by Matt Eaton
Roberts smiled. At least he hoped it was a smile. His guts were churning. “It’s all good, Charlie. I’ve got a letter from Mr Adams saying it’s okay. You want to see it?”
“If you don’t mind sir.”
Roberts tapped his pocket. “I’ve got it here somewhere.”
Charlie Friedman waited. He only had his radio and crossword to go back to, he had all the time in the world. Roberts looked around the truck cabin, feeling the rising grip of panic. He checked the seat, the floor. He was winging it – there was no letter. “Damn it. I must have left it on my desk. Will you take it on faith? I’m surprised that letter hasn’t made it down to you already, to be honest.”
Charlie shook his head. “They don’t tell us nothin’ down here.”
Roberts was itching to get moving. He moved to throw the truck into gear. Finally, Friedman gave him a nod. But then he threw up a hand at the last minute. Roberts fought the urge to ignore him and hit the gas. “What’s up?”
“Seeing as we’re bending rules here, any chance you could get me and the wife into the Mess for lunch some time? It’s our 20th anniversary in a couple of weeks.”
Roberts almost said no purely out of habit, but stopped himself just in time. “You bet, Charlie. Pick a day and I’ll make it happen.”
“You’re a peach, sir. Thanks a bunch.” Friedman grinned like he’d just won the lottery. In a way, he had. Dining in the White House Mess was by invitation only. Building staff were mostly too far down the pecking order to make the cut.
Roberts made a mental note to explain the deal to Sherman Adams so he would smooth out any ruffled feathers on that score. He got going before Charlie decided to push his luck any further. He pulled up the truck outside the West Wing lobby entrance under the portico, where the view from the street was limited, and jumped quickly around to the rear to pull open the doors. Agent Deckard and Edna Drake hopped out immediately.
“The President thanks you for your cooperation,” said Deckard, patting Roberts on the back. Deckard led Edna through the entrance and around to the right, along a corridor and down a set of stairs to the basement lobby. From here, she recalled the path to the secret tunnel leading to the PEOC.
After being lumped around in a hessian sack, she felt in no fit state to meet the President or his top advisor, but thankfully had time to tidy herself up. When Sherman Adams arrived about 20 minutes later, she did at least feel vaguely presentable. She’d deliberately sat at the far end of the long conference table in the main chamber to watch him enter, but rose to her feet when he finally did arrive.
Adams lumped a heavy-looking folder onto the table as he pulled out a chair beside her. There was no warmth in his expression and he looked like he was here against his own better judgment. “A fugitive hiding out in the White House. Wouldn’t the Founding Fathers be thrilled?” he said.
She ignored the sleight on her good character and held out her hand, as he had done for her the last time they’d met. Adams shook it almost reluctantly, like it was an act of cooperation he might soon be forced to rescind. “I appreciate you going to all this trouble for me,” she said, “and I promise you won’t regret it when you hear what I have to say.”
“Does Donald Menzel know you’re here?”
She hesitated, feeling that perhaps Adams thought she was talking out of turn. “No, sir.”
“Good,” he said. “I think that’s best.” She smiled, feeling reassured. “This Paolo Favaloro fellow had me questioning my sanity. He appeared at my bedside and then simply vanished. Astonishing. I still haven’t told the President about that — I didn’t want to sound like a crackpot.”
“I’ve seen the same thing,” she said. “I’ve also met him in the flesh. In Rome.”
“What’s he doing there? And what does any of this have to do with the Verus Foundation?”
She explained how Paolo had entrusted Bill Donovan and Clarence Paulson with the knowledge that led them to unearth an ancient flying saucer beneath Sumerian ruins in the Lebanese town of Baalbek. How they had flown the ship back to America under Russian fire, and how Donovan had personally struck up an agreement to placate Joseph Stalin that had kept Paolo Favaloro trapped in Rome.
“And you thought you could get him out from under the Russians’ noses?” he asked. He clearly thought they were fools to even make the attempt.
“Dr Menzel believed the instability at the Kremlin offered a window to extract Paolo Favaloro and bring him back to America. He thought the Russians would be distracted. He was wrong.”
