by Matt Eaton
“You’re one of Lee’s harem, I take it,” said Edna.
Deborah ignored the insult. “He didn’t think it was a good idea for him to come in person.”
He’d sent the perfect American housewife in his place. “You look like that woman from the Tide commercial,” said Edna.
“Important to live the part,” said Deborah, taking the observation as a compliment.
Edna cautiously edged the car into the afternoon traffic, glancing over at her pretend wife. “Okay honey, where are we going?”
“Lee has a house over in Arlington Forest. It’s a short trip to the airport from there.”
“Wait a minute, that wasn’t the plan,” Edna told her. “I’m supposed to be meeting Clarence at his place.”
“Lee says the CIA are watching the priest’s apartment.”
“I’m curious — do you share the beds of women as well as men?” she asked Deborah. “Sorry if that sounds like a rude question, I’m just curious.”
“No offense taken,” Deborah said. “There are those of us who do enjoy such pleasures. Only when we’re sure it will not be noticed. Our primary focus is to remain in the human world unseen. To do that, we must appear wholesome and completely normal.”
“Wholesome. There’s a term I’ve never had much time for. Listen, I need a phone.”
“You can call Detective Kaplan from the house. It is safe.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you people reading my mind.”
Deborah smiled. “Lee had already told me about him... honey. Relax, I’m not reading your mind.”
The house in Arlington Forest was an ordinary brown brick two-story cottage with white shutters on the windows and a modest wooden portico over the front door. Edna parked the Buick in front of a lock-up garage at the back and Deborah led her up the back stairs and into the kitchen. Everything inside was spotless. Another designer living room leading to a large eat-in kitchen with a red metal and formica breakfast table surrounded by four cheerful red and white vinyl chairs. All the appliances gleamed like new. Edna parked herself at the table. “Any chance of a coffee, hon?” She’d only been a man for an hour, but already it was starting to rub off.
While Deborah warmed the coffee pot, she put a call in to Vincent Kaplan. He didn’t sound happy to hear from her. “I was hoping I’d see you in person,” he said.
“Sorry detective, that’s not possible.”
“You aren’t doing a lot to allay my suspicions, Miss Drake.”
“You know I didn’t do this. I can tell you who did, but you’re not going to like it.”
She was right about that. “I have no jurisdiction in the Russian Embassy,” said Kaplan. “That’s FBI territory — and they’re going to need more than your say-so before they go knocking on the door. And definitely not before you come down here to give us a formal deposition.”
She considered mentioning she had the CIA on her tail, but figured that would only make matters worse. “Like I said, not possible right now.”
“This organization you’re working for, what’s it called?” he asked.
“I’m not working for them anymore.”
Kaplan sighed. “Just a part-time thing, was it? A bit of espionage and capital crime on the side? You do understand murder is a mandatory death sentence, right? Because I’m not hearing a lot of cooperation from your end. Are you going to give me the name of your organization or not?”
“I can’t, Vincent, all right? Look, you need to believe me — Polina Ilyin is the one you want. Think about it. The killer managed to get in and out of Helen’s house without being noticed. But somebody must have seen her. They just haven’t mentioned it because nobody, least of all the police, regard a lone woman as dangerous.”
“What was the motive?”
“She tried to pin the killing on my boss. She was out to recruit me. Wanted me to think I couldn’t trust my own people. That’s all I can give you, I’m sorry.”
She hung up the telephone before he had time to object.
THIRTY EIGHT
August 25-28, 1953
Detective Kaplan, clearly unhappy with her allegation the Russians were involved, instead released Edna’s name to the press on Tuesday. By that night, her face had been splashed across newspapers and, more alarmingly, on television screens across the nation as the lead item to Douglas Edwards’ Tuesday night CBS news bulletin. She was a wanted woman. She wasn’t being directly accused of murder, but hers was the only face associated with the crime. Which mean being damned by association in a murder case vaguely but ominously described as being “linked to defense intelligence”. From that moment, she knew she was destined to remain with the Outherians indefinitely.
But after several days of hiding inside Lee Tavon’s version of the American idyll, Edna was almost ready to surrender herself to Kaplan just to spice things up a bit. The first two days had been a welcome break from the growing turmoil of recent weeks, and she had relished the chance to put it all out of her mind and live something resembling a normal life, even if it was all pretend. During the day — the time when America’s menfolk went off to work — Deborah played guard but left Edna alone to read or watch television. She was not allowed to leave the house, which at first felt heavy-handed but turned out to be a wise precaution.
Deborah offered to buy Edna whatever she desired, from cigarettes to ice-cream and chocolate and whatever other tasty edibles her heart desired, but rather annoyingly drew the line at alcohol. She told Edna bluntly that heavy drinking had played a part in all of her worst decisions. In saying this, it wasn’t as if she was passing judgment — Tavon, after all, owned a bar. But this, in a way, made it worse because it had come as more of a clinical assessment. Deborah had an infuriating and impenetrable manner like a mother who knew she was right and whose pronouncements were never open to debate.
