For twenty years, she had taken his opinions as her own, at first to please him and earn his favor and later, to keep danger at bay. In so doing, she had failed to give expression to her own life except in the smallest ways—the art pieces she brought into her home, the books she consumed by authors banned in the Soviet Union—Dr. Zhivago, We, Cursed Days. She wished now she had accepted Cossutta’s assignment—she could have done nothing else, as in love with him as she’d been—then come to, woken up and realized what it would cost her. What if she’d had the courage to turn herself over to the Allies once they arrived in Florence? Her knowledge of Russian, Italian, and English might have been an asset they’d been keen to use. But as dependent as she’d been on Cossutta in those days, she had never even considered it.

  And here he sat across the table from her, a blot of red sauce on his collar and a wineglass in his hand, the man who had so utterly constrained and directed her life. Who was he to speak so dismissively to her, as if she were still a young girl? To chastise her for legitimate worry?

  “If you’re finished, my lovely, you’re welcome to go on. I’ll walk you out.”

  Eleanor nodded and gathered her things.

  . . .

  As Eleanor exited the taxi at the Concourse Plaza Hotel, she heard a distant swell of cheers and applause; the Yankees were playing at home tonight. They were good this year, she’d heard Talbot say—with Maris and Mantle and Berra. She pictured the stadium packed with fans hoisting beers and boxes of popcorn and for the first time, she envied them. Cossutta found this obsession with sports infantile, evidence of misplaced values, Americans paying more attention to scores and standings than the state of the world. They were cowards, he said, pouring their aggression into battles on the baseball diamond and the football field because they didn’t have the courage to wage an actual war. But it struck Eleanor that if all that aggression and hostility were confined to playing fields, there might be less available for battlefields. She wished she were sitting amid a crowd that believed winning a baseball game was the day’s most pressing concern. Tal had invited her many times to see the Senators play at Griffith Stadium. She regretted she’d been only once; it was unlikely he’d be free to ask her again.

  Eleanor settled into her room, sweeping for surveillance devices in the light fixtures and elsewhere as was her custom, then uncorking two bottles of Amarone. Mario routinely sent over a box of cannolis from his restaurant when she was in New York for these meetings with her “uncle.” She poured herself a glass and picked a cannoli from the box.

  Within the hour, she heard his familiar knock—a knock she had dutifully answered, year upon year, in hotels on two continents. She opened the door and he strode through, giving a little shake of his head and gesturing at the traveling clothes she still wore. Wordlessly, he turned and reached for the top button of her blouse. She pulled back from him, moving to the club chair by the window, holding up a hand to preserve a boundary around her.

  “I’m tired, Gilberto. Can we please just…not.”

  He threw up his hands and swore.

  “Then why are you here, Mishie? We could have communicated any number of ways, but I assume when you agree to see me, it’s to do more than discuss operations. Your petulance has grown so very tiresome. And unattractive.”

  “I came because we need to discuss what’s happened in person.”

  “There’s nothing more to discuss. I’ve had a long day and I’m not interested in games. Work out whatever it is you are feeling—quickly, please—so we can relax and salvage what’s left of this evening.”

  When she failed to respond, he stood to face her, hands on hips.

  “Do you take pleasure in disappointing me this way? When we have much to celebrate, getting to this point after these many years?”

  She stayed at the table, head bowed, working the hem of her skirt between her fingers. “Maybe I do.”

  He looked confused. “Do what?”

  “Maybe I do want to disappoint you, Gilberto. Maybe I’m tired of pleasing you at my own expense. Maybe I would like to have a part in making decisions for a change.”

  “Decisions? That is not your role, Mishie.”

  “Role? Have I no say in what happens to my life and my future? Have you ever thought of what this has cost me?” Blood pulsed at her temple. She worked her hands under her thighs so he would not see them tremble, would not see the pills she had extracted from the hem of her skirt.

