The Other Traitor

by Sharon Potts

  “Not likely. During the years after the trial, it was pretty much confirmed that no one in this alleged spy ring had access to any significant details relating to the construction of the bomb.”

  They reached the end of the jogging path. “One other thing I wanted to ask you about,” she said. “Yaklisov claimed in his book that someone with the code name of Slugger was delivering vital atomic-bomb documents to the Soviets.”

  “Slugger? How spylike.”

  “I know,” she said. “Yaklisov insisted that Goldstein wasn’t Slugger, but wouldn’t say who was.”

  “That’s interesting.” Bill took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with a cloth from his pocket. “I’d never heard Slugger mentioned in connection with the Goldstein case.”

  He put his glasses back on and they started down the winding road toward the Boathouse. “So where do you go from here?”

  “Obviously, it would be great if I could track down this Slugger person, but I’m not egotistical enough to believe I’ll be able to decode something that stumped the FBI and CIA.” She took a sip of water from the bottle she had in her pocket. “For now, I’ll settle for trying to understand what kind of person my grandfather really was.”

  “I checked into Aaron Lowe for you.”

  “Oh good. Did you find anything?”

  “He published a number of papers while he was at NYU. Mostly theorizing on how economic central planning would work in America.”

  “So Aaron Lowe was a communist?”

  “Probably.”

  “That might explain why his grandson was a little rattled when I asked him if Mariasha Lowe had communist leanings.”

  “Whoa.” Bill stopped walking and stepped to the side of the road to study her. “Back up. Grandson?”

  “I met her grandson yesterday.” Her cheeks grew warm.

  Bill scrunched up his eyebrows. “He’d be the son of the woman you said was friends with your mother. Essie Lowe?”

  “Good memory.”

  “I imagine he’s a lot older than you.”

  Bill knew Annette’s mother had had her late in life. “Actually, he’s around thirty.”

  “Ooooo.”

  “Don’t start, Bill.”

  “From the way you’re blushing, I’m guessing he’s not married and he’s hot.”

  “It’s a nonissue,” she said. “I was hoping to use him to get to Mariasha, but I probably blew that.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I’m not very good at lying,” she said. “He seemed to pick up that I wasn’t interested in Mariasha for her sculptures.”

  “That’s what you told him?”

  “Well, I didn’t think she’d talk to me if I came out and said I was trying to clear Goldstein’s name and did she happen to have any ideas who the real spy was?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Oh come on, Bill. You’re the one who taught me to be cagey as a journalist.”

  “Not cagey. Subtle.”

  “Fine. I don’t think subtlety is the best approach here.”

  “And what’s the deal with the grandson?”

  “I think he was more interested in me than in giving me background on his grandmother.” She continued walking.

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Bill got in step with her.

  “I’m not interested in him.”

  “Of course you’re not. You haven’t had a love interest since when? Oh that’s right. Since never. You write off every guy thinking he’s going to drop you like your father dropped your mom.”

  “Enough,” she said. “How about we stay away from my love life and I promise I won’t give you life advice?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

  They reached the Boathouse. There was a line of people buying coffee at the Express Café window. They went to stand at the end.

  “Anyway,” Annette said. “His name is Julian Sandman. There’s a remote possibility he’ll contact you for a reference on me.”

  “A reference?” Bill grinned. “I’ll tell him you’re very lovable, but you can be a real pain in the ass.”

  “A professional reference,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Since he didn’t seem to believe my story, I told him to check my references.”

  “Next time don’t interview people in your Annie-Oakley braids.” He reached over and gave one of hers a tug.

  “I had my hair down.”

  “Then you probably looked pretty hot yourself.”

  “Ras le bol!” she said. “Enough.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  They got to the take-out window and ordered two cinnamon buns and two coffees, then they sat at one of the outdoor tables that overlooked the lake. There were a few white swans gathered at the edge of the bank, basking in the sunshine. A short distance from them, a large duckling, or maybe it was a black swan, paddled alone in the tall brownish weeds.

