by Matt Eaton
“You’re not Russian,” said Paulson.
“No, I’m Sicilian. But Russians pay well,” said Morello.
Onilova leaned through the open rear window. “Remo will take you to your plane. If I don’t hear back from him that you are in the air and on your way back home, I put a bullet in Paolo Favaloro’s head.” She tossed a field bandage into Edna’s lap. “You’re a nurse, you know what to do with this.”
“What about Commander von Altishofen? He’ll know,” said Paulson.
Nina Onilova merely smiled. “Leo does what I tell him to do.” She tapped the car on the roof and they started moving.
“Jesus, she’s sleeping with the head of the Swiss Guard,” Edna realized.
“This place,” said Paulson in utter exasperation. “It’s a pit of vipers. Are you even a priest, Morello?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Morello replied. “Let’s just say I’m well connected.”
“I see,” said Paulson.
But Edna didn’t understand at all.
FIFTEEN
Friday July 17, 1953
Donald Menzel was yelling at her and turning purple with rage. “I suppose I should blame myself for sending a woman to do a man’s job.” But he wasn’t blaming himself at all, not one little bit. “It was amateur hour. What a complete and utter mess you’ve made of it all.”
Edna had heard more than enough of it. “This is a failure entirely of your own making, old man. You didn’t want to trust the experts; you threw me to the wolves with no preparation and no credible intelligence.” She held up her arm, bandaged where Onilova’s bullet had grazed her. “And you dare to blame me for this?”
Menzel just shook his head at her. He was nowhere close to accepting any of the blame. “Who did you tell?”
“I told no-one.”
Menzel laughed incredulously. “Well, somebody talked and it wasn’t me.”
“They knew we were coming,” said Paulson.
“Maybe there was no leak,” said Edna. “Maybe they were just two steps ahead of us. They knew we’d see Beria’s arrest as a strategic opportunity and try to do something.”
Menzel considered this. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“Which is why you should have taken this to the CIA in the first place,” said Edna.
“You need to move out of here,” he told her. “Right now. I can’t have you in this building a moment longer.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“Find yourself a hotel. We’ll pay for it. Nothing too extravagant — and for God’s sake, stay away from the Mayflower. The last thing we need is you tripping over Hoover and his boyfriend on one of their luncheon dates. Take some time to get your cover story straight. You were on a fact-finding trip for Senator Ives. Work out your cover story so it sounds convincing if anybody asks.”
SIXTEEN
Friday July 17, 1953
She checked into the Hotel Commodore on Union Station Plaza, insisting upon a room on the first floor so she could take the stairs and avoid the elevator.
She’d been tempted to book a suite, but they were on the top level, which brought the elevator into play. And she didn’t want to give Menzel any excuse to renege on his promise to pay. She didn’t trust that mad little scientist. If she’d learnt one thing in the wake of her catastrophic Roman holiday, it was that Donald Menzel would not have her back when the chips were down. His primary concern was covering his own ass. It deeply disappointed her, because she had believed him to be a better person than that.
Clarence Paulson came calling an hour after she checked in. He had ditched his black frock in favor of slacks and a blue shirt and had a bottle of Irish whiskey under his arm, declaring it to be an olive branch from Donald who had, by the way, empowered him to sort out her hotel bill. He was probably lying about the whiskey, but she appreciated his attempt at rebuilding burnt bridges.
“He was spectacularly hard on you,” Paulson said. “He’s well aware it should have been the CIA going in there, not a jaded priest and an investigative reporter.”
“Retired investigative reporter.”
“You’re not retired,” he said. “It’s just that now your work will never see the light of day.”
“Do you really think that’s true?” she asked, watching as he poured two doubles. “You think all this stuff will stay secret forever? There’s ice in the bucket, by the way.”
He threw two cubes into each tumbler and thrust one in her direction. “I think you and I will be old and grey before the world finds out what’s really going on.”
She took the glass and held it in the air. “To abject failure.”
“To better times ahead,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed, “much better. And I must tell you, I prefer you out of uniform.” It sounded lewd, but she let the words hang in the air as she threw open a window to hear the buzz of the city.
“It did confirm one thing for me,” he said. “I’m never going back. I’ll quit the church before I return to Rome.”
“No, you won’t. It suits everyone to keep you playing your part.”
“That’s all it is to me now, truth be told. A performance.”
“Don’t tell me I’m witnessing a crisis of faith?”
He shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. “It’s my cross to bear.”
“I’m serious.”
He smiled. “I still have faith, of sorts. It’s more a question of losing my religion. Dying and rising from the dead? Turning water into wine? With everything we know now, it all sounds like children’s fairytales, don’t you think?”
“Well, come on now,” she said, “you’re sitting there watching me turn whiskey into wee-wee. Aren’t we all our own little miracles?”
