Absent an alternative, Marisha soon came around to her mother’s point of view, noting Florence was not far from Switzerland, that she might be able to take a trip there, or France, perhaps, to see the treasures in the Louvre. As she neared her departure, her mother informed her that there was another condition she needed to agree to before she would be permitted to go.

  “When Soviet students are given the opportunity to study overseas,” her mother began, “there are certain obligations involved, reports you will need to send back home.”

  “Reports? Grade reports, you mean? My school progress?”

  “Don’t be dense, Mishie. As you go about your business, you must observe your surroundings. Listen to your classmates, your professors, people on the street. Learn how they feel about their leader, their attitudes toward the German beast. Find people who share your views. It will take patience. Then you will write me or your Papa, and describe what you see, note what people are saying. Detailed, thorough reports will reflect well on you and protect our family.”

  This idea of monitoring others was familiar to her. Her mother and father regularly discussed neighbors and friends, constantly evaluating whether a person’s loyalty was drifting or remained pure to the state, information that her mother documented with the local soviet. Marisha agreed, without telling her mother that all this listening and observing would not be her first priority.

  When she arrived in Florence she at first encountered only the most ardent Fascists, devotees of Mussolini who believed his years in power had finally set things right. Her letters home described the enchantment of the starlit piazza while dutifully recounting conversations with classmates. As time went on, the communists in the group revealed themselves to her, inviting her to join them in the Comintern to help bring communism to all parts of the world and pointing to Professor Cossutta as the leader of their hidden band. When she wrote her mother to say she had gotten to know her program advisor particularly well and that they shared much in common, Svetlana presented the letter to her committee and they applauded; the professor had deemed Marisha acceptable and would use her in the cause.

  . . .

  “This is what love of country requires,” Cossutta reminded her in a tense whisper in his office a year later, “putting the good of the Motherland ahead of yourself.”

  He was gathering files to burn, identifying anything incriminating—positive appraisals of the work of Jewish students, applications he’d sent to groups and associations for grants and financial support for the art department, appeals Mussolini might overlook but the Nazis would object to. With the university shuttering its doors, no grants would be of use, anyway.

  “I don’t understand this. We just signed the pact with the Germans. I thought that would keep the peace—make us safe.”

  “It is a temporary strategy, my lovely, until the Soviets and the Germans can split Europe up between them. But once the Germans move into Florence, they will rout out any communist, pact or no pact, and they’ll kill any Jew they find. So we must lie low for now and begin to prepare you for what’s ahead.”

  “This can’t be real. To be honest…I had thought I would return home if war broke out.” She paused, considering the prospect of never seeing her family again, her five brothers and sisters, her taciturn father who spent his days unloading cargo at the Kirov wharf, her calculating mother, who had set all this in motion. “But if you think this best…”

  “It is, my lovely, the best course. And we have a little time to ensure you are ready.”

  . . .

  As Italy careened into war, Gilberto safeguarded her in his home. She was given the codename Starling, the NKVD sending tutors to drill her in English, American geography, and history and introduce her to her purported Massachusetts roots. Small details of American life gleaned from Cossutta’s colleagues who’d taught in the U.S. became filler to strengthen her background story because it was the details, Cossutta warned, that could give her away. She sat through hours of American movies to study how Americans walked and moved and ate their meals and listened to recordings of radio shows to tune her ear to English conversation. She read English-language classics—books forbidden in Kirov—that included Little Women, The Scarlet Letter, Main Street, Of Human Bondage and multiple works by Edith Wharton, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Mark Twain. Each night, after hours of work and study, she and Cossutta climbed into bed together, his wife relegated to a pallet in their children’s room, the children not seeming to notice.

