Natalie Schuyler is also a legacy. Her grandmother is a child when her family is driven out of the Russian Empire in a storm of bullets and bombs. They settle in Holland, adopt a new name, and attempt to put the past behind them, but Natalie’s grandmother never forgets the sounds of war. When it comes again to Europe, she sends her infant son to America with her parents and stays behind, offering her services to the Dutch Resistance. The elderly Schuylers make inquiries for years afterwards, but no one ever tells them what became of her, and it is too heartbreaking to guess. But Major Richard Halliday knows. And the day he shows Natalie the file on her grandmother, she suddenly understands the impulse towards chaos which beats in her blood.
Mary Alice Tuttle is a more straightforward case. She is the youngest of three children, the bonus daughter after her parents have had one of each. She tears through childhood in a whirl of starched petticoats and blond curls as an afterthought, always knowing that her family was complete before she arrived. Until her brother goes to Vietnam and never comes back. His best friend is carried home in a coffin and Mary Alice’s sister, his fiancée, faints when she sees it. Her parents are broken, her sister destroyed, and it seems very simple to Mary Alice. Wars are fought by young men who don’t get to choose and that is wrong. Anything that can be done to stop the carnage is justifiable. She burns her acceptance letter to Juilliard and enrolls at Berkeley instead. She publishes an opinion piece in the student newspaper that is so inflammatory, a state representative calls for her to be arrested as a traitor. But it is this opinion piece which brings her to the attention of a Museum recruiter.
Like Mary Alice, Billie is recruited because of her idealism, her willingness to bloody her knuckles for a good fight. She has come the furthest in training, and Constance Halliday is reminded of other young women like her during the war. Her Furies. They were scarcely more than children when they were sent off to fight in a war they didn’t start. They were gallant, indomitable. And they died for that gallantry, she thinks bitterly. This way is better. The Sphinxes will use cunning and subterfuge; they will even the odds that have been stacked against them. And they will survive, she promises herself.
It has taken nine months of physical training to bring them into fighting shape. Then secretarial school in London to learn shorthand and typing and the rudiments of air hostessing—posing as secretaries or stewardesses is excellent cover. They have taken courses in cooking and health care should they have to pose as domestic servants or nurses. Driving school has given them the essentials of maintenance and evasive maneuvers. A first-aid intensive has schooled them in how to patch themselves up in the field. Courses in language and culture have refined them—French, Spanish, Arabic, opera, wines. A class in method acting has taught them how to develop cover characters and to cry on cue.
For the final touch, they have all been sent to Paris to be made over. Natalie’s curls have been smoothed into place, although she complains that this takes half her personality away. Mary Alice’s slightly gapped front teeth are capped to make her smile less memorable. Helen is so beautifully groomed there is not much for the consultants to do except trim her hair and give her a pair of glasses to emphasize her seriousness.
Billie lets them cut off her split ends, but when they consult a plastic surgeon to fix the scar above her lip, she walks out. Helen is disapproving, looking through her clear-lensed glasses with concern.
“We’re supposed to get rid of anything that makes us conspicuous,” she reminds Billie. “That scar is an identifying feature.”
“I like it,” Mary Alice puts in loyally.
“It’s not a matter of liking it,” Helen protests. “It could get Billie remembered and that is dangerous.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Billie tells her.
The truth is, Billie is scared. She has let enough of herself slip away already. Elocution lessons have rubbed the edges off her Texas drawl; the reading lists have improved her vocabulary. The art and history they have absorbed have broadened her world to a vastness she has never before imagined. She is not entirely certain who she is anymore. But if she puts a fingertip to the little ridge that sits just above her lip, she can remember herself.
Two weeks later, they are on a plane for Nice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The morning after I called Sweeney, we slept in. We still had rest to catch up on and a rendezvous to plan, but we also had the luxury of a few days to prepare. During breakfast, Mary Alice made a heroic effort to behave normally, wrestling with the hot plate to fix everybody’s eggs the way they wanted. Afterwards, I did yoga, stretching out my sore knees and screaming a little inside when my downward-facing dog came out more like a junkyard mutt. I felt about a hundred years old and looked it too, I decided as I inspected my face after my shower. I slapped on some rosehip oil and hoped for the best. I was halfway into a pair of cashmere joggers when I changed my mind and reached for my jeans instead. The joggers were featherlight and warm as toast, but the jeans made me feel like I hadn’t quite given up yet. I was crossing the courtyard when I heard a rattle at the gate, like someone was trying the latch. The odds that anybody from the Museum had found us were long, but I wasn’t taking chances. I picked up a piece of rebar from the pile of construction material in the courtyard and hefted it. As a weapon it would do in a pinch.