  “The thing is,” she said. “I hate lying about what I’m really after.”

  Bill took a big bite of cinnamon bun, then licked his lips. “So tell him.”

  She shook her head. “I think it’s better if I play it this way.”

  Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her inner pocket. She didn’t recognize the caller. “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi. It’s Julian Sandman.”

  “Oh, hi, Julian.” Her heart bounced. She glanced at Bill, who winked.

  “If you’re free around one,” Julian said, “I’m planning on heading over to my grandmother’s. You can join us, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, I would. Thank you.” The swans had waddled down into the water and were floating away. The black swan had joined them, hanging back just a little. The sky was even bluer. The air crisper.

  “Do you eat pastrami?” Julian asked.

  “Pastrami?”

  “Yeah. I guess they don’t have that in Paris. It’s a kind of meat that…”

  “I know what pastrami is. I didn’t understand your question.”

  “I’m bringing lunch.”

  “Oh. Pastrami’s fine.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you outside her building at one.” He clicked off.

  Annette pressed ‘End.’ She looked up. Bill was grinning at her with the biggest smile.

  “Okay, fine,” she said. “He’s cute. But don’t start annoying me about him.”

  He just kept smiling.

  And Annette couldn’t help it. She smiled, too.

  It really was a glorious day.

  CHAPTER 13

  The A train had been stuck in the tunnel for twenty minutes just before the Washington Square station. Something about debris on the track, the conductor had announced. Annette thrummed her fingers against her cell phone. She was going to be late and there was nothing she could do about it. Even though she now had Julian’s number, thanks to his earlier call to her, there was no service in the bowels of New York’s subway system. Technology only got you so far.

  She tried to focus on her interview with Mariasha Lowe, not the delay or the people pushing in around her in the crowded subway car. She ran a series of questions through her head about how the Depression had inspired Mariasha’s sculptures, then about the backdrop of communism, and finally about Mariasha’s friendship with Isaac Goldstein. What had seemed like a simple segue when Annette had come up with the plan at Barnes & Noble, now felt more like a giant leap. How could she introduce Isaac Goldstein into the conversation without revealing who she really was and her goal of clearing her grandfather? And what if Mariasha wanted to distance herself from her friendship with a despised traitor? Annette couldn’t afford to blow this important link to the past. She needed to stay sharp when she spoke to Mariasha to be sure she guided the conversation to the information she needed. Of course, if she didn’t get out of this damn subway soon, there would be no interview.

  By the time the A train pulled into the station and Annette transferred to the F, she was sweating profusely beneath
her ski jacket from the heat in the packed train. It was bad enough she hadn’t had time to go home, shower, and change after her jog. Now she’d also probably smell like a construction worker.

  She emerged at Delancey Street at 1:13 and redialed Julian’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail. He’d either turned off his phone or the battery was dead. She sprinted to Mariasha Lowe’s apartment, concerned that Julian would give up on her and go inside without her. Her sneakers pounded on the sidewalk as she turned into Ridge Street. She pulled up short at the courtyard of Mariasha’s building.

  Julian, his army jacket hanging open, was leaning against one of the brick walls holding a brown paper bag in each hand. She caught the sides of his mouth lift up as though he was about to smile, but that turned quickly into a grimace.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, breathless. “The train was stuck.”

  “I thought you decided not to come.”

  “Why wouldn’t I come? I want to interview your grandmother.”

  Julian turned to the buzzer panel and pushed a button.

  “What do you think I’m doing here?” she asked.

  He gave her a quick glance, then looked away.

  Was he onto her agenda? But how could he possibly be?

  “Is that you, Julian?” asked a scratchy voice through the intercom.

  “My grandmother doesn’t always follow the best security procedures,” Julian mumbled, then he spoke into the intercom. “Yes, it’s me Nana. And I brought a friend.”

