“Will you testify against your old boss?” shouted a reporter. Helen turned to the camera and placed a hand over her heart.

  “I will do whatever my government asks me to do so we can learn exactly what happened in this case, who did what, and what it has to do with that plane going down over the Soviet Union.” She looked pleased with herself as her lawyer pulled her away to a waiting car.

  Talbot found Eleanor staring at him as the report ended, mouth slightly open, eyes holding a question.

  “I have no idea, Eleanor. It just happened, okay?”

  She nodded. She hadn’t said a word.

  “But she did her job right there. Your people will think the case against me is heading to trial.”

  “Not my people, Talbot. Not anymore.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang, the rector arriving with a chicken casserole. His wife, Ruth, had also sent a jello salad and lemon bars, having prepared it all herself, he explained, rather than alert the Episcopal ladies’ meal calvary to assist.

  “People are hungry for gossip,” he said. “Ruth was not interested in feeding any of that so she did all this herself. So, how are you? Ridiculous question. Let me try this: anything I can do?”

  “This is plenty, Reverend, truly,” Eleanor responded. “Neither of us has had much of an appetite, but this smells enticing. Thank you.”

  “Okay, then. I want to let you both know that your man Chamberlain has contacted me and we met this morning. I asked to share that conversation with you and he said that was fine.”

  Eleanor swallowed. “I’m sorry you’re entangled in this too, Reverend.”

  “No, no,” he said. “That’s not why I’m bringing it up. I wanted you to know I told him I knew nothing of this situation until Saturday, when Eleanor turned up in my study. I told him you’re on the vestry, Talbot, and that the two of you have long participated in worship at St. John’s. He asked me if I thought you were sincere, Eleanor, in your…what do we call it? Your change of heart? I told him that’s impossible to determine, but actions give insight and time will let us know what’s true.”

  Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears. The rector placed both hands on her shoulders and leaned in, speaking quietly, only to her.

  “Whatever your true beliefs, whomever you consider yourself to be, you’re a human being, Eleanor. Flawed as we all are but valuable and worthy, too. This invented existence—the rootlessness that has characterized your last twenty years—has been costly. To Talbot, to the United States, and to you. To your personhood. Your soul. Much more so than you could ever foresee, I’m sure.”

  Eleanor nodded, overcome and overwhelmed, standing eye to eye with one of the few men she had ever known who had spoken with concern to her and for her, who wasn’t pushing his agenda on her, determined to direct her a particular way.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, bowing her head as he promised to continue to hold her in his prayers.

  Talbot walked the rector to the door, wanting a private word with him.

  “Wish I could be as generous as you are, Reverend. I don’t think I can get there.”

  “Take your time, Talbot. You’re in an excruciating situation.”

  Talbot continued. “To put myself in her shoes—I can’t do that. She’s lied to me for so long. I can’t just overlook her deception because she’s sorry now.”

  “Of course not. It was a profound betrayal. Profound. But repentance is possible, Talbot. And remorse. And after that, after a time, perhaps forgiveness. But far be it from me to dictate any of that, to expect that will happen. I’m just here to remind her she must recognize the damage she’s done to you and to herself, acknowledge it, before she can climb out this. And perhaps forgiveness will follow. Perhaps.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, July 5, 1960

  The Bronx, New York

  Cossutta sorted through some paperwork on his desk, information on the students who would be matriculating in his department in the fall. No one particularly special. Too many boys. The pool had improved now that Rothko was no longer across town teaching at Brooklyn College. The very idea of a college dropout working as a professor, he thought. This country. Cossutta shook his head.

  But this was hardly the most pressing problem occupying his mind at the moment.

