by Matt Eaton
“A year or so later, they were on the run again. By then they were both hobbling around like cripples. Clyde always drove too fast on country roads. He crashed into a ditch one time and wrecked their car. Bonnie had battery acid sprayed all over her leg.”
“You’re saying thieves aren’t too bright?”
She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I’m saying there’s only one way to avoid trouble: don’t get caught.”
When Polina Ilyin slid into the booth beside Clarence, she looked both familiar and different. She’d dyed her hair and was dressed in a pinstripe suit, gangster-style — though she definitely wasn’t posing as a man. A white silk blouse under her jacket was unbuttoned just far enough to reveal an alluring lacy camisole. She was sex on legs, but her expression held a ruthlessness Edna had never seen before. This was the killer revealed. She pulled open the jacket to show she was carrying a gun.
“Whatever this is, you have exactly one minute to tell me before we throw you to the FBI,” Polina said.
“I don’t need anywhere near that long,” said Edna.
All at once, ten men leapt to their feet. Edna yelled, “She’s armed!”
On cue, Polina reached for her pistol. Clarence slapped it out of her hand before she managed to get a good grip on it. It was the bravest thing Edna had ever seen. Polina would have shot him first if his timing had been off.
Moments later, Kaplan’s men had the Russian on the floor in handcuffs. Her minder, who had remained seated the whole thing, simply rose to his feet and abandoned her.
“You cannot arrest me,” she screamed, “I have diplomatic immunity.”
She was still screaming as two men in black suits entered the bar to join the fray, obviously alerted by the commotion. One of them flashed a badge. “Agent Price Wilkins, FBI. No need to worry comrade, we’re not charging you — we’re deporting you.”
Polina didn’t like the sound of that at all. This was, of course, all part of the plan. Oddly, the pianist continued playing through the entire incident. It was almost like this sort of thing happened all the time and he wanted to reassure patrons it was business as usual.
Kaplan figured best hope of getting Polina Ilyin to talk was if by offering her the chance to defect. Edna was pretty sure she’d refuse — she wouldn’t want to compromise her parents in Moscow. But it was also difficult to know how the Kremlin’s new management would react to Polina being deported as a spy. They could view it as an embarrassing failure and simply throw her in prison on some jumped up political charge. A possibility Kaplan and the FBI would do their best to sell as the most likely outcome.
They came up with the sting after Edna heard about Kaplan’s breakthrough. He’d personally recanvassed all of Helen Barber’s neighbors. Sure enough, no-one had seen any suspicious men in the area on the night concerned. But two remembered seeing a woman out walking early that morning. Both said they’d mentioned it initially, but the cops had immediately discounted her as a suspect. It never got passed up the chain.
Placing a woman at the scene around the time of the murder might have incriminated Edna but for one thing — both witnesses had mentioned without prompting the woman had a limp.
With the help of the FBI, Kaplan obtained a photo of Polina Ilyin and mixed it in with those of five other women of similar age and appearance. One of the neighbors immediately identified Polina.
It was Deborah who urged Edna to call Kaplan back. An Outherian sixth sense, maybe? Either way, Deborah was not surprised to hear there had been a breakthrough.
Luring the Russians into a trap had been a simple matter of delivering a message to Dimitri at Shulman’s Market. In a hastily hand-written note, Edna had claimed she was desperate and she needed permanent protection, naming the Jewel Box as a safe place to meet. She figured Polina wouldn’t believe her, but knew the plea would be too good to resist.
Edna noticed the recognition dawning on the face of Agent Wilkins as they got outside and into the light. She almost laughed at the dirty look he threw Kaplan. “You didn’t tell us Drake was part of this,” he said.
“You didn’t need to know,” said Kaplan.
“Am I under arrest?” Edna asked them.
“Yes,” said Wilkins.
“No,” said Kaplan, overriding him. “But I’ll need formal statements from you both.”
The homicide interview room stank of sweat, fear and stale cigarette smoke. Kaplan kept her waiting for about half an hour before sitting down to speak with her. He clearly had a lot on his plate. Edna explained in broad terms that she worked for a quasi-government organization with a high security clearance that prevented her from naming the organization or anybody else who worked for it. She told him it was a storage house for highly sensitive material and that they operated under direct presidential sanction.
“But if you asked the President about it, he’d probably deny it.”
“Convenient,” said Kaplan.
“Actually no,” she said, “it’s distinctly inconvenient. I’d love to tell you more, but if I do that, I’ll be violating the Official Secrets Act and they can throw me in jail for the rest of my life.”
He nodded his understanding. “How might you meeting Helen Barber for coffee have played a role in her murder?”
Edna pulled out a pack of cigarettes and placed one in her mouth. Kaplan leant across the table and offered her a light. “I wanted to talk to her about what I’m doing. It was wrong and we both knew it. In fact, Helen wouldn’t even discuss it. She left after a few minutes. But the Russians have been watching me closely and trying to recruit me. Polina Ilyin killed Helen and then made me think my boss had done it. She hoped it would drive me toward her. She and I had started a friendship of sorts. Not the good sort, as it turns out.”