Edna was surprised to learn Deborah’s house was one of six in the street owned and occupied by the Outherians — there were three others on the opposite side of the road as well as the neighboring properties on either side of Deborah’s house. There was a tunnel network connecting all of them to an underground facility much like that beneath Tavon’s farm, although this one was smaller. The Outherians used this tunnel network to freely interact with one another and maintain their collective relationships without anyone else in the street having the slightest idea about what was going on. This minimized the risk of prying eyes seeing something untoward, because they had cleverly acquired properties at the apex of the curve that meant they could see into one another’s houses, but nobody else outside the group of six houses had a clear line of sight on them.
One of the seven Lee Tavons lived here permanently. Edna had been right in assuming Deborah was his current lover. That first night, the three of them discussed the situation and formed a plan of action. The Outherians were adamant she should cool her heels for a week to let her trail cool down. Tavon, himself no stranger to being pursued by authorities, said the important thing now was to remain one step ahead and that this required careful consideration.
While she was far from a prude when it came to sex and relationships, she found herself anxiously wondering whether they would ask her to join their love circle. Part of her was curious, but another part struggled with it. This collective arrangement of their included shared custody of children. It sounded way too complicated and a long way from a stable family environment.
Tavon, as usual, was way ahead of her. “You can relax, Edna, I’m not going to lure you into bed. You’re not my type.”
“Or mine,” said Deborah. Was that a smile curling up the edge of her mouth?
“All right. Fine. Good.” Why did she feel disappointed?
“The way we live is only possible because of who we are,” said Deborah. “You are not like us.”
“You can say that again.”
“We’re not making any of our choices lightly,” said Tavon. “We foresee the consequences of our actions. Can you trul
y say the same?”
Edna was the first to admit that had never been one of her strengths. “Sometimes I wish I could see the future. But then doesn’t that take some of the fun out of it?”
“Nothing is set in stone,” said Deborah. “We can predict your actions with great accuracy over the next few hours. Yet if we tell you this in advance, you remain free to make different choices and change the outcome.”
“I’m working on a way to do this in a more systematic fashion,” said Tavon. “I’ll explain it to you one day.”
She nodded. But she wasn’t at all sure she wanted confirmation of the fears already gripping her about her own immediate future, given events were now well and truly beyond her control. She felt certain her time as a Verus operative was at an end. It would no longer be possible to trade in the nation’s secrets while hiding behind her work for Senator Ives, and even if there was a way to put all this behind her, she doubted Donald Menzel would consider it. This meant she was of limited value as the President’s woman on the inside and was probably viewed as a political liability.
She needed to prove them wrong on that count.
Despite the increased public focus on Edna, Tavon insisted they proceed as planned. By early Friday morning, the arrangements were in place. He’d approached Garrick Stamford with a request to take Edna to view the flying saucer up close.
“Garrick did remind me you’re wanted by authorities. I don’t think he was of a mind to cooperate until I told him I’d be coming along for the trip to keep an eye on you.”
“Did you get a read on him?”
“It’s much harder over the phone,” Tavon said. “It’ll be harder in person too, because he’s on his guard now and trying his best to confuse. He’s scared of me.” Tavon had at one time been Stamford’s chief financial advisor. Tavon made him a very wealthy man, perhaps so wealthy that he’d made himself redundant as an advisor. But the estrangement between them had begun when Stamford found out the true nature of Tavon’s brilliance. “I also invoked the name of Sherman Adams,” Tavon said. “He told me the Eisenhower administration knew nothing about FS-1. He wasn’t at all happy to hear the cat was out of the suitcase.”
“I think you mean out of the bag,” said Edna. “How do we get there?”
“Garrick is lending us his plane. He’ll arrange it so we can drive straight onto the airport concourse and into the Lockheed hangar. That way we keep you out of sight.”
“You’ll dress as a man again,” said Deborah. “Keep your mouth shut and you’ll do fine.”
Edna remembered Stamford had booze on board the plane.
“I can make you a Tom Collins — without the gin,” said Tavon. “How about that?”
“What’s the point of that?” she replied, sighing. Damn mind readers. “I don’t trust Garrick Stamford. How do you know he won’t have the FBI waiting for me in that hangar?”
“It’s a possibility,” Tavon admitted. “But if they arrest you, they’ll probably arrest me too. Stamford won’t risk that.”
“You’re the reason he’s playing along,” Edna realized.
“He’s dying to find out if I can fly that thing.”
THIRTY NINE
Sunday August 30, 1953
Deborah stopped the Buick outside the Christ Episcopal church in Georgetown. “You sure about this? It feels like a mistake.”
“I’m gratified you’re leaving it up to me,” said Edna, “and you might be right. But there’s no reason to think I’m expected here. I don’t think she’ll duke it out on hallowed ground.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Deborah said.
