“What? I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Well, she did this for some reason. We’ve got her on film doing it.”

  As Talbot leaned on his desk, flipping slowly through the photos, Chamberlain looked up at the man who’d delivered them and gave a small nod. The man approached Talbot and asked him to extend his arms behind his back.

  “Sorry to have to say, Officer Bentley, but we’ve gotta take you into custody. You’re under arrest for violating your security clearance. We’ll be taking you to the DC jail while we sort this out.”

  “Oh, come on, Herbert! You know me. Have you talked to the director? To Bissell? They know I did nothing to undermine this mission. Can I at least make a call?”

  “You can at the jail. And Dulles knows. Bissell too. They can’t help you. Boys, let’s take the service elevator and stay out of sight as best we can. We’ll say you’ve taken a leave, Bentley—the stress of the mission and all that. But with the press crazy to name the villain in this U-2 thing, I can’t promise they won’t land on you before we get through this mess.”

  And for the first time in his memory, Talbot found himself unable to mitigate the emotions that overtook him, unable to calibrate all the tiny muscles of his face, unable to move in that casual, confident, relaxed way of his, to present the self-assured Talbot he wished the world to see. His shoulders shook. He heaved a sob and his face crumpled.

  Bridgie’s eyes were wide as they walked her new boss out the office door.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Thursday, May 5, 1960

  Washington, DC

  Late Thursday, two men slipped into the Arlington Public Library, bypassing the Circulation Desk and making their way, quietly, to Eleanor’s office. They found her standing at her desk, gathering her things to head home. She started at the sight of them, at the stealth they had employed to enter her office and close the door without a sound. They spoke in low tones, informing her they had been sent from CIA to say her husband was booked on charges related to his work and would remain in jail overnight. Eleanor melted into her desk chair, her breathing accelerating but her demeanor composed.

  “What is he accused of doing?” she asked. “Or do you routinely jail case officers when missions go awry, just to have someone to blame?”

  Eleanor recognized the men who stood before her, although she did not know them well. She had seen Ted Dixon and Ronald Duckett, separately, at arts and social events in the city, Talbot introducing her to one of them walking with his wife in Rock Creek Park, never exactly saying how he knew them. The men exchanged a look, uncomfortable with her question. It was a moment before Dixon spoke.

  “Mrs. Bentley, we don’t know the details of this case. We’re here to advise you of the whereabouts of your husband, that you can go see if him if you wish to, and that he will need an attorney. We also ask that you keep this quiet, for now, as the investigation continues. That’s it. We aren’t here to litigate this with you. Just to inform you. Do you have any more questions?”

  Eleanor shook her head then asked if they knew how Talbot was doing, if anyone else had been arrested, if they had spoken with his secretary, Helen. The men declined to offer any further details.

  “It’s still very early in the investigation and we have no information on the direction it’s going, who they’ve talked to,” Dixon said. “We do need to advise you that someone from CIA will be in touch with you and will have some questions. Probably in the next 24 hours.”

  “I’ll expect that, then. Thank you.”

  “And again, the less you say the better. We’re not releasing anything to press at this point.”

  “And why is that?”

  The agents exchanged a look. “We don’t want to tip off anyone else who might be involved with this case.”

  Eleanor swallowed then nodded. The men left her office one at a time to make an unobtrusive retreat from the library. She picked up her phone, thoughts racing—what to do first? Contact a lawyer? Speak with Talbot? Call Helen and see what she knew?

  After seven rings, she hung up the phone and rose from her chair, leaning on the desk to steady herself. Clutching her pocketbook, she turned off the lights and walked through the library doors, choosing not to acknowledge looks from colleagues, curious about the men who’d come to her office so late in the afternoon without taking even a glance at the library shelves.

  . . .

