where she delivered the package to a safe house on Albemarle Street.
* * *
—
The first stage of the mission was complete, thanks in part to Irina. The men patted themselves on their backs for finding such an unexpected asset. But it wasn’t a man who’d developed Irina’s talent; it was Sally Forrester.
Sally was officially a part-time receptionist, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out she was much more. Soon after Anderson brought her around HQ, we discovered it was common knowledge among those in the know that Sally was a Swallow who’d been flitting around since her OSS days. When not sitting behind the reception desk, which was most of the time, Sally traveled the world, using her “gifts” to gain information. Unlike Irina, Sally could never be invisible. Everything about her screamed Look at me! Look at me! I am the one who should be looked at! Her hair was cut in the Italian style—soft red curls framing her heart-shaped face—and her figure always seemed to threaten the integrity of her tight woolen skirts and cardigans. And she always overdressed: fuchsia designer trapeze dresses, white satin swing capes, a rabbit fur coat rumored to have been a gift from Dulles himself.
One of the men had taught Irina how to take a package from a passerby on K Street during rush hour and keep walking without looking back; how to leave a hollow book under a bench in Meridian Hill Park and leave without someone’s jumping up to say Hey, Miss, you forgot your book; how to slip a piece of paper into the pocket of a man sitting next to her at Longchamps. But it was Sally who finished her training. We don’t know what these trainings consisted of, but we did see a change in Irina. Something about her seemed sturdier—as if she’d become a woman to reckon with. In short, more like Sally.
Whatever it was, Irina did her mentor proud, and soon they weren’t just colleagues but friends. They started sitting at a separate lunch table in the cafeteria. They began going to Off the Record instead of Martin’s for happy hour. On Mondays, they’d come into the office quoting lines from Silk Stockings, Funny Face, An Affair to Remember. When Sally would arrive home from a trip, she’d place little trinkets on Irina’s desk: a Pan Am sleep mask, lavender-scented lotion from the Ritz, a squished penny from one of those machines on the Atlantic City boardwalk, a snow globe from Italy.
For Irina’s twenty-fifth birthday, Sally had thrown her a dinner party. We’d never been to Sally’s apartment—a one-bedroom walk-up above a French bakery in Georgetown—so we jumped at the chance when she placed the navy blue invitations on our desks. Your presence is requested for the celebration of the birth of our dear friend Irina, read the handwritten silver calligraphy.
When we asked about bringing dates, Sally told us that this party was for us gals. “It’ll be more civilized,” Sally said, laughing.
We wore our most fashionable cocktail attire, several of us even splurging at Garfinckel’s for the occasion. “This is Sally Forrester’s dinner party. You don’t show up wearing a knockoff of last year’s Dior,” Judy said. “Besides, we can wear it for New Year’s.”
We took taxis instead of streetcars or buses so we’d arrive fresh-faced, with our mascara and lipstick intact despite the heavy snow. We ascended the two flights and at the top heard a song playing on the other side of the door. “Sam Cooke?” Gail asked.
Before we could knock, Sally opened the door, looking stunning in a gold satin wrap dress with tasseled belt. “Well, don’t just stand there!” We trailed Sally into her apartment, her black stilettos wobbling on the plush pink carpet.
Irina looked lovely in her emerald-green skirt and matching bolero jacket. We wished her happy birthday as we pressed our small gifts into her hands.
Sally disappeared into the kitchen and Irina motioned for us to take a seat on the white leather sectional. To break the silence, we asked questions about the apartment’s décor. With Sally busy in the kitchen, Irina answered for her.
“How’d she find this place?” Norma asked. “It’s to die for.”
“Saw an ad in the Post.”
“These candlesticks! Where are they from?” Linda asked.
“Inherited. A grandmother, I think.”
“Is that a real Picasso?” Judy asked.
“Just a print from the National Gallery.”
“What did Teddy get you for your birthday?” Gail said.
“He told me to pick out something nice from Rizik’s.” She straightened her jacket.