  There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation, then there was a buzz and Julian pushed open the door. Annette followed him into a dark, overheated lobby.

  “Didn’t you tell her I was coming?” she asked.

  “I didn’t want to disappoint her if you decided not to show.”

  Annette wondered if he was actually talking about himself being disappointed.

  The elevator was small and quickly filled with the spicy aroma of pastrami as they rode up to the fourth floor. At least it was better than smelling like her sweat.

  The elevator door opened, and she followed Julian down a narrow hallway covered with swirls of thick paint. A head with short silvery hair popped out from a doorway, then a small, stooped woman emerged. She wore a tie-dyed sweatshirt that was much too big for her, baggy red stretch pants and black ballet flats. An assortment of gold and silver necklaces covered her chest and sparkly hoop earrings hung from her long earlobes.

  “Hi Nana.” Julian swooped and gave his grandmother a kiss on the top of her head. “Meet Annette Revoir.” He glanced back at Annette. “This is my grandma Mariasha Lowe.”

  Annette felt a jolt of excitement and brushed aside the misgivings of her conscience. She would do whatever was necessary to learn the truth about her grandfather.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lowe.” Annette was surprised how much she resembled the photos from when she’d been a young woman. Large recessed dark eyes, high cheekbones, patrician nose. Mariasha Lowe was beautiful, even at ninety-five.

  The old woman extended her hand. The joints of her fingers were swollen with arthritis, but her hand was cool and dry. “You may call me Mariasha,” she said, then winked. “If I may call you Annette.”

  Annette laughed. “Of course.”

  “Annette was born in Paris, Nana, in case you can’t understand her through her thick accent.”

  “It’s a charming accent,” Mariasha said. “And I understand her perfectly, Mr. Wiseguy.”

  Annette couldn’t tell if Julian was insulting her or flirting. Not that it mattered. She was here to interview the grandmother, not get involved with the grandson.

  “I brought pastrami, Nana,” Julian said. “No blinchiki and caviar this time.”

  Mariasha chuckled and took the bags of food from Julian into another room.

  “Inside joke?” Annette asked, as they hung up their jackets on a mahogany coat rack.

  “I told her I might bring that for lunch, but pastrami was easier.” He wore jeans and a long-sleeved, light-blue T-shirt that made his eyes appear even bluer. He was built like someone who rowed crew, stretched-out with broad shoulders. She realized he was taking her in, as well, and felt a twinge of self-consciousness. She didn’t look much like a professional journalist in her braids, tight turtleneck, and purple leggings with a hole in the knee.

  “I was out jogging when you called,” she said. “I didn’t have a chance to go home and change.”

  “Works for me.” He kicked off his shoes, and must have noticed Annette’s expression. “Old habit,” he said. “I always used to track dirt into the apartment as a kid. You can leave yours on.” He started out of the foyer. “I’ll show you around.”

  The living room was bright with art deco chairs and a sofa in crimson and turquoise jewel tones, the walls painted mint green. But of course, Mariasha was an artist. She would have had a flair for decorating.

  An old-fashioned wind-up record player stood on a table in the corner of the living room. At the far end was an alcove with three double windows. In front of each was an almost-life-size sculpture. The outside light spotlighted one of them with a halo effect that caused her to gasp. It appeared to be a young boy swinging a bat.

  “Ah, c’est incroyable!” she said softly.

  “That piece is my grandmother’s younger brother Saul,” Julian said. “He played stickball as a kid.”

  “And worshipped Babe Ruth,” Mariasha said. She took halting steps into the living room, carrying a tray with napkins and a jar of mustard. Before Annette could go to help her, Julian was there. He took the tray from his grandmother and set it on the boomerang-shaped coffee table.

  “Poor Saul,” Mariasha said. “He dreamed of playing for the Yankees. I’ll bet he would have made the team.”

  “So what happened, Nana?” Julian asked. “You didn’t finish the story you were telling me yesterday. Did he quit sports?”

