CHAPTER NINETEEN
Charlie’s been sitting for a half hour at Bellows, drinking a beer, his long legs crossed. At this point, he’s exhausted and bored. He ate here a few months ago with his friend Norman Corcoran from law school. Norman told him he was a fool not to join a law firm, as he had. Norman was already a partner, making a load of dough. Sure, the FBI paid well, but being a corporate lawyer paid better and was far less dangerous. Less secretive. What wife wanted her man wearing a holster, carrying a weapon?
Charlie laughed at him. “As though I’m planning to marry.”
Norman is engaged to a girl named Shirley Haverstock. “Good society girl,” he declared. “I doubt she’d marry an FBI agent.”
“Then, it’s an excellent thing I’m not in love with Shirley.”
Norman shrugged. “Sorry, old man. I guess I’ve offended you. I’m saying this because you were top of the class. I’m not sure what the FBI tag is buying you. Look. I’m Irish. You’re Polish. Neither has ever bought us a seat at the table. But the war is over now. Things are changing. People like us are making our mark. Look at me. We don’t need to be part of a ‘troop’ anymore to pull it off.”
Norman’s lecture would have given him heartburn if the veal saltimbocca at Bellows hadn’t been so delicious, so tender he could cut it effortlessly with a fork. As they left, Charlie grabbed the matchbook to remind himself of the place. He eats out so rarely, it was the only restaurant he could think of that he’d want to share with Rosalind.
He looks up now to see Donna escorting her into the restaurant, herding her from behind like a border collie. He stands. One glance at Rosalind’s face and he feels a sense of heightened awareness. As though all day, the world has been hazy and half-experienced. And now he notes every detail. The thick gloss of her black hair lit from behind, the astonishing creaminess of her skin, then, as she comes closer to him, the soft pink of her cheeks, her lips like an archer’s bow. And her eyes so dark, so questioning.
“Here she is,” Donna tells Charlie, pushing Rosalind forward. “I’ll leave you.” She tips her chin upward with the slightest hint of annoyance.
“Thank you, Donna.”
Rosalind turns to watch his secretary leave the room before she speaks.
“Well, I didn’t expect to be kidnapped this evening,” she says. He’s relieved when she smiles wryly.
“Sorry. I didn’t feel like I could come by Fields. And I needed to talk to you.” He pulls out the chair for her. “Would you like a drink? And actually, will you join me for dinner? It’s the least I can do.” Close to her, he reels at her honey scent. Astonishing, its power, when it’s so subtle, so innocent. One step sideways and they’d be touching. He longs to take that step.
“I . . . I’m kind of relieved to see you. I just didn’t want to tell you what I have to say on the phone.”
“Well, good,” he says. “Then . . . good.” He hates how tongue-tied she makes him feel. What is it she didn’t want to say on the phone?
“I’m not sure what Weaver has in mind for this evening. He said he’d call me when I got home and let me know.”
“There’s a phone booth in the hall where you came in. If it would put your mind at rest.”
“I . . . he wouldn’t be home yet.”
“Well then, please.” He gestures to the chair, which he holds for her. “Have a drink, and when you think he’s home, call. I don’t want you worrying.” For a moment before she sits, their eyes meet and her look is more accepting than he expects.
“Did you manage to get your apartment back in order?” he asks, taking his seat. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but how, really, to sound casual around her?
She straightens her cutlery, stares at the empty space between her knife and fork.
“It threw me, you know. That someone was in there touching my things.”
“It would upset anyone.”
“You were great about it, Charlie.” He’s moved just hearing her speak his name.
“You needed me to stay. I’m glad I did.”
For a second her face warms, lights; then she looks down again.
“Listen,” he says. “You sounded . . . distant when I called this afternoon. I know you were busy. But I’m curious about what you want to tell me.”
“I . . .” She shakes her head. “Here,” she says, pulling the tiny camera out of her purse. “I did the best I could. I tried to aim it at the creep. Although he wasn’t right in front of me.”
“Good,” he says. “We can enlarge them. Thank you.”
