CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

I wait for Josh to elaborate. He just puts the book down and goes back to the microfiche machines and starts clicking around. Mr. G goes back to flipping through the National Geographic magazine. This is not what I had in mind. When Josh said we were going to research Mom together at the Library of Congress, I pictured the two of us digging through the archives together. I look up at the high ceiling. Just Josh and me in this big old building. Oh well. I get up, turn my chair around and meander through the LOC web pages Mr. G opened up for us. I slog through a plethora of pages filled with short factual blurbs that merely mention Mom’s name here and there and tell me nothing except that she worked with this group and cracked code yada-yada. Boring. I sit back and twiddle my thumbs.

My brain asks, “What do you want?”

“Something juicy on her. Who was she…really?”

Suddenly the temperature drops and the room grows bitterly cold like, within seconds. I shiver and look over at Josh. He’s sitting forward and practically has his nose on microfiche screen.  He rubs the goosebumps on his arms. He feels it too.

Mr. G says, “Burr!” I turn and look at him. Mr. G is clutching his thin upper arms and white mist comes from his mouth as he breaths. He says, “This is nuts. I need to fetch my coat.” He shakes his head. “I can see my dang breath.” He shifts his weight and takes his walkie-talkie off his belt. Josh and I share a look as Mr. G gets into an argument about seniority with whoever is on the other end. Mr. G shouts, “For God’s sake check into the settings on the AC unit.” The man on the other end argues with him about regulations set by the Energy Department. “Well, if it doesn’t warm up damn fast I’m going to catch pneumonia. Then we’ll see who has the last word around here!” After a minuet or two, the A/C groans and the temperature returns to normal. I don’t know if I’m relieved, Mom didn’t have anything to do with the thermostat or disappointed. For some reason, I picture Mom sitting in the in my zoo dream. What was that all about?

Josh says loudly, “Wow, check it out! There’s a fairly current story in the Moscow Chronicle about Mrs. B.” This startles me out of my thoughts. I rotate sideways in the chair. “You need to read this Cookie. I translated it to English.”

I smile. “Read it to me.” Josh has his face so close to the screen. I’m starting to wonder if he needs glasses.

He reads, “The Russian police searching for Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely said, “As soon as our department receives official information that Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely left the territory of Russia with her parents, she will be put on the international wanted list and an appeal for her custody will be lodged with legal courts. To learn more, read my book.”

I knew she was born in Russia, but not that she defected with her parents. Josh rambles on reading the lengthy article that mostly promotes some book he wrote. I catch a word here and there.

“Cookie, did you hear me?” Josh points at the article on the screen.

I shake my head and blink. “Sorry.”

“This guy claims that in Russia, controversial journalist is hunted down much like defectors, which is a crime punishable by execution.”

I’m speechless. Wait. Was Mom hunted down and assassinated because her parents defected from Russia? I mull this over.

Josh says, “If that is true, it would appear that Eva lead a double life—like so many other famous spies––”

Mr. G says irritably, “I think what he wrote is questionable and probably hogwash.” He tosses the National Geographic on the small table next to his chair. “I haven’t found anything to back up his claims about the Sheahan family’s defection from Moscow.” He pauses, and then adds, “Besides, Sheahan is an Irish name.”

My Mom said the Sheahan name came from her mother’s side of the family. I look at Josh and then back at Mr. G. I raise my voice, “But, Mr. Getman, why would the writer lie? Doesn’t he have to back up his words?”

Mr. G says, “To sell his book. I read the English version of Beketov’s book. It seems to be mostly a figment of his imagination because the way he described Eva is nothing like the woman...” He clears his throat, takes out his handkerchief and wipes his mouth then puts it away.

I mutter, “He wrote a book about my… um, Eva?”

Mr. Getman doesn’t hear me and keeps talking.

Josh asks, “So you’re familiar with Mikhail Beketov writing?”

Mr. G nods his head. “Somewhat. After I read a few of his articles, I looked up him up. He’s a novice writer, currently living in the UK trying to sell his first book that equates Eva to Anna Politkovskaya, which is absurd because the two women have nothing in common.” He smacks the tabletop with a flat hand. “Anna was a reporter. Eva was a brilliant cryptologist and an American hero! Yes, Anna was a fighter for free press, but nobody put their life on the line like Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely. She was a true patriot.”

Josh asks, “Cookie, what do you think about this?”

Josh and the old guy look at me for a comment. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with this Anna woman.” I don’t attempt to say her last name. I can’t think of any thing else to add to the conversation. I’m stunned to hear Mr. G talk about Mom as if he knew her better than Pop and me. I drop my eyes and pick up the genealogy leaflet. I search my mind for signs of espionage. She worked hard to be a normal mother, but her work always got in the way. I recall watching her from behind the door as she locked away her Fed creds and gun in the den’s wall safe. Each time she came home, she would constantly be on the phone or faxing stuff. Logic is starting to tell me that Mom was more like a female James Bond.

Mr. Getman grunts and I blink back to the present. He jabs a pointed finger at the air again. “Which goes to prove––”

Josh fills in, “You can’t believe half of the crap you read nowadays.”

He waves his hand at Josh. “Smart as a whip, just like your father. Technology can be a dangerous or wonderful depending on ones morals. So called photographers digitally enhance and novelist and bloggers twist reality. The intrinsic facts are distorted to make their shots or stories more thrilling and everyday people come across more exciting. It’s unethical.” Mr. Getman frowns. “Authenticity no longer exists.”

Josh says, “That’s because the public is bored by the ordinary.”

“Son, me thinks you are very perceptive.”

Josh looks for more articles and Mr. G grows quite. I hear the A/C rumbling in the walls somewhere. I shut my eyes and sense that when Mom was home, she spent time at the Library of Congress. She encouraged me to come here and access all the wealth of information just a few miles from our home. Mr. Getman might’ve even met her. Before asking, I check to make sure the old guy hasn’t fallen asleep. He’s staring off at nothing. “Excuse me Mr. Getman, but did you ever meet Eva in person?”