  It took Eleanor a series of additional phone calls to retain a lawyer willing to take Talbot’s case, which in turn, delayed her own interview with CIA investigators, as she wanted that attorney at her side before she sat for questions. She’d called three lawyers from their old Georgetown circle, several who had worked their way up in the city’s top firms, but each offered excuses—”full plate,” “conflict of interest,” “above my pay grade”—as to why they best not represent Tal. One finally steered her to his former intern, George Jeffrey, a George Washington Law School grad who’d turned down offers from several prestigious firms to open his own practice. He agreed to represent Talbot and to sit through Eleanor’s initial interview. But she would need to obtain separate counsel, he cautioned, if the case against Talbot grew more complicated.

  Chamberlain and his assistant Engwall arrived on her doorstep as she returned from work Friday, Jeffrey a step behind them. A team would be coming to do a search as well, they explained, if she would consent. Or they could get a warrant, they said, but if they took that step, the press would likely discover the story. Eleanor said a search would be fine—she had nothing to hide—Chamberlain promising they wouldn’t make a mess. But first, they had questions. Eleanor offered to make coffee or tea but found no takers. After a nod from Chamberlain, Engwall set up his tape recorder in the living room and they began.

  Chamberlain asked first about Eleanor’s background, dates and times she easily confirmed, questions Jeffrey raised no objection to. She detailed her growing up years, her study abroad in Italy, when she had met Talbot after the war. When they began to press her about her husband’s habits—did he take calls at odd hours? Did he leave suddenly to do errands on weekends or at night, or take last-minute out-of-town trips? Jeffrey locked eyes with Eleanor and shook his head. He did not want her to answer. She did anyway.

  “Of course he does,” she said with exasperation. “He works for CIA!”

  “Can I speak with Mrs. Bentley a moment, gentleman?” asked Jeffrey, rising swiftly, slipping a hand underneath Eleanor’s elbow to pull her out of the room and down the hall.

  “Mrs. Bentley,” he whispered, “they are fishing with those broad questions. Please don’t answer when I tell you not to. What you just said can be construed any number of ways and it won’t help your husband.”

  “Oh, please, George! I told them nothing they don’t already know. It’s what intelligence officers do—taking calls at all hours and running off for meetings in the middle of the night. I didn’t say ‘Why yes! He’s at the Soviet Embassy! He’s meeting with foreign nationals!’”

  “True, but if they can construct a timeline, where Mr. Bentley claimed to be in a work meeting, and they can show he wasn’t with, or speaking to, CIA personnel, it looks nefarious. So keep it neutral. Tell them he did his job, nothing beyond that.”

  Eleanor said she would. But she needed a minute, she said, to pull herself together to continue the interview.

  “Of course, Mrs. Bentley,” said George kindly. “Do what you need to do. I’ll tell them you’ll return shortly. But don’t be too long.”

  “Just need to compose myself,” Eleanor assured him, heading towards her bedroom. She stopped first at Talbot’s office and stood for a moment in the doorway, breathing in the familiar smell of her husband—the leather, the liquor. Atop his desk was his Cheney briefcase—an impractical gift, she’d concluded, that he had mostly used when he traveled to carry non-classified files, his toiletries, and magazines. If they take this in their search, Eleanor worried, she’d never see it again—this peace offering she’d brought back from her very first girls’ trip to New York. So she carried it into her room and slid it into her deepest bureau drawer, covering it with her lingerie, placing her laciest bras and panties on top. Then she powdered her nose and ran a comb through her hair before returning to her guests.

  “I apologize—truly,” she said as she entered, a tissue clutched in her hand. “This is just so completely unexpected and, well, enormously upsetting.” She gave a wan smile.

  “Of course, understandable,” said Chamberlain. He asked if there was anything she wished to re-state or clarify.

  “Only that Talbot is dutiful in his work and that he responds to phone calls and requests for meetings with his CIA colleagues at all hours. Nothing he did raised my suspicion—no strange people turning up here or awkward run-ins in public—ever.” She turned to George as she concluded, who offered a tiny nod.

  “What about Miss Sizemore? Does he ever meet her outside of work?”

