Spy Who Read Latin: And Other Stories

by Edward D. Hoch

  “A good hobby for a retired man,” Rand observed. “In England we still collect stamps.”

  “This is the lapel pin of the Rostov Bureau of Travel,” Taz said, reaching beneath the plastic sheet to remove it and hand it to Rand. “It’s very rare. I had to trade five others for it.”

  The small metal disc looked something like a military decoration. Rand turned it over and studied the back. A tiny black dot was affixed to the very center of the metal. At a casual glance it might have been part of the workmanship.

  “Microdot,” Rand said in a neutral tone. “On the backs of them all, I suppose.”

  Taz grinned. “No one questions an old man’s hobby. Actually, it is a trick I learned from the Americans. As early as their Civil War, the Rebels were carrying minutely photographed dispatches hidden inside metal buttons. An amazing accomplishment for the early days of photography!”

  Suddenly the thing fell together for Rand. “Are you telling me these microdots contain Kolia Komarov’s manuscripts and notes?”

  Taz merely spread his hands in a gesture that might have meant anything. “I have contacted you because I feel you could arrange a meeting with Komarov. They say he is guarded by agents of British Intelligence.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Rand answered, a bit stiffly.

  “Could I see him?”

  Rand studied the lapel pin in his hand. “How do I know this is what you say it is?”

  “I’ve not said what it is, but you are free to take that one and examine it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taz put a hand on his shoulder. “My old friendly enemy Rand! We have been through so much together.”

  Rand dropped the lapel pin into his pocket. “When will I see you?”

  “I will be here at the same time tomorrow.” He patted the folder. “With my znachki.”

  By the following morning Rand had an enlargement of the microdot along with a visitor from the security division of Intelligence. His name was Michael Gentres and he was a calm man who moved very slowly.

  “You’re Rand, I suppose. Here’s the print you wanted.”

  Rand glanced at the enlarged pages of typewritten Russian text. “What is it, Major?”

  “Part of Kolia Komarov’s novel in progress. He saw it this morning and confirmed its authenticity,” Gentres replied.

  “I see.”

  “Is there more where this came from?”

  “Apparently.” Rand shrugged.

  “What’s the price?”

  “I don’t really know,” Rand admitted. “My contact is willing to deliver the rest, but only to Komarov personally.”

  “That might be difficult to arrange. He’s staying at a safe house and we want it to remain that way.”

  “Could I see him?”

  “I suppose so. You have a double-X security clearance.”

  Gentres drove Rand to a little house near the edge of the city, taking care to see they weren’t followed. It was a quiet street of elderly retired people, in an older section of Geneva, and there was little to distinguish Komarov’s house from others on the street.

  The man who answered the door was obviously armed and probably in the pay of British Intelligence, which had taken a special, if clandestine, interest in the Russian author’s safety. Gentres spoke a brief quotation from Keats—obviously the day’s password—and they were shown into a sparsely furnished parlor.

  The woman appeared first, and Rand recognized her from newspaper pictures as Mrs. Komarov. She was both younger and prettier than the news photos had shown, with straw-colored hair and tanned skin that might have come from a youth spent in the wheatfields of central Russia. “Her name is Sasha,” Gentres said. “But she speaks no English. Her husband speaks a little.”

  She sat down quietly with hands folded and after a moment Kolia Komarov himself strode into the room. Immediately Rand sensed a charging of the atmosphere. The Russian author was tall and bushy-bearded, with deep brown eyes that flashed at the person to whom he was speaking. His English was remarkably good, though his vocabulary seemed limited.

  “You are Rand?” he asked, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

  Rand showed him the microdot blowup. “You saw this earlier today?”

  “Yes. It is my manuscript.”

  “It is possible we can recover all of it. And your notes too. They’ve been smuggled out of Russia on microdots by a man named Taz.”

  He’d spoken too fast for Komarov to absorb it all, and he went back over it slowly. Finally the Russian glanced at his wife and said a few questioning words in his native tongue. When she shook her head he replied, “We know of no Taz.”