Mr. Getman rubs his chin thoughtfully and a hint of a smile turns up the corners of his mouth. “I did. I become acquainted with Eva years ago when she visited the Library for college and when she started interning with the Pentagon.”

Josh and I share a guarded look. He takes out his little notebook, pen, and writes on a fresh page. I steady my voice. “Um, if you can tell us anything about her, it would help us with our assignment.”

Mr. Getman sighs. “Eva was so young and always so kind to me. She even gave me a handsome scarf on Christmas that she’d knitted herself. I wear it every winter.”

I think about Mom’s yellow throw being tested in forensic lab and wonder what they will find, if anything.

Mr. G is saying, “…over the years, she was promoted and traveled often for work. Of course with the invention of the computer, her visits to the library became unnecessary.”

“So, um, Eva gave you a present. Wow, you two must’ve become pretty good friends. You must’ve had conversations with her. Do you mind telling me what did you talked about?”

“Friends? Hum, I suppose one could say we were friends,” A wisp of a smile lights up Mr. Getman tired old face. “More in a professional sense––mind you I never thought I would be discussing this with anyone, nonetheless since her death, I often think back on the few times that she and I spoke. I mean actually carried on a personal conversation—beyond hello. The last time I saw Eva was Christmastime, about two years ago when she gave me the scarf. I recall her asking if I had family in Georgetown. She was worried that I was spending the Holidays alone. All she said was that she was going on a skiing trip. We chit-chatted about this and that and she told me that for most of her life she’d resided in Georgetown. Oh, and that both of her parents were deceased. That UK writer has some information on Eva in his book that I’m pretty sure skirt the truth.”

Josh says, “Back during the Cold War, and before—you read a lot about defections from Russia. Do you think there’s any truth in the part about Eva’s family defecting and starting a new life in America?”

“I suppose anything is possible. I have no proof and I’ve yet to find any within these walls.” He frowns deeply, pausing to mull over what he can remember, and then continues. “Eva was a brilliant linguist and a top United States government agent—one of the best!” I akin her to Revolutionist spy Lydia Darrah and even Joan of Arc.”

This makes me smile with pride. If he has figured out that, I am the daughter, oh well. Mr. Getman sucks in a deep rattled breath and I feel my eyes widen with alarm. He takes his folded white handkerchief from his back pants pocket and holds it up to his mouth. I expect him to do another one of those awful old man coughs that sound like a lung might come up. Instead, he fixes two crystal blue eyes on me.

“Cookie the Eva Sheahan-Blakely case is going to be a tough nut to crack. Why not choose an easier cold case for your project? There are literally hundreds to pick from.”

I blink. “Well…um.” I’m taken aback by this question. I seriously thought he had me pegged. Huh, maybe not.

“…if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Josh and I thought...”

Josh looks over his shoulder at me.

I smile and hope he helps me out.

“As fait would have it, Cookie and I wound up in the same science class this semester. Anyway, we thought it would be interesting to investigate Eva because she lived here in Georgetown.”

I frown and then think I get it. My personal involvement in our little investigation should remain on the QT. Okay I’ll play along. “Yep, I lucked out,” I say, overjoyed to be with Boy Genius. “Our school has a new science wing plus there’s a problem with overcrowded classes due to all of the Hurricane Katrina refugees moving to the area.”

I roll my eyes and see that Mr. Getman is up and walking around. He picks up a leaflet, unfolds it, and looks over his shoulder. “Or so they say,” he says, turning on his heel. He points the handout at me. Cookie, I think the overcrowding has more to do with a new government education voucher law. I won’t bore you with all the data but very few moved to the tri-state area.”

“I’m only repeating what my counselor and the Principal are telling us.”

“Oh, and Liberal media calls them Climate Refugees now.” He toddles over by the computer desk and smiles at me. “Your beautiful new Science Wing was funded by the Bill Gates Foundation.”

I nod my head knowingly.

“I read all about that project. Mr. Gates and his wife are quite the philanthropists.”

I smile up at him. “Wow, you are well informed.”

“Yes, well, I read over fifty newspapers. Not much else to do in a library during the wee hours.”

A few minuets pass without anyone saying anything. Anxious to find out about the name on the drawer, I lean toward the monitor’s screen and scan a few pages on the genealogy section searching for a How To link. There appears to be pages and pages of useless information on this site on every person who ever walked the planet. How do you sort through it?

Mr. Getman returns the flyer to the stack and asks, “Do you kids need any more help?”

I sigh and flop back in my chair. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m wondering how one would find out if they have an ancestor from, oh, I don’t know. Let’s say Russian royalty for instance.” I dig out my science notebook and flip it open to my notes. I stare at the computer screen again. “Sorry to be such a nuisance, but is there a shortcut to how to research a name.”

I hear Mr. G gasp a little. “Did you say Russian royalty?”

I look up. “Um, yes sir.”

“What led you to think that you have royal blood?”

“Well, um, it’s sort of complicated.” I glance over at Josh for help. I don’t want to say too much.

Josh turns off the microfiche machine and comes over. “Cookie has this old roll-top desk that was handed down on her mom’s side of the family.”

I briefly describe the desk to Mr. G.

Khokhloma paintings are beautiful.

Josh opens his book bag and takes out his science notebook. He flips it open and shows Mr. G his sketch of the name. “This is inscribed on the bottom of one of the drawers. It’s Russian…therefore; it makes sense that the desk in all probably came from Russia. We’re pretty sure Cookie’s mom, who is deceased, came from Russia.”

Josh leaves it there so I continue, “So, anyway, Josh and I did some research on the desk and it lead us to think that I might be related to a royal family.” I pause again and look over at Josh. He’s bent over copying something in his notebook. His eyes go back and forth from the screen to his drawing.

“Right Josh?”

He widens his eyes at me and does a quick slit your throat move.

I mouth, “What?” Did I say too much?