  Cossutta looked at her for a long minute then moved to the closet. He slid one foot then the other out of his soft leather loafers and reached for a wooden hanger for his jacket. Staring at her all the while, he slowly stepped out of his pants, draping them over another hanger, then unbuttoned his shirt. He returned to the bed and sat, emitting a long sigh, the burdened professor preparing to explain a simple concept to his recalcitrant pupil one more time.

  “I will remind you that you’ve had a glorious life full of purpose and significance because people far more experienced in these things, far more perceptive, make the decisions. Not just me. Others above me.” He removed his shirt then pulled off his briefs. “You’ve lived in the West, worn beautiful clothes, driven a car, owned a home—even had a job with a measure of responsibility—not because there is anything remotely special about you but because of the things set in motion for you. I helped give these things to you, Mishie, you understand? The People’s Committee for State Security helped give you these things. What you did was for the greater good, but you—YOU—have benefited immensely, tremendously. And it is unseemly—and impermissible, frankly—for you to whine about it now and think you have some say over your circumstances.”

  He sat naked in front of her, unapologetic, expecting her to acquiesce as she always did.

  “Things you set in motion for me,” she repeated. “Like the hysterectomy, so I would never become a mother. You certainly set that in motion, wanting to make sure children didn’t complicate things. You find it ‘impermissible’ for me to regret that now?” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Oh, per l’amor del cielo! You had a job to do, Mishie. An important job. One you agreed to, not when you met me but when you left Kirov for Florence. A child would have been dangerous—it could have distracted you. Consider it a kindness that you never had to grapple with that.”

  “Rémy and Caroline had kids. Rémy grappled just fine. You grappled just fine with your own family. You robbed me of that, Gilberto. All of you did.”

  His jaw tensed. He rose suddenly, yanking the covers back to get into bed, his back to her, muttering to himself about her ungratefulness. As he did, she moved her hand over the top of his wineglass, dropping three promethazine pills into the Amarone.

  He turned toward Eleanor, his breath rapid, skin flushed from his cheeks to his chest. He placed his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning into her face, eyes fixed. “I would suggest we end this conversation before you say something that might haunt you later. These emotions, Mishie, how many times do I have to say it? They do not become you. They’re so…” he cast about for a word, “weak. American. Short-sighted. In fact, I believe we have indeed reached the end of your usefulness in this country. It is time for you to leave. Excellent timing, now that I think about it. That will solve things entirely.” He moved a hand to her upper arm and squeezed hard, drawing her towards him, forcing her to stand.

  “Now I suggest you join me in bed. Wash up and calm yourself. Do not make me ask again.”

  She nodded, recognizing she had not timed this well, that she had crossed into treacherous territory and said far more than was safe. She had always been hyper-vigilant to his moods, calibrating her behavior and viewpoint to mirror his. She had never challenged him like this and having done so this one time, his immediate reflex was rid himself of her, remove her from his world. She had always complied with him because on some level, she had always known this is how he would respond. She prayed he would stop short of hurting her.

  She heaved a sigh and leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder. He reached an arm around her, moving his hips into hers. She didn’t resist, nuzzling his neck, the scent of garlic on his breath, sweat on his bare skin, familiar and repellent.

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She reached for a tissue to dab her eyes then reached for his hand.

  “I’m so sorry. Gilberto. I’m sorry. This has just been a lot to bear and I have no one to talk to about it—no one to voice my thoughts to but you. I’ve been upset—and it’s made me mean and foolish. I see that now. And Gilberto, you’re right as you always are. If I’m honest with myself, I know a child would have limited me. I couldn’t have contributed as deeply as I wanted to do. That’s the most important thing. So forgive me for getting emotional. Women can be a ball of sensitivities sometimes, can’t we? You know that as well as I do.”

  “A perpetual problem, my little Starling, and one you must master. I have begged you to work on this.” His hard eyes did not match his sympathetic words.