  He’d received no message from Rémy. It had been a week. They’d spoken the day Eleanor had abandoned him at the Concourse, after it had finally dawned on the professor that she wasn’t coming back. He’d had to get rid of the things she’d left himself, he complained, further evidence of her thoughtlessness. He laid out for Rémy the logistics of collecting her at the library and transferring her to the Soviet Embassy for exfiltration. Rémy was to make contact to ensure she had returned to Washington and verify her schedule for the week. But he’d failed to respond to escalating pings from Cossutta, the most recent being a long, yellow chalk mark on the sidewalk outside the Arlington Planning Department. Translation: call immediately. There had been nothing. The likely explanation was that he was with her, or with Talbot, or with Caroline, and unable to safely respond. It was possible Eleanor was angling for more time and Rémy was indulging her—the unfortunate byproduct of the friendship they’d developed. And the holiday. Americans closed everything down around the 4th of July. That had to be part of it. There was another explanation, however, that Cossutta did not care to entertain. He would wait to send up a distress signal. After all, any failure here would reflect on him, too. No need to overreact. Yet.

  . . .

  Washington, DC

  Rémy would soon be in a position to communicate with his old art teacher, but the message would not be his own, shaped and massaged instead by U.S. counterintelligence agents. The U.S. marshals who picked him up outside Santucci’s were joined by Chamberlain and Engwall and the agents assigned to the Bentley case, all of them gathering in the basement of a weathered building close to Talbot’s office. The drive-under garage made it ideal for these kinds of interrogations, the marshals easily hustling the subject into the stairwell and into the makeshift conference room without drawing notice. Two members of the DC police force stood guard outside the room.

  Rémy had sputtered in protest when he was seized—he was an urban planner for Arlington, for god’s sakes. They were making an obvious mistake. By the time he took a seat at the dented and dusty military-issue table, the others circled around him, he changed his tack, relaxing and offering a little shrug. He leaned back in his metal chair, ostensibly studying the cigarette he smoked that Engwall had offered.

  “You have an opportunity here, Mr. Auclair,” Chamberlain began. “We know what you’ve been doing and who you work for—and it ain’t the city of Arlington and it ain’t the French. So you tell us the folks who are helping you and things will go better for you.”

  Rémy smiled. “Americans do this? Take people off the streets for absolutely no reason and make unfounded charges? Are you the Gestapo now?”

  “Now, now, Mr. Auclair. That’s sounds a little ungrateful. We’re the sum bitches who beat those sum bitches. You know that about as well as anyone, I’d say. But let me ask: apart from objecting to how you were invited to this little party today, you like living here, right? Enjoyed the perks of your education, the freedom to pretty much conduct yourself as you like?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m grateful to live here and I love this country. My wife is American. My children are Americans.”

  “And did you just forget all that when you were running Soviet agents, leaving instructions in a tree stump in Rock Creek Park, so you could pass U.S. government secrets to the Centre?”

  Rémy pulled on his cigarette, relaxing his face into an indulgent smile. “I’ve done nothing of the sort. It’s a fiction.”

  At that moment, one of officers outside the door gave a little knock and peeked inside. Chamberlain gave him a nod. The door creaked open and Eleanor stepped through. Talbot followed.

  Rémy rose, his smile pinched.

  “You know these folks, Mr. Auclair?” Chamberlain asked.

  “Of course…my friends…whom I trust are here to take me home.” He stubbed out his cigarette and moved toward the door.

  “Friends? Really?” Talbot asked. Eleanor stood next to him, head bowed, her hands braced on the back of a chair. “Am I your friend, Rémy?”

  “Talbot,” Rémy began, extending a hand. “They’ve confused me with someone else, obviously.”

  Eleanor lifted her head, eyes clouded and sad. “I told them,” she said. “I told them all of it. About you, Gilberto, what we’ve been doing.”

  “Say whatever you wish. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh, but it does, Mr. Auclair. Jerry? Go ahead.” Chamberlain gestured at Engwall who withdrew his tape recorder and placed it on the desk. He pressed Play. The color drained from Rémy’s face as he heard himself say:

  “He’s furious at you, Eleanor. Very. The plan to move you has been set in motion. You understand that. It only makes sense. You’re disgusted with your husband and decided to leave the country.”

