Red Sparrow

With little of substance to go on, Benford on Thursday night over dinner announced that it was time to do an entry into Jennifer Santini’s house the next morning. “An entry?” said Nate across the table. They were dining at the Bulkeley House on Bank Street near the harbor. “Benford, what do you mean, ‘an entry’?”

Benford was sawing at an immense rare piece of prime rib, head turned sideways, the better to slice the flesh. Nate put down his knife and fork.

“Compose yourself,” said Benford, chewing. “By ‘entry’ I mean the extralegal breaking and entering into the private residence of a presumed innocent American citizen against whom there is no evidence of wrongdoing by two unauthorized officers of the Central Intelligence Agency who are, incidentally, currently engaged in an uncoordinated and thus illegal counterespionage investigation which in the domestic field is the purview of the Federal Bureau of Investigation as stipulated by Executive Order 12333.” He looked back down at his plate and slathered more creamed horseradish sauce onto his beef. “That’s what I mean,” he said, then added, “This horseradish sauce is excellent.”

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Day Five: A quiet Friday morning. They waited until ten and walked bareheaded and with empty hands through the little gate to the back of Santini’s two-story house. The windows of the houses across the street were empty. The backyard was unkempt. A rusted washtub lay upside down on the bare earth next to a tilting shack. Benford walked up the wooden steps and tried the back door. It was locked and he peered through the chintz curtains. No one home.

“Can you pick the lock?” asked Nate, standing behind Benford looking through the curtain.

“Be serious,” Benford said. He still had an eight-track tape deck at home.

“Should we pop the window?”

“No. Second story,” said Benford, who unlaced his shoe, walked over to a rubber utility cable stapled to the side of the house, and knotted the shoelace around it, leaving a loop hanging free.

“Prusik knot,” said Benford, and he showed Nate how to stand up in the loop with one foot and slide the friction hitch upward, a foot each time, to climb the cable until he could reach the unlocked second-story window. Where the fuck did he learn that? thought Nate, as he signaled that he was in.

The upper room was an empty, disused bedroom. Nate walked to the door and looked down into the house. He whistled for the dog, but nothing stirred. He imagined a Russian illegal would have a Doberman or Rottweiler silently guarding the house.

Nate crept silently down a wooden staircase, the thick mahogany banister creaking as he descended. Tiptoeing through a 1950s-style kitchen that smelled of wheat and seeds and oil, Nate unlocked the back door and let Benford in. “The place feels empty,” Nate said. He and Benford walked through the downstairs rooms silently. The feeling of risky trespass enveloped them. The house smelled like a health club. Liniment and dusty radiators, no air moved, incongruous for a bright summer day.

The house had two front rooms, dining and living rooms, with windows that looked out onto the street. Chintzy, lacy curtains were drawn across all the windows. Spidery sunlight dappled the threadbare throw rugs laid on dark-stained hardwood floors. The furniture was heavy, dark, overstuffed furry pieces with doilies—actual doilies—on the arms and backs of the chairs and sofa. The mantelpiece above a sooty fireplace was lined with Bakelite mugs and figurines—a sea-captain mug, a Spanish girl with a mantilla. One lampshade had a pom-pom fringe around the lower edge. A wrought-iron fireplace poker set stood beside the hearth. Benford’s mouth worked as he surveyed the décor. “She must have cleaned out half the Portuguese antique shops in Fall River to decorate.”

Off the living room was a small office with a desk and a low bookcase stuffed with magazines and newspapers. On the desk was a small pile of utility bills and a white and blue porcelain schooner with Ahoy painted on the bow.

“Check the desk,” said Benford. “I’m going upstairs to look around.” Nate registered the ridiculous feeling of not wanting to separate from Benford, but nodded and pulled out the drawers one by one. Empty. As he closed the bottom drawer he felt resistance and heard the crunch of paper. He pulled the drawer all the way out and saw a rolled-up piece of paper at the end of the recess. He reached and pulled it out, unrolled it on top of the desk. It was a blueprint, a single sheet, with cross-sectional drawings of parts and electrical connections. The page was labeled Section 37, fasteners and brackets. Submarine parts? Santini worked in supply and procurement at Electric Boat. Was this a classified document? Why did she have it at home, stuck at the bottom of a drawer?