I turn and look through the shadows at Mr. Getman. For obvious reasons, we’re hoping Mr. G doesn’t ask about Pop. If he knows that my father is Chef CAB he’ll definitely figure out Eva is my mom. Josh sees my annoyed expression and takes the lead. “Because Cookie’s desk is a family heirloom we figure the name etched in the drawer’s bottom might be a way to branch off her family tree.”

Mr. Getman nods wearily. “It’s as good as any place to start. The more names you have the better. Do you mind me asking if this project ties into your Eva investigation?”

Josh looks at me and I shrug as if to say it’s your show now. Mr. G crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at me. Uh-oh. I think I see instant recognition in his face. This old guy is smart as a fox. He reads fifty freaking newspapers so he definitely saw my mug in the articles about Mom. I panic and avert my eyes at Josh’s. He’s glaring back at me. What do I do now? It dawns on me that when Josh introduced me to Mr. Getman he’d just introduced me as just “Cookie”. He didn’t say my last name. Duh! Eva Sheahan-Blakely became a household name. So, Josh knew Mr. Getman would recognize the name ‘Blakely’ and associate me with Mom. Mom’s story was front page news all over the world, posted all over the Internet. Broadcast on all the major networks and cable stations. She’s a rock star. Everybody in the Tri-State area knows everything about my mom. Or at least they think they do. Especially someone in the know like Mr. Getman! He has every piece of information in the universe at his fingertips. I slid my eyes at Josh. It would’ve been nice if you’d clued me in ahead of time. Instead of waiting until we’re face to face with this old geezer. I’m not saying another word!

Josh tells Mr. Getman, “Well, like so many other people, we’re...um...curious to learn what really happened to Eva Blakely. Especially since the FBI clammed up and left the rest of the world hanging on a limb concerning what in fact happened to her.”

The old guy snorts. “Good luck! They sealed the details on the investigation. The data-entry staff amasses what’s been written up by the media and anything unclassified. The LOC hasn’t received any unclassified data. Like I said, I check a couple of times every day I’m here.”

Josh and I share a discouraged glance.

Mr. G adds, “I have a feeling the Feds are being tightlipped because somebody, someway, somehow fudged-up the investigation. They’re mum because there trying to save face.”

The first name that comes to my mind is Agent Werthoust.

Josh says. “The President claimed National Security was at risk if details became publicly known.…as you probably already know Mr. Getman—I mean from reading about the case.”

Mr. Getman gives us a dismal nod. Bending at the waist, he places his gnarled hands on the chair’s thick leather armrest and pats the padding. His eyes droop as if he is about to fall asleep and they fly open. “Oy gevalt, I need some coffee.” He rises up slowly standing as erect as his humped back will allow. “Keep your tuchuses in here and type your search words in that little box there.” You won’t have any problem finding facts on Eva.” The old guy consults his pocket. Then he toddles backward a few steps to move out of our way. “I’ll leave you to your work and check back with you periodically. If you hit a wall let me know I’ll be on the other side of that door. It’s where the coffee machine and my lunch box are located.”

We don’t look up, but chime, “Thanks.”

Anxious to find out the facts, Josh immediately starts banging away on his keyboard. I watch him maneuvering around the site with easy. I get the feeling he visits the LOC frequently. I have to keep reminding myself that we are researching Mom. It feels like she is some famous person.

Before leaving, Mr. Getman flips on the two more desk lamps, which helps us see what we’re writing. “Oh and another thing...” We both look over at Mr. Getman standing by a door marked” Keep Out (Staff ONLY). “Did I tell you that if you want a hard copy of anything just let me know?”

“That would be great,” Josh says. “I won’t have to write down so much.”

Mr. G nods. “I’ll go warm up the copier.” He pauses. “Oh, and I’ll have to ask you two not to go wandering about…it being after hours. If one of the security staff were to see you, it could mean my job. Not that I really give a rat’s ass,” he stares off at nothing and mumbles to himself. “On the other hand, my pension is important to me.” He chuckles softly. “Oy, next month I’m turning 84. I plan on retiring. I’d like to travel to Israel before I meet my creator—that is if Muslim terrorist don’t blow Jerusalem off the face of the planet before I get there…”

Wagging a knowing finger at us he leaves. Working late hours, I imagine he finds himself carrying on conversations with him self on a regular basis. He smiles at us once more and Josh calls out, “Thanks again Mr. Getman. We should be out of your hair in a couple of hours.” 

The door closes and we turn back to the computers. For the next hour or so, we’re glued to our seats. We pour over numerous stories and articles written on and about Mom’s diverse and relatively dangerous accomplishments as a world famous cryptologist. We discuss facts as we come across them and take a ton of notes even though we plan to have Mr. G make copies made of the pertinent stuff.

Josh sits back check his watch, and then cracks his knuckles one by one. He says, “I just finished reading yet another article written during the nuke race. According to the editorials I’ve read, Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely fundamentally saved America, possible the world, from the iniquitous KGB. She was a deciphering super hero.”

“My mom was a super hero?”

“Man, she was able to crack any difficult code assigned to her and thereby thwarted the evil doers’ plans.”

I shake my head in wonder and amazement. On a whim, I click on a new Internet tab and open Wikipedia. I bang in Mom’s full name on the keyboard and scroll to the bottom of the page. Someone recently added “Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely lived real life espionage stuff and died an American hero”. I could kick myself for not thinking to research Mom over the years. I never knew she was so famous. I feel like a total brat. I can’t help thinking how I’d whined to Pop about not having her home to coddle me. I push the sadness away and jot down a few more notes. My copy list for Mr. G is growing too. I sit back and rub my bloodshot eyes.

Josh says, “Well we’ve found tons on your mom but zilch on B. A. Artamonov. I’m starting to think we copied the name down incorrectly.”

I pick up Josh’s cell phone. “Do you mind?”

He looks over and shakes his head no.

I scroll around and find the photographs he took of the drawer’s bottom, and show them to him. “See, we got it right.”

“Ah-ha!” He takes the phone and studies the photographs closely. “I totally forgot I took these.”

