Catta walked back to where he’d come ashore and picked up Cyrus’s old white hat from where he had thrown it. Not using his small handful of advantages would be stupid and prideful. Pride was what they had, what drove them to use what at other times his father called strategies. They had said the boat would come back for him tomorrow, but men who would lie about eagles would lie about anything.
The inside of Cyrus’s hat had a patch that extended almost a quarter of the way around the band. It was made out of denim, and a corner of it was loose. That was what had been scratching him. Catta figured it was better to have a hole than to itch, so he tore off the patch. Something fell out onto the rocks. A thin tube of aluminum foil. He opened it and there were strange things inside—fishing line and a hook, two iodine tablets, matches, and an arrowhead. It was his emergency kit—or at least those parts of it that fit inside a denim patch on a battered old white hat. What did it mean?
It meant, he thought, that Cyrus had been with him all along. Martha, too—only she could have known about his hiding place in the Cottage basement. She could stitch a denim patch onto a narrow hatband, and then he remembered he had seen her walking back from the shop when Cyrus picked up the extra life jackets. Had that whole trip back to the dock been a way to get him this hat? And there was something even better: if Cyrus was with him—if not everything was a lie—then it was just possible that the eagles were real. He would look for them. Catta touched the point of the arrowhead with his finger, and it was sharp.
33
May 1960
Midtown, New York City
Hannah Quick went to the unmarked FBI office on three consecutive days. The friendly FBI man from two months ago, the one who had complimented her chicken, had come to their home again and “invited” her to have an informal conversation at their Midtown office. A few points of interest had come to light regarding Bobby Sheppard, he said, and she might be able to help. Billy had felt this was not an invitation she could refuse.
The conversation began cordially. The man, Agent Dent, called her “ma’am.” He said he wanted to be transparent with her: he had information that she had been a member of the Communist Party in 1947. He said that this investigation was not about her, so there was no need for her to refute what he was saying, but did she remember seeing Bobby Sheppard at any of those early meetings? She did not. Then he asked many questions about the milieu of the Party in 1947, what the rooms looked like, how they communicated. He did not ask names, which surprised her, and which she would not have provided. Their talk was short and relatively painless, although he asked her to come back the next day. She came back. And then, midway through that second day, everything changed. A new man, Agent Harte, asked the questions now, and Agent Dent did not reappear. Now three silent men sat in the back of the room, occasionally grunting while Agent Harte interrogated her, bullied her, laughed at her.
You’re a rich girl who got in over her head, he said. When did the Russians first contact you? Was it at a meeting?
I’ve never met a Russian, Hannah said. Most of the people at the Communist Party meetings were from the Midwest. For some reason, quite a few were from Minnesota. You are right, though, that I was in over my head, so I left. As I’m sure you know.
Hannah was made to envision herself in jail for perjury or treason, her children removed to foster care. Billy barred from his work. Their home and their assets seized.
There are two pillars of cooperation, Agent Harte said. The first is the absence of lying. So far, you have failed on that score. The second one is the presence of accurate information. It’s true that you’ve given us some of that, although those are all things we already know.
My understanding, Hannah said, was that this was an informal conversation to provide background to your investigation.
Initially, that was true, Agent Harte said. But your evasions forced us to change our posture.
I am helping in every possible way, Hannah said. I am answering your questions when I know the answer.
Now they asked her names, and she declined. They threatened her. She was scared. She said she’d never seen Bobby Sheppard at any meetings, which was true, but they would not believe it. There were a lot of people at those Party meetings in those days, she said, and she knew very few people in Harlem at the time. It was possible he was there and she didn’t know it.
Who is Hans Kallenbach? Agent Harte said.
I don’t know, Hannah said.
Did you ever see Bobby Sheppard with Hans Kallenbach? he said.
I did not know Bobby Sheppard until much later, Hannah said. I met him at the school, a long time after I stopped attending meetings.
How many times did Hans Kallenbach come to your house? he said.
Zero times, she said.
Did Hans Kallenbach ever meet Bobby Sheppard at your house?
No.
This man’s obsession with Hans Kallenbach told her that, for some reason, they wanted Billy. That she would never do. And when she refused, then what? Would they go after her daughters? Whoever and whatever else Hans Kallenbach was, he was now also a gun aimed at her family.
Agent Harte conferred with the other men who sat in the back of the room, and then returned to the table where Hannah sat with a small glass of water. Outside, it had started to rain.
Why don’t I tell you about the old debutante balls? she said. Would you like to hear about the year they canceled Christmas?
Since our conversation has been unhelpful, Agent Harte said, we’re going to stop this avenue of inquiry and refer the matter to the local District Attorney for criminal prosecution.
What is the charge? she said.
That’s for him to decide, the man said.
As you wish, Hannah said.
It was here and now that the lightness she felt surprised her: something levitating, unsought, and unsponsored, a feeling in the register not of good fellowship and certainly not safety, but instead of comedy, the old comedies, as in the moment when all the mad chaotic strands suddenly meet and four couples are married at once by a disguised friar. The feeling was so unexpected that she laughed out loud.
I hope you understand, Agent Harte said, that the District Attorney is a very ambitious man.
Am I free to go? Hannah said. This was all already in the past, even this late twist, this obvious trick. She now felt, for the first time, that she had complete clarity around what was happening, and what to do.
We will recommend against criminal prosecution, Agent Harte said, if you give us an authenticated, complete list of your husband’s investors.
Without his knowledge, said one of the men from the back of the room. It was the first thing that man had said in two days.
Yes, Agent Harte said. That’s an important point. Without his knowledge.
Hannah could now see that they had been softening her up for this one request. The first questions from Agent Dent, the chicken-lover, had been designed to lower her guard, and then Agent Harte’s role was to arrange matters so that she would always have the wrong answer, would feel beholden to their version of the truth. The idea, she supposed, was that after a while she would do anything to make amends, even betray her husband and her children.