  “Who?” asked Eleanor. George stood to interrupt, intent on shutting down this line of inquiry.

  “Mrs. Bentley is not well-acquainted with Miss Sizemore,” he offered, “and she has nothing to say on this.”

  “Who is Miss Sizemore?” Eleanor asked again.

  “Helen Sizemore,” clarified Chamberlain.

  “Oh. His secretary? Helen? She’s rather new, I think. I’ve only seen her a handful of times.”

  Chamberlain eyed her, chin in his hand, a lazy plume of smoke from his cigarette curling above his head. “Right, then. I think that’s all we need to cover.” He stubbed out his cigarette and stood, handing his legal pad to Engwall who secured it in a briefcase. “But—forgive me—you say your father taught at Smith? The years, exactly?”

  Eleanor stilled, eyes fixed on Chamberlain, thinking.

  “Well, I was fifteen when he died. 1935. I left to study in Florence in ‘38. But give me a minute to think, and I can be more precise.”

  A sharp knock sounded at the front door.

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Bentley. That gives me enough of an idea. Just looking for general dates. The guys are here, I believe, so we’ll just let them look around now.”

  Chamberlain was good as his word, directing the team to poke gently through closets, to replace sofa cushions they dislodged, close the drawers they opened. Eleanor and George waited at the kitchen table.

  “You were in Italy? In 1938?” George asked, eyes narrowed, appraising. “Your husband told me you met after the war. I didn’t realize you’d been stuck over there. You must have had quite the adventure.”

  “You could call it that. Had my father lived, he probably would have forbidden it, but it was just my mother, my brother, and me. I was enthralled with the idea of studying in the sculpture program at the university in Florence. Tunnel vision. The continent erupts and I was pinned down until 1945. Then, I met Talbot, who rescued me and brought me back home.”

  “I can’t imagine what that must have been like. And how fortunate you met your husband when you did.”

  “Fortunate?” Eleanor cast her arms out, acknowledging the ongoing search, the situation in which she was now embroiled. “I guess we’ll see if that’s the case, won’t we, George?”

  He nodded, then pivoted to Talbot’s situation. They would meet at the jail the next day. Eleanor was to come mid-morning, after Tal’s bond hearing and expected release.

  A half-hour later, the search was complete, the officers toting away some documents they’d discovered in Tal’s desk drawer, his overcoat, his passport, and little else. Before they left, they placed taps on the Bentleys’ phones, testing to see if this went beyond Talbot and the plucky secretary.

  . . .

  George Jeffrey figured his representation of Talbot Bentley would either make his career or end it. George found Tal a blend of straight-arrow patriotism and bravery—his service in the war had been exemplary—mixed with a roaring hubris that blinded him to the threat posed by serial extramarital liaisons. It appeared the most recent one could cost him everything he’d worked his entire life to achieve.

  “So, Mr. Bentley, tell me about this woman… Helen Sizemore,” he’d begun, when they met at the jail, the afternoon of Talbot’s arrest. “Your secretary.”

  “Former secretary. She got promoted. And it’s Talbot. Tal is fine.”

  George found him smooth and relaxed, despite the alarming setting: they were meeting inside the jail’s cinder block conference room. Talbot reclined slightly, appearing as comfortable in the metal folding chair as he might in a leather armchair. He drew deeply on the cigarette George had offered, looking more like a man considering what cocktail to order than a CIA officer facing multiple felonies.

  “Ok, Talbot. And please, call me George. Former secretary, then. How long did she work for you?”

  “About a year. She came in June last year.”

  “And she’s already moved on? Is that common, to move secretaries after eleven months? I would think she’s just beginning to get her bearings.”

  Talbot smiled. “I guess for me, yeah, it’s common. I tend to… well, it’s almost not fair, these young girls coming into my office, helpful and solicitous. Usually attractive. And, I sorta…”

  “You became intimate with Helen Sizemore?” George asked, his tone clinical, not judgmental.

