CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  Saturday, June 25, 1960

  New York, NY/Washington, DC/Arlington, VA

  While Eleanor was en route from New York to Union Station, Jerry Engwall heard back from the sources he’d tapped to glean something about this Italian professor who’d suddenly appeared in Eleanor’s life. Engwall was unsurprised to learn he’d taught at the school Eleanor Bentley said she had attended in Florence. So theirs was a long-standing relationship, perhaps one of the few anchors in her life, he thought. Given that they seemed to be romantically involved, Eleanor could not very easily introduce the professor into her life with Talbot.

  The team on the Europe Desk at CIA had been up all night running down the professor’s background. They had encountered gaps—years where he didn’t seem to be employed and years where they couldn’t find him at all. Cossutta stopped teaching in 1939, as the war in Poland forced the university in Florence to close. They’d spoken with the current dean of the art department at the University of Florence, who had subsisted during the war years by doing commissioned portraits and small art projects—even consenting to painting a ghastly mural of Hitler and Mussolini inside a Florence restaurant. He recalled being puzzled in those days at Cossutta’s lack of employment when he had a young family to feed. Cossutta had been frequently seen in the company of a female student in those years, but that was not unusual; these types of relationships were common among university professors. Post-war, when the university began hiring again, the dean held a couple conversations with Cossutta who seemed eager to return to teaching. But soon after, he said, Cossutta and his family left Florence. The dean never saw the young student again either.

  “So here’s our analysis—very raw,” said the lead officer on the Europe Desk. “He went off somewhere in Eastern Europe to teach, a place where we really don’t have good eyes, and three years later—1950—came over to Fordham, somewhere along the line shedding the wife and kids. He’s been there about ten years now. Lives pretty quiet, hasn’t really made any waves. Busy dating life, apparently, according to the reception desk at the Concorde.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Not that we can find.”

  “Okay. Keep looking, will ya? I’m curious about that three-year gap.”

  “We’re on it, Jerry.”

  The second he hung up, Engwall’s phone rang. It was the Bentleys’ attorney.

  . . .

  Eleanor rested her head on the back of the seat as the cab made the short trip across a city just waking up. The route took them down Louisiana Avenue, across to Constitution and past her favorite places—the National Gallery of Art, The Smithsonian Castle, the Museum of Natural History—the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument standing watch on either side. Tourists were already filtering into the city, armed with pamphlets and guidebooks, cueing up at museum doors, their children hopping around in anticipation. She recalled winding through these galleries with Tal and Caroline, the delightful surprise of encountering a piece just added to the collection, the borrowed pride she felt for a city striving to establish an artistic core. She doubted she’d have the chance to do so again, given what she was about to do.

  The cab pulled up to Lafayette Square where George Jeffrey waited at the curb. The cabbie hopped out to open Eleanor’s door, eager perhaps to place the woman with the tear-ravaged face into someone else’s custody. George paid him then reached for her tote. He’d spoken with the rector, he said. He was waiting in his study.

  They entered the empty vestibule that served as the reception area for St. John’s Church. George paused, placing a hand on her arm.

  “Mrs. Bentley, I was happy to make myself available for this meeting. But if you need to make a confession or pray or get some counsel, I’m not sure I need to be here.”

  At that moment, Reverend Grant emerged from his study to wave them in. His kind face brought a fresh rush of tears from Eleanor. She shook her head at George, unable to speak. As she entered the study, the Rector pulled her into an embrace then gestured for them both to sit. She sank into the sofa with George next to her, the rector in his rocking chair in front of them.

  “So,” said Grant reaching out to clasp one of Eleanor’s hands within his two. “Here we are, Mrs. Bentley. Time to end this then? Time for a new chapter.”

  “It is, Reverend,” she responded.

  “What the hell is happening?” George demanded.

