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"He's a fucking Communist, like his wife and his brother and his sister-in-law."
"He's working nineteen hours a day to build better weapons for American soldiers--what kind of traitor does that?"
Greg hoped
McHugh did turn out to be a spy, for that would lift suspicion from Oppenheimer, bolster General Groves's credibility, and boost Greg's own status too.
He watched McHugh constantly throughout the first half of the concert, not wanting to take his eyes off. The physicist did not look at the people either side of him. He seemed absorbed in the music, and only moved his gaze from the stage to look lovingly at Mrs. McHugh, who was a pale English rose. Had Oppenheimer simply been wrong about McHugh? Or, more subtly, was Oppenheimer's accusation a distraction to divert suspicion away from himself?
Bicks was watching, too, Greg knew. He was upstairs in the dress circle. Perhaps he had seen something.
During the intermission, Greg followed the McHughs out and stood in the same line for coffee. Neither the dowdy couple nor the two old ladies were anywhere nearby.
Greg felt thwarted. He did not know what to conclude. Were his suspicions unfounded? Or was it simply that this visit by the McHughs was innocent?
As he and Margaret were returning to their seats, Bill Bicks came up beside him. The agent was middle-aged, a little overweight, and losing his hair. He wore a light gray suit that had sweat stains under the armpits. He said in a low voice: "You were right."
"How do you know?"
"That guy sitting next to McHugh."
"In a gray striped suit?"
"Yeah. He's Nikolai Yenkov, a cultural attache at the Soviet embassy."
Greg said: "Good God!"
Margaret turned around. "What?"
"Nothing," Greg said.
Bicks moved away.
"You've got something on your mind," she said as they took their seats. "I don't believe you heard a single bar of the Saint-Saens."
"Just thinking about work."
"Tell me it's not another woman, and I'll forget it."
"It's not another woman."
In the second half he began to feel anxious. He had seen no contact between McHugh and Yenkov. They did not speak, and Greg saw nothing pass from one to the other: no file, no envelope, no roll of film.
The symphony came to an end and the conductor took his bows. The audience began to file out. Greg's spy hunt was a washout.
In the lobby, Margaret went to the ladies' room. While Greg was waiting, Bicks approached him.
"Nothing," Greg said.
"Me neither."
"Maybe it's a coincidence, McHugh sitting by Yenkov."
"There are no coincidences."
"Perhaps there was a snag. A wrong code word, say."
Bicks shook his head. "They passed something. We just didn't see it."