  She did not hide out with her former classmates during the war, as she would later claim, for two reasons. First, they knew her as Marisha, the identity she was working to erase, and second, because few of her friends remained in the city. Some took up arms on either side of the war, while others risked their lives in the Resistance. A few fled to Spain while others simply disappeared into the ether. Weeks after the university closed, Marisha went to the studio hoping to find an unlocked door and perhaps retrieve a few pieces of her work. As she stepped off the bus, there was the beautiful Patrizio, swaying from the grand cypress tree at the university entrance, his brown curls lifting in the wind then settling on his broken neck. She rushed back to Cossutta in tears to tell him what she’d seen. He patted her head and gave an impatient cluck.

  “Child. He was the last of your class who knew you and could expose you. It was a necessary step and this way, he avoids the suffering that will come with the defeat of his beloved fascists. Don’t waste your tears.”

  That those who knew her true background could be eliminated like this, their silence guaranteed through death, horrified her. But as she looked into Cossutta’s eyes, they offered no sympathy. Instead, they held a clear warning that her emotion had no place here. He seemed almost repulsed by her grief. She swallowed her tears and steadied herself, wishing desperately to return to safer territory with him. “But there’s Remigius,” she said finally. “He knows me, too. He’s still around.”

  “Rémy? He’s with us. You needn’t worry about him.”

  When the tide of the war began turning toward the Allies, Gilberto secured a place for her in the Convent of Santa Maria Novella, presenting her as a stranded American who’d been hiding with the help of her university advisor—the first test of her new identity. Equipped with a forged Massachusetts birth certificate, the nuns accepted Eleanor Halsey completely who, to their ears, sounded like every other American with her flat intonation and occasional twang. Given the melange of languages native to the people they’d hidden and sheltered during the war, each camouflaging true identities, backgrounds, and religions, there was little chance anyone would note the odd Slavic vowel that asserted itself now and then, a fault Eleanor worked tirelessly to overcome.

  By the time Talbot Bentley arrived in Florence, the transformation was nearly complete, Eleanor living in her own little apartment and working at the gallery, having absorbed her new identity to the point her dreams came to her in English. After they arranged their first dinner together, she rushed to Cossutta to tell him she had found her mark.

  “You know where this leads, don’t you, lovely? It leads you away from Florence and me. I had thought you would infiltrate an American embassy somewhere in Europe, a clerk gathering tidbits of information here and there, but this could take you to the United States itself.”

  Eleanor shivered. “Can you find out about him? Find out what he’s doing here. That can help us decide if he’s the right one to pursue.”

  While Eleanor and Talbot spent the subsequent months taking romantic walks along the Arno, Cossutta’s intelligence network got to work, tracing Talbot’s travel across Europe and concluding that his story about serving in North Africa during the war was invented—likely cover for some kind of covert work. Reversing his route from the French coast to Florence, they discovered some details of his sojourn, hearing the story from a loquacious innkeeper about the French widow who’d stolen his money. He could be distracted this way, then, Cossutta observed. His boundaries might not be difficult to breach.

  Eleanor did as she was told, drawing close to Talbot but struggling as she did so. She managed well with the handholding, even the kisses at the end of their dates. He was an attractive man and treated her with a deference and respect she was drawn to. But she could not bring herself to go from Gilberto’s bed to Talbot’s, even though this is what her lover wished her to do. They fought over it, Eleanor insisting she just needed time to adjust to the idea because he, Gilberto, was the one who held her heart. Her confession did not move him.

  “Fine, then. He will assume you are inexperienced, waiting for a proposal of marriage. He will desire you even more because he can’t have you. It’s how men are. And with Eleanor’s story—no parents, dead brother, the lost American who couldn’t get home—he will assume lingering trauma. He won’t pressure you, his chaste little flower.”

  Then came the day Talbot asked her for her hand, as they traveled back from their harrowing visit to London, during which Eleanor was convinced she’d be exposed as a fraud with her inability to decipher most of what the British had to say and her realization of all she didn’t know about her purported country of origin.