  And for the first time in twenty years, Marisha Yahontov spoke the truth of her life aloud, her story building, cascading, tumbling out. There was her childhood in the Soviet Union, daughter of a party official eager to win favor with her comrades against the backdrop of Stalin’s purges. The teenager who traveled to Florence, having made a deal with her mother to serve the State while she studied art. Then the development of the relationship with Cossutta that began with her admiration of his artistry and progressed into a devotion so complete that she relinquished her identity to serve his purposes. And finally, Talbot, the unwitting target who gave her the ticket she needed to come to this country, to spy on him, on America, to undermine efforts to hold back the Soviets.

  As her story unspooled, Grant sat quietly, holding her hand and nodding when her emotions overwhelmed her, passing her tissues, telling her she could slow down—he had plenty of time. George, meanwhile had stood from her opening words and now paced, hand rubbing his jaw, his head, the back of his neck. He struggled not to interrupt, asking questions then withdrawing them, muttering “holy shit” again and again then apologizing, given the location of the meeting.

  Eleanor sketched out her activities over the years, the photos she’d passed on, the names of people in his office, schematics of his building. And finally, the conversations picked up by the device in the briefcase that helped the Soviets improve their defense systems and had apparently played a part in Powers’ U-2 falling out of the sky. At this, George stilled, one hand over his mouth, the other limp at his side.

  And then she fell silent, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and asked if anyone could spare a cigarette. George pulled out one for her and as he lit it, they locked eyes.

  “What are you expecting me to do with this, Mrs. Bentley? If I should even call you that. You’ve got clergy here, so are you thinking we’re your shield? Because I’m struggling here. I still represent your husband. This is espionage—and I cannot ignore it as Tal’s lawyer—as the person hired to defend him. I’m sorry.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I didn’t bring you here for a religious confession, so I can waltz out of here, conscience clear. But saying all this—the truth I have wanted to acknowledge for so long—well, there’s something to be said for that. But no, George, I’m not trying to shield myself. I’m trying to help Talbot recover his life. None of this is his fault. It’s mine. I’ll pay the consequences.”

  “And by that you mean?”

  “You need to contact Chamberlain to get Tal out from under this.” She turned to Grant. “I’m sorry I’ve lied all these years, in this, of all places. I called you because…if anyone could still summon some kindness for me, as I try to set things right, I thought it might be you.”

  “Mrs. Bentley, none of us is exactly the person we present to the world, or the person we believe ourselves to be. Although,” and here he gave a little wince, “I’d agree, you have gone a bit farther than most.”

  “Well, thank you Reverend, for picking up the phone, for listening to me. I won’t burden you further. But I suppose all of this is about to be splashed all over the papers—so you’ll be able to keep up with what happens to us.”

  “Not a burden, Mrs. Bentley. You’re a member of my flock. It’s my duty to walk alongside even those lambs that stray far out of the pasture.”

  . . .

  At noon, the phone rang at the townhouse. Talbot ignored it for ten long rings. It stopped then resumed a beat later. He lifted the receiver to find Jerry Engwall on the line, saying he and Chamberlain were headed over, along with Talbot’s attorney. And Eleanor. She would be coming there too.

  ‘‘Fraid she’s out of town, said Talbot. “Shopping in New York.”

  “Actually, Mr. Bentley, she’s back in DC. And we’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  Saturday, June 25, 1960

  The Bronx, NY/Arlington, VA

  It was two in the afternoon when Cossutta finally roused himself, much of the prior evening a complete blank. He called out for Eleanor, the wine bottles on the bed clanking as he moved to sit up. When she didn’t answer, he rose and looked around the room. Her suitcase was still here but her purse was not. The discarded nightgown and panties, the drained wine bottles, meant things must have gone reasonably well. But then he remembered their fight, her insolence, her unreasonableness, his threat to send her away followed by her rapid acquiescence and apology. So she was off pouting somewhere, he thought. She’d probably left him to get something to eat, then decided to shop, perhaps to gather things she would want to take back with her to Kirov, or wherever she ended up. She’d left no note, and failed to phone the hotel or get a message to him the entire afternoon. Her exposure to the Americans had ruined her, he decided, with her overwrought emotions and anxiety over her physical safety. When she returned, he would tell her, forcefully, that she’d been insubordinate, that she didn’t enjoy the latitude she seemed to think she had. She had once been so useful, so compliant, he thought, so willing to do what was necessary. This country had been the worst kind of influence on her.