  She gave him an apologetic little smile. “I won’t do it again. I assure you.” She handed him his wineglass and began unbuttoning her blouse. “I’m sure my face is a mess with all these tears. Give me a minute—let me get cleaned up.”

  He reached for her face, gave her cheek a sharp pat, then turned to the Amarone.

  Eleanor closed the bathroom door and locked it, standing a few minutes with her face in her hands—her world, once again, reduced to a hotel bathroom, a tiny realm of privacy where she could think. She didn’t undress but turned on the shower and smoked successive cigarettes, cracking the window to let the smoke escape, giving the promethazine time to work. She had finally arrived at the crossroads that had loomed for so many years. It involved more than political systems and power, whether the world and the people in it were better off as communists or socialists or free-wheeling capitalists. It had to do with the life she wanted to live and never had. She knew she could not for one minute longer subjugate herself to this system or this man.

  After fifteen minutes, she cracked the bathroom door and listened. He was snoring. She’d had no idea how potent nine year-old promethazine pills might be. Potent enough, apparently. Soundlessly, she removed Talbot’s briefcase from her suitcase and placed it in the closet; Gilberto would have to figure out how to dispose of it. She placed their wineglasses on the bedside tables, rinsing his, but leaving a residue of wine in hers. She emptied the bottles of Amarone into the bathroom sink, dribbling a bit on his pillow and placing the bottles on the bed. He would think they had gotten very, very drunk. She withdrew a few things from her suitcase—a canvas tote, then a nightgown and panties which she dropped beside the bed. She stuffed her make-up and hairbrush into the tote, and grabbed her cardigan. Then she slipped on her shoes and stepped into the hall, easing the door closed behind her. She avoided the elevator to run down the staircase so she would have more places to hide if he awoke quickly and found her gone. She was grateful there was no one at the front desk when she whirled through the revolving door and out into the street.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  Friday and Saturday, June 24-25, 1960

  Washington, DC

  Cossutta was mostly correct that the U.S. government had not kept an eye on private citizen Eleanor Bentley these many years, had not followed her comings and goings. Her fake birth certificate, her origin story in Massachusetts, had gone unquestioned, as the Cold War accelerated and there were more urgent issues to track. But her sudden trip to New York caught the attention of both George Jeffrey and the Counterintelligence team. With Talbot marooned in their townhouse, it struck both as an odd time for a shopping trip to Manhattan. And indeed, the merest investigation revealed it wasn’t a shopping trip at all. The Americans, it turned out, were not quite as stupid or lazy as Cossutta believed.

  As Eleanor had failed to retain a lawyer to represent her interests, George continued working at the margins, managing the back and forth with the government for both Bentleys, knowing there might be a point where the interests of his two newest clients diverged. With Eleanor claiming she had no living family, George decided to poke around at Smith, hoping to find a former colleague or friend of her family who might direct him toward a distant relative, or a benefactor, perhaps, who would remember Eleanor and her father’s service to the college.

  Instead, he learned that the one “Dr. Halsey” who’d been on faculty at the school was still living outside Northampton, a spritely 80-year-old who had taught geography, not economics, and had never married. He was also hard of hearing which made their long-distance phone conversation a challenge.

  “The Dr. Halsey I’m looking for died in 1935. He would have been 52, 53. An economics professor. His family remained in faculty housing after his death, the wife doing clerical work for an office on campus. Is it possible your paths simply didn’t cross?”

  “How old do you say he was when he passed away?” asked the retired Dr. Halsey.

  “Fifty-ish.”

  “Impossible. We’d be nearly the same age. Had he been here, we would have bumped up on one another all over campus. It’s not a large community. We met regularly as a full faculty, socialized frequently. You’ve got your facts wrong, sir. My hearing may be poor, but my memory is not. As for a family living in faculty housing: I can think of no professor I’ve known over these many years who ever did such a thing. That housing was reserved for single people, newly marrieds sometimes, for a semester or two as people transitioned in and out. But there was no school housing that could have handled a family of four, year upon year.”