Adams tapped the folder in front of him. It was an inch thick. “This, Miss Drake, is about half of the intelligence the CIA has gathered on you since your Roman holiday. It turns out the Israelis also had people at the Vatican when you were there.”
He pulled out a photograph from the top of the file, taken by a Mossad agent. It showed Sister Josephine — Nina Onilova — ushering them into a black sedan outside the Vatican archives. “This looks very much like you two cooperating with a known Russian operative and a member of the Sicilian mafia.”
She sighed. “The CIA has no idea why we were there.”
“Nobody knows why you were there,” he screamed at her in exasperation.
She flinched instinctively. “I did tell Dr Menzel it was a mistake to do this without CIA involvement, but he insisted there was no time to get the operation sanctioned.”
“No, of course not. Why bother with the rule of law or longstanding international agreements?”
“Majestic-12 had decided not to inform President Eisenhower about the FS-1 project. That wasn’t my doing and, to be honest, Mr Adams, I’m sick of being the patsy. I agree with you. What they did was illegal, corrupt, dangerous and just plain wrong. But they have me by the throat. I’ve never been in a position to refuse them. And you’d still be in the dark now, if not for me.”
He nodded. “What about this friend of yours who was murdered? What do you know about that?”
“We believe it was either the CIA or the Russians.”
“You’re saying the CIA is capable of murdering an innocent American? That’s a powerful accusation.”
She chose her words carefully, saying somebody was out to frame her. Then she explained why it might be the Russians. Adams shifted in his seat. “All right then, let me ask you a different question. Have you been meeting with a KGB officer stationed at the Russian embassy?”
She nodded. “Polina Ilyin, yes.”
“What is the US government to make of that?” Adams asked her.
“You’re asking if I’m spying for the Russians?”
“I’m asking you to convince me you’re not.”
She looked offended. “Meaning I’m guilty until proven innocent?”
He scoffed at her reaction. “I’m afraid that’s very much the case in this instance, yes.”
“I have no time at all for the Soviets, sir. But you won’t like the reason I wanted to meet with her. Maybe you won’t even believe it.”
He frowned. “Try me.”
“I met with Polina because I wanted to talk to someone. That doesn’t mean I was ever going to give her what she wants. She was a sympathetic ear, that’s all. I know she’s a spy for a country we now call ‘the enemy’, but I found comfort in her presence. I have no-one to talk to about any of this. Polina knows more about the activities of the Verus Foundation than almost anyone in the US Government — you and the President included. I’ve given away no sensitive information, nor do I intend to. This was two soldiers from opposing sides striking up a conversation in no-man’s land. If that’s enough for you to condemn me as a spy, I guess I can’t defend myself.”
“It’s possible, perhaps, you were thinking of recruiting her as an asset?”
Adams was throwing her a lifeline. But she couldn’t help wondering if someone else might try to strangle her with it. She sighed and shook her head. “Not really. I mean it crossed my mind once we started talking, but I knew I lacked the finesse to pull
it off.”
“I see. Well, I guess I appreciate your honesty.”
“I knew meeting with her was a mistake,” Edna said, “but I did it anyway. Haven’t you ever done that, Mr Adams? Acted against your own better instincts? I’m not hiding anything. I just wanted someone to talk to. I’m surrounded by crusty old men. Sometimes dancing with the devil has a certain allure. That’s what spies do, right? Talk to other spies?”
Adams nodded. She had a good feeling about this man. She wanted to trust him and wanted more than anything for him to trust her back.
Adams turned toward the door. “Agent Deckard?” he called out. “Go wake up the President for me.”
THIRTY SIX
Monday August 24, 1953
Eisenhower had gone purple. Unlike his chief advisor, he wasn’t directing his anger at Edna, but she felt the brunt of it just the same.
“I must admit,” said Edna, “I’m surprised General Donovan didn’t tell you any of this. I know you’re close.”
Ike shook his head. “I know he felt divided in his loyalties between me and Harry Truman, but I assumed once I’d taken office, he’d bring me up to speed with everything.”
