to the third floor to manage the secretarial pool. Did her job well.”

  “She did lots of things well, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, she was competent, punctual, good with dictation.”

  “And good in the sack?” Chamberlain sat back in his chair and waited.

  “Herbert, can you excuse the team for a moment? I’d like to have a private word.”

  “Hell, Bentley. They know. Lots of people know. We’ve watched it all for a few years now and when it doesn’t compromise the work, Counterintelligence just keeps an eye on it, on Helen and all those young ladies who came before her. You’re an effing rabbit, Bentley, sorta like Dulles, now that I think about it.”

  Talbot worked to appear unbothered, keep his face neutral, maintain his relaxed posture as he drew on his cigarette. “She knows nothing about this operation. She was just…well…we became close, and then it was…convenient.”

  “Not sure she’d appreciate hearing how you put that, Officer Bentley. Ok. We’ll come back to that.” Chamberlain flipped to a page in his notebook. “Tell me about your wife.”

  “My wife?”

  “Yes. Your wife, uh, Mrs. Eleanor Halsey Bentley. What does she know about this episode?”

  “She knows we lost an asset and that I met with the IG earlier this week.”

  “What did she know before the mission? That’s what I’m asking.”

  Talbot thought what he might have said to Eleanor. Had he disclosed something? “I don’t routinely discuss my work with her.”

  “Of course you don’t. I’m not saying you would. I’m wondering if something could have slipped out. Inadvertent. You working late at home and her overhearing something. Accidentally.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Talbot. “She respects what I do, doesn’t pry. She’s got her work and I’ve got mine. But I’ll give it some thought.”

  “You ‘spose she respects what you do with Miss Sizemore?” Chamberlain asked. Talbot tamped out his cigarette, stabbing with vigor into his Churchill ashtray.

  “If you’re asking whether she’s aware of Helen, no. She doesn’t know,” he said finally. “She wouldn’t stay with me if she did.”

  “Ok. I’ll accept that for now. Does the wife have any contact with your secretary?”

  Talbot found the question odd, disconcerting.

  “What do you mean ‘contact’? She’s been by my office. They’ve met. They’re not pals, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Any reason Miss Sizemore would call your wife on the phone earlier this week?”

  “What?” Tal asked. “Helen called her? Shit.”

  “She called us too.”

  “Why? Because she’s pissed about the transfer? Pissed at me? Look, Mr. Chamberlain—Herbert—I was breaking it off with her. Called Deborah Mitchell to find her a new job because Helen didn’t realize what this was—just a little fun, a little distraction. Somewhere along the line, she decided I was her great love and she wanted me to leave Eleanor and be with her. Which I was never, ever going to do. So if she called you and called Ellie to rat me out, fine. I cheated on Eleanor with my secretary. My mistake. That has nothing to do with mission failure and how we figure out if the Soviets knew we were coming.”

  “We’re in the process of seeing what has to do with what. Right now, it’s too early to say.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Bridgie stepped through the doorway and gave a little shrug, a fixed smile on her face. Before Talbot could object to the interruption, a man stepped around her and handed Chamberlain a file. The deputy head of Counterintelligence opened it and flipped slowly through its contents. The man who’d brought the documents stood against the door, hands clasped behind, suit coat straining over the weapon at his waist.

  Chamberlain withdrew a stack of photos from the file and slid them, one at a time, across the table. “Recently, we came into possession of some film and the lab has just finished developing it. And we now have photographs that appear to be pictures of documents in your possession. See the numbers at the top? Those are copies assigned to you.”

  Talbot had trouble catching his breath. He could not believe what he was seeing. “Those are mine, yes. But how? Who photographed them? They haven’t been out of this office, or out of my conference room. I don’t even take them home.”

  “Maybe you can tell us, Officer Bentley, why your old Minox was used to photograph them.”

  “It couldn’t be my camera. Mine’s still in my desk. I’ll show you.” He rose and went into his office. Chamberlain followed, photographs in hand. Tal pulled out his center desk drawer growing agitated when he couldn’t find the camera. “It was here,” he insisted. “Right here.”

  “You know, you were supposed to enter that Minox into inventory,” observed Chamberlain. “Once you started work here, it reverted to property of the U.S. of A.”

  “It was a souvenir,” Talbot protested, knowing how feeble he sounded, that he had no defense for failing to return the spy gear. A nervous chuckle escaped him, exposing just how rattled he was. “I used it all over Europe and, hell, I just got attached to the thing. And I just, you know, wanted to keep it with me. Not to use it. Not at all. Just to remember how well it had served me in some pretty tight jams in the war.”

  “So let me ask,” he said as he handed the stack of photos to Talbot, “is there a reason you gave that camera to Helen Sizemore so she could photograph these documents?”