  Talbot wanted to marry her. He believed her to be who she said she was. He would soon start work for a new agency—an intelligence agency—and she could be there alongside him, as it all played out. It was a gift, enabling her to accomplish what she and Gilberto and the people behind their work needed her to do. But the other, awful side of that was relinquishing Gilberto, the man who had shaped her into the woman she was, to whom she still looked for affirmation and assurance. She told him she wasn’t quite sure how she’d manage without his guidance, his constant supervision and correction.

  “Starling will have new handlers, who will do as I have, monitor Eleanor’s assignments to support the work.”

  Hearing him use her code name—and her new name—speaking so matter-of-factly about what lay ahead, brought a rush of tears, so little did he understand what he was to her. He was her wise teacher—the brilliant sculptor Cossutta—who had nurtured her talent in her first year in Florence. He was her first lover, who had instructed her how a woman should properly respond to a man. He was her interpreter of the world, who had draped a filter over her eyes so she saw the world as he did. She would make him proud of her, she decided, cement a place in his life more permanent than the girls who had preceded her. But her resolve did not lessen her heartbreak and on the day of her wedding—when she saw Gilberto in the cathedral balcony, smiling in the way she knew so well, as if this were a happy wedding like any other—her tears threatened to overwhelm her.

  Soon after Talbot and Eleanor left Florence, Gilberto made his way south to Brindisi, where he caught a ferry to Albania. An exfiltration team awaited him there, spiriting him across eastern Europe and into the Soviet Union. He was received as a hero in Moscow by members of the Ministry of State Security. Within weeks, his wife and children were similarly transported out of Italy, men in dark suits arriving on their doorstep commanding them to leave everything they owned behind if they wished to see their husband and father again. The family arrived at Tushino Airfield, a military installation outside Moscow, weary and bewildered.

  “What have you done, Gilberto?” his wife spat when he approached her, arms spread to embrace her. “What in God’s name have you done to us?”

  “You’ll get used to it, my lovely,” Gilberto said. “There are benefits here I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

  After a trip down the motorway, they arrived in Moscow, Gilberto pointing out the many churches designed by Italians centuries before. His wife did not utter a word. The driver stopped in front of a tall, concrete apartment building and Gilberto announced they were home. His children, young teenagers now, gathered the odd assortment of welcome gifts they’d been given, while his wife took in the drab street, the grim-faced Muscovites, heads down, hurrying about their business. She saw no markets filled with flowers and fruit, or friends cozied up to tables at a sidewalk trattoria, sharing a caffè or glass of vino. It was so unlike the lyrical pulse of Florence, that once she exited the car, she collapsed in a loud, dramatic sob like the Italian mother she was, wailing for her citta natale, bella Firenze, Firenze pefetta. People rushed past, knowing it unwise to pay attention to the emotional displays of strangers, unwise to pay too much attention to anything on the streets of Stalin’s Moscow. Cossutta gave a cluck and instructed the driver to help him hoist her to her feet and get her inside their new home.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Friday, June 24, 1960

  Arlington, VA

  Soon after Eleanor departed for New York, Caroline phoned Talbot to say she would be there late afternoon, just as soon as the babysitter arrived. She’d bring provisions: three porterhouse steaks and baking potatoes, salad-makings, and a bottle of bourbon to replenish supplies. Rémy would be along after work with a dessert of some kind from his little French bakery. Learning the rest of his day had been planned for him, Talbot offered little resistance, saying he would love their company, that Caroline needed to pick up some charcoal, too, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d grilled out. He thanked her for opting not to join Eleanor on her trip. Caroline said Eleanor had asked her, specifically, not to come, so she could be available to Talbot.

  Caroline’s breath caught when he opened the front door. The last month had taken its toll. This was a man diminished. He looked thinner, less substantial. His broad shoulders slumped as if surrendering to what lay ahead of him, dark eyes tired and clouded, stubble across his cheeks and chin. He ushered her in quickly and she dropped her grocery bags the moment the door was safely shut, reaching out to embrace him.

