The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  “That sounds a lot closer to ‘Hyman’ than to ‘Ritter,’ ” Kate said.

  “And the mayor of Los Angeles, Antonio Villar, married Corina Raigosa,” Nourwood said. “And they both became Villaraigosa.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Kate said. “Nouri and Wood become Nourwood. Like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie become Brangelina!”

  Nouri, Matt thought. Even if he had gone to the University of Wisconsin, they wouldn’t have had a record of a Nourwood.

  “Well, but that’s just the tabloid nickname for them,” Nourwood objected. “They didn’t change their names legally.”

  “Neither did we,” Laura Nourwood said.

  “When you give me a son, we will,” her husband said.

  “Give you a son?” his wife blurted out. “You mean, when we have a child. If we have a child, I got news for you, Jimmy. You’re not back in the old country. You’ve never even been to the old country.”

  * * *

  —

  Early the next morning, Matt was glugging the almost-spoiled milk down the sink drain when Kate entered the kitchen.

  “Hey! What are you doing? That’s perfectly good milk!”

  “It tastes sort of suspicious to me,” Matt said.

  “Now you’re getting paranoid about dairy products?”

  “Paranoid?” He turned to face her, speaking slowly. “What if I’d been right about them?”

  “But you weren’t, you big goofball!”

  “Okay, fine,” Matt said. “We know that now. It’s just that I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that they were…”

  “Undercover FBI agents?”

  “They just had that vibe. And when I think about Donny, doing five consecutive life sentences in supermax back in Colorado just because he dared to fight for freedom on our native soil, you know? I just get the willies sometimes.”

  “Man, you’re always jumping at shadows.” She handed him a small red plastic gadget. “Here’s the LPD detonator the doctor sent over. I told you he’d come through.”

  “I hope the doctor is absolutely certain this one’s going to work. Remember Cleveland?”

  “That won’t happen again,” she said. “The doctor wasn’t running that operation. If there’s one thing the doctor knows, it’s explosives.”

  “What about the RDX?”

  “The Escalade’s already packed.”

  “Sweetie,” Matt said, and he gave her a kiss. “How early did you get up?”

  “Least I could do. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. You’re taking the Stuart Street entrance, right?”

  “Of course,” he said. “All four of us are. No CCTV camera there.”

  “So, we’ll meet up in Sayreville tonight?” Kate said.

  “As planned.”

  “We’re going to be Robert and Angela Rosenheim.”

  “That almost sounds like one of those blended names,” Matt said.

  “It’s what the doctor gave us. We’d better get used to saying it. Okay, Robert?”

  “Bob. No, let’s make it Rob. Are you Angela or Angie?”

  “Angie’s okay.”

  “Okay.” He paused. “But what if I had been right about the neighbors? Because one of these times I’m going to be. You know that.”

  “Well,” Kate said, almost sheepishly. “I did take the precaution of letting the air out of their tires.”

  OLD SOLDIERS

  BRENDAN DUBOIS

  THE HARDWORKING and award-winning author Brendan DuBois (1959– ) had his first Lewis Cole novel, Dead Sand, published in 1994. In the succeeding twenty-six years, he has written ten more books in the series, as well as eight stand-alone novels, three books in the science fiction, alien-invasion Dark Victory series, and three Empire of the North novels (available only as e-books). And, oh, yes, he has collaborated on two New York Times bestsellers with James Patterson, both published in 2019, The First Lady and The Cornwalls Are Gone.

  It is as a short story writer that DuBois has excelled at an even greater level than his well-reviewed novels. With more than one hundred seventy stories to his credit, DuBois has earned numerous honors. “The Dark Snow,” first published in the November 1996 issue of Playboy, was nominated for an Edgar and an Anthony and was selected for The Year’s Finest 25 Crime and Mystery Stories (1997), The Best American Mystery Stories 1997, and The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century (2000). “A Ticket Out,” first published in the January 1987 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, was included in The Best American Noir of the Century (2010). Two additional stories, “The Necessary Brother” and “Driven,” have also been nominated for Edgars.

  Out of the mystery genre, his big novel Resurrection Day (1999), which posited a different outcome to the 1962 Cuban missile crisis, has been published in eight countries and was named the Best Alternative History Novel of the Year at the 58th World Science Fiction Convention.

  DuBois began his writing career as a journalist in New Hampshire, where he has lived his entire life.

  He appeared on the television game show program Jeopardy!, where he was a one-time champion, and also won the game show The Chase.

  “Old Soldiers” was originally published in the May 2000 issue of Playboy.

  OLD SOLDIERS

  BRENDAN DUBOIS

  WHEN PERFORMING a boring chore like splitting wood, you tend to dwell on trivia to pass the time, such as the two distinct sounds you encounter during the job. The first is a thump, when the maul you’re using makes a slight indentation into the wood. The other is a sharp crack, when you’ve started a major split that means you’re almost finished with that chunk of soon-to-be firewood. Thoughts like these were going through my mind as I was about an hour into my morning woodcutting routine one spring Saturday.

