ST LOUIS, MISSOURI 1975
Stan Beeman had never been a drinker. He'd eschewed the bar-scene at college. There, he'd been to exactly one party - one where he partook of libations, that is.
That was the night he'd met Sandra. She'd spilled her drink on him. Probably on purpose. He'd parlayed that accident into a proper date. Then that next evening escalated into him going back to her place - suffice it to say they were married within the year. Then as life would have it, Matthew was born. Another American marital success story!
Then Sandra left him. Even though Matthew was later to live with Stan, by the time of his relocation to St. Louis that was not yet.
So it was there he sat, first week in town in a St. Louis tavern, surveying the unfamiliar scene around him. He was a 'bar-scene illiterate'. Also, as a new FBI agent in town, he knew he had to be careful. The other agents he'd met at the Field Office just that morning, all of them were 'straight-arrow G-men', out of the Hoover mold. Stan had not even bothered to ask, 'Say, what does a guy do for fun in this town?'
He was alone, and apparently, easy pickings.
Because 'fun' was not to be in Beeman's cards on this new FBI assignment, he risked one night on the town before it began. As part of the first class to graduate in 1972 at the training academy at Quantico, he'd excelled in undercover work. As such, the 'fun' he was assigned was white-supremacists in the mid-west of the USA. Oh joy. By 1975 he was told his would be a 5-year assignment to infiltrate and expose illegal activity of the far-right.
So, after a week of familiarization at the St. Louis field office, Stan thought, 'I need a drink.'
He certainly had not planned to meet anyone there. As he remembered his mom saying, 'you meet nice girls at church, not in a bar!'
ELIZABETH KORMAN
Just as that thought cleared his head, the music on the jukebox stopped. He then heard her voice. A slightly drunken slur. There she was standing facing him, a little uncertain balancing, but with a clear intention.
She said, "wow, your hair is so red!"
He turned to look at her and immediately discerned a couple of things. Stan was pleased that his analytical mind had kicked in - if he was to live and work undercover with supremacists, his observational body language skills were going to need to be sharp. Maybe a bar was the place to test them out?
First, it was clear she was drunk. Second, maybe she wasn't, although he did not know why his mind went there. Third, despite looking petite at about 5' 4", she also looked like she could handle herself in a fight. Why did his mind go there? Once again, he had no idea.
She stepped towards him and asked to sit at his table. Not waiting for an answer, she put her drink down in front of her and sat. She then said, "you're left handed. Do you know that in a right-handed world, your life expectancy is less than the average?"
He extended his left hand which she shook with her right, then introduced himself, as his mother had encouraged he do with nice girls. "Hi, I'm Stan. It appears that us chatting will be inevitable."
They ended up back at Stan's motel room. He was bedding there until his apartment came open at the end of the month.
In the morning as he was surveying the woman asleep in his motel bed, he turned to shower and then prepare his 'uniform' for the day, the 'uniform' being the conservative, natty dress-suit that Hoover had always insisted his agents wear - a holdover, giving that he'd been dead by then for three years.
The suit? It was the first thing that the now awake woman commented on. "Wow, a red-head in a suit. In a seedy motel room. Wow, you are either a notorious overdresser, or an undercover cop."
At that, Stan finished with his conservative tie, then pulled up a chair beside the bed.
Looking at her naked frame, he said, "look, I don't have to go just yet. There's only one thing I need from you."
"What's that?" she asked, stretching her arms above her head trying to shake her slumber.
"A name. Even if you make one up."
She pulled the sheet up to her shoulders for some modesty, then said, "hey! What's that supposed to mean?"
"Full disclosure," he said smiling, "I'm not exactly a cop. I'm a Fed. A federal agent. FBI."
At that she sat up erect, "well, fuck me."
"Don't worry, you're not in trouble. I mean, I'm about to leave you alone in my room, I won't be back until this evening. If. 'If' means that I don't control my time. The Bureau does."
"You're Stan," she said, "that's all I really need to know."
"And….." he replied, lingering on the 'd' of the word. He'd asked for her name, and she was artfully dodging the question.
"Me, I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth Korman, 'Korman' with a 'k'." She then wrapped the sheet more modestly around her. "I need to apologize about last night. I'm not usually that forward. Believe me, it's uncharacteristic for…. for…."
He finished the sentence for her. "To go to bed with a guy you'd just met at a bar?"
They looked at each other. Not knowing what was next.
He stood, then took a few steps to the door. "Look," he said, "pull the door closed when you leave, you won't be able to get back in once closed. But I'll tell you what - you like red-heads and southpaws. If you want to go to dinner tonight - granted we'd be doing it the wrong way around - but if you'd like that…. either be here when I get back - whenever - or leave a message how I can contact you."
Opening the motel door he added, "if not, let's just chalk it up to a night to remember and leave it at that." He paused before leaving, "there's something I can't figure out about you! You are an intriguing woman, Elizabeth Korman, Korman with a 'k'."
ACCOUNTABILITY
Elizabeth had just finished accounting for her time in St. Louis since the 'Jennings' arrangement had blown up. Accounting to a woman sitting in front of her, about 20 years her senior. Unbeknownst to both of them, Philip as well as Elizabeth, KGB Directorate-S director General Zhukov himself had overruled The Centre about 'pulling' them both from service, and chiding them back in Moscow.
The woman in front of Elizabeth had been Zhukov's compromise.