“Understandable. You were stressing about your dad’s flight and then you ended up handcuffed by the FBI.” I point at the picture on the tiny screen. “So, if B. A. Artamonov was a furniture manufacturer maybe he had a shop.”

“You mean, like Lazy-Boy?”

I roll my eyes.

Josh closes his phone, sets it on the tabletop and clicks to the next story.

I lean forward, prop my elbows on the table and rest my chin in my hands. I let my tired eyes swim over the first few paragraphs on his monitor’s screen. “Okay, let’s say he was a carpenter.”

Josh says, “When in fact he was a Master Craftsman.”

“Question is why that is important?” I yawn loudly and take a deep breath.

Josh glances at me. “If you’re too tired, we can always come back in a few days.”

I shake my head to alert my brain to stay awake. “No. I’m good. Let’s keep going.” I briefly ponder the events of the past few days. “Nope. There’s not turning back at this point in the game. I’m obsessed with finding out what happened and determined to find anything about Mom. Is it important to know who my ancestors on my mother’s side were?”

I stare at the side of Josh’s face until he says, “Uh-huh. We need to know as much as we can.”

“Fine.” I sit forward and read more of the Wikipedia bio on Mom. I click on a link that takes me to page full of data on Mom’s role during the dismantling of the nuclear arms race and feel my eyes widen every time I see her name in print. “I expect at some stage all this information was Top Secret, and then declassified after so much time or it wouldn’t have people’s names printed here for anyone to read.”

“They sometimes redact the names if the people are still alive and or working as am undercover agent.”

“Whoa. Josh, listen to this, I say, and read out loud. “Eva Sheahan-Blakely is known to have discovered the poison laboratory of Soviet secret services, alternatively known as Laboratory 1, Laboratory 12, and Kamera which means "The Chamber" in Russian, was a covert poison research and development facility of the Soviet secret police agencies…” I feel someone’s eyes on me and turn around. Mr. Getman’s head is stick through the door. I wonder how long he’s been standing there spying on us.

“I read that article,” Mr. G says as he closes the door and wobbles over to the table, resting his hands on the tabletop on my side, confirming my suspicion that he was listening to us. “Remarkable woman if you ask me. But I’m sure you know that.”

Mr. G looks at me and takes a deep breath. I have no clue what to say. But, I’m pretty sure Mr. Getman knows who I am. If so, why doesn’t he just say so?

Josh just mumbles, “It is fascinating what she, um, did…” He keeps jotting down stuff.

Mr. G nods his head like a bobble head doll. “Yes. Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely was a legend before her time.”

I don’t add my two cents here either because Mr. Getman pushes off and keeps talking as he moves toward the door. But I turn slightly and watch him. He’s sly, and for some reason, I don’t trust him. But that’s just me.

“Anyhow,” the old guys says to us. “I’m headed over to the men’s lavatory. The copy room is on the way…oh, and just a friendly reminder…” He stands straighter and taps the face of his watch.

I look down at my watch in response. Oh my gosh, it’s so late! Would Ivan call us if they caught Valentine? I picture our broken security box. I hope everything is okay at home. Stop worrying. Pop’s a grown man. He can take care of himself. I blink and tune into what Mr. G is saying.

Mr. Getman holds up a crooked finger. “I only have one more hour to go before my shift officially ends although I can hang around as long as I wish, but I am very tired tonight. He takes another deep breath and chuckles and does some funny arm jesters. “The Beast––that’s what we call the behemoth copy machine here––she needs to warm up so she’s raring to go when we need her. Therefore if you want anything printed, I best get started.” He stops talking and stares at us expectantly.

Oh, right he needs to know what we want him to print out. I nudge Josh and he finally pulls his eyes away from a story he appears to be majorly absorbed in reading. “Um, Josh, Mr. G needs the list of stuff we want copied.” I pass Josh my list and he quickly jots down some more instructions.

He jumps up to gather a few pages that are lying on the floor. I turn in my seat and watch Josh place the stack on Mr. G’s extended hands.

“Ah, looks like I’ll be gone for a while.”

“Oh, wow, sorry. I––”

“No problem son.”

Smiling awkwardly, Josh goes over and opens the door we came through earlier. “Hope you don’t mind. We sort of hit the mother lode tonight.”

Mr. G walks slowly and runs his eyes over the paper on top of the stack. “That’s fine. I love seeing young minds operational. So many kids are spaced out on drugs these days. They would rather kill each other than read a good book. Well…best get started.” He steps through the door.

“Thanks Mr. Getman,” Josh calls, and shuts the door. He returns to his chair, scooting it forward, his eyes on the monitor’s screen. He grins sheepishly and rubs his hands together. “Cookie, you won’t believe what I uncovered by digging through the recent unclassified files––”

I flick my gaze at him and at his screen. “What is it?”

“Well a Washington Post story mentions a man named Boris Artamonov.”

“Finally,” I breath, and lean sideways to look at his computer screen go black. “Well…what does it say about him?”

“Hang on, damn, the screen saver just kicked in,” Josh complains his  mouse clicking softly in the stillness. The monitor wakes up on a title page for the UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. “I must’ve clicked out of it when Mr. Getman came in…” He quickly finds the page again and scrolls down to the story that is in the typical LOC font. “Here it is. Sex for Spies in the USSR.”

I mutter, “Catchy title.”

“Yeah, well, listen to this. You probably already know that during the Cold War the CIA supposed used––” Josh pauses and holds up his hands making quotation marks with his fingers. “Entrapment techniques to blackmail people of interest.” He looks at me and adds, “In other words, to force whoever to spill the beans or pay the price via degradation, extortion, yadayada.”

I say yadayada a lot. “So is that what happened to Boris?”

“No.”

“How does this have anything to do with my guy? He was, like,  a master craftsman a hundred plus years ago.”

Josh bugs his eyes at me so I shut up and let him talk.

Josh faces his monitor. “The article says a reporter secretly interviewed an ex-CIA psychologist who claimed he’d given Wechsler tests to an American woman who volunteered her body for her country.”

