* * *
—
What I knew about Henry Rennet: Yale boy. Grew up on Long Island but said “the City” when asked. Just five years and three months into the Agency, his meteoric rise within SR raised suspicions. Lived alone in a one-bedroom walk-up across the bridge in Arlington paid for by his parents. A linguistics man—fluent in Russian, German, and French. Spent the year between Yale and the Agency “backpacking” across Europe—which really meant hopping from one five-star hotel to the next on his parents’ dime. Orange-haired, freckled, and thick-necked, but did better with women than one might suspect. Had dated two members of the typing pool—in the loosest imaginable terms—neither of whom was aware the other had also dated him. Best friends with Teddy Helms, for reasons Irina did not understand. But I understood. Those Ivy League boys always stuck together.
The other thing about Henry Rennet, and the reason I was at the party, was that Frank thought he might be a mole. Frank had first told me about his suspicions months earlier, shortly after enlisting me for the book mission, and I’d put out a few feelers. When I returned from Italy, he asked that I get to know Henry better.
See, all Agency men had big egos—but usually flexed them only within their own circles. Henry had the type of ego that could get him into trouble. He was seen as a braggart. That and his known drinking problem were enough to raise a few flags.
I didn’t bring it up, and I hoped the rumors weren’t true, but I’d heard rumblings that Frank’s mental faculties had recently been called into question—some saying he just wasn’t the same after the failed mission in Hungary, some attributing his obsession with rooting out a Soviet mole to his diminishing competency.
* * *
—
After some chitchat by the stage, a few spins around the dance floor, and two glasses of punch, Henry suggested we go somewhere private to talk. The singer had already moved the hands of the clock to eleven forty-five and the crowd was readying itself with poppers, cranks, and drink refills for the midnight toast. We slipped away, and on our way out, he plucked a bottle of champagne from a silver bucket. “For our own toast,” he said, holding it up like a trophy.
“Where we headed?”
Henry didn’t answer, walking two paces in front of me. Normally, I was the one to take the lead, and as I quickened my pace, I tripped on a bump in the carpeting and went down. Henry turned to help me up, and the blood rushed to my head as I stood.
“Don’t tell me a gal like you can’t hold her booze?”
“I can hold it just fine, thank you.”
He raised the bottle again. “Good.” He looked at his watch. “Seven minutes till midnight.” He put his arm around my waist, his thumb digging into the small of my back, and guided us toward the exit.
“I don’t have my coat,” I told him.
“Oh, we’re not leaving.”
We passed the doorman slouched on his stool, looking as though he’d indulged in a nip or two himself. Henry took my hand and danced us into a corner. His breath smelled like a bar floor, and I knew he was perhaps drunk enough to be loose-lipped. I straightened his tie—a narrow, ugly thing—and looked toward the doorman, who was pretending not to watch us. “I thought we were going somewhere quiet to talk?”
He reached behind me, and the wall turned into a door. “Well, what do you know?” he said, backing me into an unused coat-check room. The tiny room was empty except for a few white uniforms on wire hangers, a broken chair, and an old vacuum cleaner.
“Not exactly the cozy spot I had in mind.”
“I know a girl like you is used to”—he pointed the champagne bottle toward the broken chair—“more ambiance and all that. But it’s quiet, right?” He popped the cork, which landed in an empty hat cubby, and took a swig. “And private.”
He offered me the bottle but I declined, feeling I was already just one drink away from losing the upper hand. “Maybe a sip at midnight.”
He looked at his watch again and tapped its face. “Three more minutes.”
“Any New Year’s resolutions?” I asked.
“Just this.” He put his sweaty hand against my cheek and leaned in to kiss me. I took a step back, my head brushing the closet rod behind me.
“Tell me something first,” I said.
“You’re beautiful.” He moved in again.
I pushed him away with my index finger. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
He snickered in a way that made me cringe. “I like that. I like a challenge.”
“Tell me something…interesting.” I held his gaze, an old trick to get people to talk.
“Me? I’m an open book.” He looked at the ceiling and exhaled. “I think you’re the one with secrets.”
“Every woman has her secrets.”
“True, but I happen to know yours.”
My mouth felt dry, my tongue heavy as a sandbag. “And what’s that?”
“You want me to say it?”
“Say it.”
“You don’t think I know why you chatted me up?” he said. “You just happened to take a sudden interest in a man, what, a decade younger than you? You think I don’t know what you are? I know you’ve been asking questions about me. About my loyalties.”
I eyed the door.
“What you don’t know is that I have more friends here than you do.”
I’d stepped right into it, too distracted and drunk to see it. I moved to leave, but he blocked me. “I’ll scream.”
“Good. They’ll just think you’re doing a job well done.”
I pushed him away, and he pushed back. My head hit the closet’s metal rod with surprising force. Before I could move, he crushed his body into mine and pressed his mouth to my lips so hard I tasted blood when he pulled away. I tried to push him off me but he did it again, forcing his tongue into my mouth. When I tried to knee him, he swept my legs out from under me. I went to the floor. He followed. I tried to get up but he forced my hands over my head and held them in one of his. I screamed but was drowned out by the crowd on the other side of the door beginning its countdown to midnight. Thirty! I could hear the side of my gown rip. “This is what you do, isn’t it? How they use you?” Twenty-three! I spat at him and he wiped my spit from his face with a smirk I wished I could take a brick to. He pressed his forehead to mine. Fourteen! “So the other rumors are true, then?” His breath was hot and sour. “You’re some kind of queer? Shame if that got out.” Three! Two! One!