High Jinx

by William F. Buckley

  It lasted an hour and a half, at the end of which Attwood asked Rufus if he would ‘mind very much’ if the two British consulted with one another … privately? Rufus made a gesture to leave the room, but Attwood insisted that the Americans stay, and instead of dislocating his guests, he left the electronic cocoon with Blass.

  The Americans engaged quickly in conversation. ‘What are we going to do if they say no, Rufus?’

  ‘They have problems. For one thing there is their pride. The Brits are first-rate at intelligence, and quite inept at security, paradoxical though that may sound. But remember, they are suffering more than they let on from the suspension of security traffic from the U.S. Their nuclear plant people, through the British Ambassador, have begged for the next scheduled shipment of technical information. They have not got it—Ike’s orders. Be patient.’

  MI5 and 6 were back in half an hour.

  Attwood spoke. ‘Very well. Round-the-clock surveillance we can agree on. And examining his mail. But tapping his telephone—that we could not agree to do unless further evidence is developed.’ Attwood paused here, as if to ask, ‘Is that satisfactory?’

  Rufus spoke. ‘I think that is a very good beginning, Gene. But we must bear in mind that both parties to this—pursuit—are anxious. It is inconvenient, to say the least, for us to suspend strategic traffic between our country and yours, and presumably it is also inconvenient for Great Britain.’

  ‘It most certainly is,’ Attwood snapped.

  Blackford broke in. ‘And it was very inconvenient for our agents to drop by parachute onto Soviet gibbets in Albania.’

  The British dubbed it Operation Oxford, which at first struck Blackford as rather a naïve way to seek to conceal, should anyone happen on the operation’s name, that in fact it was a member of the Cambridge community that MI5 was interested in. He would not have recommended, as a code name for an investigation of Harvard University, ‘Operation Yale.’ But soon the little piquancy amused him.

  It was agreed that Blackford would continue to operate in the same safe house in James Street he had been using, and that the surveillance team, under the management of Superintendent Roberts, after reporting to MIS would immediately relay the same findings to Blackford. Meanwhile, all available records on the background of Alistair Fleetwood would be examined, and brought in to Blackford’s study-lab.

  19

  During the ensuing fortnight, Sir Alistair Fleetwood spent much time at the Greenwich Royal Observatory, the great observatory where his Zirca had originally been assembled, the Fleetwood Zirca, now scanning the heavens and bringing in great, detailed deposits of information concerning the surface of the moon, after which it was scheduled to train one by one on the other planets, reaching, in six months or so, to an examination of the stars themselves.

  The observatory was a large installation located two hours from Cambridge at Herstmonceux Castle near Hailsham. While supervising the construction of the Zirca, Fleetwood had built and experimented with a miniature of it; this model had since been disassembled. He announced to the technicians in permanent residence at Herstmonceux Castle that he had had a fresh insight into the Zirca, the result of which might permit him to enhance its efficiency, and that for that reason he was going to reconstitute the model with a view to making certain adjustments.

  This accounted for the numerous hours he spent at Herstmonceux, and by the end of September any technician who had reason to go into Sir Alistair’s laboratory would see there the equivalent of a mini-Zirca, about three feet long, perched as a toy cannon might be perched, aimed at an angle. The cannon was surrounded by wires and circuitry.

  On two occasions Fleetwood drove, by himself, from Hailsham to London, both times to 48 Grosvenor Square, a six-storey building. He went to the fifth floor and let himself in, using his own key. The first time, he stayed only half an hour at Grosvenor Square. The second time, it was for very nearly four hours. The building’s commercial ledger indicated that the large apartment 516 was rented to one Robert Editta, who gave his profession as ‘photographer.’ The rent was always paid on time. ‘A thoroughly satisfactory relationship,’ the estate agent said, looking up at Superintendent Roberts and closing the ledger that recorded his transactions with clients.

  Later in the month Fleetwood said to a technician at the observatory that he had decided to take the mini-Zirca to his rooms in Cambridge, further to reflect on its potential, as he had not quite solved the problem he had hoped to crack. Accordingly, the following day one of the technicians helped Fleetwood first to crate the mini-Zirca, and then to lift it into the back of a rented Rover station wagon. It was heavy, perhaps eighty pounds, but not, for two men, unmanageable. Fleetwood thanked his helper and drove off, alone.