I laugh nervously and say, “Oo, a real patriot. That’s beyond disgusting. Oh my gosh. Please tell me she wasn’t my mom.”

“No, she was a nurse…”

“Oh. Go on.”

Josh continues, “So, the CIA trained women like her to be espionage agents. To bed Russian officials they’re targeting and film them having sex. Then the government used the incriminating evidence to get information or get them to switch sides.”

I’m a already a ball of nerves, hearing this makes me feel even worse. I feel my cheeks go hot but try to keep a blank expression on my face. It’s yucky talking about my mom being forced to be in such a compromising position. inside I just want this over with so I can live a normal life. “Um, Josh, you don’t think my mom ever had to did this, do you?”

“Uh, as an code-breaker this probably wasn’t a mission she’d be asked to accept.” He pauses. “At least from what I’ve read so far.”

I cross my arms and nod thoughtfully. “Good, because there is no way she would––do that. You know. And she would never cheat on Pop.” I recall how much love and affection Pop showered on Mom when they were together. Mom acted as if to love Pop too. I hope it wasn’t just an act.

“Besides,” Josh adds after a minute of silence, “I think with the expanding women’s movement, which spread to Europe and there abouts this sort of activity came to an abrupt halt.”

I sit forward and ask, “So, what the heck are Wechsler tests?”

“Wechsler testing supposed gives an idea of how a person will respond psychologically to the mission at hand—no pun intended.” A smile plays at Josh’s mouth and he clears his throat. “Before sending them in, the CIA wanted to make sure they were up for the task.”

Up for the task. I raise my eyebrows at his pun and Josh pauses.

He shrugs. “Sorry. Anyway, the CIA wanted this particular woman to seduce a married Russian Diplomat who was no other than our man…Boris Artamonov.”

“You think Boris is somehow tied to the name on the drawer?”

“Let’s just say I have a hunch they are linked somehow.”

“How?”

“I think they are related. I’m not hundred percent positive sure, but hear me out and see if you come to the same conclusion. The plan was that Boris would eventually fall in love with the woman whose mission was to seduce him. They would ask him to leave his family and defect to America. So he could be with her. The CIA was counting on Boris to be morally weak, but––”

Anxious to find out what happened to Boris, I interject, “But if Boris didn’t do what they wanted they’d blackmail him with the film, or worse?”

“Probably.”

“So, did he go for it?”

Josh nods his head side to side. “No. Boris was a shrewd and honorable man. He resisted temptation and held to his marital vows. He was on to them. According to the article, Boris had discussed defecting with his wife prior to the meeting and told the woman to report back to her superiors that he wished to defect to America with his wife and daughter as soon as possible. They would comply with whatever they wanted if no harm would befall on anyone.” Josh pauses and I blink at him.

 

“Okay. So cool.”

“And this is the clincher. The CIA agreed with Boris’ request, and in 1958 Boris Artamonov defected to the United States with his wife and seven year old daughter. Shortly after their arrival, American intelligence agencies debriefed the Artamonov family, issued new identities and legal documents by the FBI set them up in a home in Georgetown.” Josh looks at me. “I think Boris brought the desk from Russia as a family keepsake. That fact makes me think Boris might be your grandfather.”

I touch my chest. “My grandfather?”

“Like I said, it’s just a hunch. There’s more to the Boris story. Listen, then you tell me what you think.”

“Fine, but there’s no way...it’s too coincidental.”

Is there?

Josh continues, “Even now, if someone leaves Russia without permission from the government it can mean death. Back then, the KGB ran the Russian government. KGB official enforced law and order to the umpteenth degree. It didn’t matter that the Artamonov family wasn’t present for their trial, the government convicted them in absentia and sentenced the whole family to death—even their little girl, Ivanova.”

“Whoa. They named her Ivanova…. huh, sounds like they wanted a boy.”

“I looked the name Ivanova up on a few websites. It’s a rather common Russian name. Like Betty or Susan.”

I nod, and then search Josh’s face mulling over what he read to me. I blow out my next breath. “I still don’t see how Boris could be my Grandfather.”

“Number one, your mom told you the desk was a family heirloom. Number two, Wikipedia said Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely was born in Russia on December 25, 1952, that makes her the same age as Ivanova.”

“But my mom was born Christmas Eve…”

“Or so she said.” Josh smirks, “It proves that Wikipedia is not always a reliable source.”

I look at him. “It’s not? I use it all the time.” I cover my face with my hands. “I don’t know what to believe any more.”

“Cookie, anybody can write up a story on Wikipedia.”

I drop my hands. “I know but I thought they had people who checked the facts.”

“Not always. Just saying, you should cross check the facts.”

“Trust me. From now on I’m doing my own research.”

“Anyways, listen closely to this part. The article, which is four pages long, goes on to say that he learned from an unnamed source that Mr. and Mrs. Artamonov completely altered their heritage. And, here’s the clincher I talked about.” Josh clicks to the last page, finds what he’s looking for, and reads out loud, “The Russian diplomat and his family needed to blend in with the chiefly Irish Georgetown community therefore the CIA chose Sheahan for their last name. They were An Irish name that means peaceful and hired a speech therapist to with their speech.”

I blink as my brain tries to process this. “It is my mom.

“I thinks so too.”

“Wait…diplomat? My grandfather was a diplomat?”

“That’s what the story says.”

“How old is that story?”

Josh leans closer to the monitor’s screen and clicks bake to the first page. “Looks, like the date and the reporter’s name have been redacted.

“So there’s no telling when this was written and by who.”

“When Mr. Getman gets back, should I ask him if he’s read this?”

“Um, no.”

 “When I get home, I’ll look at the Washington Post archives,” Josh says, and jots down a few notes.

“Our little investigation assignment is getting too complex.”

“It’s supposed to.” Josh doesn’t look up, he keeps writing stuff in his notebook.

I sit forward and jot down a lot of notes on the Post story and anything else I can think of that might be helpful. I plan to do my own research. I’m sick of being in the dark. My hand starts to ache and I put down up my pen and notebook. Josh is banging away on the computer again.