"It had been a mistake to let them bear children," Zhukov had began in giving the older woman her marching orders. "But it is done. Besides, I was lulled when the Connors had theirs. On the face of it, children ARE the perfect camouflage for KGB illegals, so I became sloppy with Philip and Elizabeth. Now? I'm afraid I have made them into enemies."
As such, Zhukov had personally assigned Semyon Andreyevich Petrov to remain with Philip, now that the latter was settled into the house in Falls Church with the kids, Paige and Henry. 'Gabriel' as he was known in the USA, was to sever all ties with Elizabeth.
Zhukov then dispatched 'Claudia', his most trusted senior 'on the ground' handler. Not only was Claudia a distinguished veteran of The Great Patriotic War and devout Party member, she and Zhutov had often talked about marriage between the two of them. That that had never transpired, spoke to their larger ideological commitment.
So it was, Claudia arrived in St. Louis. She was to assess Elizabeth Mary Korman's suitability (and longevity) as an illegal.
Since 'the Jennings blowup', Elizabeth, as she related to Claudia, had embedded herself in the US defence industry in the American midwest. She had even leveraged the 'Lockheed loan' scandal, their main offices being in St. Louis - where Lockheed was demanding a US Government loan so as to forestall backruptcy… a loan opposed by other defence contractors like Boeing, Grummin and Northrup. Despite the fierce backlash against President Nixon sending a 'loan bill' to Congress, despite no less than Democratic Senator William Proxmire fiercely opposing it - Elizabeth had managed to compromise enough people in the chain, to force then-Vice President Agnew to cast a deciding vote in the US Senate.
Yes, Elizabeth Korman, working solo, had accomplished that. The Centre had to take notice. Not only was Lockheed saved, but Elizabeth had demonstrated a reason to be in St. Louis.
"Look, Claudia," Elizabeth pleaded, "I can do my job. In fact, I am doing it better. I wasn't cut out to be an American housewife. General Zhukov, he always knew that."
"I know you can do your job, honey," Claudia offered in as artificial a soothing voice as she could manage, "but what is this with the FBI man?"
"Okay, you got me. I was aiming for someone in the St. Louis field office who covered commercial crime - Lockheed and the like. So sue me, I missed." Elizabeth followed her mea culpa with a smile.
"But get this, Claudia. He's spending most of his time not in St. Louis, but in Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas and Louisiana. He's undercover, infiltrating White Nationalists."
"He told you that?" Claudia asked, herself expressing a surprised disbelief.
"No! Of course he didn't. You don't know him, but Stan is as straight an arrow as they come. But give me some credit. If you're here to evaluate me and report back, tell them that. I AM DOING MY JOB!"
"What do you know about Philip? The kids?"
"I stay out of Philip's life. My one regret? Operationally we were hand in glove. The kids? They crimped our style. My style."
Claudia had never herself had children. But she couldn't help but believe that a mother, even someone like a Directorate-S assassin, she could not believe that anyone could forever shut out the implications of motherhood.
"Stan," Elizabeth concluded, "is perfect. He spends 3 1/2 weeks out of every month away from home. I'm on my own time. There's freedom of movement I never had as 'a Jennings'. None of the neighbours here question his absences. They don't question mine. The few times anyone has asked where I've been, I tell them, 'with Stan'."
"Lies have a way of catching up," Claudia observed out of her own bitter experience. Claudia checked, "does he still verbalize that he loves you?"
"All the time, Claudia. I told you, this is solid. The only wrinkle? His ex, Sandra, she wants to send their son, Matthew, here for next summer. Me, I'm working on that."
IS THIS REAL?
As Irina lay in bed being caressed, she couldn't help but note that Martha was doing all the canoodling while still asleep.
The early morning sun started to creep into Martha's bedroom window. Seeing the sun was always Irina's signal that she had to map out her day - at least get an idea where and when she had to be various places.
For instance, she and Philip - they had an appointment with Viola Johnson, US Defence Secretary Caspar Weinberger's at-home maid. It was an appointment she and Philip had to keep - to coerce Johnson into cooperating about 'the clock', the one in Weinberger's home office.
The Centre, it had sprung an operation onto The Jennings which usually would take months to prepare for. They'd been given three days. So they'd poisoned Johnson's son, Grayson. Just in case Paige and Henry were unable to get themselves off to school that morning, Irina had carried the antidote with her to Martha's apartment.
Planning days like that were exhausting!
Then there was shopping. Irina had tried through the years to get Philip to help out with that chore, but to no avail.
As the sun climbed to full force in Martha's window, Irina heard her voice.
"I only need to know one thing," Martha murmured from her slumber. "You are so perfect. I'd never dared do something like this back in Colorado, I'm not sure how I would even approach mom and daddy about you." Sitting up and stroking Irina's hair, she added, "but you're so, so worth it."
Irina was well trained in allowing a compromised asset to go to the places she needed her to go. Don't force it. It had to appear to Martha to be her own idea. It was her judgement that Martha was still a long way off of fully cooperating in helping access the FBI's counterintelligence division's inner workings.
It was going to take more than one tryst like this to have Martha Hanson truly up to speed.
"What if the FBI finds out about us?" Martha asked. "I'd lose my job!"
"Well, honey," Irina said from her own cover, "I am Office of Professional Responsibility. I didn't get to where I am without knowing how to protect myself on this score." Irina leaned over to Martha and kissed her, "I can guarantee you that before anything like that happened, I'd know."
"Like I said," Martha repeated, "I only need to know one thing." She paused gazing into Irina's eyes, eyes that were shining in the morning light, eyes so alive.
Martha then said, "I only need to know… is this real?"