He exploded in laughter and it was like he was unleashing something that had been bottled up tight inside. He poured again and they drank. Then again. He kept matching her drink for drink. It started to loosen her tongue. “Come on Clarence, don’t you wish we could end all this secrecy? Isn’t it high time the Verus secrets were brought out into the open?”
He reminded her she wasn’t a reporter anymore and suggested it might be the booze doing the talking. She wasn’t so sure. Her thoughts on the matter hadn’t changed a whole lot since she’d been forced to leave journalism behind.
“These secrets are about control,” she said. They’re holding us back. Don’t you think it would be a chance to start working with the Russians. I mean, we have this incredible technology in our midst. We could change the world.”
Paulson’s face darkened. “You need to be very careful, Edna. This is thin ice you’re walking. You mustn’t say such things.”
“We could stop all this mistrust and violence, and just get to work,” she said.
Paulson stared at her long and hard, chuckled quietly and shook his head. “You really are quite drunk.”
She pouted, concerned he wasn’t taking her seriously.
But what happened next caught them both by surprise, even though anyone else in the room at that moment would have seen it coming a mile off.
SEVENTEEN
Saturday July 18, 1953
Clarence Paulson wasn’t what she would have called a great lover, but he was tender, attentive and eager to please. He was shy about his body, insisting on turning out the lights before he let her undress him. He followed suit and explored her body with his hands like it was a fine work of art and he needed to follow every curve.
It was only afterwards that he admitted to her that this was his first time.
She could see he was telling the truth, but given the visceral hunger she’d seen in his eyes she found it hard to believe she had been the first woman to tempt him.
“I’m a Catholic priest, Edna. We take a vow of celibacy.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think people actually held you to that. Do you really think there are many priests who remain celibate all their lives?”
“That’s a very good question.
I, for one, spent far too many years doing so.”
She caressed his cheek. “This feels like a big deal.”
“All these rules, all these vows and promises. Eventually they start to ring hollow.”
“You really are losing your religion.”
He nodded. “It’s dead and gone. Never to rise again.”
“Jesus.”
Paulson shook his head. “He’s gone. And I don’t think he’s coming back.”
She got out of bed and walked to the window naked, staring out at the city from the cover of darkness. “We all love to hide in the shadows. We’re all pretending.”
“All that holds our world together is a thin veneer of faith and civility,” he said.
“Not faith in God, surely.”
“No, I mean faith in institutions. Belief that we are the ones in control. I understand the fear of what could happen if we lose it. Because once you take it away, it could be gone forever. Now are you going to come back to bed?”
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.
“I’ve never been more awake,” he said.
EIGHTEEN
Saturday July 18, 1953
They woke late. Her head was a little sore, but she felt surprisingly happy and ready to face the cold light of morning.
There was no way of knowing what to make of the previous night. While it felt like this might be a profound strengthening of the bond she had with this man, experience told her there was a good chance that shame could eventually get the better of him.
Talking about that right now wasn’t likely to help.
He was still dozing when she called room service and ordered a full cooked breakfast for two. She grabbed some clothes and dived into the shower, aiming to look as good as possible when they sat down to eat. She figured a man in his 40s waking up in a woman’s bed for the first time in his life after a night of heavy drinking needed to be spared an early morning horror show.
Feeling much more human and with game face on, she accepted the food at the door and dismissed the busboy’s offer to serve for them.
Having heard the knock on the door, Clarence had made a break for the bathroom and emerged fully dressed and groomed for breakfast. She could tell he was making an effort. Just the same, he downed two black coffees before managing to utter a word.
“Thank the Lord for caffeine,” he said finally, placing his hands together in a mock prayer.
“My mother always made us say grace before eating the evening meal,” said Edna. “Never at breakfast though. Which is odd, now I think about it. I’m usually much more thankful for breakfast.”
Paulson groaned in agreement. “Me too.” He took to his bacon and eggs with gusto, noticing after a couple of mouthfuls that she was watching him. “What?”
“How’s the head?”
“It hurts when I think.”
She poured him a glass of water and placed a tablet down beside it.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Aspro. Good for headaches and housewives’ blues.”
“Can I have two?”
“Sure. You never lived at Verus HQ, did you Clarence?”
“No. At one point, Bill Donovan let me have a room at his place, but his wife began to get uncomfortable having a priest in the house all the time. Lee Tavon found me an apartment in Columbia Heights.”
“Colorful part of town. I rather fancy it myself, actually.”
“I like the diversity,” he said. “It’s a neighborhood that seems to welcome interlopers.”
He might have offered her a place to stay if he felt in more confident that she’d take him up on it. There was a pain in his chest that was entirely new and, oddly, not entirely unpleasant. He took this to be love. Yet while utterly inexperienced in romance, he was old enough to know that pain was a powerful sign his love was unrequited.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night,” she said.
“I won’t hold you to anything said under the influence of Old Schenley.”