  He stopped for a cup of tea at a café at Robertsbridge. When he had finished, he walked to the corner where he had parked the station wagon.

  It was no longer there. But his own Ford sedan was in its place. He got in, reached under the seat, and took the key. He was in his rooms in Cambridge an hour and a half later.

  Before retiring, he packed a large suitcase, stuffing it with apparel suitable for sailing at sea: foul-weather gear, rubber boots, thick sweaters, bosun’s hat. He had spoken with his colleagues about how much he was looking forward to a week’s sailing around the islands east and northeast of Stockholm, a trip to which he had been invited by a friend in Sweden who had chartered a boat perfect for such a trip—a forty-foot yawl, Sir Alistair said happily at dinner on Fellows’ Night, ‘without even a radio. If we need help, we’ll simply have to fire distress signals. It will be fine to be away from Instant Communicability. Though as a ham radio operator I have no right to say that.’ He took another glass of wine and smiled, and his friends, on leaving, wished him a splendid holiday.

  In Stockholm, he booked into the Grand Hotel. He went through the identical ritual as before. And it all worked as before. Alice Goodyear Corbett was very excited by the adventure. ‘Everything has been thought of, my dear Alistair, everything.’ Fleetwood replied coyly that Alice had certainly thought of everything in bed before dinner. ‘All I ask is that this operation be as successful!’ he replied, filling their liqueur glasses.

  The following morning, dressed in a heavy sweater and cap and wearing seaboots, Sir Alistair Fleetwood, a green seabag in hand, told the concierge that he would be gone for a week and wished to leave his largest suitcase until his return. The concierge instructed the porter to take the suitcase and give Sir Alistair a claim check. Fleetwood signed the hotel bill. The porter, carrying the seabag, opened the door of the taxi. Sir Alistair tipped the porter and asked him kindly to recite in Swedish the instructions on a card he showed him. The porter read out the number of a wharf and its location, the driver nodded in acknowledgement, and the porter returned the card to Sir Alistair.

  Half an hour later, Alistair was greeted by a young, bearded Swede. They spoke in English and boarded the boat. A few minutes later, back in the marina, Fleetwood called his secretary at Trinity, reversing the charges, to remind her to assemble the material he had outlined last August for the Rede lectures, as he would need to get to work on them as soon as he returned from his week’s sailing holiday on which he would embark ‘as soon as I put this phone down.’ She wished him fine weather and good relaxation.

  They boarded the Fernbrook and headed out of the prosperous harbour, the last of the summer’s cruising boats here and there in evidence. Though it was early October, there were still a few sailing boats responding briskly to the gusty autumn winds. They headed out close-hauled past Lidingö. A southeasterly wind gave them a nice reach past the Djursholm strait, where the skipper turned north toward Österskär. Just after sundown, he manoeuvred into the little harbour.

  At seven the dinghy was lowered, the little Seagull motor fastened to its transom. The bearded skipper climbed down into the dinghy with his passenger, now also bearded and wearing a raincoat over a three-piece suit. They were met a few hundred yards from the
ir anchorage at the commercial wharf by a large man and a woman, both wearing raincoats. The bearded passenger climbed the ladder onto the wharf, and the skipper lifted the seabag to the large man. The captain then clambered back into the dinghy, started up the quiet little outboard, and headed back to the Fernbrook.

  Alice Goodyear Corbett did not introduce the large man who drove the car. ‘He does not speak English,’ she said. ‘You have your papers?’ Alistair responded by patting his left hand against his right jacket pocket. They drove to the airport and at 9:15 checked in on the Finnair 10 P.M. flight to Helsinki: a contented Finnish couple completing their week-long holiday in Sweden and returning home to Finland.