  “He got rheumatic fever when he was ten.” Mariasha toddled over to the sculpture of Boy Playing Stickball. “He almost died.”

  Julian pursed his lips. “Is that when he took up painting?”

  “He did a little sketching, but mostly he studied.” She smiled at Annette. “My brother was brilliant. A lot like Julian.”

  Julian shook his head, looking embarrassed. “I’ll get the food,” he said, and headed toward the kitchen.

  “I’ve seen your work in photos.” Annette stepped closer to the sculptures. “But in person, they take my breath away.”

  “They help me remember where I came from.”

  The perfect lead-in. Annette’s heart sped up. “Julian hasn’t had a chance to tell you, but I’m a journalist. I’d like to do an article on your work and what inspired you. Would that be okay?” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She hoped to write such a piece.

  “Why not?” Mariasha said. “It’s been a long time since anyone showed an interest in my sculptures.”

  Julian returned from the kitchen and put a platter of pastrami sandwiches on the table with three cans of Dr. Brown’s soda with straws in them. “Annette’s done some really good articles on being a bi-national,” he said. “Also on the comparative merits of living in upper Manhattan versus the Paris Marais district.”

  So he had read her stuff.

  “She also wrote an exposé on political corruption in local government, and a rant against small-minded prejudice. Nothing on art, though.” He glanced at Annette and raised one eyebrow.

  “It’s nice that my grandson prequalifies anyone who wants to talk to me,” Mariasha said, settling herself in one of the big turquoise chairs. “I’m not so fussy. Shall we eat those delicious-smelling sandwiches?”

  Annette sank into the down sofa cushion, self-conscious about the hole in the knee of her leggings. She covered it with her hand.

  Julian squirted mustard on a half sandwich, then handed the plate to his grandmother. He sat down next to Annette, even though he could have spread out at the other end of the sofa. “Help
yourself,” he said. “Unless you’d like me to serve you.”

  “I can manage. Thanks.” Annette reached for half a sandwich. There was a photo in a simple silver frame on the coffee table. A man and woman and two children, a plain-looking, frizzy-haired teenage girl and an adorable little boy of about nine or ten with blue eyes and black hair. “This is you,” she said to Julian.

  “Why are you surprised? This is my grandmother’s apartment.”

  “But you’re so cute here.”

  Mariasha chortled and Julian scowled.

  Annette studied his parents. The attractive blonde woman was Essie Lowe. She bore a resemblance to the little girl in the photo with Annette’s mother, but she seemed stiff and unsmiling. The man beside her, on the other hand, had his mouth wide open and seemed to be horsing around. He had bushy black hair and eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  “I think that’s the last picture anyone ever took of my father,” Julian said.

  Annette heard the hitch in his voice.

  “He taught Julian how to play chess,” Mariasha said. “Julian won all the championships.”

  “It’s okay Nana. Annette’s not here to learn about me.”

  That’s right, she reminded herself. Not here for Julian. She picked up on his cue, feeling a flurry in her stomach, and tossed out her first question. “I’ve read a bit about how your work was inspired by the Depression. What was it like growing up then?”

  Mariasha nibbled on her sandwich, as though she was thinking. “Things were simpler in many ways. At least when I was a child. You needed money to eat. To pay the rent. So you did what you had to do. My mother sold eggs to neighbors. She took in ironing. We didn’t starve. We always had a chicken on Friday night.”

  “Your sculptures seem very optimistic,” Annette said. “I love the one of Girl Playing Hopscotch.”

  Mariasha smiled. “We were optimistic, even without much money.” Her eyes looked dreamy, but it could have been her cataracts. “We young people had so much energy. We believed we could change the world.”

  “Change it in what way?” Annette asked.

  Mariasha took another small bite and chewed it slowly. “Oh, we were going to right all the injustices. Better wages. Equal opportunity for all. A fair and just system.”