  “Talbot,” she said again and again as he leaned heavily into her. “Talk. How are you? Really? Tell me.”

  He shrugged as he searched for words, finally leaning down to retrieve the groceries. Caroline followed him into the kitchen, lifting the potatoes out of the bag to wash them while he made room for the steaks in the refrigerator.

  “It still doesn’t feel real, Caroline. Even if it were only losing my job, I’d feel at sea. But losing my job because I’m accused of betraying my country? Sometimes I rant, as Eleanor could tell you, over this idiotic investigation, and at myself, too, for the stupid mistakes I made. Other times, I just want to crawl into a hole and be left alone. The idea of ending up in prison—I can’t even take it in. And after my service, Caroline. Faithful service I rendered to this country that apparently counts for nothing.”

  “You’re a patriot, Talbot, I know that. I know what you’ve done. Rémy knows. We’ll be character witnesses when the time comes.”

  “You’d testify to my character? You sure about that?”

  It took her a moment to realize what he meant. Whatever Talbot was working through, their affair was not something she was willing to rehash with him—even if Talbot felt the need to clear his conscience.

  “We don’t need to go over that, Talbot. Ancient history. It’s been years. So just strike that from the list of things to worry about. It never happened.”

  “But it did, which makes you the wrong person to put in a witness box to testify that I’m a stand-up guy.”

  “Talbot. Nobody knows.”

  “All the more reason you need to steer clear of this so it doesn’t blow up your life. And I know it’s a little late to say this, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry I crossed the line and dragged you over it with me.”

  Caroline smiled, impatient to move off this topic, fluttering across the kitchen to fold the grocery bags, stow the bourbon in the bar cart. Rémy would arrive soon and she didn’t want a whiff of this conversation in the air. “No need, really Tal. We’re adults. We both participated. We had our little thing and it was foolish so let’s not give it any more oxygen.”

  “I appreciate that, Caroline, I really do. I appreciate you. I don’t deserve how big-hearted you’ve been—I mean, we’re still friends, for God’s sakes, all these years later. And Eleanor. Wow. She knows everything now and she’s still here, still standing by me.”

  Caroline blanched. “Everything? She knows about us, too?”

  “Oh, no, no. Sorry. Not that. The others. I’ve told her everything about the women…the incidents…the activity at work. Had to. My lawyer insisted. But I didn’t mention you. She needs you too much, Caroline. Loves you. I couldn’t take that from her. Not now.”

  Caroline let out long exhale. “Scared me there for a moment, Tal. Listen. Why don’t you get ready for dinner? Maybe a shower and a shave will help.”

  “Am I that rank? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I just thought dressing for dinner might make you feel more like yourself—distract you, maybe, for an hour or two.”

  Talbot nodded and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

  With the potatoes in the oven, Caroline turned her attention to the kitchen and beyond, where newspapers were strewn amidst empty coffee cups and abandoned highball glasses. So unlike Eleanor to leave the house like this, Caroline thought, evidence of her friend’s ongoing distress. Caroline collected the glassware and stacked the papers then ran a cloth over the credenza to catch the dust, pausing to look at a photo of the Bentleys taken on their wedding day. Of the two, Talbot was the radiant one, handsome in his uniform, the glint in his eye full of pleasure, longing, joyful anticipation. Eleanor looked unsure and hesitant. While Talbot had his arm around her shoulder, his hand clearly pulling her to him, Eleanor’s arms hung stiffly at her sides, as if she were not fully on board with the proceedings. Thinking about the wedding night, Caroline surmised, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

  A knock at the door signaled Rémy’s arrival. He bore a full grocery bag and a box of profiteroles, so fresh and fragrant that he said he’d almost consumed them on the drive over. He handed the sweets over to Caroline as Talbot reappeared, clean-shaven and smelling of Old Spice, dressed in crisp khakis and a sports shirt. The men exchanged a fierce embrace.