  At midnight the telex in Blackford’s study at James Street came to life. Blackford sat up and read:

  SUBJECT LEFT HOTEL 10 A.M. BOARDED SAILING YACHT FERNBROOK. DEPARTED HARBOUR 1115, PUT IN AT OSTERSKAR HARBOUR AT 1915. DEPARTED, WEARING BEARD, BY DINGHY TO TOWN WHARF. THEN BY AUTO LICENSE PLATE AA11864 TO BROMMA AIRPORT. BOARDED FINNAIR FLIGHT 221 TO HELSINKI AS BJORN HENNINGSEN MR. AND MRS. HAVE CONTACTED HELSINKI. OP OX.

  20

  The preparations to penetrate apartment 516—Rufus had tabled his grander plans to penetrate the Soviet Embassy—consumed two days. They required the cooperation of technicians who acquainted themselves with the electrical morphology of 48 Grosvenor Square. ‘The requirement,’ Hallam Spring said, going over the plans with Jimmy Moser, the MI5 electrician, at the safe house, ‘is to blow the juice in 516 without simultaneously doing it in adjacent apartments, and that’—he pointed to the electrical schematics—‘is going to require some recircuitry, with a very brief interruption of power in the entire building. I figure maybe five, ten minutes, outside. That shouldn’t get anybody too terribly excited.’

  Meanwhile Bruce Pulling had put together the camera apparatus to be used by Moser, whose responsibility it would be to inspect number 516, the mysterious apartment to which Alistair Fleetwood had twice repaired before leaving for Stockholm. It was a relatively simple device: a high-powered lens looking out of the back end of a large, three-battery flashlight of the kind widely associated with electricians. Jimmy Moser’s instructions were to handle the flashlight as though it were an extension of an expressive hand, gesturing to accompany his words and thoughts. The flashlight was equipped to take an infrared exposure every time the thumb slid its switch backward. Pushed forward, it caused the light to function as a conventional flashlight.

  On Tuesday morning the technicians parked their small van with the electrical equipment at the corner of the basement garage and finished their preparatory work in the bowels of the building’s cellar, laying out the wires as required to facilitate a quick reassembly.

  At ten in the morning the lights went out in the entire western end of the building. The recircuiting required less than ten minutes, after which the lights went on again.

  Only one tenant called down to Brian Larwill at the porter’s office during the interval to complain about the power failure. The switchboard revealed that it was not apartment 516 calling in. The porter told him that the problem was being looked into, that he was confident the breakdown would be corrected quickly. As indeed it was.

  A few minutes after two in the afternoon of the same day, Blackford Oakes, Superintendent Roberts, and Jimmy Moser sat in Brian Larwill’s little bedroom behind his office. At a nod from Roberts, Blackford radioed on his walkie-talkie to the electrician in the basement, standing by the controls.

  ‘Ready Op Ox, go.’

  On receipt of the signal, the electrician flipped the switch and the electricity to apartment 516 was cut off.

  They waited in silence for the inevitable telephone call. Presumably it would take more than the few minutes such as had been endured that morning without protest, before apartment 516 called in to complain.

  They waited, nervously.

  The call came seven minutes after the blackout. On the switchboard, number 516 flashed on. Superintendent Roberts’s recording machine taped the exchange.

  ‘Is this Mr. Larwill?… Ah yes. Well, Mr. Larwill, the electricity has gone off in my apartment. It happened also this morning, but the lights came back on in about five minutes. In my business—I am Mr. Editta, and a professional photographer, you may recall—undependable electricity is very serious. Is the whole building without electricity?’

  Brian Larwill said not so far as he knew, having received no other complaints. But he would telephone the occupants of apartments 514 and 518 and see if their lights were off. ‘Whatever the problem, Mr. Editta, we will check on it and call you back.’

  He waited five minutes and then dialed 516. ‘It appears to be a problem in your place alone, sir. I mean, localised there; 514 and 518 are getting current. I shall send an electrician up to have a look.’

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘Surely the problem has got to lie elsewhere, Mr. Larwill? I have checked our fuse box in the kitchen, and the fuses are in good condition.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’ll check with the electrician before I send him up. I am not an electrical expert myself, but I don’t see how the difficulty could be down here if your neighbours are getting power. Let me talk to him and call you back.’