  Then a dark blue Ford LTD with government plates bumped its way up my dirt driveway, and I wasn’t bored anymore.

  And when Special Agent Cameron of the FBI and a companion got out of the car, I momentarily wondered what kind of sound a maul would make while being buried in the base of someone’s skull.

  Cameron carried a slim leather briefcase and his white hair was combed carefully over the back of his head, as if he had just had his picture taken for his official government ID. He had on a charcoal gray suit, unlike his companion, about twenty years younger, who wore blue jeans, white polo shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket.

  “Owen,” Cameron said, as I rested near the woodpile.

  “I’d like to present Mr….Smith. Mr. Smith works for another government agency.”

  I stuck out my hand and as Smith came forward to shake it, I wiped it off with my handkerchief, and Smith paused, the slight grin on his face steady under my insult. His dark brown hair was cut short and his blue eyes were bright, brittle and sharp. Underneath his polo shirt there seemed to be hard muscles. He looked like a guy who would spend his vacation in Europe, retracing Wehrmacht invasion routes through Poland with a smile on his face.

  “Really?” I said. “And would that government agency be the GAO? Is your work being audited, Agent Cameron?”

  Cameron didn’t look pleased. “No. And this meeting has nothing to do with my previous visits. Mr. Smith has a matter to discuss with you, in private. When the two of you are finished, I’ll take him back to Portland. That’s it.”

  When the government pays your bills and keeps you alive, year after year, after any competent actuary would have written you off as dead long since, then I guess listening is the polite thing to do. So I shrugged and said, “All right, why don’t the both of you come in.”

  Smith spoke for the first time. “That sounds grand.” He came forward, but Cameron shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want no part of this.”

  So Smith followed me into the farmhouse as Cameron trudged back to the LTD.

  * * *

&
nbsp; —

  In the kitchen, I poured myself a tall glass of lemonade, offering nothing to my uninvited guest, and we sat at the round oak table. Perhaps I was being childish, but Smith didn’t seem to notice. He leaned back in his chair and rested his large hands on his flat stomach.

  “Agent Cameron gave me a thorough briefing on the way over here,” he said. “You certainly have a fascinating past, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Ain’t I lucky,” I said.

  “And it’s that past that has brought me here,” he said. “Your talents. We want to use them, just for a short time.”

  “Sorry, I’m retired.”

  His smile was wide and merry. “Sorry, in return. You’ve been unretired and turned over to us. And if you don’t care to cooperate, we can make your life quite miserable very quickly. I know what you’ve got here. In return for certain past services, you live here in total freedom, save for a few minor restrictions. Like staying within the town limits. Which brings me to my next point. Ever hear of Marion?”

  Something seemed to wiggle around in my throat. “Maximum security prison.”

  He waved a hand in the air. “No, not maximum. Maximum is a dime a dozen. I’m sure even this rural wonderland has a maximum prison. No, Marion is the ultimate federal penitentiary.

  “An inmate lives alone in a concrete cube eight feet in each direction. Once a week, you get out for an hour for some sunshine and fresh air. That’s it. No radio, no television, newspapers and books strictly controlled, and the food is government-supplied. So. We reach an understanding here, everything’s fine. If not, tomorrow at this time, you’ll be staring at concrete.”

  I tried to stay calm. “Special Agent Cameron—”

  “Look,” he interrupted. “Some time ago Cameron made a mistake. A big one. In a little Texas town called Waco. Ever wonder why he’s way out here in this area? Waco is why. And Waco is why Cameron cooperates. Which includes lending one of his charges for a while. So, Owen. What’s it going to be?”

  I put my hands under the table because they were clenching into fists so hard that I could feel fingernails starting to break skin. “What do you want?”

  He waggled a finger in my direction.

  “No, no, no. I want to hear the words from your mouth that you’re on board. Then I will tell you what we have planned.”

  I nodded, and then said, “All right, I’m on board.”

  Smith’s grin got wider. “Thanks. And I also won twenty bucks. Cameron bet me you’d say no. OK, here’s the drill.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small slip of paper and tossed it over. “There’s a man named Len Molowski, lives up in Cardiff, about an hour north of here. He’s in his mid-sixties, owns a small farm. That’s his address.”

  I glanced at the paper. “And what’s so special about Len Molowski?”

  “What’s special is that his real name is Leonid Malenkov. He’s a Soviet military intelligence operative, placed here in deep cover almost four decades ago. You know those Jap soldiers who lived on in Guam and the Philippines, years after the war was over, who didn’t give up? Same story, except they’re here and they’re Russian.”

  “So?”

  I guess that wasn’t the response Smith was looking for, as his smile faded. “Some old records we’ve kept over the years, we’ve managed to finally decode them. You’d be surprised what’s for sale now over in Moscow. We found Len’s name and a bunch of other names, all Soviet military intelligence, all placed into this country at about the same time, during the late fifties.”

  “And what was he going to do while in Maine? Burn down a forest?”