“So,” I ask, sitting back in my chair, “what do we do with this Boris information? I mean, how do we find out if all is true?”

Josh stops banging away on the keys and shrugs his shoulders. “Keep digging for more stuff on him.” He squints at the screen.

“Should ask Ivan if he knows about the Artamonov witness protection case?” He pauses and looks at me. “Definitely. What were your grandparent’s first names?”

“Edward & Marie.” I surprise my self. It’s been a long time since they’re names have been said. Then I recollect reading them in Mom’s obituary.

Josh opens yet another page on the screen and tries various ways to enter their names. “Any middle names?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I’m thinking that if Boris was in fact your long-lost Grandfather, his personal information was probably declassified by now. And if we’re lucky, it was entered into the LOC archives.”

I watch him to see what will comes up and so forth. I also like looking at Josh. He locates a fuzzy black and white jpg picture of them. We both study it for a few minuets. I don’t say anything. This whole gig is starting to feel beyond surreal. I shiver and Josh glances at me.

“Is that your mom?”

I blink. “Could be. I’ve never seen a picture of her that young.” I glace at my notes. “The article said they defected in 1958. If Mom was born in 1952—she was around six or seven. All of her papers in Pop’s file say that her maiden name is Sheahan. All these years I’ve been lead to believe that my Grandfather Sheahan was Irish and my Grandmother was Russian.

Josh clicks on the thumbnail and it fills the screen. “My guess that’s what witness protection programmed into her young mind. Maybe she blocked out everything that happened before coming to America. I’ll see if Mr. Getman will print a copy of this picture.”

As I stare silently at the old fashioned photo of the Edward, Maria and Eva Sheahan, I start to feel like the red balloon from the Washington zoo; floating above the earth my whole existence tethered to my wrist by a thin ribbon.

Josh studies my face.

“What?” I ask. I mentally make the balloon burst in my grip. Stop feeling sorry for your self. This isn’t about you, it’s about Mom.

Josh says, “Nothing. I’m just thinking that if Ivanova Artamonov and Eva Sheahan are the same person we’ve…”

“What? Opened a can of worms?”

“No, put you in danger.”

“Hello. I already have a crazy old KGB Agent stalking me.”

“If we’re wrong about the connection then we’ve hit a wall.”

I ponder that for a moment. “But if we’re not wrong… what do we do with all this information on Mom?”

Josh mulls this over. “Do you think your dad knows about any of this?”

“I think if Pop knew that our in-laws were Russian diplomats or royalty he would he have told me.”

“You need to talk to him.” Josh picks up his pen and starts writing some sort of list. I can’t see what he’s writing. “I think I know who else to talk to.”

“Who?”

Josh doesn’t answer me right away. He reaches over and types on my keyboard? After a few minuets, he points at the website on my screen.

I read the header out loud, “Genealogy Research, Resources, and Records. Irish Neighborhoods in old Washington, DC.”

“Click around see what you can find. I’m going see if I can find more data on Grandpa Boris.”

For the next half-hour, we silently read and take more notes. I yawn and read, By the late 19th century, Georgetown became in large part a working-class neighborhood, with areas north of Bridge Street (renamed M St. in 1895) economically accessible to the Irish, particularly the areas east of the High Street (Wisconsin Avenue). Around the turn of the century, 29th and 30th Streets were the heart of the Georgetown Irish neighborhoods…yadayada.

I yawn again and look over to see what Josh is up to. He has his trusty notebook out and is writing like a mad man. “What are you writing?”

“Another list of stuff for Mr. Getman to print out,” he murmurs, his eyes darting over the words on the computer like a speed reader as he writes some more. “I want hard copies for our case.”

I rub my dry eyes and stand up to stretch my back. “Josh, you better hope he comes back in time to print all that.” I hold my wristwatch in front of his face.

“I know. I know,” he says, urgently clicking to the next page. “Hey, listen up Cookie.” I move to an open space in the reading room and do a few squats. My legs are aching from sitting so long. I grip the back of Josh’s chair, alternate feet, and squint at the screen while he reads out loud. This is perfect for stretching my thighs.

“Upon completing the sixteen weeks at Quantico Academy, twenty-four year old Sheahan (one of the first women to serve as an FBI agent) went on to become a black belt in Jujitsu. The head marshal arts instructor stated, “Agent Sheahan is as strong, intelligent and confident as any man in our classes. I feel she can handle any situation with the necessary degree of poise or power.” With the direction of the CIA and FBI, Sheahan became a foreign counterintelligence special agent at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Dec. 7, 1988. The day after accepting her new position as a special agent, Sheahan sat directly behind the President during Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev’s speech at the U.N.”

I plop down on the chair. 

“This is amazing stuff!”

“It’s also mind numbing!”

“Sorry,” Josh says frowning. “I thought you wanted to find stuff about your mom.”

“I do. It’s just that it’s so strange hearing freaking weird stuff about her life. I never knew any of this.” I rest my face in my hands for awhile. Josh is silent, but I know he’s looking at me. My eyes fixed on the little girl this is my mom, I sit back and rub the goosebumps running up and down my arms. I glance around the room expecting her to be hiding behind a bookshelf. Seriously, nothing would surprise me now that I know who she really was. Is that you Mom? Sigh.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just really creepy seeing Mom as a little girl with a strange name. Ivanova Artamonov. It’s peculiar enough reading about Mom’s life achievements on so many LOC sites.”

“Yeah, during her lifetime it seems as if her name has been in print all over the world...”  

I wave my hands. “My goodness Josh, why did I never once think to research her on the Internet? Before we started this project, it never occurred to me to snoop on my mom. I can’t help but think if I knew then what I know now my whole life might be different.”

“Hey, be proud. The intelligence world thinks your mom is a hero.”

“Yeah, bazaar how she was so admired by her inner realm yet her family is left pretty much clueless.”

Josh opens his mouth to tell me that she couldn’t because she wasn’t allowed.

