Ellen waved this remark aside. “Intelligence officer is the more appropriate term.”
“It all comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose. But I assure you I wasn’t skulking about wearing lapel-pin cameras or carrying death-dealing umbrellas. Nor did I chase people down dark alleys in foreign countries.”
“What exactly did you do? Something tied to my great-aunt, it seems.”
“I’m afraid my precise duties are one of the secrets I still can’t reveal.” Ellen pulled her legs back in against the chair. “But yes, I was connected to Isabella. I was her handler, as a matter of fact.”
I lowered my arms and clasped my hands in my lap. “Great-Aunt Isabella was a spy too?”
“Yes, and a very good one. Although a bit of a loose cannon sometimes.” Ellen lowered her eyelids, shadowing her eyes. “That’s why I was sent to Beaufort, you see. To keep an eye on her after … Well, I suppose I’d better start at the beginning, or none of this will make any sense.”
I slumped against the back of my chair. “I think you should.”
“Very well.” Ellen straightened and leaned forward, her hands gripping her knees. “You know that after she graduated from college, Isabella went to work at an estate in Virginia.”
“Yes, and our family always wondered about that.”
“Oh, that was totally legitimate. Like I mentioned before, it was a difficult time for women, even university-educated girls like Isabella, to find jobs. Especially after all the men came home after the war. She took the job as a maid as a stopgap, to makesome money while she looked for something else. But she’d been noticed at college. By a professor who kept in touch.”
“I assume he also worked for the U.S. intelligence community?”
Ellen shook a finger at me. “Shedid. Anyway, while Isabella was working at the estate, the family hosted several young men from England. Friends of their sons, who’d been attending university classes in Britain before the war cut short their studies.”
“One of whom was the man captured in the photograph with Isabella, Paul Peters?”
“Bingo.” Ellen looked me over, a little smile playing about her lips. “See, I knew you missed your calling.”
I lifted my chin to meet her intense gaze. “Would you have tried to recruit me, if you’d met me when I was younger?”
“In a heartbeat. But that is neither here nor there.” Ellen settled back in her chair. “The thing was, Paul Peters was not what he appeared to be.”
I recalled Bernadette Sandberg’s suspicions about the man. “He wasn’t British?”
“Hardly. Although he was meticulously trained to pass as a typical Oxford or Cambridge grad, he was actually born elsewhere.”
“Russia,” I said, not bothering to make it a question.
“Back then we would’ve said the Soviet Union, but yes.”
“I assume this was all part of the Cold War.”
“Yes, and it was indeed chilling for those involved.” Ellen rubbed at one of her temples. “Anyway, Isabella met Peters at the estate. Sometime around 1950. He was supposedly in the U.S. to conduct some postgrad research.”
“What was his field?”
“Linguistics. And yes, he had an actual degree and taught in various universities in England over the years.”
“But you think he was visiting America for more than research?”
“Of course, because he was definitely a Soviet spy. A sleeper—one who’d been put in place in England long before the war. As a small child, actually. He was placed with a British couple with strong Communist sympathies.” Ellen tugged on one of the amethyst earrings dangling from her ears. “The intel I read suggested he’d cultivated his American friends at the university for this precise purpose. His goal was to use these acquaintances later, to try to gain intelligence on the U.S. as well as Britain.”
“And then he met Isabella at his friend’s estate, and … what?”
“He was instantly smitten and pursued her relentlessly.” Ellen narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t that he thought he could gain any information from her; he simply fell in love.”
“Which you used against him.”