“I mean what I said about secrecy,” she told him. “When I think about what we did in Rome — we’re lucky we weren’t tossed in jail. And if that had happened, how would the US government have reacted? The President didn’t even know we were there. Ditto the CIA. Donald sent us on what could have been a suicide mission. He could have simply washed his hands of us. This secrecy is a cancer eating away at good intentions.”
Paulson frowned. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation is headed.”
“The only way to get beyond it is to take the FS-1 project — and everything we know about the alien presence on Earth — into the public domain.”
“You tried that already, remember?” he reminded her. “This is where you ended up.”
“Precisely. One woman will never do it on her own. It needs to happen with official sanction. We need to convince people at the top of the food chain all this secrecy has to end.”
“Hold on, when did this become ‘we’?”
“You’re with me, aren’t you?”
“Well yes, up to a point. But I’m not suicidal. What did you have in mind?”
“We go to the President. Or just me. He knows me already. I tell him everything. Lay it all out on the table.”
“Can I just point out our little disaster in Rome will be common knowledge by now in the halls of the CIA and the State Department. You sure you want to take responsibility for all that? What if Ike just wants to shoot the messenger?”
“He won’t do that if I’m a good enough source of information. I was thinking, you have a connection with Paolo Favaloro, don’t you? Will he come when you call?”
Paulson stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes. She watched in awe as he descended into a trance-like state. He looked beatific, like he was deep in meditation.
As the apparition of Paolo materialized behind him, the room somehow darkened even as the morning sunlight continued to stream through the windows. He appeared in normal human size rather than his full 11 feet. Paulson’s eyes opened as he became aware of the ghostly presence.
“Incredible,” said Edna. “How do you do that?”
“Light is energy — and energy is mere vibration. It can be shaped by thought,” said Paolo. “A pleasure to see you again, Edna Drake. I take it you are not badly wounded?”
She shook her head. “I’ll live. How about you? Are they treating you OK?”
“I am fine. For me, nothing changes. Nina visits me herself now. I told her it was me who took the life of her little slave. She isn’t sure what to believe. She is not so generous with her favors, but I know she is curious.”
Six thousand years old and the man is still thinking with his crotch.
“Does the Pope have any idea that Father Morello is a member of the Sicilian mafia?” Paulson asked.
This was what Morello meant by well connected, Edna realized.
“The Pope has no idea,” said Paolo. “Nor is he likely to find out. The gendarmerie and Swiss Guard have closed ranks to cover up the woman’s death. There will be no investigation. As far as they are concerned, it didn’t happen.”
“But we were making quite a racket. There must be people who know the truth.”
Paolo smiled. “When in Rome, you believe what you are told to believe.”
“How did the Russians know we were coming?”
“They didn’t,” said Paolo. “They were merely prepared for new arrivals. Nothing escapes their intention and, as you have seen, they react with ruthless efficiency, unencumbered by religious belief or fear of capture. Nina Onilova only answers to one higher authority — her commander in East Berlin.”
“Colonel Danilov,” Paulson realized. “I’ve seen him at work. She’s a chip off the old block.”
“The Russians and criminals thrive in Rome because they always keep the church happy. This way, everyone gets what they want.”
“I’m sorry we failed you,” said Edna.
Paolo stared at h
er with ruthless candor, eyes blazing with a fortitude that had held him together across a span of time she found impossible to fathom. “You are but the latest in a long line, Edna Drake. I live beyond hope. It is an indulgent emotion I cannot harbor.”
NINETEEN
Monday August 3, 1953
Edna couldn’t help noticing the President’s Room had seen better days. While the walls and the ceiling were remarkable for the detail and volume of portraiture and murals that covered them, close inspection revealed they were coated with grime. Presidents once used the ornate Capitol Building chamber to sign legislation into law at the end of every session of Congress. But it effectively became redundant in 1933 when a constitutional amendment established different end dates for congressional and presidential terms. Consequently, it now sat idle unless its doors were opened for special occasions like today. The neglect was visible. Its rococo decoration was stained with the tar of decades of cigar and cigarette smoke, and its plush leather chairs were falling apart at the seams.
Faded glory notwithstanding, the room seemed a fitting venue for a wake and was now crammed with mourners come to pay their respects to Senator Robert Taft. The Republican Senate majority leader had lost a short, sharp battle with pancreatic cancer and died on July 31, just a few months after his health began to go downhill.
It had only been a year since Taft and Dwight Eisenhower had locked horns in a bitter tussle for the presidential nomination. But they overcame their enmity when Eisenhower extended the hand of friendship, hoping they could work together effectively on Capitol Hill. In April, Taft had been in pain after a morning on the golf course with the President. He was taken to hospital for tests then, a month later, more tests and biopsies from nodules on his head and abdomen that showed up as malignant.
Senator Taft’s body lay in state for several days in the rotunda, directly below the Capitol dome, which was where his funeral had taken place earlier today.
