by Matt Eaton
Menzel smiled and shook his head. “Bill would have seen it coming. But it wasn’t Bill, was it? It was you. Your problem is you keep expecting somebody else to take responsibility for your actions.”
“Jesus Christ, are you serious? Why don’t you try looking in the mirror when you say that?”
But Menzel was incapable of accepting fault on this. It made her so angry that it took all her willpower not to slap him across the face. “You could at least pay for a lawyer to help him. Please, Donald. He’s your money man. You need him.”
The man should be offering her a lawyer, but she was only willing to beg for Clarence. Menzel shook his head, like the idea wasn’t even worthy of consideration. “It’s too dangerous. Paulson can fend for himself. It’s you I’m worried about. You cannot tell that committee what you were doing at the Vatican.”
“Christ on a bike. Will you listen to yourself? You want me to protect you, but you won’t lift a finger to help me.”
“You talk and you’ll put the entire Verus operation in jeopardy.”
“I’m well aware of that,” she hissed.
“You have to take the hit, Edna. You’ll survive. This isn’t Moscow. Nobody’s throwing you in prison, they don’t have enough evidence for that.”
“No, they’ll just tar me with their innuendos and throw me to the press hyenas.”
“You used to be one of those hyenas not so long ago.”
She thought about that. “You’re right. I’d write this story with relish if I was in their shoes. Because when I stand up there tomorrow and plead the fifth, I’ll sound guilty because of all the things I can’t say.”
“Hear me now,” said Menzel, his tone measured and devastatingly clinical. “If you talk, the gloves will come off. We will bury you. In any event, you and I are done. I’m arranging six months’ severance pay. It’s more than you deserve, but I’ll do it to ensure you never speak a word about your work to anyone. Ever.”
She stared at him long and hard before rising to her feet. “Try not to choke on your oysters.”
FIFTY ONE
Thursday September 3, 1953
The taxi deposited her on the steps of the Senate Office Building, right into the middle of the melee. At least a dozen reporters and photographers gave her their undivided attention as she opened her door. She was the meal of the day.
“Edna, are you a Communist?” The voice was familiar, but she avoided the urge to look the questioner in the eyes.
Camera snapping from every angle, but mostly in her face and blocking her way.
“Miss Drake, what will you be telling the committee today?”
“What does Senator Ives have to do with all of this?”
She said nothing and tried to keep her focus on the path ahead. Up the stairs and across the terrace to the building entrance. They weren’t going to make it easy.
“Has Senator Ives fired you?” asked someone else.
“Why were you in Rome?”
McCarthy’s subcommittee had already leaked then. Sometimes it amazed her that there were any secrets at all in this city.
A Capitol Police officer directed her to wait on a chair outside the committee room. “Your name will be called when they’re ready for you,” he said.
Room 357 was much smaller than the Caucus Room used for public hearings. There were seven senators on the investigations subcommittee — all of them Republican since three Democrats resigned in protest in July because McCarthy was hiring staff without consultation. She wasn’t expecting a balanced discussion. Chief counsel Roy Cohn was, by all accounts, McCarthy’s youthful and arrogant attack dog with zero tolerance for socialist or communist sympathies of any description.
The woman ahead of her ahead of her emerged from the subcommittee room ashen-faced and devastated. Her lawyer whispered urgently in her ear trying to offer consolation. Edna was just starting to think coming here alone had been a terrible idea when an arm pushed open the committee room door and her name was called.
They were lined up along a table facing back into the room like a panel of judges — five of them, each identified by a name plate on the table. The American Inquisition. Chairman Senator Joseph McCarthy sat godlike in the middle.
Roy Cohn was the first to speak. “The next witness is Edna Drake, Mr Chairman.”
South Dakota senator Karl Mundt addressed Edna directly. “Miss Drake, do you solemnly swear the testimony you are about to give us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do, sir.”
“Please be seated,” Mundt said.