  Engwall snapped the button to stop the tape, a sharp click echoing through the room.

  Rémy looked at those around him and gave a little shrug. “Well. I suppose I need a lawyer to straighten this out.”

  “Sure thing,” said Chamberlain. “We’ll get you one. And listen: tell him you got two choices: prison here, or deportation—probably to your employer, the Soviet Union. And you might want to know that we’re headed to pick up your wife next. Family Services will take your kids for now. Well. I guess we’re done here. Short and sweet. Thank you, Mrs. Bentley, Talbot.” Chamberlain rose and began gathering his things.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Rémy said. “Surely there are other options, yes?”

  . . .

  For all his European sophistication and bravado, his oft-repeated disdain for Americans uninformed about the world, Rémy discovered quite suddenly that he wanted desperately to continue to live in and among these coarse brethren. Within hours, he’d agreed to hand over the names of the agents he worked with, as well as diplomats within the Soviet Embassy who were actually intelligence officers, and leads to cut-outs he used. The city was crawling with Soviet spies, he said, but busting up his cell would make a big dent. In return, he wanted a deal that would keep him in the United States, even if it meant a prison term and confessing to Caroline. Chamberlain said he would work on it—no promises.

  For the next week, Chamberlain and Engwall worked around the clock to pull together resources for next steps. Surveillance teams tracked the agents Rémy identified, tapping their telephones, trailing them as they did business in the city. Protection teams infiltrated the Arlington Library, St. John’s Church, and the Bentleys’ neighborhood—all of this scaffolded quickly because Cossutta would be impatient for Rémy’s signal that Eleanor was ready to be pulled out. Somewhat surprisingly, Chamberlain invited Talbot into many of these conversations, tapping his expertise on aspects of the sweeping operation. He consulted Eleanor, too, to learn more about Cossutta’s proclivities and what they could expect as they moved ahead. The planning conversations took place in a variety of locales depending on the participants: George’s office—where Talbot was expressly allowed to go—the rector’s study at St. John’s, where Eleanor was thought to be bringing her husband’s notes on the most recent vestry report, and even the top-floor conference room at the Arlington Planning Department, quietly commandeered by federal marshals.

  Rémy’s cooperation had bought him time. He was still heading off to work each morning, Caroline still insulated from the truth of who he was. On the day of his initial interrogation, he’d called his office to say he’d taken ill—just a stomach thing, probably bad salami. They’d allowed him to return home in time for dinner with his family and to play catch with his son. The following day, he was seldom found at his desk, his boss explaining to fellow planners that Auclair was working on a long-term density analysis with the Feds in the conference room upstairs.

  From a phone in that room, he dialed Cossutta.

  “Hello, professor,” he said.

  “Well, hello,” Cossutta responded. “You’ve been busy, yes? Too busy to come to the gallery opening. A pity.”

  “Unexpectedly so. My friend took the week off from work, so that affected my own plans somewhat. Plans I’d had for us to do some sightseeing together must move now to next week when my friend is again available. So I’ll have to pass on the gallery opening for now.”

  “I see. Well, these things happen.”

  “Did I mention? We’re going to see the new display at The Museum of Natural History—the Fenykovi Elephant went in last year, but I’ve yet to see it. Have you been?”

  “I have. It’s stunning. Not to be missed. Mondays are less crowded and perhaps you can enjoy a bite of lunch first if your schedule allows.”

  “It does. My friend will be delighted.”

  “Might I recommend the split pea soup at the museum cafe? Filling and quite tasty. Unless you need a salad or sandwich in addition?”

  “With a thick soup, we’ll need nothing else, I’m sure. Thank you for the recommendation, professor. Always nice to be prepared. But tell me: how are preparations for classes going? Do you like what you’re seeing?”