“To be fair — and I can’t believe I’m defending the man now — but he was probably in the same position as me in being beholden to the members of MJ-12 and sworn to uphold the decisions of the collective.”
“Even if that means lying to the Commander in Chief,” said Eisenhower.
“The reason he was so hellbent on stopping me from reporting on FS-1 when I worked at the Times-Herald is he believed the Russians would start dropping nuclear bombs on us if they thought we were anywhere close to unravelling the saucer’s secrets. Bill Donovan took all of that pressure on his shoulders. I think it just about destroyed him.”
“We have suspected for some time there were projects out there operating without proper oversight,” the President told her.
“It’s why the CIA have been so hot on my tail,” she said. “General Smith never briefed Allen Dulles about FS-1 when he handed over the agency. Truman wanted as little oversight as possible. MJ-12 took that to heart.”
Eisenhower nodded. “During the war, when we were planning the Normandy invasion, we had a very short list of people in the know. We called it the ‘Bigot’ list. This FS-1 project is every bit as sensitive. If it’s in the hands of Lockheed, it’s in their interests to keep the bigot list as short as possible.”
“In the interests of full disclosure,” said Edna, “I guess I should also tell you about the Outherians.”
“The who?” said Eisenhower.
“They’re human; that is, they inhabit human bodies, but they are most certainly not of this world. Verus has been working closely with them — in particular, a man named Lee Tavon who came to everyone’s attention last year.”
She told them about Tavon’s farm and his research, and how not even Lockheed was aware of it. By the time she’d finished, both Adams and the President were shaking their heads in disbelief.
“We need to shut Verus down,” said Adams.
Ike nodded, but said nothing.
“With respect, Mr Adams, I disagree,” said Edna. “Verus is an amazing resource. It might have gone off the rails, but I think President Truman had the right idea in setting up an independent archive of the nation’s secrets.”
Adams didn’t look pleased to have his judgment second-guessed in front of the President. “You have dragged this administration into murky and treacherous waters, Miss Drake,” he said. “From here on, knowing who to trust will be critical. Tell me this: why should the President trust you?”
She took some time to consider how best to respond. “I guess you’re asking me whether I’m a communist sympathizer,” she said, taking care to look them both in the eyes. “I hang out in jazz bars, I spend time with the sorts of people the CIA and the FBI call dissidents or fellow travelers. People who believe Marx and Trotsky had the right ideas about using the power of the collective to create a better world.
“But I’ve seen with my own eyes how the Soviets corrupted those ideals. As far as I’m concerned, communists and fascists are different sides on the same coin. They’re extremists who’ve sacrificed personal liberty to force their views upon their people. Stalin stymied dissent and killed anybody who didn’t toe the line. Hitler did the same. What do they have in common? Secrecy. Official and institutional lies presented as truth to gullible people who wanted to believe their governments were acting in their best interests.
“Mr President, with everything I’ve witnessed these past 12 months, I’m worried America could end up going down the same road. Now, I’ll be the first to admit the way I’ve lived my life has been far from perfect, but telling the truth is one thing I’ve always valued above all else. Either you see that in my eyes and hear it in my voice or you don’t. But that’s about all I have to say on the matter.”
Eisenhower and Adams appeared to make their minds up without speaking. It was an odd sort of empathy they shared. Their own form of telepathy. “Where do we go from here, Miss Drake?” Adams asked. “What do you want?”
“I want to use my role at the Verus Foundation to get inside Edwards Air Base. I want to gather as much information as possible on FS-1 and everything else they’re hiding in there.”
“If Lockheed is running FS-1, it won’t be at Edwards,” Adams decided. “The Air Force has given Lockheed the contract to develop a commercial aviation research hub just south of Edwards. That’ll be where they’re hiding this flying saucer.”
“All right then,” the President decided, “from now on, Edna, you work for me. You’re my spy on the inside.”
She felt relieved and enormously privileged to have the Commander in Chief in her corner, but also knew it put her under a lot of pressure. From now on, she could trust almost no-one.
