Quest for Anna Klein, The Read Online Free PDF Page A

“They’re everywhere now,” he added irritably. “These goddamn nuts.”

Century Club, New York City, 2001
    â€œYou must be thinking that Clayton was not exactly a man of the people,” Danforth said with an arid chuckle.
    â€œHe does seem very old-school,” I admitted. “But the intelligence agency recruited pretty much exclusively from those ranks back then, didn’t it?”
    â€œYes, it did,” Danforth said.
    â€œThe good news is that our boys weren’t like those upper-class Brits who ended up so disloyal, spying for Mother Russia,” I added. “Philby, Burgess, and the rest. Traitors all.”
    â€œAnd all equally to be condemned,” Danforth said.
    â€œOf course,” I agreed.
    â€œEven if they believed in their cause?” Danforth asked.
    â€œI wouldn’t care what they believed,” I answered.
    Danforth’s gaze betrayed a curious complexity, as if the memory of something won or lost had suddenly returned to him.
    â€œIndeed,” he said softly, as if reviewing an old decision or coming to a new one.
    â€œOf course, most of them were fools,” I said, determined to show Danforth that I knew my espionage history, could recite a few details. “The Cambridge Five. Imagine that group, dashing around Europe, delivering a codebook on Gibraltar, like Philby did.” I laughed derisively. “They always struck me as buffoons.”
    â€œOr posing as such,” Danforth said. “There is a lot of acting in this business. Pretending to be afraid. Pretending to be brave. Even pretending to be in love.”
    â€œThat would be a cruel pretense, wouldn’t it?” I said.
    â€œYes, it would,” Danforth answered firmly. “Perhaps as cruel as pretending to believe in something when you actually believe the opposite.”
    I sensed that this last remark had returned Danforth to his subject.
    â€œDid Clayton believe in whatever he was doing?” I asked.
    â€œClayton believed absolutely in what he was doing,” Danforth answered. “There was never anything confused or addled about him, nothing in disarray.”
    â€œNot like that woman in the bar, then,” I said, to demonstrate that I’d been listening closely to his tale.
    â€œNo,” Danforth said, “nothing like that woman in the bar. Who walked straight to the rear of the place that night, by the way.” His gaze grew distant, a man sinking back into the past. “As a matter of fact, she came so close to me a clump of snow fell off her coat and landed on mine.”

Old Town Bar, New York City, 1939
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry,” she said.
    As the woman had gone by, a clump of snow had fallen fromthe bundle of woolens she held and dropped onto Danforth’s overcoat.
    â€œNothing to worry about,” Danforth told her gently. He noted her face, how young it was, the tragedy of her derangement doubled by her youth.
    The woman frantically brushed the snow from the shoulder of Danforth’s coat. “You got a nice coat,” she said. Their eyes met. “It ain’t ruined, is it?”
    â€œNot at all,” Danforth answered. “Really. Nothing to worry about.”
    A crooked little smile appeared. “I thought I got that snow off me,” she said with a quick, self-conscious laugh. “But it ain’t easy to get off you once you got it on you.”
    â€œNo harm done,” Danforth told her. “It’s just snow.”
    Her smile struggled for and lost its place, a string by turns taut and slack. “Anyway, sorry.”
    â€œNothing to worry about,” Danforth assured her again.
    With that, the woman turned and made her way to a table in the far corner. She sat down and fussed with her things, her scarf, her coat, a cloth bag with a long strap, all of which appeared to fight her, making her movements grow more frustrated, almost comically so, as she labored to subdue