“It can’t possibly be his real hair. I think that’s what makes him look so scary. And his eyes. Such peculiar eyes.”
“He came into Field’s?”
“Near the end of the day. Your secretary told me to find a different way out of the store. I’m pretty sure he would have followed if I hadn’t. I looked out the State Street door where I usually go out to go home, and I saw him across the street, waiting. I think he wants to get me alone, on the street.”
“But he didn’t see you leave?”
“I sweet-talked the guys at the loading dock to let me out there.”
“I bet you did.” He smiles. His heart almost hurts with feeling. The ceiling lights pull rainbows out of her black curls: red, pink, orange, gold. Amazing how shiny black can contain a host of colors.
“And you really don’t know what they want from you?”
She shakes her head, but he doesn’t believe her. “So far, all he’s done is stare.”
“And ransack your home, if it’s the same gentleman.”
“He’s no gentleman.”
“True enough. How is Weaver?” he asks. “Have you seen him?”
“I think I need a drink before I tell you more,” she says.
He waves for the waitress, who takes her order for a Scotch. Neat.
“I have something to tell you too. So, while we’re waiting for that drink, maybe I’ll go first?”
She nods.
He speaks slowly. Purposefully.
“We found—someone came upon—a scene in a forest preserve.” He stops, looks up to read her face. But of course, it’s blank, waiting.
“A scene?”
“Blood, a handkerchief, a gold chain. And bullet casings. The handkerchief had initials on it.”
“Go on . . .”
“CW.”
Rosalind’s lips part. “CW?”
“I was thinking . . . Clemence Weaver.”
“Oh . . .”
“There was no body. Just blood. The handkerchief was soaked in it,” he says. “And apparently the leaves on the ground as well. And the broken gold chain lay nearby.”
Charlie watches as she visibly shivers.
“When I saw her, she was wearing a gold chain . . .”
The waitress comes with Rosalind’s Scotch. It seems she can’t get both hands around it fast enough. Taking a swallow, she won’t look at Charlie. Does she suspect Weaver?
When she sets the drink down, he reaches out and gently lays his right hand on top of hers. She seems surprised but doesn’t pull it away. Reveling in his own courage, he’s aware of the satiny warmth of her skin. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Please tell me.”
She shakes her head.
“C’mon. Maybe I can help.”
“Do they . . . do they have any clue who might have . . . shot her, if that’s what’s happened?”
“It does look like that’s what happened. You suspect Weaver?”
When she looks up, there’s panic in her eyes.
“You’ve got to tell me what you know, Rosalind.”
How he wishes he could come around the table and hold her. All these years of having so little desire for women. Why the hell does he care about the one woman he should leave alone?
“Tell me. I want to do what I can for you.”
“Weaver wouldn’t. He can’t have . . .”
“But something he said or did is bothering you, isn’t it?”
He waits for her to speak, not feeling patient at all. His heart is pounding. But when she opens her mouth, what she says is nothing he expected.
“Weaver’s dying.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He has cancer. From radiation. He was exposed when he went out to the Trinity Site a month after the test.”
“He’s not just manipulating you?”
Her eyes are unfocused. “It’s been obvious something’s wrong. I just didn’t know why he looked so changed. Why he seems more tired than usual. He told me last night. And I feel . . .” She shakes her head, unable to complete the sentence.
What Charlie feels is a gnawing hopelessness in the pit of his stomach. He knows if Weaver’s dying, it must have heightened Rosalind’s attachment to the man. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not, though, are you?” she asks.
“You’re sad, and that makes me sorry.”
She pulls her hand from his, scrabbles in her purse for a handkerchief. Avoiding his eyes, she says, “So, that’s the thing. What if what I find out about him puts him in jail until he dies?”
“Rosalind . . .”
She shakes her head.
“Well, let’s start here. You’ve got to at least tell me what he said about his wife. The woman appears to have been murdered. You’re an honest girl.”
Looking pained, she raises her chin. “I don’t want to tell you,” she says.
“If you share it, maybe we’ll decide it’s nothing. We could talk it out together.” He tries to sound gentle. He sees that her hands are balled in fists. He watches as she argues with herself.