  “He was a cipher expert in Moscow. He’s retired now.”

  “Ah. We do not know him. Why should he do this?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” Rand admitted. “But he wants to see you to deliver the rest. I could arrange it for this afternoon.”

  The brown eyes flashed. “He wants me to return?”

  “No, he wouldn’t have brought the manuscripts if he wanted you to go back.”

  Komarov nodded. “Bring him. Then I can work.”

  Rand glanced at Gentres for confirmation. “Oh, very well,” the Major said.

  “Fine. I’ll try to set it up for later today.”

  Taz was seated on the bench by the water, as he had been the day before. He watched Rand’s approach with an interested eye, keeping one hand always on the attaché case by his side.

  “I am glad you could come,” he said, smiling broadly.

  Rand sat down beside him. “I saw our man this morning. He’s most anxious to obtain the rest of the documents.”

  Taz continued to smile. “I thought he would be.”

  “Tell me one thing first. What’s in this for you?”

  Taz shrugged. “I have always admired his writings. It is with such men as Komarov that the future of Russia lies—not with the bureaucrats in their Kremlin offices. Now that I am retired I owe my allegiance to Russia, not to the Party.”

  Rand nodded. “I think you’ve made a wise choice. I’ll take you to see Kolia Komarov.”

  “How soon?”

  “Later this afternoon if you’d like. After dark might be best, when there are fewer people to see you. His location is a secret, but your people may already have it under observation.”

  “I wouldn’t want them to observe my arrival,” Taz admitted.

  “I thought not.” Rand mused for a moment. “I could have my car pick you up at the park across from my hotel.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Shall we say five thirty? It’ll be dark by then.”

  “Good.”

  Rand got to his feet. “The park across from the Hotel de Ville, then. I’ll be in the car, with a driver and perhaps another man.” He was thinking that Gentres might insist on joining them, and he could offer no objection to that.

  “Until then,” Taz said, and they shook hands.

  Heading back to his hotel, Rand hoped this wouldn’t be a night like one other he’d spent in Switzerland years earlier. That time, on a mission to Berne involving the Chinese embassy, Rand had been double-crossed by his own people. The memory of it still rankled. If he couldn’t trust his own people, whom could he trust?

  Taz?

  Colonel Tunic greeted him with a smile, throwing open his arms. “How did your meeting go?”

  “Very well,” Taz acknowledged. “Rand is picking me up across from his hotel at five thirty.”

  “To see Kolia Komarov?”

  “Yes.”

  Colonel Tunic gripped him by both shoulders. “Excellent! Excellent! I knew you would not fail us. Do you hear that, Stepan?”

  Vronsky came in from the other room. Their suite in Geneva’s other leading hotel was hardly austere enough to inspire confidence in the workers back home, Taz decided, but then the workers would never know about it.

  “Good news.” Vronsky agreed. “Do you have the znachki?”r />
  “Right here,” Taz said, opening the attaché case.

  Vronsky took the folder and opened it, revealing the assorted lapel pins. “Now here is what you will do. Deliver this to Kolia Komarov at the safe house where he’s staying. Spend a few minutes with him, and then leave at once. You understand?”

  Taz was just beginning to. “You said back home there was more to it.”

  “And there is. But you don’t want them to discover the microdots are faked, do you? At least, not while you’re in the room.”

  Taz suddenly felt very tired. “The microdots are not faked. I examined several of them myself this morning with a magnifying glass.”

  “Why would you do that?” Colonel Tunic asked. “Did you doubt our word?”

  “With cause, it seems. You told me it was to be a hoax.”

  “And so it will. Please do not spoil our careful planning, Comrade Taz.”