Cohn asked, “You’re appearing on your own today, without legal counsel, is that correct, Miss Drake?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Cohn nodded. “Please state your full name for the proceedings.”
“Edna Jean Drake.”
“What is your address?”
“It is currently apartment three, 1441 Girard Street in Columbia Heights.”
“You say currently,” said Cohn. “Are you in the process of moving?”
“It’s not my permanent address. I am staying there, but I don’t know for how long.”
“You have no permanent address?” He made it sound suspicious. She knew this was just a first attempt at getting her off balance.
“That’s right, Mr Cohn.”
“Before we begin,” said Senator McCarthy, “I want to advise you that if, at any time, you feel you need legal counsel, we will adjourn this hearing so you can do so.” She nodded her understanding and he turned his attention to his chief counsel. “Please proceed, Mr Cohn.”
They began by questioning her about the most tedious aspects of her work for Senator Ives, perhaps trying to catch her in a lie, but ultimately seeking to demonstrate their working theory that her role in Ives’ office was no more than a front for her other activities. This much she knew, thanks to what Sherman Adams had been able to glean through friendly Senate sources.
But she had this covered. She’d always made sure to perform an active role for Senator Ives to ensure her cover was believable, so she had no trouble answering their questions. He asked if she had ever met anyone in the State Department who had expressed Communist sympathies. She told them she hadn’t. Realizing this was going nowhere, Cohn changed tack. “Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?”
She stared him straight in the eye. “No, I have not.”
“Have you ever been involved in Communist activities of any description?”
“No sir, I have not. I have nursed and treated women in Germany who were raped by Russian soldiers, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking me.”
McCarthy intervened now. “Miss Drake, we have positive evidence of your Communist activities. You’re an intelligent girl. It would be a mistake for you to think you are going to fool this committee, because you can’t.”
“I am going to show you a photograph now,” said Cohn, handing her a copy of the image. It was one of the photos fed to the CIA by Mossad.
“Yes, I’m aware of this photograph,” she said.
“Please explain where this was taken and who you are with,” Cohn demanded.
“This was in Rome. The Vatican, to be more specific. The man standing beside me is a Catholic priest, Father Clarence Paulson. The woman on my other side was known to us as Sister Josephine.”
“What is the nature of your relationship with Sister Josephine?” Cohn asked.
“I have no relationship with her.”
“You’re not being truthful with us now,” said Cohn.
“What I’ve just told you is the God’s honest truth of the matter.”
“Are you aware that this woman — who you’ve called Sister Josephine — is in fact Nina Onilova, an agent of the Russian secret intelligence service?”
“I would like to take my Fifth Amendment rights and decline to answer that question,” she said.
“It’s a simple question, Miss Drake. Did
you know she was a Soviet agent when you chose to spend time with her in Rome?”
Phrased in that way, it would have been safe to tell him she’d had no idea who Josephine was, but she was afraid this would open her up to further questioning. “Again, I take the fifth and decline to answer.”
“Are we to infer from your response that the answer is yes, you did know she was a Russian agent and you are refusing to answer because in doing so you might incriminate yourself?” McCarthy asked.
“In taking the Fifth, I am neither confirming nor denying any such thing.”
“Very well,” said Cohn, “let me ask you a different question. Are you working for a secret cabal of senior government and military men and are they, in fact, affiliated to the Communist Party?”
He meant Majestic-12. She was surprised he’d gotten so close, but knew this committee would take any rumor with a grain of truth and seek to twist it into something sinister. “I will decline to answer that question too.”
“You’re condemning yourself by your responses,” said Cohn.
She pondered this a minute. He’d clearly gone too far, but so doing so she felt it gave her an opportunity to express a personal view without breaking security oaths or perjuring herself. “Let me say this: I am no friend of the Soviet Union or its corrupt system of government. I am a proud American and have no interest whatsoever in promoting either the Soviet Union or the Communist Party.”