  Talbot studied his cigarette before finally answering. “Yeah, we developed this…thing. Good at first. And I told her, yes, we were having a great time together. But I couldn’t leave my wife.”

  “And how did she respond?”

  “Not well. Sullen. And she’d gotten a bit too familiar with me in front of other people and that began to worry me. So she had to go. HR moved her out Monday and sometime after that, she turned in the camera to the IG who passed it along to Counterintelligence, alleging I was running some sort of espionage operation.”

  “Have there been other women?”

  Talbot winced.

  “Talbot. I need to know what we’re up against. Never good to surprise your lawyer.”

  “I’ve had five secretaries.” He appeared to be counting. “I’ve slept with four.”

  George kept his eyes glued on his legal pad.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Not at work.”

  “Has there been anybody else, Talbot?”

  “One.”

  George lifted his head and sighed. “It would help me if I didn’t have to pull this out of you. I’m not your adversary. I’m here to support you and frame this case in the best possible light for you. The affairs really aren’t the point and we will certainly argue that Miss Sizemore is simply being vengeful and angry and therefore her allegations are not credible. But that grows more complicated if stories about women you’ve slept with dribble out and dribble out. You lose credibility. Better to acknowledge it all up front.”

  “My neighbor. My wife’s friend, Caroline.”

  “Last name?”

  “Auclair. She’s married to a French guy. You’ll like this—he’s a former resistance fighter. They live in McLean. It was just a brief little thing years ago—nothing serious. We’re still friends with them. No one ever found out. I think her friendship with my wife got to her and she ended it. Ancient history.”

  “That’s it?”

  “All I can think of,” said Talbot with a rueful smile.

  “So. Helen Sizemore. You say she’s lying. Is this out of character for her? Are you surprised she’s taking this tack?”

  Talbot said he was, given how cooperative and compliant Helen had always been. He explained, somewhat matter-of-factly, how easy it was to conduct this and his previous affairs because of the ample privacy intelligence officers were afforded. When an office door was locked, no one asked questions. And with Helen, there had been the serendipity of the business trips they’d been dispatched on together.

  “She’s a good worker,” Tal said, “Smart and organized. Conscientious. Doesn’t make many mistakes. Owns it when she forgets something. Never had any complaints about her job performance. She’s determined, ambitious. Then she started talking about us living together. So I put in for her transfer and they needed someone on the third floor, so it came right through—the morning after the U-2 thing which is how all this got bungled up together. I still don’t know how she did it—how she got in my office and into my file cabinet. They’re always locked when I’m not at my desk.”

  “So she needed keys?”

  “She did. I never gave her any.”

  “Do you leave yours lying around? Could she have duplicated them?”

  Talbot thought. “I don’t see how. I keep them in my pocket. But…”

  George waited. “Talbot, I need to know everything.”

  “She’s been in my house.”

  “So you have extra keys there that Miss Sizemore might have run across?”

  “I keep a spare set at home in my office. It’s not locked, but I don’t think she’s been in there alone…unless she went looking around while I was in the shower or something.”

  “So—and this is just an initial theory—she could have found the keys on a visit to your home, used them to access your office, then taken photos on the camera she delivered to the IG’s office. That would make this intentional, Talbot, that she planned, far ahead of the failed mission, to set you up. Does that sound like something she would do? Something she’s capable of?”

  “Why would she possibly do that? She didn’t know I was ending it.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision based on her transfer. A possible defense here is that she had an agenda—not sure to who’s benefit but most definitely to harm you—and you were blinded to it because A) you assumed her security clearances had not placed a dangerous person in your office. And B) you were in love with her.”

  “I never loved her.”

  “Oh, I know, but we may have to argue it that way. Love is blind and all.”

  Talbot swore.

  “But before we get into that, I need to know about the other women, especially Caroline Auclair, just to make sure they don’t pile on. And then, I’ll schedule a chat with Miss Sizemore.”