“Why contact Sherlock Holmes?” Colonel Hawker asked.
“I cannot answer that question. All I can tell you is my instructions were to make sure Mr. Holmes was involved. I was not to take no for an answer, otherwise there would be consequences.”
“Why didn’t you share this information when we met in London?” I asked.
“I was being followed. If what Boris said was true, I couldn’t risk the discovery of my sister and niece and jeopardizing my career. I felt that if you knew the girl in the photograph was not Jenny, you would have no incentive to help me. When you sent me away from the teashop without an offer of help, honestly I wasn’t sure what I would do.”
“You may be assured your sister and Jenny remain quite safe,” Colonel Hawker said reassuringly. “As for the Hollywood angle, a little tougher. But we will see what we can do. We will take things from here.”
“Thank you,” Miss Ransom said, rising from her chair.
“By the way Miss Ransom, how is the film coming along?” I asked. “Moon Over Baker Street.”
“It isn’t. The studio pulled the plug. The official word is Holmes and Watson had no onscreen chemistry. The real reason is the script was discovered to have been written by a blacklisted writer using an alias. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Responding to a gesture from Colonel Hawker the note taker saw Miss Ransom out. A moment later he returned and resumed his task of taking copious notes.
“Pity that woman,” I said. “It’s a wonder she’s held up under the pressure. I’d hate to think what would have happened had we not taken on this case.”
“Miss Ransom comported herself remarkably well.” Holmes turned to Colonel Hawker. “Now, Colonel perhaps you would like to provide Dr. Watson and me with the information we do not know. You surely cannot expect us to believe that an American intelligence agency that has gone to so much trouble to conceal the identity of a young woman and her mother would permit a photograph of that young woman to appear in a military newspaper?”
“Quite right, Mr. Holmes. The photograph was planted with the knowledge that it would most likely come to the attention of the Soviets. The young woman posing as Jenny Winston is Agent Piper Sands. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Miss Winston. Agent Sands was instructed to attend the Independence Day parade at Centennial Park. We arranged for a photographer from The Dayton Herald to be on hand to take pictures. We felt that a photo from a local newspaper would seem less suspicious than a photo that originated on base.”
“So, Agent Sands was intended as a form of bait,” I said. “For what purpose?”
“To expose a network of Soviet spies, Doctor.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Most people are of the opinion Soviet espionage is a recent phenomenon. The truth is the Soviets have been attempting to infiltrate all levels of American government and society since the late 1920s.”
“The twenties?”
“Yes, Doctor, a common misperception. Working through a variety of intelligence services the Soviets have been engaged in systematic efforts to ferret out and pass along confidential information. Our friend McCarthy, overzealous as he may be, is correct in his assertions that Soviet agents exist in all strata of our government. They happen not to exist in the numbers he imagines.”
“Have I been that naïve in my understanding of our relations with the Soviets?”
“Often the tensions between nations exist below the surface. Aside from the usual haggling over treaties and such, what really strikes at the heart of the matter are our fundamental differences in government. Those differences sow the seeds of a profound distrust, which doesn’t mean we can’t work together on occasion. But we are never going to see eye to eye. Our essential natures are too different.”
“The Jenny Winston affair is not about undermining democracy,” Holmes said.
“Our concern here is the defense industry, Mr. Holmes. It has always been a target for the Soviets. We have had varying degrees of success in protecting the existence of some of our most secret programs, as may be witnessed by almost identical weapons and aircraft. The Soviets have succeeded in stealing technologies for military vehicles and weapons, radar and guidance systems, as well as a complete set of design plans for our P-80 Shooting Star Fighter. They are masters of reverse engineering. Once something falls into their hands, the Soviets copy it quickly. We develop; they steal; we improve on the original.”
“Seems like a tit for tat game,” I observed.
“That’s one way to put it, Doctor, but hardly a game. Since the end of the war the Soviets have stepped up their efforts to infiltrate those programs. Our use of atomic weapons to end the war with Japan set the Kremlin on edge. I am afraid both sides are developing weapons at an alarming rate, each trying to outdo the other with something bigger and more powerful.”
“Let us not ignore the social aspect of their efforts,” Mycroft added. “We see it in Britain all too clearly.”
“To be sure, the Soviets are intent on subverting political and social life at all levels. Democracy is regarded as a threat, Mr. Holmes. Anything the Soviets can do to undermine our way of life is seen as a victory.”
“Forgive me, Colonel, but I am losing the thread here,” I said, trying my best to stifle a yawn. “This big picture you are describing, I am having difficulty relating it to Roswell.”
Colonel Hawker continued his narrative. “We have been aware for a while now that we have moles in our midst. As you may well appreciate, we have a number of highly classified and highly sensitive programs.”
“As do we,” Mycroft interjected.
