The Secrets We Kept(36)
Teddy would pour us whiskeys from the bottle he kept in his desk and wax poetic about the role he believed art and literature played in spreading democracy, how books were key to demonstrating that great art could come only from true freedom and how he joined up with the Agency to spread that message. He’d say Russians valued literature as Americans valued freedom: “Washington has its statues of Lincoln and Jefferson,” he said, “while Moscow pays tribute to Pushkin and Gogol.” Teddy wanted the Soviets to understand that their own government was hindering their ability to produce the next Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky—that art could thrive only in a free nation, that the West had become the king of letters. This message was akin to sticking a knife between the Red Monster’s ribs and twisting the blade.
During the day, Teddy treated me as he treated all the typists when passing through SR: a nod in the morning, maybe a wave goodbye at night. But after hours, he’d give me his full attention in training me to pick up and deliver internal messages for the Agency.
He’d have me practice putting an envelope under a table, bench, chair, barstool, bus seat, toilet. He started me out with the standard white letter envelope. Then I graduated to pamphlets and manila folders, then books, then packages. He compared what we were doing to a magic trick, telling me the Agency had studied the sleight-of-hand greats like Walter Irving Scott and Dai Vernon, adapting their techniques. He showed me how to let a package slide down my leg and hit the ground without a sound. “It’s all a trick,” he said.
He taught me how to tell if someone was following me—to look out for anyone suspicious, anyone watching, and especially to be careful of LOPs. “Little Old People have a lot of time on their hands,” he explained. “They sit in parks for hours and will call the cops at the drop of a hat if they see something out of the ordinary.”
When I’d make a mistake, he’d tell me that all it takes is practice. And practice I did. Every night, when Mama was asleep, I locked my bedroom door and practiced sliding envelopes of various sizes into books, my purse, Mama’s purse, a suitcase, and every pocket in my wardrobe. When I demonstrated for Teddy how I could slip a tiny scroll of paper from a hollow lipstick tube into his jacket pocket, he told me I was ready for a real test.
“You sure?”
“Only one way to find out.”
* * *
—
That was the Mayflower drop: not a real mission, but a test to see if I was ready. Teddy told me he’d be watching, although I wouldn’t see him. And he was right; there’d been no sign of Teddy that night at the Mayflower. But the next day, I came into the office to find a white rose propped against my typewriter with a tiny red plastic sword sticking through its stem like a thorn.
“Secret admirer?” Norma asked.
“Just a friend,” I said.
“A friend, huh? Not a secret Valentine?”
“Valentine?”
“It’s today, you know.”
“Oh,” I said. I’d forgotten. Thankfully, Norma got called into a meeting before she could ask another question. But the mystery of the rose was revisited again that afternoon. “I hear you’re dating Teddy Helms,” Linda said, peeking over the partition that separated our desks. When I looked up, the entire typing pool was standing there, waiting for an answer.
“What? No. We’re not.” I was taken aback, worried I’d blown my cover.
“Gail said Lonnie Reynolds said she saw Teddy leave the white rose this morning.”
“I mean, he wasn’t exactly keeping it hush-hush,” Gail said.
“When did you two start dating?”
Overwhelmed, I excused myself to the ladies’, hopeful they’d forget all about the rose by the time I got back. They hadn’t, and they continued peppering me with questions I had no answers to until it was time to clock out.
“Wanna come to Martin’s with us?” Norma asked. “Two-for-one oysters and a bartender who pours us doubles ’cause he has a thing for Judy. And seeing how you say you’re still single, you probably won’t have Valentine’s Day plans, right?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I do have plans, but not a date. Not anything like that.”
“Uh-huh,” Norma said.
* * *
—
I was furious at Teddy for putting me in the typing pool’s crosshairs. Why had he done it? What was he getting at? I made up my mind to ask as soon as I saw him, but lost my nerve when he greeted me with a glass of whiskey and a toast to a job well done at the Mayflower.
“You did good, kid,” he said, clinking my glass. “There are a few things we need to work on, but you did a damn fine job. Anderson’s pleased. We think you’ll be ready for the field soon, for a real mission coming down the pipeline.”
“Got it,” I said, knowing not to ask for details but not knowing what else to say. “And thank you.” I could tell Teddy wasn’t sure if I was thanking him for his compliment or for the white rose. An awkward pause opened between us.
“By the way, you didn’t say anything,” Teddy said, breaking the silence.
“About?” I asked dumbly.
“The rose.”
“The typing pool was quite enthralled.”
“But you weren’t?”