  Taz sat down then, in one of the ornate golden-armed chairs. “I remember a story,” he said slowly. “It happened a decade ago in a Middle Eastern country. One of our code clerks at the embassy there was ordered to commit an act of political assassination. The KGB supplied him with an electrically operated pistol and poisoned bullets. The fact that he was in cryptography meant nothing to those higher up. He was simply one more tool to be used and discarded. As you must remember, the assassination was successful.”

  “We remember,” Colonel Tunic said dryly.

  “And Kolia Komarov?”

  A shrug. “Deliver the znachki, Comrade.”

  “Is this all I am good for after a lifetime of service?”

  Vronsky still held the leather-covered folder in his hands. He reached under the protective plastic covering and made a slight adjustment to one of the metal pins. Then he closed the cover and handed the folder back to Taz. “Now then, no more foolish talk. Deliver it, and then leave the house at once.”

  Taz sighed and accepted the folder. “Tell me one thing. Why did you need to copy all the material? Why make all the microdots authentic?”

  “Rand is no fool. He might have asked to examine some at random. Besides, it makes no difference. Kolia Komarov will never use the material.”

  “The public outcry—”

  “Will be directed against the British who were guarding him. We will deny everything, of course. You will be safely back home. The Moscow intellectuals will have received a warning they can’t ignore. And Rand will be dead or in disgrace.”

  “Yes,” Taz said slowly. “Yes, I see.” He placed the folder carefully inside his attaché case, handling it with new respect. Then he rose to his feet. “I must be going. It is almost time.”

  Stepan Vronsky had a final word of caution. “You saw the lapel pin I adjusted. Do not touch it under any circumstances.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good luck, Comrade.”

  Rand tapped the driver on the shoulder. “That’s him, across the street. And right on time.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Michael Gentres said uneasily. “London wouldn’t like it.”

  “We’re getting Komarov’s manuscripts back, aren’t we?”

  “Couldn’t that have been done without Taz meeting the man?”

  “Do you expect him to pull a gun out of his pocket and begin shooting?”

  “Stranger things have happened. They used an ax on Trotsky.”

  “I assume you’ll search him for axes and guns,” Rand said dryly.

  They pulled up before the waiting man and Rand opened the door on his side. “You British are very prompt,” Taz said as he climbed in with his attaché case.

  “We try to be,” Rand answered. “This is Michael Gentres, Comrade Taz.” He didn’t introduce the driver because Gentres hadn’t mentioned his name. But the man seemed to know their destination without being told. He drove quickly through the dark streets of the city, negotiating turns with the skill of a London cabby. Rand would not have remembered the route to the safe house, but the driver apparently knew it by heart.

  Presently they pulled up before the house Rand had visited earlier. There was a man on duty inside the door and he opened it as they approached. “You’ll have to be searched,” Gentres told Taz.

  “Of course,” the Russian replied, obviously expecting it.

  The man at the door ran his hands quickly over Taz’s body, then used a battery-operated metal detector for a more careful search. Each time it buzzed the Russian produced his keys or cigarette case and other metal objects, all of which were examined. There was also a portable x-ray unit, similar to those used to inspect carry-on luggage at airports. The attaché case with its folder of lapel pins was passed behind the screen while they watched.

  “All right,” Gentres said with a grunt, satisfied with the rows of metal emblems that appeared on the x-ray screen. “You can take the folder in, but leave the attaché case out here.”

  Taz did as he was told, removing the znachki with care. “This is a great moment for me,” he said quietly. “I have admired Kolia Komarov for many years.”

  The driver and the guard remained by the door, while Gentres escorted Rand and Taz into the living room. They sat waiting quietly, and after a few minutes the bearded Komarov appeared as he had done earlier in Rand’s presence. He looked around the room uncertainly, and bowed slightly to Taz.

  “My znachki collection,” Taz said, speaking English so the others could understand. “You should find it quite interesting.”

  Komarov accepted it and opened the folder, gazing down at the rows of little metal lapel pins. “Once I had them too,” he said, speaking with some difficulty. “Back in Moscow.”

  “But not like these. Examine the backs.” Taz bent over and slipped one of the lapel pins from under the plastic cover. “See?”