“He wrote a will leaving everything to me.”
“Okay . . .”
“Leaving me all he has. And he said, ‘You don’t have to worry about Clemence. She won’t contest the will.’ I couldn’t understand how he could be so sure.”
“He sounded sure?”
“Charlie, is it possible the Russians killed her and told him about it?” Her eyes are pleading for him to say yes.
“She was an agent of theirs.”
“Clemence was?”
“We think she was the one who drew him into the Communist Party years ago.”
“Years ago?”
“Did he tell you anything about the Russians, about contacts?”
She freezes, presses her lips together. “After he told me he’s dying, I asked him not to say more. Not last night. I couldn’t . . . couldn’t bear any more . . .”
“Dying or not, he holds secrets, names or descriptions of contacts that could matter to a lot of people. To the world.”
She nods, staring down at the tablecloth. “I’ve been thinking of that, trying to figure out what to do. He seems regretful. I think he would like to make up for the things he’s done. But the idea of him dying in jail or being executed because of me . . .”
“Maybe, rather than getting him executed, you can get him to cooperate. Like you said: He has regrets—you could help him make things right. Help him die in peace.”
She looks up. “I want that for him . . .” Her voice is a hoarse whisper.
“Maybe you can persuade him to give us names, information. Considering his condition, we can work something out, keep him out of jail.”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?” she asks. “You have no authority to let him die in peace. You can’t have that much authority.”
She’s not entirely right. The information Weaver has could be invaluable. It’s the wolves Charlie fears, the FBI hard-liners who will string up any Commie, dangle him as evidence of a successful fight against an evil empire. How’s he going to play this? How will he spare Weaver and Rosalind and still get the information the FBI needs?
“I want to think about it,” he tells her. “I want to figure out how to protect him. He’s the one who knows what we need to know. The government makes deals. They often do . . . The Brits did with Fuchs.”
“Yes, but their law says the maximum Fuchs can get is fourteen years. Doesn’t American law kill traitors?”
“I’m not going to lie. Sometimes that’s true. But if he were willing to give names . . . it would surely lighten his sentence.”
Rosalind shakes her head. “And if he killed Clemence? You’d have the authority to let him off too?”
“I don’t know . . . if he murdered Clemence, is that what you would really want?”
Their eyes meet, and very slowly, she shakes her head.
“And as I told you,” Charlie says, leaning forward, “Fuchs told us a scientist is in place to pass on information about the H-bomb.”
“Weaver?”
“I think there’s a good chance he’s an important piece of the puzzle. The Soviets aren’t beyond exerting who knows what pressure to get what they want. You and only you could make him brave. Make him come to us to confess. We can protect him, and if he hasn’t yet passed that information, protect us all.”
“Dear God,” she says. Her face is pale; her lips are pressed together.
He takes her hand again. How he loves to touch her, needs to have that connection. He knows the last thing he’s about to tell her will make her angry at Weaver, make her want to push him away. He’s been saving it. And yet, he hates to hurt her. “Listen . . . I have something more to tell you about Clemence,” he says.
“I don’t think I can bear to hear more.”
“I think you’ll want to hear this.”
She nods but closes her eyes, swallows hard.
“Right before I came here tonight, I got a telex from England. I made an inquiry a few days ago and they found an answer for me in the form of a British marriage certificate. Thomas J. Weaver was married in 1938 at the town hall in Cambridge to a woman named Victoire Spenard.”
Rosalind nods. “Yes, he told me that. That he was married before he met me. An older woman, he said. From Marseille.”
“But what you don’t know is that Victoire Spenard’s been here in America for four years now, going under an assumed name.”
Rosalind frowns, shakes her head with confusion.
“No,” she explains gently, slowly. “You must be confused. By the time we met, he was widowed. His wife died in a bombing raid in London.”
“Victoire Spenard didn’t die in London. She didn’t die . . . until, well, perhaps two weeks ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She came to America under an assumed name.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That name is Clemence. Clemence Weaver.”
Rosalind’s skin goes entirely white. She stares at him with her mouth agape, pulls her hand away.