Missouri senator Stuart Symington interjected at this point. “I’ve heard this group is called ‘Magic’ or some such. If what you say is true, why not tell us whether or not you’ve heard Communist sympathies being expressed?”
She could quote her security oaths to them, but that would be making an admission of an entirely different sort. The agreement she’d signed included a specific clause stipulating she must never acknowledge the existence of the Verus Foundation or Majestic to anyone lacking adequate clearance. “I will decline to answer on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me.”
Senator McCarthy shook his head in clear disappointment. “If you have no sympathy for communism, as you have just told us, you have a duty to answer our questions.”
“With respect, Senator, I don’t accept the self-appointed role of this committee as judge and executioner of lives and reputations. Freedom of expression and critical thought is the very thing that separates us from totalitarianism. I believe you have overstepped the mark, sir.”
McCarthy bristled and his face turned red. For a moment he looked like he was dying to slam the desk and scream at her to shut her dirty little commie mouth. She could see the words on the tip of his tongue. But he held himself together. “I would remind you, Miss Drake, you can be indicted for perjury if you lie to this subcommittee. There is a jail penalty attached to that.”
“I have claimed my Fifth Amendment rights and I stand by that.”
“Were you interviewed by the FBI when they detained Father Clarence Paulson just a few days ago?” asked Cohn.
“No sir, I was not.”
“I’ve literally just warned you about perjury, Miss Drake,” McCarthy spat back.
“I spoke to the FBI informally,” she said. “I did not consider that an interview, in the official sense of the word. I was, however, interviewed by homicide detective Vincent Kaplan.”
“Because you were the prime suspect in a murder investigation,” said Cohn.
She shook her head. “I assisted the police and the FBI in uncovering a killer.”
“By using your personal relationship with a Russian agent who has been working on US soil,” Cohn suggested. “By my count, that’s two Russian spies you’ve been seen spending time with. Now I know you don’t work for the CIA, so who do you work for, Miss Drake?”
“Once again, I take the Fifth, Mr Cohn.”
“Isn’t it the case that the FBI is so concerned about the activities of you and Father Paulson that they are having him deported to England as an undesirable alien?”
“It’s not for me to say what concerns the FBI,” she said.
“To your knowledge, is Father Clarence Paulson a member of the Communist Party?” Cohn asked her.
“No, I don’t believe he is.”
Cohn pressed the point. “You mean you can’t be sure of it?”
“We have never discussed the matter,” she said, “but to the best of my knowledge, he is not.”
“Have your connections to Russian intelligence come about directly as a result of your work with Senator Irving Ives?” McCarthy asked.
“I reject the premise of the question and refuse to say any more under my Fifth Amendment rights.”
“We understand completely that you would be reluctant, and perhaps even frightened, to speak to us about Senator Ives’ role in all of this,” said Cohn. “But do you understand that we are trying to protect government integrity?”
She stared at her shoes and breathed deeply. McCarthy hated Irving Ives because he’d been one of a handful of senators who had condemned McCarthy’s overzealous pursuit of communists. They could attack her, but she drew the line at them poisoning Ives’ reputation. She stared daggers at them, and gave them a response that would become the focal point of front-page headlines for days. “Senator Ives has no connections to communism, Mr Cohn. By even suggesting as much in this forum, it is you who commits an act of perjury and slander. I demand you withdraw the statement at once.”
Cohn stared back at her like he had been physically struck across the face. She refused to back down.
“That’s quite enough, Miss Drake,” Senator Symington declared.
“I agree entirely senator, and I would like Mr Cohn to withdraw the remark. He has not one shred of evidence to back it up.”
“You are the evidence, Miss Drake,” said Cohn. “You work for Senator Ives.”
She sighed. This was it. Time to fall on her sword. “Senator Ives had no knowledge of my trip to Rome. I was not there on behalf of the government.”
A flash of jubilation crossed Roy Cohn’s face. “Very well, in that case I withdraw my remarks about Senator Ives. But will you please tell this hearing why were you in Rome?”