“Agreed. Agent Sands was our attempt to flush out as many of those moles as possible. This operation began well over a year ago. Agent Sands bears enough of a resemblance to Jenny Winston to fool most individuals. We know the Soviets meticulously comb our newspapers. They have an entire department of analysts devoted to news stories and photographs. We were certain the Soviets would eventually connect Agent Sands’ recent photo with the five-year old photo of Jenny Winston.”
“They could have easily missed it,” I said
“Doctor, many operations fail in their objectives. We believed that once the Soviets made the connection, they would attempt to contact Agent Sands. The snag was we didn’t know when it would happen, which is the reason Agent Sands was permitted to live off base. It was possible the Soviets would never make contact. Agent Sands is an independent and healthy young woman, and - well - it was impractical to confine her to the base. In the evenings she would leave the base in disguise. To create the impression Jenny Winston was being held in protective custody on the base, doubles were used to occupy the secured on base house where Jenny supposedly lived.”
“You surely didn’t think the Soviets would snatch her from base.”
“No of course not. We had developed routines involving her leaving the base with an escort that would prove opportune times for a contact to take place. For example, a regular trip to the hair salon or the movies on a Saturday night.”
“That seems a lot of trouble to go to for something that might never happen.”
“Any less so than some of the fantastical operations conducted by the British during the war? Make no mistake, Doctor, we are at war, only this one moves at a slow and stealthy pace.”
“You surely have agents here and abroad.” I observed.
“We have not had much success inside the Soviet Union. We are grooming a young agent by the name of Cherepanov.”
“A Russian?” I asked.
“American. About a year ago, we stumbled onto a sympathizer who had been passing along information to the Soviets. He quickly discovered we could be most persuasive. He broke under pressure and told us everything he knew.”
“Did he reveal the mole?”
“No, he has no id
ea who the mole is. We are certain of that. We conveniently took care of the operative who had recruited Cherepanov. As no one in the Soviet Union has ever met or seen Cherepanov, we simply replaced their agent with our own. He is young, but not especially productive. We are receiving some intelligence from the Soviet Union, and he has passed along information we want the Soviets to see.”
“The Soviets don’t suspect anything?”
“Perhaps. It makes no difference. This is a game of percentages. You win some; you lose a lot. We all do. The life of an operative is short. The Soviets will remain in contact with Cherepanov until he is no longer worth their time.”
“Did Cherepanov know of the plan to extract Agent Sands?” Holmes asked.
“He knew something was in the works, but not the date. He was told he would be advised when the operation would commence. He knows nothing of Agent Sands.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“You and Mr. Holmes happened.”
“How novel, using my brother to lead the Soviets to the girl,” Mycroft said. “Rather than expending their own time and effort, the Soviets simply put Sherlock Holmes on the case.”
“The Soviets believe Jenny Winston can tell them what happened at Roswell. Is that it?” I said.
“Yes.” Colonel Hawker rose and walked to the window of his office. The Washington Monument gleamed in the distance.
“Colonel, you do know Holmes and I were at the crash site that night.”
“Yes, Doctor, I am aware of that fact. You and Mr. Holmes were kept at a distance. I mean no disrespect when I say you and Mr. Holmes know nothing.”
“We know that whatever crashed out there that night was not a weather balloon. Holmes has a small piece of the debris to confirm that.”
“Merely a trinket, Doctor. That is all you have, and that is all you know.”
I was tired of dancing around the issue of what Jenny Winston did or did not know. “What is the story of Roswell, Colonel?”
“I am sorry, Dr. Watson. Roswell remains classified. That information has never been released, nor will it be.”
“What we saw that night clearly was not a weather balloon. It was some sort of a disc; that much was obvious. It was either one of yours, a Soviet craft, or it was an alien spaceship. As for the little green men, we didn’t see any.”
After a long silence, Mycroft spoke up. “As His Majesty’s government has been drawn into this affair, I think we must consider how to effect the release of Agent Sands.”
“Demand the Soviets release the girl immediately,” I said.
“They will deny all knowledge of the affair.”
“Holmes, how can they? The Soviets surely know the Americans know they are behind this.”
“That is not how the game works, John.” Mycroft said.
“The game, the bloody game. Lives are at stake and you boys play games.” It was all I could do not to storm from the room.
“How much does Agent Sands know?” Holmes asked.
“About Roswell? Hardly anything, certainly nothing of use to the Soviets. But they will do their best.”
“What about this fellow they call The Caretaker that Miss Ransom spoke of? What can you tell us about him?” Holmes asked.
“We have yet to identify him.” The Colonel pushed a dossier across his desk to Holmes. “We know he is based in Moscow and travels extensively. Wherever he travels, he leaves behind a great deal of personal destruction. You will note his methods are most effective. We may reasonably assume Agent Sands has already been sequestered in a safe location. We may also assume The Caretaker has been notified. If he is currently in Moscow, he could be at any location in the United States within 72 hours. Should he be in Europe, Canada, or South America, his travel time will be less.”
“Colonel, it seems to me this young woman is quite vulnerable.” I couldn’t imagine the young woman would fare well.