“Clemence is Victoire?”
He nods.
“He was . . . wait. He was still married to her when I met him?”
Charlie nods.
“He lied to me about being married then?”
“Yes.”
She lifts her hands to her face, presses her fingers against her brows. He waits a long while, but she doesn’t move.
“Victoire Spenard was on a lot of watch lists as a foreign agent. We think that’s why she changed her identity. Are you okay?” he asks.
She doesn’t respond.
“Hey, come up for air,” he says. “This news isn’t all bad. It explains a lot. It’s very possible Weaver left you in ’46 because Clemence surprised him by arriving unexpectedly. It was after the war; there was passenger traffic across the Atlantic at last. He said it wasn’t his choice. She could have threatened to expose him as a married man. And a Communist. The Soviets may have sent her to America to draw him back in or watch over him to make sure he complied. By that time, I imagine he wanted out but felt trapped.”
At last she looks up. Her eyes are red, her chin dimpled with bitterness.
“He said there were things I didn’t know.”
“For once he was telling you the truth. Listen. Let him spill what’s going on with the Russians. Let him confess if that’s what he needs. You’re the one person who could persuade him not to share what more he knows.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Free him in that way, at least. You don’t fear he might . . . I mean . . . he wouldn’t hurt you in any way, do you suppose?”
“Never.”
“I don’t want you to risk anything. But if you’re sure he loves you, that you’re safe . . .”
Again, she nods. Weaver’s told her he loves her. She believes him.
“Do you think he’s home by now? Do you want to phone him?”
“I couldn’t control my voice. I couldn’t sound normal.”
“Okay, wait a while. Stay with me for dinner. What do you think?”
“I couldn’t eat.”
“Maybe in a little while you can. We’ll chat. You’ll have another drink. You’ll realize this isn’t going to be so bad.” He’s brought her to pain and tears. He wants time to fix it.
She takes a deep breath and then she says, “Is the FBI paying?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s good. Because I’m dead broke.”
He laughs. “Dinner’s on us. Steak, seafood. It’s all here on your country’s tab.” He pushes the menu toward her.
“Not yet,” she says. “After another drink.”
He notes her Scotch is almost gone. “Do you need bread or anything?” He thinks of Sondra. “I don’t want to have to carry you home.”
She laughs. “No. If I get woozy, I’ll stop. But I am feeling better. I don’t know if it’s you or the Scotch . . .”
“I hope it’s me.”
She smiles sweetly, wearily. He waves to the waitress. Is it wrong that he feels giddy with victory? Yet, he knows that at the end of the dinner, she will leave him alone at the table and step out to call the man she really loves.
Over dinner, Rosalind’s relieved that Charlie does all he can to distract her from the news of Clemence Weaver’s possible end and the fact that Weaver has lied to her from the beginning. She can’t disregard the anger that roils inside. Still, he’s able to charm her with tales about his childhood, his mother, his life in the Polish community, speaking so vividly, so lovingly, about a world she hardly knows. How can she not be moved by a man who has suffered so much, yet so embodies gratefulness?
He draws her out too. When she speaks of her job, the whispers of the past she finds in the jewelry she sells, he rubs his finger over the gold ring she’s wearing. “Tell me about this one,” he says.
“Read what’s inside it,” she says. She finds herself reaching out for his good hand, turning it over, and setting the ring into his palm. With the magic dexterity of his fingers, he manages to shake it to their tips so he can hold it up to the light. Squinting, he reads, “For the bravest girl in the world.”
“It’s the reason I bought it. The ruby is nothing, really. Negligible. But the sentiment . . .”
“It’s who you want to be?”
Weaver took so much, left her with so little belief in herself.
“It’s who I wish I could be, Charlie. I want to go back to science. I ache for it. But I’m a coward at heart.”
“You could be that girl,” he says. “Life is giving you a chance to prove you’re anything but a coward.”
She looks up into his eyes and is bathed in his belief in her. After he slips the ring back on her finger, he reaches out and caresses her cheek. She grabs his hand and holds it for a long, long while. When it’s time to call Weaver, she hates to let it go.