“Again, I take my Fifth Amendment right and decline to answer the question.”
“On the grounds that your answer might incriminate you?” asked McCarthy.
“I assert my Fifth Amendment rights, senator.”
“Answer me this, Miss Drake,” said McCarthy, “if the Congress of the United States were to declare war against the Soviet Union and you considered that declaration to be unjust, would you accept money to be a spy for the Soviet Union?”
What sort of idiotic question was that? “I would not,” she said.
“Would you act as a spy without payment?” Senator Symington asked.
The suggestion was so ludicrous she almost felt she shouldn’t dignify it with a response. “No senator, not under any circumstance would I act as a spy against my own country.”
“Have you ever been engaged in espionage against the United States?” Cohn asked her.
“No.”
“Yet on multiple occasions you have been observed in the company of a Washington-based Russian diplomat named Polina Ilyin,” said McCarthy. “I know you’re not as dumb as you’re trying to make out, Miss Drake. What did you discuss in your meetings with Polina Ilyin?”
Here it was. The killer blow. She looked up at the ceiling and drew a long, slow breath. “I must refuse to answer that question on the same grounds as previously stated.”
FIFTY TWO
September 3-4, 1953
It is a curious and terrible thing to see one’s own demise writ large in newspaper headlines. The pain of it was made more acute by the fact that while it was all so shockingly wrong and slanderous, there wasn’t a thing she could do to prevent it, and nobody would be coming to her defense.
The Evening Star had been first with the news, splashing her face across its front page late on Wednesday:
Ives senate s
taffer refuses to explain meetings with Russians
Edna wondered if the reporters awaiting her arrival at the Senate Office Building on Wednesday morning had already been told Senator Ives was firing her. It had been one of the first questions thrown at her heading into McCarthy’s inquisition. That she had been damned simply for facing McCarthy’s inquisition was unsurprising. But nobody from Senator Ives’ office had spoken to her before or after the hearing, yet all the papers quoted Ives directly in saying her employment had been terminated. It was some small comfort that the senator had seen fit to remain silent about the terms of her employment in his office and that the work she performed was indeed designed to cover her work at Verus.
On the TV news that night, her refusal to answer questions, both before and after the hearing, was used to illustrate how little information she provided the subcommittee.
“What was Edna Drake doing in Rome with a Russian agent and why did she later meet with a Russian diplomat in Washington who has since been arrested in connection with murder? What is the mysterious Verus Foundation? Just some of the questions that remain unanswered tonight.”
By late on Wednesday, as the implications of it all began to sink in, she sat in the dark inside Clarence Paulson’s apartment listening as the television said her name, staring out the window trying to make sense of it all.
She awoke in an armchair at the break of dawn, gripped by an entirely new sense of dread as she realized she would have to call her parents. She would have to go outside for that. Facing the world was the last thing she wanted to do, but she’d have to go out there eventually — the only thing vaguely edible in Paulson’s ice box was beer and a moldy wedge of blue stilton that turned her stomach when she unwrapped it. What was it about Englishmen and stinky cheese? She would either have to survive on water and whisky until the media pack lost interest, or risk going out to buy food and make a phone call. Now was probably as good a time as any — the press hadn’t tracked her down yet, but it was only a matter of time.
With a scarf wrapped tightly around her head in an effort to mask her appearance, she made it to the grocery store, where she bought fresh bread, butter, apples, milk, some delicious pastrami and a jar of Nescafe. She also grabbed copies of the Washington Post and New York Times, taking care to fold them over before going to the counter so the clerk wouldn’t realize it was Edna’s face splashed across the front pages. It didn’t work; he’d seen the papers already. With her arms full — she hadn’t thought to take a bag — she chickened out on the call home. She told herself it was a call better made on a full stomach. She made it back to the apartment without being spotted, made herself coffee and toast, and sat down to see how the respectable papers had chosen to shoot her down.