Holmes rose and began to pace the room. “The larger of the three henchmen who attacked us would have easily overpowered me and dragged me to his getaway car had Watson not intervened. The Soviets had more in mind than my merely leading them to Miss Winston. They wanted me as well. I think we must allow the Soviets to succeed. It may be the only way of returning Agent Sands safely.”
“It is unclear what the Soviets had in mind for you, Mr. Holmes. However, since they now have what they came for they have no incentive to agree to a trade. You can be sure they know your knowledge of Roswell is limited.”
“Then it was something else.”
“But what?” I asked.
“My concern is what happens when the Soviets discover Agent Sands is of no value,” Mycroft said. “Give Sherlock something of value to make the bargain worthwhile. Tell him what the Soviets want to know.”
Colonel Hawker smiled with amusement. “Forgive me, Mycroft. You are really asking me to divulge to the British government classified information about Roswell.”
“It was worth a try,” Mycroft replied.
“Gentlemen, you must trust that our intelligence agencies will find Agent Sands. I am confident of that.”
As he spoke, Colonel Hawker leaned over his desk, scribbled something on a small slip of paper and slipped it into his pocket.
“Colonel, your confidence in your agencies is admirable, but keep in mind you have a mole, perhaps several, within those agencies. Might they not prove the greater danger?”
“Mycroft, were the decision mine alone, I would enthusiastically authorize such an operation, but I have superiors to whom I am accountable. The prospect of allowing the British to run an operation within the United States will not fly. We have too many agencies and too many little men in charge of their respective kingdoms to placate. Even if it were possible, coordinating such an operation would be so cumbersome and time consuming we would lose the advantage of time. This really is our matter, gentlemen. We appreciate the offer of assistance from The Crown.”
“Very well,” Mycroft said. “Our business here is concluded. As always, Colonel, a pleasure.”
As Holmes, Mycroft, and I rose to leave, Colonel Hawker had one more question. “I am curious, Mr. Holmes. Why did you agree to take on Miss Ransom’s case? You obviously knew something was amiss from the start.”
“Sport, Colonel. An Englishman cannot resist sport.”
“A bit of the old game’s afoot? Eh?”
“Something like that,” Holmes said.
As Colonel Hawker walked us to the door, he slid a slip of paper into Holmes’s pocket.
“Good luck, Mr. Holmes.”
* * *
That afternoon in a very public Washington D.C. location, Holmes and I enjoyed a long, leisurely lunch together. We felt sure we were under continual surveillance. Holmes allowed our best chance of finding Agent Sands was for the two of us to split up. It was impossible to know how many agents were tailing us. If we went our separate ways, perhaps we could divide the enemy long enough for Holmes to strike out on his own.
“Is that the best course?” I asked. “I worry for your safety, Holmes.”
“I think we have no other choice,” Holmes said. He reached into his coat and produced the piece of paper Colonel Hawker had slipped into his pocket.
“A telephone number?” I asked.
“I believe so, Watson. The letter C below the number is most likely Cherepanov, the agent of whom the Colonel spoke.”
“Colonel Hawker was adamant in his view that finding the girl was an American concern. He was quite clear that he could not authorize our involvement.”
“No doubt for the benefit of the note taker. The Colonel is correct in his observation that bureaucratic red tape will delay action. Add to that his concerns regarding security. Until this network of spies is exposed, Watson, I believe the Colonel is unsure whom he can
trust.”
“Good lord, it’s a web of deceit and lies.”
“Indeed, old friend. Those who would strike at the foundations of everything we hold dear, do so by sowing fear and distrust. We must be vigilant, Watson. Return to London as scheduled. I believe you will be safer there. In London, Mycroft can offer you protection.”
“You believe I am at risk?”
“Until we know the full extent of what this case is about, I think we must be very careful. I will do my best to remain in contact.”
Holmes casually scanned the restaurant for any patrons showing an undue interest in us.
“In a moment I will excuse myself to make a visit to the men’s room. I will not bother to retrieve my coat and hat from the coat check. I will slip out the back door of this establishment. Good luck, Watson.”
Holmes excused himself as I continued with my lunch. Fifteen minutes later I paid our bill and returned to my hotel.
The Salt Flats
The incessant drone and vibration of engines jostled Piper Sands awake. Groggy and with an aching head, she found herself securely restrained in the middle seat of a Cessna Bobcat T-50. A pilot and copilot were visible through the gap in a makeshift curtain that separated the cockpit from the three seats behind them. Clearly, she had been sedated. Other than a raging headache, she felt no worse for wear.
“Hey!” Piper called out.
There was no response from the cockpit.
“Hey, Moe and Larry, I see you there. I need to use the ladies room.”
The copilot pushed aside the curtain. “You’ll have to wait.”
“Easy for you to say, Larry.”
“It won’t be much longer. And my name isn’t Larry.”
“What happened to the big guy, Curly? Did Holmes and Watson get him?”
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 10