“Tell me the nature of your relationship with Father Clarence Paulson.”
This took her by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Is it business or personal? Or both?”
“Probably fair to say it’s both,” she said.
“You’re having an affair with a man of the cloth.”
“I’m not sure he still regards himself as a man of the cloth, but officially I suppose, yes, I’m sleeping with a Catholic priest. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Kaplan stifled a smile but avoided her gaze. “Do you and he work for the same secret organization?”
“We do, as a matter of fact.”
“Because the FBI is questioning his immigration status. We think he’s overstayed his visa.”
“I understand Father Paulson is in America as a papal envoy, a personal representative of the Vatican who should thus be granted diplomatic status.”
“That may be,” said Kaplan, “but Father Paulson doesn’t have the paperwork to back up such a claim. As such, we need to keep him in custody. He’ll be handed over to the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”
“Jesus, Vincent, is that really necessary?”
“It’s out of my hands, Edna. You need to get your boss to provide the INS with the proper paperwork. Otherwise, Father Paulson will be deported. You might as well tell me the name of your boss. We can’t let you go until someone vouches for everything you’ve just told me.”
She thought about that a moment. Giving him Menzel’s name would compromise Verus. And she wasn’t confident he still considered her an active member of the organization. “Sherman Adams,” she said.
Kaplan was taken aback. “The Sherman Adams?”
“The President’s chief White House assistant. That Sherman Adams, yes.”
FORTY TWO
Sunday August 30, 1953
She remained locked in that fetid detention room for more than an hour before Kaplan returned to speak to her. In that time, they offered her coffee and donuts and escorted her to the bathroom, but at no point did she catch a glimpse of Clarence and she was worried about him. Paulson had come to America aboard a flying saucer. Obviously neither he nor Bill Donovan had bothered to fill in paperw
ork and whatever arrangement he had with the Vatican probably amounted to a verbal agreement with the Pope. It was possible this could be put in place formally, but maybe not before he was sent back to England. She couldn’t remember whether his name had ever come up in her discussions with Adams and the President.
She was on her last cigarette in the pack by the time Kaplan finally returned. “There’s good news and bad news,” he said. “I found Sherman Adams. He’s vouched for you, so we can let you leave.”
“That’s great,” she said, sighing in relief. “What’s the bad news?”
“I’m afraid Mr Adams has no knowledge of Clarence Paulson. He told me he’s not fully briefed on all the names of personnel in your little cabal, but that I should take you at your word.”
“Then, do you?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s not up to me. Hoover’s boys will reluctantly bow to the wishes of the White House in your case, but they won’t let Father Paulson loose without something in writing. He’s not an American.”
It was her fault. Clarence had been at the bar with her because she was afraid to go alone. She never stopped to think what that might mean for him. “How long before they deport him?”
“It won’t be quick. They’ll allow some wiggle room for negotiation behind the scenes. You should have time to do something.”
“Will you let me see him before I go?”
Kaplan was about to refuse but he saw the concern on her face and nodded his assent. “Two minutes. Best I can do.”
Paulson was surprised by the force of the hug she gave him as he rose to his feet to meet her. “Wow, you reek of cigarettes,” he said.
She laughed, but swallowed it quickly as she fought back tears. “I’m so sorry, Clarence. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. They’re treating me well.”
She threw him a dubious look. “I’m not sure you and I have the same definition of well. You realize they want to deport you?”
He nodded. She still had her arms around him and leant close to whisper in his ear. “What about mentioning Bill’s name? He’s out of the loop now, it wouldn’t compromise Verus.”
Paulson shook his head. “Wouldn’t work. They’d still demand to see paperwork. I would too in their position.”
She had one more idea. It was radical, but the more she thought about it, the more it appealed to her. She whispered it to him.
He pulled away to look her in the eyes. “No, you don’t mean that.”
“Actually,” she said, “I rather think I might.”
“Time’s up,” Kaplan told them. Edna pulled away and stepped out of the detention room.
“Think about it,” she told Paulson as a uniformed officer closed the door between them.
“You are free to go, Miss Drake,” Kaplan told her.
“How are you coming along with Polina?”
Kaplan shrugged. “The FBI are taking the lead on that. I don’t think she’s saying much. Listen, thanks again for your help.” He held out a set of keys. “Clarence said to give you these. For his apartment.” She smiled in appreciation. “Do me a favor,” said Kaplan, “don’t leave town.”
She smiled wearily. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
FORTY THREE
Tuesday September 1, 1953
Her previous trip on this airplane had not ended well. Edna had higher hopes for this journey, but she was also determined to remain on her guard.
By the calendar it was the first day of Fall, even though in reality it was the autumnal equinox on September 23 that marked the change of seasons. Lately she’d been amusing herself spotting the myriad ways modern humanity had rounded off so many of life’s rough edges to keep the world contained. In this instance, it was literally a case of the Earth turning one way and human beings another. And she knew from bitter experience those rough edges wouldn’t stay smooth forever.