  Rand stepped closer to look. The microdot was in place, at the exact center of the pin’s reverse side. “Do you have viewing equipment here?” he asked Gentres.

  “Certainly.”

  The microdot was inserted into an optical viewer and immediately blown up to readable size. The neatly arranged pages of Kolia Komarov’s manuscript leaped into view. “Is it authentic?” Rand asked the author.

  “It seems so. Yes, I remember these pages.”

  Rand looked up at Taz. “And the rest?”

  Taz motioned toward the collection. “There are forty-eight lapel pins. Each of them contains a microdot. Each microdot can be enlarged to show dozens of typewritten pages. I leave them to you.”

  “You’re going?”

  “I have been here too long already. They may be watching my hotel.”

  “What—” Rand said, not knowing why he spoke. There was something not quite right. “Can I see you alone for a moment, Taz?”

  “Certainly.”

  They stepped into the next room, leaving Gentres and Komarov alone with the folder of lapel pins. Rand faced him and sighed. “Taz, my old enemy—”

  “What is it?”

  “The znachki is just too large for a mere forty-eight microdots. They could be carried on your passport, or in a bandage on your finger. In our business, large attracts attention, and all attention is bad. Ever since the days of the Trojan Horse we have had reason to question anything that is larger than it should be.”

  “Trojan Horse?”

  “You remember it, surely. Could your znachki be a Trojan Horse, Comrade Taz?”

  “In what way?”

  “Not a listening device, because that would have shown up on the x-ray. But something nonmetallic, like a thin layer of plastic explosive hidden in the leather binding, would pass inspection. One of the lapel pins could be the detonator, and when it was removed from the felt backing—”

  Gentres interrupted with a call from the next room. “Rand, we’ve checked all the lapel pins. There are forty-eight microdots, just as he said. We’re starting to view them now.”

  “Taz allowed himself a slight smile. “So much for your theory, Mr. Rand. If it was correct, we would all
be in pieces now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rand said simply.

  “Now I really must be going. Perhaps we will see each other again someday.”

  Rand followed him to the door. “They’re waiting for you outside? Is that it?”

  Taz picked up his attaché case and opened it. Rand caught a glimpse of a second znachki folder, identical with the first. The driver and the guard were watching them, and Taz stepped very close so his words could not be overheard. “Understand one thing about me, Rand. I have no love for the West, no love for your system. Someday we will still bury you. But I am a proud old man, and I do not come out of retirement to ply an assassin’s trade. The znachki collection you have is harmless. I changed one of the pins.”

  “Then I was right?”

  Taz merely smiled. “Perhaps this is one time when we both were right, my old enemy.”

  He opened the door and stepped outside. The street seemed deserted, and he started off along the sidewalk. “The car can take you back,” Rand called. Taz kept walking, ignoring him.

  “Follow him,” Rand told the driver. “But at a distance. I want to know if he’s picked up.”

  “I have to take my orders from Major Gentres, sir.”

  Rand cursed softly. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” He slipped on his coat and followed Taz.

  Colonel Tunic was holding open the door of the car when Taz reached it. He’d walked for three blocks, and had been about to give up searching for them. “We did not want to get too close,” Tunic said. “How did it go?”

  “Well.”

  Vronsky sat behind the wheel of the car. “Is that all? I heard no explosion.”

  “You will not hear one,” Taz said firmly. “I do not fight my wars that way. I am not the simple code clerk in that Middle Eastern embassy, ready to jump when the KGB pulls the strings.”

  Colonel Tunic bit his lip. “Comrade Taz, where is the folder?”

  “Right here,” Taz said, opening his attaché case.

  In the front seat Vronsky yanked the pistol from his coat and fired once at Taz’s chest.

  He was just an instant too late.

  Rand was still a block away when the explosion shattered the night on the quiet street. His reflexes threw him to the pavement for an instant. Then he was up and running toward the flaming car.