I hold up my hands. “I know. I get it, she couldn’t tell us because what she did was Top Secret.” I nod at his monitor screen. “Are there any more pictures of her?”

Josh shakes his head and scrolls down to a color college graduation picture of mom in a white cap and gown. Her lips are full and red and her chestnut colored hair is longer than what I ever saw. She always wore it cut just below her ears and curled under on the ends.

“Wow, she looks so young.” And sexy. Like an exotic foreign movie star. It could be me in a brown wig. I sit forward and study the likeness. Josh looks at me and bounces his eyebrows. “What?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way, but I always thought you mom was hot, I mean for a mom.” He looks from my face to the picture of mom. “You have her cheekbones.”

I smile self-consciously and rest my chin in my hand. He shows me several other images of her at various NSA award functions. We both stare at Eva’s beautiful face. My eyes drift over the short descriptions next to each photo where her name is highlighted in bold. The electronic newsprint font blurs into what resembles a strange word puzzle. Eva Sheahan Eva Sheahan Eva Sheahan Eva Sheahan. The last picture is of a head shot next to obituary. “Scroll back to the first picture, I want to see her as a little girl again. I wonder if Pop has ever seen these and if so why did he show them to me.”

Josh blows our a breath. “Good question. Anyway, I’ll have Mr. Getman make copies of these pictures for us.” He starts making a list of the code numbers under each photo that tell ‘The Beast’ what to print.

“I feel a little guilty that I have an advantage over the other people in Mr. Jackson’s class.”

“Why? They can hop on the Metro, come to the LOC or for that matter the Internet, and access most of the same information we found. We just get to research without a crowd of people around, and free copies.”

“But they don’t have smartest guy in the school as their lab partner.”

“Suck up.”

Josh finishes writing down all the numbers and glances anxiously over at the door.

“Hoping Mr. Getman comes back soon?”

“Yeah.”

Josh leans into my shoulder. “What did you find?”

“A Mom blurb that was in of all places Moscow News.” I scroll up. “It’s dated Nov. 1996 and called “Eva Sheahan the FBI Special Agent Legend” and list her more complicated dealings and capabilities while on the job. Who is the person?”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels like Eva Sheahan the FBI Special Agent legend is a total stranger. What exactly did she do? I know that she spoke something like seven languages, maybe more, translated important documents written in foreign languages and broke codes, but what else did the government ask her to do? Bodily.”

“Like, did she ever have to engage in hand to hand combat? Probably. That’s why all federal agents are trained in self-defense and firearms. Being able to kick butt comes in handy when your hanging with the enemy. I imagine while at work in hostile environments you’d be constantly targeted by foreign government assassins.”

“Swell.”

“I recall your mom speaking to my mom about being into ultimate fitness. They did a few marathons together when we were still in diapers.”

“Wow…another fact I never knew.”

“This article says that when Mom was in college she became a black belt in Jujitsu. And all along I just thought she was in such great shape because she was big time health-nut. She never let on that she could take on Bruce Lee.”

“She was truly amazing,” Josh says sounding awestruck. “Can you imagine having your accomplishments recognized all over the world?”

“I don’t know if I’d want the world to know about me. Look where it got Mom. I mean if she did die naturally or…” I leave the end of my sentence open because Josh is pointing at his screen.

“This is a story from 1981 about a spy swap deal between Russia and the US. Eva was the face to face negotiator that met with the Russian government.

“My mom?”

“This is freaking amazing!”

I’m stunned silent by all of this. Josh reads the rest of the article, but I can’t hear him. I pick up my notebook and I run my eyes over the dates next to each entry. Most are dated back years before I was even born. It’s sort of disturbing and hard to comprehend so much data in a few hours. I wish I knew all this a long time ago…it sucks that I’ll never have the chance to talk to her about what she did. I drop my eyes and stare at the ornate base of the lamp.  What if all of this is for naught? Can I live with what I know? Is the KGB hunting me down now…?

Josh lifts my chin with his finger and I shut my eyes tight so he won’t see the tears.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Sure. I just needed to rest my eyes a moment. I think I might need glasses,” I say, swiping my eyes and laugh. “Then you can call me four-eyes.” I take a deep breath and look at him. His face is mirroring my frown. I want to cry on his shoulder. I also have to pee and recall seeing ‘Men and Women’ on the doors left and right as we entered this room.

“Cookie, I know this is hard, but to find out what happened to your mom we’ve have to search for everything we can find.”

 “Um, I got to..., you know,” I say, scooting my chair back, standing. I grab my purse and slip through the door, shut it. Before ducking into the women’s restroom, I look out over the stair railing. The vast room is as quiet as a tomb. No sign of the old guy or living soul for that matter. Just the marble statues radiating in the shadows like day-glow. Ensconced in the reading room made me forget where I was. I make quick work of going and freshen up at the row of sinks.

I return feeling much better. I shut the door and stand there looking at Josh. He’s still glued to the computer. His nose practically on the screen, face glowing a ghostly white as the statues in the great hall. He could be a Greek god Eros, the god of love. Josh looks over as I approach. I shift my gaze, survey the room for the old guy. No sign of him. I clear my throat so I don’t startle Josh and move toward him. “Did Getman come back?”

“No,” Josh answers, and glances at the breakroom door. “See if he’s in there. It’s late and I really need to give him this list to print out.” He waves a sheet of paper.

I follow his gaze and I go over drop my purse on my chair, press my ear to the door to the breakroom and then open it a crack. “It’s dark and empty.” I shut the door. “Maybe he fell asleep in a chair while making copies.”

“I’m tempted to go looking for him. Or I could just print this stuff out myself. I know where the copy room is and over the years I watched Mr. Getman enter his passwords. I––”

“Shhh Josh, careful what you say. We were told not to wander around, plus I’m pretty sure there’re security cameras all over the place.” I curl my eyes right and left. “There’re about twenty in this room alone so don’t push you luck.”

“Just kidding around. I’m not stupid.”

I feel stupid for acting like his mother.