  “Who knows and who cares,” Smith said. “That he’s still here is what counts. And that’s why I’m here with you.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll do just that,” I said. “So what? Hasn’t the news gotten to you folks yet? The Cold War’s over. They lost. We won. We have a hell of a budget deficit to pay, but they have McDonald’s in Red Square, their nuclear subs are rusting and sinking at dockside, and their soldiers spend their time harvesting potatoes and trying to stay alive. What’s the point of going after this guy?”

  His eyes flashed at me. “The point is, we know we won the Cold War, but some people in Moscow haven’t gotten the message. They don’t like having NATO move in next door. They don’t like having American fast food next to Lenin’s tomb. They don’t like American game shows on their TV. And we want to send them a message.”

  I picked up the paper again. “And how does Len become part of this message?”

  Smith’s gaze was steady, unblinking.

  “We want you to go up to his farm. Pay him a visit. Confirm his background. And then handle it.”

  I was suddenly aware of how tired I was, from chopping all that wood and from talking to this awful young man. “Handle it how?”

  “Don’t play wedding night virgin with me, Owen. I’ve read your record, know your background. You know exactly what I meant by handle it.”

  I slowly nodded. “So I do. Mokrie dela, right? Russian for wet work. After all, blood is wet and tends to get on your shoes and clothing. A nice piece of euphemism from Department V of the old KGB. And by handling an old man who’s probably clipping newspaper coupons and wondering how to pay for fertilizer this spring, this is going to do just what for you and your friends?”

  “A message,” Smith said slowly. “A demonstration. By retiring this old network of theirs, we make an effective demonstration to the right people with a minimum of fuss. More efficient and cheaper than flying over the Secretary of State to talk about trade issues or some other goddamn nonsense.”

  I crumpled up the paper. “And part of the minimal fuss is me, right? Deniability in case anything goes wrong. If I’m caught, I’m a career criminal with mysterious ties who one day killed a Maine farmer for no good reason. Right?”

  “Who says retirees are losing their marbles,” Smith said.

  I looked out the window at the parked LTD and the man inside. “Part of my agreement with the Department of Justice is that I—”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “You’re not allowed to leave the confines of this lovely little town without express prior permission, blah blah blah. All taken care of. You have a week, Owen. Seven days from now we’ll be back for results, or your bag better be packed. And that bag should contain a toothbrush and nothing else. The clock is running. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Smith slapped his hands together and stood up. “Great. Glad we could reach agreement.”

  He walked out of the kitchen, and as he strolled to the LTD, I had a fantasy of running downstairs to retrieve one of my slightly illegal weapons and blowing away Mr. Smith before his hand reached the car door. I replayed it in my head as the car left my property.

  * * *

  —

  There are negatives associated with life in a small town. The local cable provider thinks one channel from Boston is stretching its cultural limits. No bookstores. And the nearest supermarket has boiled ham and American cheese as the extent of its deli offerings.

  But there are some advantages, too, and one of them owns and works at the Pinette General Store. Miriam Woods is my oldest and dearest friend in town, and she winked at me as I finished a late lunch of tomato soup and a BLT. She’s a widow, several years younger than I am, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes that are lightly framed by wrinkles. She owns the store, she runs the town post office out of a storefront window off to the side, and she’s also one of the town’s three elected selectmen.

  As she picked up plates, her son Eric was restocking shelves in one of the far aisles. She looked over at him and then at me and lowered her voice.

  “This Tuesday,’’ she said, “Eric has basketball practice and I was thinking of coming over to your place for dinner.”

  “Really?”
>
  “Really. You supply the dinner and I’ll supply the desserts. One of them will be in an ice cream container.” She lowered her voice even more and winked again as she started wiping the counter.

  I said slowly, “But I won’t be home.”

  “Well, there’s always Thursday night, because—”

  “Miriam, I won’t be home all next week.”

  She stopped wiping the counter.

  “Oh?” And my dear Miriam was able to stuff about a ton of frost, disappointment, and inquiry into that little two-letter word.

  “That’s right. I have…I have business to attend to.”

  Her wiping cloth was clenched in a fist. “I see. What kind of business?”

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t say. It’ll take less than a week and then I’ll be back.”

  She managed a smile and shook her head and went over to the cash register, counting and recounting bills, all the while talking, as if talking to herself. “You’ve never once agreed to go away with me for a trip to somewhere, even if it’s just Portland or Bar Harbor. You’ve always said you couldn’t leave the town, that you wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

  Then she looked at me and slammed the cash drawer shut. “Now you tell me you’re leaving town for a week, and you can’t tell me why. To hell with that and to hell with you.”

  She marched to the rear of the store and I followed, but she locked herself into her little post office cubicle. I suppose it would have taken me all of thirty seconds to get through the lock, but I knew I would pay for those thirty seconds for a very long time.

  Instead, I went outside to my truck and was climbing in when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Owen? Got a sec?”

  I rolled down the truck’s window as Eric approached in his white store apron. He’s about as tall as I am but gangly, with the loose limbs of a fifteen-year-old. He shares his mother’s hair and eyes, and those eyes were troubled now.