  It was for this very reason that he hadn’t brought his wife to New York when the job had been arranged for him at Fordham. He had worried she would be hard to control. She hated her life in Moscow and complained bitterly about it. Had he let her come to the United States, she might have exposed him out of spite. So when the Centre told him she could move to New York with him—the children dispatched to various boarding schools—he declined the offer. His wife had become quite attached to Moscow in the four years they’d lived there, he explained. How could he ask her to move away from a city she loved? He did arrange to fly her out of Moscow once a year—to the Greek Islands, Turkey, the Black Sea—some oceanside spot where he could fawn over her, assuage her anger, and remind her of the importance of his work. Had she been more trustworthy, she could have lived in New York with him, shopping at the Italian delis, strolling the Boardwalk on Coney Island, and eating Mario’s fine pasta. But she’d never really gotten over leaving Florence. She was a woman who held grudges.

  At dinnertime, Cossutta waved to the desk clerk, bypassing the subway to take a head-clearing walk to Mario’s, Talbot’s briefcase in hand. He turned down the alley next to the restaurant, cut across the back, and deposited the briefcase in the vast dumpster used by the fishmonger. A shame, he thought. It was a beautifully-crafted attaché.

  Mishie must still be sulking in a Macy’s dressing room or bistro somewhere, he decided, having spoiled his weekend entirely. He was ready for a bottle of wine—or two—to take his mind off all this. But whether it was his growing fury or a lingering fog from the sedative in his wine, he had failed to spot unassailable evidence Eleanor was not coming back: her make-up and the cardigan she carried everywhere were gone. Moreover, he failed to take countermeasures as he walked, no doubling back or quick turns to shake anyone who might be tailing him. It made Clark’s surveillance of him almost too easy, the retrieval of the Cheney briefcase taking mere minutes.

  . . .

  Talbot expected to see Chamberlain and Engwall when he opened his front door, but there stood the rector, a tight-lipped smile on his face.

  “Reverend, hello. I’m so sorry, but it’s not a good time,” said Talbot. “I’ve got a meeting.”

  “I’m aware, Talbot. Is there coffee? We may need some.” He brushed past his perplexed host, casting about in the kitchen for supplies to make the coffee. “Any snacks around, Talbot?”

  “A few profiteroles, I think,” Talbot responded, surprised that the normally intuitive rector wasn’t taking the hint. While Grant searched for a plate to lay out the leftover pastries, more people clattered through the front door and into the kitchen.

  Eleanor stood before him, disheveled, her face a map of pain and sorrow. George stood next to her, head bowed. Chamberlain and Engwall, along with two men Talbot didn’t recognize, approached and announced they had a bit of looking around to do.

  “What’s this?” asked Talbot. “What’s happened, Eleanor? Are you okay?” He reached for her hand, to pull her into an embrace. She leaned hard against him, but said nothing. “Chamberlain? Who are those guys?”

  “They’re on our team,” Chamberlain said. “Checking the usual—light fixtures, lamps, and the record player so we can’t be overheard.”

  “Office is clean—now,” one of them announced, displaying two tiny cameras in his palm.

  “Guess the other guys missed those,” said Chamberlain. “Always helps to know where to look.” He turned to Talbot, whose face registered utter confusion, and placed a hand on his arm. “Ok, Officer Bentley—Talbot—as you see, we’ve got some things to discuss. Let’s go into the living room, if you don’t mind. Reverend, can you fetch me a cup of coffee?”

  As Grant puttered in the kitchen, the assemblage took seats in the living room. Engwall withdrew the ubiquitous tape recorder from the case and one of the newly arrived counterintelligence agents pulled out a notebook and pen. Talbot sat next to Eleanor on the sofa, a protective arm curled around her shoulder.

  “Talbot, some new information has surfaced about the U-2 deal and how it affects the charges against you, so we’re here to discuss that.”