“Know this too,” warned Adams, “the CIA’s head of special operations, James Angleton, has you marked as a commie sympathizer. I will do my best to talk him down, but I doubt it’ll make a whole lot of difference — he’s like a dog with a bone.”
“What about Bill Donovan, won’t he vouch for me?”
“Bill’s persona non-grata in the agency,” the President said. “And frankly, I’m not sure I trust him either.”
“You can,” Edna assured the President. “He’s a loyal soldier. Always has been.”
When did she become Bill Donovan’s defender? These people turned on their own far too quickly.
“Forget about Bill,” said Adams. “Angleton worked under him in the OSS, but regards him as yesterday’s man. More to the point, Angleton has a personal interest in seeing you go down. He’s become as paranoid as Hoover about traitors in the ranks.”
“And God help you if Angleton throws you to the FBI,” said Eisenhower.
“I thought you got on well with Mr Hoover,” said Edna.
“One must walk a fine line with J. Edgar,” said Ike. “We get along because our interests run parallel. But if your actions put me on a collision course with the FBI and I’m forced to choose I’ll cut you loose, Miss Drake.”
“If it comes to that,” said Adams, “we won’t be in a position to do anything to save you.”
Edna’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I suppose I appreciate your honesty.”
“There’s one other thing Angleton could do,” said Adams. “He could make you disappear. He has a black site in Maryland. He could lock you up indefinitely. If he does that, he will have already decided you’re guilty. Then he won’t stop working on you until you confess to being the KGB’s greatest asset.”
“Even if it’s a lie?” Edna asked.
“Angleton is good friends with Kim Philby,” said Adams.
Philby had been head of British intelligence in Washington, but was tarred with suspicion after his colleagues Donald Maclean and Guy Burgess defected to Moscow.
“I thought Philby was forced to quit in disgrace,” said Edna.
“No,�
� said Adams. “MI6 didn’t want to lose him. They recalled him to London because of the pressure being applied by the Truman administration, but he’s still working for them. The Brits don’t believe he’s done anything wrong. Angleton still supports him, though I suspect he’s backing the wrong horse there.”
Edna nodded in agreement.
“Meanwhile,” said Adams, “he’s seeing spies everywhere. It’s like he’s over-compensating.”
“What Sherm is trying to say,” added the President, “is for God’s sake stay away from the Russians.”
“Bill Donovan gave me a name. Someone in the CIA he trusts. Eloise Page.”
“Ah yes,” said Eisenhower, recalling the name. “Very capable woman.”
“She works in the DOP,” said Adams, “the Directorate of Plans. They control all clandestine operations. If they’re watching you, she’ll know.”
“I could pay her a visit, see what she’ll tell me.”
“Worth a shot, I suppose,” said Adams.
THIRTY SEVEN
Monday August 24, 1953
Edna walked out of the West Wing side entrance on West Executive Avenue like any normal person, dressed in a grey men’s suit, her hair pinned up inside a trilby. She had donned a pair of thick-rimmed black spectacles that gave her the appearance of a bookish, if somewhat effeminate, young man on the presidential staff.
She had expected Tavon to be waiting outside but, as she reached the pavement, she saw no sign of him. A tall woman in a striking red dress, her short auburn hair swept back jauntily, waved at Edna lovingly. Edna was certain they’d never met. The woman bounded up to her. “Hello darling, are you surprised?”
“Very,” said Edna.
“I thought I’d pick you up.” The woman’s eyes told Edna that Tavon had sent her. She gave Edna a joyous smack on the lips, whispered in her ear “call me Deborah”, then stepped back and tossed a set of car keys into the air. “How about you drive us home?” Thus, with no small degree of trepidation, Edna found herself behind the wheel of the baby blue Buick Roadmaster. It was a beast of a thing, but to her great relief she saw it was a Dynaflow automatic. Deborah immediately turned on the radio. Perry Como was mid-croon on No Other Love, his hit version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein show tune. It was pure American soda schmaltz, the kind of music Edna hated. “Watch the gas pedal,” Deborah warned, “this thing gets away from you in a heartbeat.”
