Norma had this recurring gag where she’d hesitate before going through the heavy wooden doors into the lobby. “I won’t go,” she said that Monday, holding on to a bald cherry tree next to the door. We pulled her in with us and got into the inspection line, our laminated badges in hand, our pocketbooks open and ready to be prodded with a dowel.
* * *
We knew her name before she arrived. Lonnie Reynolds in Personnel had told us the Friday before she started. “Irina Drozdova. Anderson will bring her around and introduce her Monday morning.”
“Another Russian,” Norma said, voicing what we’d all been thinking. It wasn’t unusual for Russians to come over to our side—in fact, SR had so many defectors, we joked that the water cooler was full of vodka. Dulles hated to use the term “defectors,” preferring to call them “volunteers.” Regardless, the Russians were usually men, not typists.
“Be nice,” Lonnie said. “She seems like a good kid.”
“We’re always nice.”
“Whatever you say,” Lonnie said, and left the Pool.
We never liked Lonnie.
Irina was already at her desk by the time we came in that Monday. Thin as a birch tree, medium-length blond hair, debutante-straight posture. We ignored her for a good hour, going about our day as usual while she made slight adjustments to her chair and typewriter, played with the buttons on her brown jacket, and moved paper clips from one drawer to another.
We weren’t trying to be rude. But this new girl was replacing Tabitha Jenkins, one of the longest-standing members of the Pool. Tabitha’s husband had retired from Lockheed and they’d skedaddled down to a bungalow in sunny Fort Lauderdale. Now this Russian was sitting at her desk.
We put off the usual niceties for a little longer than usual. As the clock ticked past ten, it became more uncomfortable. Someone had to say something, and it turned out Irina was the one to break the ice. She stood, and all eyes looked up and down her svelte figure.
“Excuse me,” she said, more to the floor than to anyone in particular. “Where can I find the ladies’?” She picked a piece of string off her jacket. “It’s my first day,” she added, blushing at the obviousness. She had a peculiar way of speaking: no trace of an accent, but slightly unnatural, as if she had to think about each word before saying it.
“You don’t sound Russian,” Norma said, instead of pointing her to the bathroom.
“I’m not. Well, not exactly. I was born here, but my parents are from there.”
“All the Russians working here say that,” Norma said, and we all tittered. “I’m Norma.” She extended her hand. “Born here too.”
Irina shook Norma’s hand. We felt the tension drop. “Nice to meet you all,” she said. She looked across the typing pool and made eye contact with each of us.
“Down the hall, make a right, then another right,” Linda said.
“What?” Irina asked.
“Little girls’ room.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
We watched until she disappeared down the hall before we discussed: her Russianness (or lack thereof), her hair color (not from a bottle), her strange way of speaking (like a budget Katharine Hepburn), her slightly outdated fashion (bargain basement or homemade?).
“She seems nice,” Judy concluded.
“Nice enough,” Linda said.
“Where’d they find her?”
“The Gulag?”
“I think she’s pretty,” Gail said.
We had to agree on that. Irina’s was not the type to win any beauty contests, but it was there—a subtler kind of beauty.
Irina returned to the Pool, walking shoulder to shoulder with Lonnie. “I trust the girls are making you feel welcome?” Lonnie asked.
“Oh, yes,” Irina replied without a hint of sarcasm.
“Good. These gals can be a tough group to crack.”
“I heard Personnel is where they keep all the crack-ups,” Norma said.
Lonnie rolled her eyes. “Anyways, since Mr. Anderson has failed to grace us with his presence this morning—”
“Is he out sick?” Linda interrupted. We took extra-long lunches when Anderson was out.
“He’s out. That’s all I know. Whether he’s passed out on a park bench somewhere or is having his tonsils removed, it’s none of my business.” Lonnie positioned herself in front of Irina, her back to us. “Anyways, I’m supposed to make sure you have everything you need, then I’m to”—she held up her fingers in air quotes—“fetch you for a meeting down South.”
Irina told Lonnie she had everything she needed, then followed her out. As soon as they left, we retired to the ladies’ room for more in-depth speculation. “A meeting?” Linda asked. “Already?”
“Think it’s with J.M.?” Kathy asked, referring to SR’s Chief, John Maury.
“She said down South,” Gail said. Down South referred to the ramshackle wooden tempos near the Lincoln Memorial. “That’s Frank.”
Norma lit a cigarette. “A Moscow mystery?” She took a puff, then exhaled. “Of course it’s with Frank.”
Frank Wisner was the boss under the big boss, and the father of the Agency’s clandestine ops. A founding member of the Georgetown Set of influential politicians, journalists, and Agency men, Wisner—with his Southern accent and charm—was known to conduct most business during his famous Sunday night suppers. It was at these parties, after the pot roast and apple pie had been served and the group was thoroughly buzzed from cigars and bourbon, that a vision for a new world had taken shape.
Why would Irina be meeting with Frank? And on her first day? It didn’t take a genius to put it together: Irina hadn’t been hired for her words per minute.
The routine was for the Pool to treat the new gal to a lunch at Ralph’s—to warm her up, and to find out her stats: NW or NE? College or typing school? Single or attached? Sober or fun? Then we’d quiz her on where she got her hair done, what she liked to do on weekends, why she came to the Agency, her thoughts on the new policy of not being allowed to wear flats or sleeveless dresses. But when our lunch hour came and went and Irina still hadn’t returned, we had to settle for a quick bite in the cafeteria without her.
She returned that afternoon carrying a stack of handwritten field reports to type up—her demeanor unchanged. If nothing else, we were professionals. So we didn’t ask how her meeting went or what special skills she must possess or what other duties she might’ve been assigned.