  “What is it? Helen admitted she’s been lying?”

  There was a beat of silence before Engwall waded in. “It’s not Miss Sizemore we’re here to discuss. It’s what your wife has told us. What’s she’s admitted to.”

  George renewed his objection to their discussing the situation with all parties present, pleading for a word alone with Talbot.

  “You’re my attorney too,” Eleanor reminded him, “and I am ready to proceed with this meeting.” Talbot stared at her, unable to work out what was going on.

  George threw up his hands, saying the only good thing about continuing the meeting was the grounds for appeal it would offer down the road.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Talbot demanded. “Can someone clue me in here?”

  Eleanor reached into her pocketbook for a cigarette, Talbot leaning over to light it. She gave her husband a tired smile, and then, for the second time that day, began unburdening herself of the lies around which she’d wrapped their life. She spoke slowly, deliberately, about Kirov and Florence, how the professor who’d housed her during the war had in fact, been her lover. Talbot grew progressively more pale, removing his arm from her shoulder, raking a hand through his hair, his breaths coming short and quick, alarm and pain in his eyes.

  “I don’t believe this. How? How did you hide this from me? All this time? Why are you telling me this now? With all these people here?” he asked.

  She gave a small shrug. “Because it’s not over, Talbot.”

  Her husband’s face contorting in pain, Eleanor explained how she had continued to work for the Soviets after they came to Washington, how Cossutta had re-entered her life some years earlier, operating out of New York to supervise her.

  Talbot rose and walked down the hall to the bathroom, his loud retching that of a man bereaved, heartsick, in shock. Eleanor wept at hearing Talbot so physically ill, so disconsolate. The rector excused himself and went to Talbot, his voice low and steady as Talbot sobbed. When the two men returned to the living room, Talbot took a seat across from his wife, his head bowed, not looking at her.

  “Tell me something. When did Cossutta come here? To the U.S.”

  “Ten years ago. 1950.”

  “About the time you started meeting your friends in New York.”

  “Yes. I went there to meet him. He summoned me. I had no choice.”

  “Was this pure business, Eleanor, all these times you were up there?”

  Eleanor studied her cigarette. “He expected me to sleep with him. It was always a part of things.” Engwall and Chamberlain exchanged a look. The other two men shifted uncomfortably. George continued to pace.

  “So that explains, finally, why I couldn’t come to New York with you.”

  Eleanor nodded.

  “So Caroline? She’s in on this?”

  “No, no. We did go up to shop, and there were women we socialized with. But they weren’t my college classmates, obviously. And when Caroline would wear out and go to our hotel—late Friday or late Saturday—I went to my meetings.”

  “Meetings,” Talbot sneered. “Your trysts, you mean.”

  “He controlled me, Talbot, in every way. Please understand that.”

  “What did this involve, Eleanor, the things you were doing to undermine me?”

  George interjected. “I’d like to wait until we’ve got the paperwork signed before we discuss all of this. I mean, we’ve agreed in principle to some things, but I have nothing in hand.”

  Eleanor waved him off and kept talking.

  “At first, it was small things, Talbot. Minor things. Your itinerary. Names of people you met with or who called you at home. It was information so easy to collect, it didn’t seem all that …terrible.”

  “And you passed this along how?”

  “Dead drops. I had three sites in the city where I left notes and retrieved instructions.”

  Talbot looked like he’d taken a blow to the stomach. “How could I not know this?” he asked no one in particular, “you running all over the city, doing dead drops, for god’s sakes.”

  “I didn’t run around, really. One was outside the National Gallery—lots of tourists there to hide what I was doing. Another was in Rock Creek Park. The third was inside my library. One particular shelf.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “It was so easy—and infrequent—that I believed it wasn’t important. And after a couple years, after we’d settled here, and this place began to feel familiar to me, I wanted out. Partly because I wasn’t unearthing anything of value and partly because I wanted to make my pretend life real. But Gilberto arrived and made it clear to me there was no getting out.”