Josh waves me over. “Cookie, you have to read this.” I go over, stand behind him and silently reading over his shoulder.

“The Georgetowne Gazette August 9, 1974 - Neighbors were stunned to learn about the kind Sheahan family living in the affluent Georgetown district. It turns out that Edward Sheahan was once upon a time, Boris Artamonov, an ex-Russian Diplomat who years earlier and for reasons unknown, defected from Russia with his wife and young daughter. On their flight home after a family vacation to Yosemite Valley, Edward & Marie Sheahan became fatally ill. Their plane did an emergency landing at Houston (IAH) and they were met by an emergency crew. They were ambulanced to the hospital where they were pronounced DOA. Autopsies showed that both had ingested the deadly toxin Ricin. A spokesperson from the airlines in flight catering provider thinks that someone prior to takeoff “allegedly” added the poison to their preordered vegan airline meals. Their college age daughter, whose name is being withheld due to the political repercussions, is the lone survivor. She told attending doctors that she wasn’t able eat on a plane due to motion sickness. After a comprehensive investigation, it was found that no other foodstuffs contained the deadly poison. At the time, no suspects were apprehended or ever reported.”

Josh looks up at me. “Done?” I can only shake my head in wonder. Josh sees my reaction and adds, “Pretty wild huh?”

“Yeah.”

I sit down and read the story again. When I sit back, Josh explains, “It’s a good chance that Boris’s father was Boris Alexander Artamonov the first.”

“Jesus Josh, how on earth did you even find this story?”

“I kept digging through the layers, entering this and that key word…it’s a investigate method my dad taught me.”

I nod. “Ah. You’ll have to teach me.”

“My pleasure.”

I cross my arms and mull over what I just read.

“So if this true, your grandparents were murdered and your mom is in all probability Ivanova.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m pretty sure.”

 “So, help me out. How does this change anything? I mean as far as our investigation goes?”

Josh says, “Well, it makes sense that Edward & Marie were killed because they defected from Russia. We know that hardcore ex-KGB agents have been known to track down and punish deserters––even members of their own families.”

I make a face and Josh tells me about Georgi Markov and Vladimir Kostov, a pair of Bulgarian dissidents who were murdered via a single Ricin pill that was shot into their bodies. He tells me about a few more gruesome episodes and I hold up my hands. “Okay enough, I got it. These people are ruthless.”

“Yes and what if the man who killed your grandparents came visa-vie with their daughter––years later––to finish the job.. If your stalker Valentine, is Fredrik Koshechka, it would make him old enough to be tied into this whole thing.”

“Whoa, it’s all so espionage-like.”

Josh holds up the scanned picture of Fredrik Koshechka  from Mr. J’s book.  “Look at this for a few minuets, and then close your eyes and picture the man in the elevator.”

I take the picture, hold it under the lame light running my eyes over the face from top to bottom. Then I close my eyes and mentally picture the face of the man I saw in the elevator when I was eight, right after bumping my head on the stump. Then at the Checkmart, in the Taxi, the mall, behind my car. I jump up to stifle a shiver running through my entire body. “I’m positive that it’s Fredrik Koshechka. I would swear that on a stack of bibles.”

Josh nods his head in agreement and hammers on the keys.

I would help him, but I’m too jittery to sit. I get an idea. “Josh, maybe other foreign newspapers wrote about the plane poisoning. Search and see if Fredrik Koshechka, Sheahan or Artamonov are mentioned in other stores.”

“I’m already looking.”

While Josh keeps hammers on the keys looking for more articles on my alleged grandparent’s alleged murder, I pace the floor working out a cramp in my calf that’s been bugging me since I got back into swim team. I feel myself getting really nervous about what Josh found out. To calm down, I wander around the room check out the books and periodicals. I can’t help worry about Mr. Getman. It’s madding waiting for him to return. I have enough on my mind. I check my watch and look over at the door again. “Geez, Mr. Getman left over an hour ago…”

“Yeah,” Josh murmurs. “I wonder what’s taking him so long.”

“You think he’s all right? That cough sounded really bad.”

“Yeah, he’s not doing so well. He has Parkinson’s. You saw how slow he moves.”

I go over to the computer table. “Josh, what if he’s keeled over somewhere.”

“We’ll give him until eleven.”

I glance at my watch again. “Hello, it’s past eleven. Josh the old guy looked really tired and he has trouble breathing.”

Josh stops reading and glances down at his watch. “Yikes, it’s almost eleven-thirty. I’ll wrap it up,” he tells me and starts shutting down page after page on each monitor’s screen. I watch while he powers down both computers and tides up the desk. He pushes the stack of books toward me. “Do you mind returning the books to the shelves?”

“No.” I get up and Josh goes over and shuts off the microfiche. After I return the stack of books to their proper slots, I sit back down next to Josh. He has his notebook open reviewing his notes. “Do you think we have enough to advance our case?”

“Not sure. If not, we can come back another day soon.”

So we sit and wait. The only sound is Josh turning a page and the air conditioner hum. I drum my fingers on the chair arm and glance over my shoulder at the closed doors again. I get a flash image of the Mr. Getman lying on the floor clutching his chest somewhere out there in the vast halls of the James Madison Memorial Building. I get up and go to the double doors, push one open, and peer out at the large shadowy room. I have a bad feeling. I look over my shoulder at Josh. “Yo, Josh. I’m really-really starting to get worried. I know we’re not supposed to leave this room, but I think we should go see if he’s okay.”

“Don’t worry, he has a walkie-talkie and there are other people here.”

“True,” I say, glancing out the door again, willing Mr. Getman to be okay. I go and stand over Josh. We remain silent for about ten more minuets then I say abruptly, “Screw it! I’m going looking for him.”

“I have your copies,” says Mr. Getman bursting through the door. He hobbles across the floor waving a fat manila envelope. “Sorry to take so long. The Beast was out of toner.”

Mr. Getman and the room begin swimming before my eyes. I clutch Josh’s shoulder and everything goes black.