She reprimanded herself for her daring to question his good judgment. Nothing must come between us, she decided.
“I understand, my darling. I don’t know why, but I just needed your reassurance.”
She looked up at him and smiled. Then she raised her skirt.
“Come and get it, darling,” she said, snapping the elastic of her panties.
He looked down at her, shook his head, and laughed.
“You silly goose,” he said, as he reached out for the speech and slipped it out of her panties.
“Is that it?” she said, spreading her legs.
He reached out and caressed her hair.
“For the moment, my darling,” he said, “for the moment. I’ll say this, you couldn’t have put it in a more worthy place.”
“Is that a rejection?” she muttered, with mock severity.
“More like a postponement,” he said, his eyes already concentrated on the text.
“I was expecting some celebratory gesture,” she pouted, pulling down her skirt.
She could see that the speech had absorbed all his interest. She watched him as he read.
“Beautifully composed. Don’t you think so, darling?”
Despite her surrender, she continued to feel conspiratorial, much like a spy. She lifted her drink from an end table and continued to sip it as she observed him.
At times, as he read the speech, his comments were vocal, although she had the sense that they were for his ears only.
“Fifth column,” he said aloud. “I don’t believe this! My God, he has indicted Stalin and the Soviet Union.”
She paid no attention to his outburst; it did not concern her. She assumed that he would keep his promise and discuss this in general terms with the ambassador and Churchill, in the hope of dissuading him from taking a position that was contrary to current national policy. It was not her place to reason why. She was a mere tiny cog in the vast and complicated diplomatic gears of the embassy.
Finally, he was finished. There was no mistaking his rage. His face was flushed, and his expression contorted with anger. He seemed to ignore her presence, concentrating instead on some inner dialogue.
“The man has signed his death warrant.”
They were whispered words, but she heard them clearly. She wished she had not heard them, and she had the impression that they had slipped out inadvertently. At times, he did this as if his mind could not contain the thought unsaid. Sometimes, she reacted.
“What did you say, darling?”
“Oh,” he sounded surprised. “Did I say anything?”
They exchanged glances, but she thought better of making any comments. She had done her job.
“May I go now, darling?” she asked.
He raised his head. He was still concentrated on the speech.
“Of course, darling.”
He seemed distracted, but he offered a distant smile then slipped the speech pages into a large manila envelope.
She freshened up in the adjacent ladies’ room, and then came back to her office to retrieve her coat. Opening the door to his office to say good night, she noted that he had gone.
“Has the first secretary left?” she asked the uniformed guard at the entrance.
“You just missed him, Miss,” he said pleasantly. “Call you a taxi, Miss?”
“No, thank you,” she said.
Despite her fatigue, she needed the fresh air to clear her lungs. Gulping deep drafts, she felt revived somewhat and increased her pace.
She headed down Massachusetts Avenue toward Dupont Circle. It was a moonless night, and the light from the streetlamps threw eerie shadows along her route. Although the streets were deserted, she felt no anxiety or fear. Wartime Washington was a safe city, and she had never been accosted or threatened. Indeed, she had taken this late-night walk to her apartment often.
At times, after a late-night tryst, Donald would often drive her to her apartment, and they would linger in the car before she departed, often for a farewell — and quick — episode of lovemaking. She smiled at the memory. But she felt a flash of annoyance that since he had left at nearly the same time, he could have offered her a lift tonight.
She had barely gone a few hundred yards when she saw Donald across the street. He was standing in the shadows at the edge of a circle of light thrown by the street lamp. It seemed odd to see him standing there at this hour. In his hand, he held the familiar envelope. She was about to cross the street when another man approached, and they shook hands. Puzzled, she moved behind a line of shrubs that rendered her less visible, although she could see the men clearly.
She had never questioned any action of her lover in connection with his job; nevertheless, she could not contain her curiosity. It struck her as odd. The encounter between the two men seemed so… she searched for the word… so clandestine. Normally, she might not have given it a second thought, but it seemed so out of the ordinary and strange that she could not contain her curiosity. She watched as the men exchanged a few words and the large envelope passed from her lover to the other man.
Then each man parted in opposite directions, the first secretary back in the direction of the embassy to pick up his car and the other man on foot toward Dupont Circle. At this point, she still could have made herself known to Maclean, but the inexplicable circumstances caused her to hesitate. For reasons that she explained to herself as pure curiosity, she headed in the same direction as the stranger.
Exhilarated by the fresh air and a bizarre sense of adventure, she followed the man as he turned on Twenty-Third Street and headed south, then turned left on M Street and right again. His walk was purposeful and concentrated, and she followed at a distance, hugging the shadows, just managing to keep him in sight. Considering the exhaustion of her day, her rising energy level surprised her.
On Sixteenth Street, she paused, noting that he was walking on the east side of the street. To keep free of observation, she walked on the west side of Sixteenth, but she kept him clearly in view.
In the distance, she could see the bulky outline of the Hilton on the corner of K Street and assumed that the man was heading for the hotel. Once entering, she knew he would be lost to any further observation.
Why was she doing this? What was she thinking? Perhaps, it was Thompson’s caveat about keeping the speech confidential and the guilt of her violation. But giving the text to Donald hadn’t felt like a violation, more like a little white lie. It was quite another story to see it pass into the hands of this stranger.
Short of the Hilton, the man turned left and entered one of the more ornate buildings that lined the street and was gone. Moving quickly, she reached the building. Her agitation was palpable. Her heartbeat banged like a drum in her chest, her stomach knotted, and her breath came in gasps.
The man had entered the Russian embassy.
Chapter 12
Dimitrov had been urgently summoned to Beria’s office. A plane had been sent, and he had arrived in the early morning hours, surprised that Beria was already there, behind his desk, looking pale and unshaven, slightly nervous.
“Stand ready, Ivan Vasilyevich,” Beria said, his first words. “We might be activating your mole. I am seeing Stalin in an hour. Is he ready for immediate deployment?”