Looking west over the tarmac, she saw no clouds in the sky and hoped that meant smooth flying. The Super Constellation had a cruising speed of 300 miles per hour. It would take a little over seven hours to fly more than twenty-two hundred miles across the continent. They would arrive just after three in the afternoon, local time.
Two momentous events in her life had occurred on September one. The first was the resignation of New York mayor Jimmy Walker in 1932 after months of investigations, court cases and finger pointing over his links to murder and police corruption. Though she was only nine years old at the time, the blanket press coverage over the months leading up to that day was what first awakened her to the reality that men in charge could be criminals. Walker’s fall was largely due to pressure placed on him by crusading New York Governor Franklin Roosevelt, and it was no coincidence that two short months later FDR defeated Herbert Hoover in a presidential election landslide.
September the first was also the day Hitler’s Germany invaded Poland, plunging Europe into the bitter war that had consumed the greater part of her youthful ardor and rendered her bitter and cynical beyond her years.
She drew neither comfort nor pleasure from the luxuriously appointed cabin of Garrick Stamford’s private plane, though she was more than willing to partake in its temptations. Ignoring Tavon’s admonitions, she called for her first gin and tonic at midday shortly after takeoff, then readily agreed to a plate of filet mignon in red wine sauce with baked vegetables. She did this because she could, though the opulence was all but lost on her. She appreciated the flavor and the intoxication, but could not say she derived any actual joy from the thought of how much it might have cost. Pleasure of any sort had become lost to her amid the dull, existential dread that gripped her upon waking each morning.
“It’s called Plant 42,” Tavon said.
She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Lockheed’s hangar in California,” he explained, seeing her confusion. “The site itself is owned by the Air Force, but Lockheed have the place to themselves. It’s south of Edwards Air Base — what used to be called the Palmdale Army Airfield. It has its own runway.”
“Door-to-door service. How convenient,” she said.
Tavon crossed the cabin and sat down beside her on the plush three-seater lounge. “I must tell you this will not go well for either of us,” he told her in hushed tones. “Stamford isn’t exactly welcoming us with open arms.”
“I thought you said he was keen to get you inside that saucer? You could open the project up for them — tell them something they’d take decades to work out on their own.”
“Garrick thinks I betrayed him,” said Tavon.
“But he knows who you are.”
“Yes, that’s true. But he’s also been told he will be charged with illegal share trading if he doesn’t do as he’s told and, of course, I am definitely to blame for that. But whatever happens Edna, I will have your back.”
“Thanks Lee. I know you will. And I’ll have yours.”
He shrugged. “Good of you to say, but I won’t hold you to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You might find yourself faced with a choice — to help me or save yourself.” He knew something. But he wouldn’t tell her what it was. Since last year, he’d come to the conclusion human beings didn’t deal well with knowledge of their future. He placed his hand on his heart. “Promise me when we reach that moment you will save yourself.”
FORTY FOUR
Tuesday September 1, 1953
The Skunkworks hangar was set back a short distance from the runway. As they taxied closer Edna got a clearer idea of exactly how massive it was. The cartoon image of a skunk was painted above the main hangar door. It was an odd touch for the exterior of a Top Secret facility.
The Constellation came to a halt about a quarter of a mile from the hangar, where a mobile stairway vehicle was waiting for them. It touched up against the hull of the plane a moment later. By the time they reached the tarmac, Garrick Stamford’s limousine was waiting. The driver opened the back door for them.
Stamford, the man in charge, was sitting in the back of the limo. In a moment of acerbic brilliance, Lockheed test pilot Tony LeVier had dubbed him ‘Skunkford’ and the nickname had stuck, though nobody said it to his face. He acknowledged them with a wry smile. Edna opted for the rear-facing bench and watched as Stamford shook Tavon’s hand like he was afraid whatever had happened to Tavon was catching.
“I didn’t realize your plant was so big,” Edna said, hoping to break the ice. “Quick work. Didn’t you only win the Air Force contract here a few months ago?”
“We started construction here in July last year,” Stamford told them.
“Before you got the contract,” she pointed out.
Stamford smiled. “You haven’t been in this business for long. The contract was just a formality. This hangar sits over our underground bunker, built to keep FS-1 under wraps. Not an easy thing to manage in secret, even on a site controlled by the Air Force. Compared to that, stacking a tender process is a piece of cake.” He turned to Tavon. “By the way, Lee, that’s a joke. I don’t want you telling tales out of school. Which brings me to another point. I can’t let you both in here without the proper clearance.”
Skunkford just played his wildcard. One last effort to keep them out. “I thought you might say something like that,” said Edna, reaching into her attaché case. She pulled out a document and handed it to Stamford. “Written approval from the Commander in Chief.”
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
August 31, 1953
Personal and Confidential
I authorize and deputize Lee Tavon and Edna Drake as presidential envoys reporting personally to me on the matter of the Top Secret Lockheed Skunkworks research project known as FS-1.
Please extend them both all courtesies, privileges and access to all areas of the operation. No door should remain closed.