  Intrigued by George’s questions, Dr. Halsey said he would ask around among his friends and former colleagues one more time. But he was quite sure George had the wrong place entirely. Had he tried Vassar?

  . . .

  Believing he had a fairly full picture of one Helen Sizemore, Jerry Engwall turned his attention to Talbot’s wife, Eleanor. Much like Talbot’s attorney, he had failed to unearth much about her that confirmed her life story. There was no birth certificate on file in Northampton, no record of her matriculation at the university in Florence, no manifest with her name on it that confirmed she’d sailed to Europe in 1938. But an absence of proof meant nothing: Eleanor could have been born outside Northampton, and records could be misfiled, lost over time. What he needed was something affirmative, something that contradicted what she claimed. So far, he’d found none of that.

  Engwall learned in a scheduling call with Jeffrey that Mrs. Bentley was headed to New York and would be unavailable for further questions or interviews until the following week. She was taking the train. So Engwall called a buddy at the FBI office in Manhattan and asked that a subject arriving at Penn Station from DC, midday Friday, be tailed. Late Friday night, the buddy phoned.

  “Hey Jerry, it’s Clark.You got it right. Something’s going on with this girl,” he chuckled.

  Engwall’s stomach flipped. “What can you tell me?”

  “Well, she got to Manhattan then rode the subway up and down the tracks, changing trains, changing directions—classic anti-surveillance activity—before she ended up at Mario’s in Little Italy in the Bronx. Met a man there.”

  “An affair, you think?”

  “Maybe. Brian came with me tonight and we both think it’s something beyond that. All the train-changing, plus she changed her hat, her jacket like a pro. The guy she met—kinda old and foreign. Had an accent of some kind—thought it was Spanish, but it’s Italian. We waited across the street while they had dinner and watched through the window—their posture, their gestures—seemed kinda tense between them. She seemed mad.”

  “Lovers’ spat maybe?”

  “Maybe. So after they finish, she got in a cab, and he went to the subway. We followed her to the Concourse Plaza Hotel a few blocks away. About an hour later, he shows up. So we did our usual thing. Brian puts on the old uniform smock from the laundry and took some men’s shirts to the front desk. Said he needed to deliver them but forgot the customer’s name. Brian describes him and the guy at the desk gives a little smirk and says, ‘Yeah, that guy isn’t here, you know what I mean?’ So Brian says, ‘A regular, huh?’ And the desk guy just laughs harder. Says he’s a prof over at Fordham. Teaches art. He’s come to the hotel with a bunch of different women. Brian keeps him laughing and then palms himself on the forehead and says he just realized he’s at the wrong hotel. Says there must be another old foreign guy somewhere doing some extra-curricular canoodling and waiting for his laundered shirts. ‘Great story, though’ he tells the desk guy as he leaves. So at the very least, your girl is stepping out. You want me to stay here? See if he stays with her all night?”

  “Could you? Hope you didn’t have big Friday night plans. This investigation is kind of important.”

  “Yeah. We can manage. And I’ve got more. Brian popped over to Fordham—it’s only a few blocks away. Looked him up in the faculty directory. The guy’s name is Gilberto Cossutta. Italian. He teaches sculpture and Renaissance art history.”

  “No kidding. Wonder if she met him during the war.”

  “Guess that’s for you to find out, Jerry. Thanks for the fun and games. I’ll be in touch.”

  . . .

  As a near-comatose Cossutta snored at the hotel, Eleanor took a direct route to Penn Station, making it easy to track her. When she arrived at Union Station in DC in the early hours of Saturday morning, a member of Engwall’s team watched her sit quietly, pensively on the station’s torn vinyl seats until well after the sun rose. Around eight, she left her seat and entered the phone booth outside the station. She placed two calls, weeping violently through the first one, stabbing at the air with her free hand. She was more composed during the second call, but tears still slipped down her face. Then she stepped outside the phone booth to light a cigarette and hail a cab.