The service had already begun. This had been part of the plan. It was almost a full house, but Edna was happy to take a seat in the back row. Sun beams streamed through windows high above and bathed the congregation in light like the visible embodiment of God’s love. This left the distant alter shrouded in shadow, but the elaborate flower arrangements were still obvious. Donovan had said they were a point of pride for Eloise Page, who insisted on doing them herself. Tall stalks of pink foxglove on either side of the pulpit leant the service a cheerful air. A well-spoken white priest spoke of God sending his only son Jesus to forgive our sins and give the world proof of life everlasting. Edna found it unendingly curious to hear what passed as proof for Christian believers. In her mind, it boiled down to real estate. It was hard to argue with bricks and mortar. This church was beautiful. Stately, elegant, dripping in wealth. Who wouldn’t want to believe this was the home of their god?
She spent the remainder of the service scanning the heads in front of her, trying to decide if any of them might be working for the CIA or the Russians. But every face she saw looked either devout or bored, and nobody paid her the slightest mind.
After the service, she remained in her seat to look as many as possible in the eyes as parishioners filed past in a placid and orderly procession. Many smiled at her and offered their blessing. She returned the sentiment politely once or twice, but that made her feel like a hypocrite so after that she simply smiled. She was still watching the last of them leave the church when she realized there was a woman sitting beside her.
“Your flowers are beautiful,” Edna said.
“Thank you very much, Miss Drake.” Eloise Page was staring up at the altar. “I assume Bill sent you. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.
Edna bent down and fiddled with her shoe lace. “Is it because people are watching?”
Miss Page laughed like the comment was overly naïve. “Everybody is watching. You, my girl, are a hot potato. I don’t want to get my fingers burnt.”
“I need someone to tell James Angleton I’m not a spy. That Polina Ilyin killed Helen Barber.”
“Nobody tells Angleton anything, my dear, least of all a woman,” she said bitterly.
“Surely he’ll hear you out. General Donovan...”
“Is no good to you now,” said Miss Page. “He’s leaving the country on stage one of his retirement plan. This is not the God you’re looking for. Walk out of here now and I won’t tell anyone you came. If you come back, the consequences will be dire for both of us.”
Edna wanted to object, to insist she was no friend of the Russians, but something in Miss Page’s manner told her it was pointless.
FORTY
Sunday August 30, 1953
“Move over,” Edna demanded, “I’m driving.” For once, Deborah didn’t try to argue.
Donovan’s mansion was only a few minutes away from the church. Edna thought she might have one last chance to confront him before he left for Thailand. She pulled into the driveway of the Donovans’ house a little fast. The tires of the big car skidded on the gravel as she braked hard and brought it to a shuddering halt. She wanted to give the man a piece of her mind, hoping this might go some way to alleviating her rising sense of panic. She also thought he might have some idea of how she could pull herself from this whole flaming car crash. Throwing open the driver’s door, she ran to the portico, pounding on the front door with both fists but knowing in her heart her efforts were pointless. She could hear the sound of her blows reverberating through the marble hallway inside like it was an echo chamber. She ran into the garden and peered into the parlor windows to see a large dusty room devoid of furniture.
The Donovans were long gone.
FORTY ONE
Sunday August 30, 1953
The Jewel Box was busy, but the place didn’t have its usual happy ambiance. Edna sent Clarence to find them a booth while she stood at the bar trying to catch Beverley King’s eye. She was certain the barman had seen her, but he took his sweet time in approaching. He flipped his eyes sharply to the right to let her know somebody was watching. She nodded. She knew someone was watching. That was the whole idea.
“What’ll it be?” King asked, showing no obvious sign of recognition. Smart man.
“A whiskey neat and a Tom Collins,” she said. Deborah could go to hell.
When he returned with the drinks, she
handed him a five-dollar note. “Same again in a few minutes, if you would. We’re over in the corner,” she said, pointing at the booth Clarence had claimed. King nodded.
Paulson downed his first shot like water, which gave her pause. She wondered what Deborah would say about his alcohol consumption. He leant across the table. “You sure I can’t tempt you back to my place later?”
She smiled. “What I want and what I need are mutually exclusive right now.”
Lee Tavon had clearly not been giving the bar his attention of late. The piano player was so bad that Edna thought they’d be better off with a juke box, while the patrons were just a bunch of lowlifes. Perhaps better musicians played later in the week? But somehow, she doubted it. The place had lost its buzz. Lee’s commitment to jazz had apparently been short-lived.
She downed the last of her cocktail with a gulp as Beverley King delivered their second round. “Eyes everywhere, best watch out,” he told her quietly. She had already spotted the Russian ‘taxi driver’ who had delivered her to the Commodore Hotel. He was sitting with his back to the door, which gave him a clear eyeline on everyone who walked in. It meant Polina was close. They sipped their drinks. She reached out and touched Clarence on the hand. “You ever heard of Bonnie and Clyde?” she asked.
“Of course. The famous bank robbers.”
“Actually, they rarely robbed banks together. It was usually grocery stores. That’s how they got caught and sent to jail.”
“I thought they were killed by the police?” he said.
“That was later, when Clyde started killing policemen ‘cos he didn’t want to go back to prison. But I bet you didn’t know this: he chopped two of his own toes off in jail to avoid the work detail. Then six days later, his mother got him paroled.