  They had prepared for such a contingency. They would take pains not to show any inappropriate curiosity to visit the apartment. Ten minutes later Larwill dialed 516 again, but this time he said, ‘I’m going to put the electrician on. He can speak to you. Here is Mr. Moser.’

  Jimmy Moser took the telephone. ‘Moser ’ere, sir,’ Malgamated ’Lectrical Company. Checked below, nothing out of order there—‘as to be a short circuit up where you are. I can come up, sir, but there will be a few minutes’ delay. I need to go to the shop and fetch up my toolbox.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Mr. Editta evidently wished to consult someone. In short order he was back on the phone. ‘Very well. But in that case please do hurry up. It is very inconvenient.’

  ‘Righto, guv. Won’t be long.’

  Moser waited twenty-five minutes. In his toolbox was a microphone, buried among the expected wires and plugs and tapes and sundry electrical parts. In the little bedroom behind the office, Superintendent Roberts and Blackford Oakes could listen in on the receiver to what was about to happen in number 516.

  Jimmy Moser was a short man with a full moustache. He wore a white cotton jacket with deep pockets in which he carried various tools of the trade, and rough brown corduroy trousers. He had spots of grease on his left forehead and over his left arm. In his left hand he carried the large toolbox. In his right, the flashlight, which he held bottom side up.

  The ring was answered by a large, dark-haired man wearing a sports shirt and tortoiseshell spectacles. A second man, tall and brawny, was sitting in the corner of the room, his newspaper—in the absence of a functioning reading lamp—angled to receive light from the window. He did not look up when his fellow tenant said, ‘I am Mr. Editta. You are Mr. Moser?’

  ‘At’s right, guv,’ said Jimmy Moser, swinging his flashlight about as he spoke and affecting an air faintly dismissive. ‘Sorry about all this. But we’ll ’ave it fixed up in a bit. Now, if you’d just show me the fuse box.’

  Robert Editta led Moser through the living room and opened the door to the adjacent room. ‘This is my darkroom—my study. Usually’—he pointed to the large window at the far end of the room—‘usually that blind is drawn. But of course right now we need what light we can get.’ The window looked out across Grosvenor Square. Large, cumbersome instruments of varied description cluttered up the room. One, pointing toward the window, had the general shape of a cannon and was held in place by metal scaffolding, to the right of which were several large tin receptacles. ‘Enlarger here,’ Editta muttered, ducking his head under a wire on which negatives, suspended by clothespegs, were strung out. Jimmy Moser flashed his light about as though to make sure he would not bump into anything and cause a disturbance.

  ‘Here,’ Editta said, opening a door into the kit
chen. ‘This is the fuse box.’

  Moser shone his flashlight and looked thoughtfully at the fuses, unscrewing them one by one and checking them on his voltmeter. ‘Hmm. These ’ere seem all right. What I need to do now is check the indivigil outlets, see where the trouble is … um … No doubt about it, there’s somethin’ trippin’ up the central power supply. Might as well be systematic and start in the living room.’

  Editta seemed fatalistic about it all. ‘Very well.’

  They walked back, Moser’s flashlight jerking here and there, much as a bobby’s truncheon pirouettes about as he does his rounds.

  Moser went to the entrance door and said, ‘Right, we’ll go clockwise.’ He got down on his hands and knees, pulled out the plug that led to a floor lamp, and inserted the prong of his voltmeter into the openings, all the while putting his flashlight to prodigious use. Editta had lost interest, retiring to the desk next to his silent companion and reading, from daylight, the sports pages of the newspaper.

  Jimmy Moser moved to the next wall socket. And, a few minutes after testing it, to the socket directly left of where Editta’s companion was sitting.

  He looked up. ‘Excuse me, guv. I ’ave to ask you to move your chair, just a few inches. There we go.’

  In Brian Larwill’s bedroom they could hear the sound of a chair grating across the floor, but no voice. Jimmy Moser was clearly attempting to induce Editta’s companion to say something.

  ‘Bit of a bother all this, in’it? You a photographer too?’

  ‘Get on with your work,’ was the abrupt answer.