  “Eh, the usual. New students with varied degrees of talent. Nothing earth shattering, but they will all progress. I appreciate your interest. Well, then. Enjoy your visit with the elephant. I look forward to hearing all about it.”

  “Of course, professor.”

  Rémy replaced the phone in the cradle and turned to Chamberlain and Engwall.

  “So. Monday means Friday. Lunch means later in the day—say, three to five p.m. I told him she’ll come willingly so there’s no need for a second man—just the soup, not the salad.”

  Chamberlain nodded. “Then we’ll put things in place.”

  “He also said this delay has raised no concern above him, at the Centre. They aren’t on to me or her. Or you, for that matter.”

  Chamberlain nodded a second time.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  Friday, July 15, 1960

  Arlington, VA

  Eleanor was up early on Friday, not that she had truly slept. Talbot had taken to sleeping in the spare room, the two of them moving through the house like matching magnetic poles in constant repulsion. They were polite, the first one up making the coffee, Eleanor making dinner and leaving a plate for Talbot. She let him know when she left for the library and he always went to the top floor window before she did, scanning for anything out of place. Chamberlain had men positioned in the neighborhood and at various points along her route to ensure she arrived safely.

  This morning was a little different, however, as this was the day of her kidnapping. The team had briefed her on how things would proceed, all of them confident they could keep her safe as long as she followed the script. Talbot paced in the foyer as she gathered her things, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the right words to see her off.

  “I hope it goes well, Eleanor,” he began. “I hope you’re safe today.”

  She turned to him, her face steely and remote in the way sadly familiar to him. She had recovered herself. Here was Eleanor the operative, emotionless and distant, armor back in place, no sign of the copious tears that had wracked her for two weeks. If Cossutta’s men were following her, this is what they would see.

  “You surprise me, Talbot. I would think you wouldn’t much care, beyond wanting this ring of spies taken into custody.”

  He closed his eyes and gave his head a small shake. “Then you don’t know me at all. I feel lost, knowing what you’ve done—what it’s done to the life I thought I had. But I don’t want you hurt. I’m worried about this whole operation. I wish I could be there to make sure nothing happens to you. Please be careful.”

  Her face softened, surprised. “Thank you, Talbot. Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  He watched her car from the upper floor window until it escaped his view.

  . . .

  Rémy kissed his wife goodbye and trundled into his car, anxious over what the day would bring. He pictured a placid Eleanor approached at the library by the man sent to retrieve her. If things went as planned, the man would be intercepted then secured in a vast sweep that would extend from DC to New York. After that, once things were sorted and settled, Rémy hoped his own future might snap into focus, his cooperation taken into account. His rapid conversion had surprised even him, the political philosophy that had driven him in the war years and after suddenly feeling dated now, impractical in the mid-twentieth century. But could he live safely, happily, in a country he’d denigrated for fifteen years, among people he’d dismissed for their artlessness, their solipsism? If it meant he could preserve his freedom and his marriage, Rémy concluded he could overlook most everything. The coq au vin at the Rive Gauche in Georgetown, profiteroles from his little French bakery in Rosslyn far surpassed anything available at the best restaurants in Moscow.

  . . .

  After her week’s absence, Eleanor’s return to work had been smooth, her colleagues sympathetic with her explanation that she had just needed to collect herself, have time to assess her situation. Each day, her work had grown more routine and ordinary. She entered the library on Friday morning appearing relaxed, waving to her assistant before she headed into a departmental meeting. At that meeting, she announced she had discovered some new, perhaps unwelcome patrons in the stacks—federal agents assigned to monitor her as the case against her husband grew more complicated. She offered an apology.

  “Do they think you’re involved, Eleanor?” asked the archivist, his blunt question making the others squirm.

  “They probably think you’re involved, Stan,” she said, prompting trills of inauthentic laughter. “They’re scouring everywhere to make their case. They’ve interviewed my neighbors. But be assured, this will end soon.”